satinette | SECOND SUNDAY OF ADVENT

September 30th, 1851

To my sneaky, tight-lipped Josephine who would only open his mouth to fellate,

Trust our good friend, Raimond, to be the one to pass on these dreadful news rather than yourself! Why should I not be informed? Because I am away? Well, there are carriages with fast-running horses, lest we forget. You would not want me to come for you, I know, because you are a silly goose of a considerate nature and I have always admired you for that, seeing how I am the exact opposite. A sly vixen of a selfish nature. However, if you are to be consumed, at least be consumed with my knowledge, so I do not return to Paris one day and find your bed empty and your private papers scattered across the streets. These are the notes of the most tragic composer. On public display. How hateful!

Besides admonishments, this letter is to say: Raimond told me that the doctor has prescribed fresh air and a warmer climate. Will you believe, I am in Genoa currently, painting portraits of high society ladies and fortunately, the Italians are both very picturesque and well aware of this fact, so I have orders lined up. I believe at least three months' worth of work, so come to Genoa and visit me! The air here is fresh from the sea, the climate is mild and the men, too, I have heard, are quite attractive, not that I can tell. I will have everything in order, paperwork and visa, lodging and the most delicious catering. You will be in want of nothing, my dear Josephine. I will care for you.

Let me know at which date I am to expect you here. No discussion! Yes is the only acceptable answer. Thank you should suffice. I will pay for the carriage upon your arrival. Have all expenses forwarded to me.

I will care,
Satine

October 17th, 1851

To my darling Josephine,

While you are still resting at your stopover in Marseille, I hastily write to assure you that your visa for safe passage in Genoa have been picked up from the high offices and likewise is your small apartment waiting for you with a wonderful east facing living room, to inspire you to get out of bed every day and sit at the piano, for naturally no home where you will be staying for any prolonged amount of time can be without one such. You are still a productive human being, fear not. You are a productive human being when in the tender embrace of sleep, dreaming of the tender embrace of someone else. Even then, my Josephine with the elegant hands, are you more productive than most chancellors and counts.

Genoa is a harbour town first and foremost, there is more traffic on the water than in the streets and from my bedroom window in the mornings, I can follow how both elegant sailboats and dinghies take to the sea. The light here is exquisite, you and your companion ailment will undoubtedly love it, if not equally. Should your fatigue allow, let me take you on a ferry ride, they sail along the coast constantly and cost a couple of liras, nothing much. Surely you must ache to see other horizons again. I understand the feeling, of course, since I am always aching, but that is my condition, not yours.

Even if you do not ache, let me take you anyway. Let us venture out together for as long as we are able.

This is my preposition for you, dear friend, and do consider it in depth and at length upon reading this letter till its end, because there is no going back from it. I have supported you financially for a good while already and I have been happy to do it, for I believe strongly in your talents, but talents cannot save you from this sickness and neither can I, but I can make our final times together bearable, even comfortable, even enjoyable. Well, then let me! You know the talk as well as I do, so let us give them something else to talk about. Marry me when we return to Paris, a private ceremony, only the most necessary witnesses, and I shall secure not only your future wellbeing, but your good reputation.

And I shall be proud to do so, little Josephine.

You know me. You know I should never gladly give myself to a man and have avoided doing so for thus long, but for the sake of your productive hands, let my pride be still and quiet, I give myself. I give myself! Because I am certain you shan't take anything that is not rightly yours, as you won't want from me what you are still waiting for whenever you play the nocturne dedicated to an old friend on your fine instrument. We have an understanding, you and I. Nocturnes and paintings of scantily clad young women, unmarried. They express the very same thing.

So let me care for you. I will do a remarkable job, the way I do most things.

In the only sort of humility I am capable of,
Satine