THIRD SUNDAY OF ADVENT

[satinette]

June 3rd, 1852

To my beloved husband,

Firstly, how are you feeling? Has marriage already, in the span of three days, cured your fevers and gained you some weight? Myself, I must admit that being addressed as Madame does nothing positive for my looks, except the wedding band on my finger scares off a good percentage of suitors, the sort of men who consider me owned now, although I am bound to you but by an ounce of gold. Madame Lavigne, they say, thinking of you first. Indeed, I think of you first as well, little Josephine, so I understand and I am not embarrassed to wear your name, along with my gloves and gowns. It all fits, never worry.

We have arrived in Calais and will be boarding the ferry tomorrow, making this my last letter from French soil the remainder of the year. One cannot put one's trust in the English postal service, thus you must forgive if my correspondence from London should prove sporadic and untimely. Blame it on the English, not on me!

Speaking of the English, they flock around this city, you cannot turn a corner in Calais and not hear an Englishman polluting the air with his loanwords and his much too homely opinions. I always pretend not to speak a word of English when here, so as to avoid pleasantries, how do you do's, et cetera, something that is otherwise ridiculously easy to strike with a Londoner. And why am I going to London, then, of all places, you may ask, because you are o so clever or else I would never have married you, isn't that so? The answer is simple; the French Gallery has opened in London and it is rumoured to accept female contributions among the rest of the usual rubbish, so I leave you in order to make a name for myself. Simple as that! It is no different from you, travelling to Vienna to play concerts or meeting with Italians to have expert eyes on your tarantella variations. We are brothers in the arts, my sharp-witted, long-fingered darling, the muses do not peek at our most private parts. No such thing as female art in Apollo's circles, only art.

I include with this letter a sketch I made in charcoal while sitting in the living room of the old inn where my travel companions and I are staying for the night. It is drawn from memory, so forgive any inaccuracies, but I suddenly remembered you at the piano, playing my minuet waltz and felt the need to perpetuate this divine sight. As you can see, you are no doubt the handsomest man on whom I have ever laid eyes, which isn't saying much and yet. Yet, my husband in matters of the heart alone, it is perhaps saying enough, coming from me.

Would I have married you otherwise? I suppose we shall never know.

Yours,
Satinette

July 2nd, 1852

To the one who listens to gossip in the hope of catching my name,

In London, it is quite the advantage being a married woman. I went to the French Gallery the other day in the hopes of an audition with the owner, Mr. Baldwin, and as he listened to me introducing myself, he exclaimed: by gods, it's Lavigne's bride! Perhaps I should have sharpened my tongue and gone for the fences, but if I cannot be recognised as my own person, little Josephine, I am happy to be recognised as yours.

The art gallery is modern and the lighting designed for exhibition, nothing in Paris could live up to it. While Mr. Baldwin showed me around, I imagined portraits of mine lining those walls, natural light falling on the faces of my many muses. What a sweet reverie. I shall draw the interior for you and attach the sketch to this letter, so you may see for yourself.

Naturally, because the English use gossip as the rest of us use the sword, Mr. Baldwin asked about my husband, his health, his work, all but our intimate lives together was turned over and examined, curiously. Have no worries, I gave nothing away that couldn't be afforded by either of us, but it was a strange experience, walking next to this man who assumed I would serve you as your spouse in every way, who did not know that I bow down to no one but a woman with exceedingly attractive thighs and that you no longer expect a soul to bow down to you at all. When he saw my first portrait, the lovely Mlle. Toussaint, he paused like he was being faced with a riddle that knew no answer. Perhaps it was the girl's red cheeks, perhaps it was the ruby in her necklace, hanging heavily between her breasts. Under any circumstances, he said, this is your work? I replied, my husband doesn't paint. Laughing awkwardly, he looked at the next, the exquisite Mlle. Blanchet, now Mme. Augustin, and asked again, this is also your work? I replied, they are all my work, sir.

But what of your husband, he demanded to know, obviously shaken by the French boldness of my style.

O, he only plays for the young ladies because he knows I enjoy watching them dance, I told him. You know me, Joseph, if I were to bite my tongue, it would have come right off! And besides, it all worked out perfectly. He accepted six of my portraits and a handful of my drawings, they will show until the end of the season.

Aren't you proud of me? It is truly the only thing that matters.

From the one who does the same,
Satinette

August 7th, 1852

To my old love, now that there is a new,

I will make this letter as brief as I can, for I am in the midst of packing for my return to France, but do not expect me to manage conciseness altogether, for I am newlywed and I am in love, Josephine! While preparing my exhibition with Mr. Baldwin, I was welcomed into his home where I met not only his son, but especially his son's enchanting wife, Sarah. Never have I come across a lovelier visage than hers and I immediately offered to paint her portrait, formally as a gesture of gratitude towards her father-in-law, of course, but we all know my true motives, do we not? Had she been less than the perfect being she is, I would have never taken the time out of my busy schedule.

For her, however, I shall gladly slow down the clock. The portrait is done now, her arms are bare in it and those arms have held me, most understanding of husbands, like no woman has ever held your wife before. Now I only wish I could stop time altogether, because returning to Paris means, inevitably, to leave her behind, the fire in her hair, the sensitivity of her Cupid's bow, the thoughtfulness of her freckles. They dot out your newest ballade, on which I must certainly congratulate you, it is without a doubt the most beautiful of your works yet. There is longing in it, though also, finally, consummation.

Have you, at long last, fucked those early nocturnes out of your system? They are pretty, as so many things are, but also naïve, my sweet Josephine, and there is such a thing as maturity in love.

I merely wish for you to grow before you are gone.

Yet, neither of us want to go now. I wish to stay in London, suddenly, while you wish to stay alive, so let us meet upon my return to the city of cities and commiserate together, awaiting each our end. Simply because our destinations are not the same, it does not necessitate that our paths cannot run in parallels. I will walk with you, my dearest friend to whom I can write fuck and not raise an eyebrow.

You know me. And just as you know me, I will be meeting Sarah in Athens come winter. Do not pretend to be surprised, although I certainly was. Baldwin the Younger has even sponsored the trip himself. How little did I know, that there are generous husbands everywhere. I firmly believed you were the only one.

In so many respects you are, after all,
Satinette