satinette | FOURTH SUNDAY OF ADVENT

December 7th, 1856

To my quiet Josephine, except for all the coughing,

Once again, I must receive the news from friends rather than from the horse's mouth itself. Truly, you are no horse, mon chéri, you are a stubborn mule! Is it because you are afraid I should shorten my stay in Spain, were you to tell me the truth of your declining condition? Fear not. I have no intentions of sending Sarah back to England for any lesser occasion than your impending return to our Lord.

Are you planning on dying now, then? Respond as soon as possible and we will see if I manage to get farther than Madrid.

Nevertheless, even in Madrid, it is milder than the most southern of France in December and in Andalusia, where we are headed, I hear it is like Parisian spring. How would you like a second spring this year? I will pay for your travels, if you would only come, little Josephine a-coughing, don't be obstinate! Be my good girl and let not your fatigue be victorious, but rather all the inspiration still awaiting us in this world.

Here, I am sending you postcards of Andalusian scenes, bought at a vendor's located on the Plaza de Oriente. Compose me something inspired by them! Little pieces, I shan't be picky, I promise. Compose me something, my pet composer, because what other use do you have, is it your pretty face for which I am paying these days? Surely, this must be my role in our marriage more than ever. Yes, I am the face, you are the fingers, because mine are busy elsewhere. Three guesses!

Compose me something. Compose me something, and do not lose courage.

My thoughts are with you,
Satinette

December 17th, 1856

To my composer whose music is more undying than he,

You told me not too long ago, that the other L. has worked relentlessly on his Spanish Rhapsody for almost a decade and I pity the piano which has had to bear such a violent grip for so very long. Now, in just a week, you have composed four little Spanish scenes that much more accurately and charmingly depict the country through which Sarah and I are travelling, at a slow pace to ensure that you would still be able to catch up, should you so wish.

Yet, you insist you won't leave Paris behind.

My friend, we both know it is not the city whose side you refuse to leave, but rather the notion of first love from which you have sought refuge there. Why am I not allowed to want a requited love for you as you so generously pray for mine every night. Let not Sarah Baldwin go back, those are your words, you tell me. Well, I shall soothe your worried spirits, because I am not letting Sarah Baldwin go anywhere I cannot follow, it is something I will assure, more readily than any divine thing!

Pray for yourself, little Josephine. Pray for my little Josephine's heart. Heaven knows, I do. And make not a liar of yourself, saying you are not actually dying, for the truth remains: when are we as human beings not?

But until then? Live! Love! If your ideal truly exists and outside your own mind, too, then smear it in oil and watch it glow beneath the sun! I know you have done it before, albeit you refuse to speak of it anymore.

Well, I shall speak, in that case! We are all fated to burn in the end, that is the truth of the matter, so why not burn for good reason?

Logically,
Satinette

January 2nd, 1857

To the only man with whom I would wish to meet the future,

New Year greetings! Are you still alive? Are you well?

Sarah, although a baptized Anglican, joined me for Catholic Mass in Seville and I, who never have these talks with God otherwise, prayed for your health, my husband, on Christmas Eve, so surely He must answer soon. We are on our way back to France now, finding ourselves halfway there already, and while we travel, you will undoubtedly almost die and survive it many times over. Let this, then, only be a brief letter to inform you that, although I should have painted Andalusian motifs enough to cover all of Paris with them, where the Spanish are all the rage, I have instead sketched your hands on the keys too many times. It has become meditative for me, to remember your sensitive fingers. Thus, upon my triumphant return to our apartment, I expect to see you up and about, sitting at the piano and playing some minuet waltz that is mine and mine alone.

As you can see from the ten or so drawings included here, I do truly miss your hands, little Josephine and not as hands that have touched me, but as hands that have touched my heart. Be careful with them, I wish to hold them in my own soon enough.

From the woman who is rushing the clock, tick-tock, tick-tock,
Satinette