THE PLEASURES FOR WHICH I NEGLECT YOU

[satinette]

THE PLEASURES FOR WHICH I NEGLECT YOU









"Later, you will understand the emptiness of the pleasures for which I neglect you. And you will see in the avidity with which I seek them only my fear of seeing them vanish."
- A Woman Appeared to Me, Renee Vivien, page 3









By no means can Satine Lafaye be considered a snob, she would loudly object to such a description, as she says herself: she is as readily attracted to the expensive gowns (and especially to that which hides underneath) of the wealthy high society ladies that were once just a bunch of pretty debutantes as to her own maid and her maid's lovely sister or any rudely laughing working girl. Class is no barrier for the formerly noble Lafaye family's youngest. She draws them, the hands of the cleaning girl or the sweat-streaked back of the young ballerina and then, she bathes them and takes them to bed.

As such, it should come as no surprise to anyone who knows her when she one day meets the young merchant's daughter, Stéphanie Dubois, and feels an immediate infatuation with her lovely blonde locks and her startling blue eyes. You look airy as a sylph, Satine whispers softly against the brow of the young girl, only recently turned twenty and gossiped to be well on her way to marrying into the Lavigne family, yes, that Lavigne family who birthed the up and coming composer Joseph Lavigne and now basks in the glow of his reputation.

Together, they have found a nook in Madame Gautier's huge mansion, Stéphanie and Satine, not too far from the ballroom, but just far enough to not be overheard, standing very close in order to fit both their dresses into the small space. My father doesn't sell any of those, Stéphanie replies breathlessly, fingers curled in the silk of Satine's skirts. Satine, in turn, pushes the girl's hands down over the extensive ruffles - down and down and down, until there is hem and there is petticoats. Stéphanie blushes so prettily.

Well, my love, I am not here to buy, Satine tells her, voice a whisper against her ear now.









Many months later, Madame Abbadie picks up where Madame Gautier left off, the ball huge and the entertainment exquisite. Mademoiselle Dubois is not in attendance, as she has been grounded until her wedding, so as to avoid more ruffled bed linen and long, dark hairs left on her pillow, found in the morning by the maid and taken to her mother who, in Stéphanie's own words, lost her marbles. The girl has cried in Satine's lap which is always the first sign that their relation must come to an end, gradually and gently, but Satine has long since vowed not to weigh another woman down or to be weighed down herself. Neither does she wish to be shot by a jealous husband, so once they marry, her little sylphs or butterflies or darlings or whatever she may have called them, Satine moves on.

There is so much world to see. So many girls to meet.

Except, tonight she has not met a single girl worth of note, instead watching Monsieur Lavigne, the composer himself, sitting at the fortepiano and playing an impromptu waltz for the gathered guests that laugh and clap in excitement. She watches his hands, he has beautiful hands, too big for her tastes, of course, but evidently nimble and strong at the same time. A contrast that speaks to her on levels that have little to do with aesthetics and attractions.

She knows him, she thinks. Just looking at him, she knows his soul, as if listening to his music tells her all the secrets he never tells anyone else, at least not anyone who gossips, because if they had even an inkling, if they knew anything at all, the talk would never cease. The way it never ceases with her. The way they whispered about Chopin, too. What is it with these composers? Libertines!

She really must draw his hands.









The portrait she has agreed to paint of Stéphanie is a gift, because the family neither could nor would pay her for her labour, and it is a wedding gift, even, because Satine is certain Daniel Lavigne will appreciate the honest representation of his soon-to-be wife in the bedroom.

While she works, the other girl surveys her with those two startling blue pieces of sky that she has for eyes, clad in her crinoline, her hair undone, golden waves around her shoulders. It takes a long time to mix the right shade of yellow for it, it is the way in which it is almost whitish, yet not as pale as her skin, not as pearl-like. Two different gemstones in nature and Satine has not yet discovered the second one, where it can be found, what it is called. Cornsilk. Crayola. Chiffon. Her smock feels overly warm in this stifling heat that defines Paris during late August, as if it is summer itself descending upon her under the gaze of the incomparable Mademoiselle Dubois.

I am burning, Stéphanie says, not in complaint, her voice low and tempting. Satine puts down her brush, the right shade of yellow simply won't manifest today. She better inspect the source material a little closer, yes?

Shall I reduce you to ashes, she asks, shrugging out of her smock jacket, revealing nothing but a shift underneath. And make you rise from it like a phoenix?

Stéphanie laughs and informs her that her father doesn't sell any of those either. Satine kisses her, repeating what has become code between them at this point, that she isn't here to buy.









He comes up to her as the clock strikes eight, she counts the chimes of the longcase over the thrills of the violin. They are dancing, behind them, the polka, the windows are huge and arched and offer a view of the architectural gardens extending beyond, outside.

I hear your dance card is empty, he says and then, to ensure she knows he is not holding this information against her, will you let me take my place on it?

It is the lancers next.

No, she tells him, dismissively, waving a hand as it if means nothing, which it does, naturally, Satine loves the lancers, but she never dances with men and there are few safe places to dance with women. She thinks of Stéphanie in the morning brightness of her bedroom, leading Satine about in a waltz, laughing unapologetically and rising from the ashes and flying free as a bird. There is no dance card for that.

Joseph Lavigne simply looks at her in response, a long, lingering glance, taking in her entire form, though not in that way men usually have, appreciating her bust and the tiny circumference of her waist or the way her dress accentuates her bottom. He just looks. And, she suspects, sees as well. So, Satine decides in that moment that he must be one of her own. She doesn't believe in owning people, but she does believe in supporting them.

She does believe in portraying them, too. In her mind, she's already sketching his fingers, the sensitivity of them. Him.









It is no official portrait, it is never exhibited anywhere, except in the Dubois family's own home, still the Dubois family receive a great many guests and nurse a big circle of friends, so naturally word of the motif makes its way out on the streets of Paris. Stéphanie Dubois has been painted as a slut, they say, those who are daring and those who are not only polish the phrasing enough to appear polite about it. Stéphanie tries to be brave, but whenever they're alone together, she crumbles in Satine's lap, grasping her skirts and wetting them with her tears. I thought they would see, she sobs, Satine stroking her hair for which she in the end did find the perfect shade of yellow. Light cream.

As he belongs to the family, their pride as well as their bread and butter, Joseph Lavigne eventually sees the portrait as well, Satine hears the story from Stéphanie first, though word quickly spreads from there. He frowned at it for a long time, the girl tells her, looking quite downcast as she evidently liked her future brother-in-law a lot, silly goose, never you like a man, before finally saying that it was a shameful display to make of a woman soon to be married to an honourable fellow.

O, but your father doesn't sell any of those, Satine assures her, causing the poor girl to giggle uncontrollably, until she once more breaks down in tears.









Of course she isn't invited to the wedding. Even if she had been, she would have found an excuse not to attend. Her time is precious, there are plenty to choose from. However, she hears through the grapevine that Stéphanie Dubois now Madame Daniel Lavigne made a lovely bride, exquisite, you wouldn't have thought, judging by that portrait, would you?

Satine isn't surprised. They always make lovely brides, her girls.

Half a year later, they meet at a ball some rich friends of the Lavigne family are throwing. They wait with each their dance card, Stéphanie's brimming, Satine's empty. They stand next to each other like strangers for a few minutes until Satine takes pity on the fretting girl with her rounder than before belly and her desperate, sideway glances. Her hair is still light cream and bound in a tight bun on top of her head. She is as glowing as a sun, but the Greek kind, the one bound to a carriage always moving in the same pattern across the sky. East to west.

What price have you paid for it, your child, Satine asks, looking straight ahead, rude to a fault.

O, my father doesn't sell any of these, the good Madame Lavigne replies, her voice too light, too shrill, she is trying to play the same game they once excelled at.

Turning her head and looking at the other woman, a harshness to the line of her lips, something like cruelty, except it is self-preservation and not aimed at her as much as at Satine herself, she coolly responds: I suppose you must go somewhere else to buy, in that case.

Stéphanie attempts a laugh.

Satine doesn't.