Traditions of Dead Generations

At Nohant - Pt. I

(Judges: This is a Victorian tale! I was assigned the "lamp", and used three pictures [the Oxford Arms, the sickly girl, and the mother & baby] which can be found in the media tab.)

Sand had taken them as deep into the woods behind Nohant as she could. The little copse of cedar trees shielded them from the view of the chateau and its outbuildings, but the chestnut-lined park was barely ten yards from the clearing where they had lain their blanket and spread the picnic, and Marie still couldn't shake the fear that someone will come upon them at any moment. 

And what if they do? she scolded herself for childish nerves. We are free now. None of this is secret any more. She lifted her eyes towards the face of her lover with his sharp features like cut diamond and long flaxen hair. He, at least, was completely at ease. Both he and de Musset were dusty with the pollen of wildflowers after rolling the tea service across country to attend their little wilderness lunch, and they were now trudging enthusiastically through the undergrowth in search of mushrooms. Marie winced every time one of them shouted out a discovery. 

"Darling! Relax!" Sand shuffled closer to her, exhaling cigar smoke and smudging the butt in a silver tray. "You are safe from them all here, your husband and the lawyers. Nohant is as far from Paris as the moon as far as bureaucrats are concerned. This is your escape, my love. You can both retire here for the rest of your lives if you like."

Marie took her friend's hand and sighed. George Sand was the very picture of rebellion this afternoon, dressed in Algerian pantaloons, a man's white shirt, an opulent oriental evening gown and a Punjabi cap over her short-cropped hair. Marie felt like a buttoned-up prude by comparison in her pale blue country dress. Of course George wouldn't be afraid. She wasn't afraid of anything. 

"You're right, of course. I'm just - it's difficult, these days. I hardly know myself. You'd think I was a nervous maid of sixteen and not - a mother." she stumbled over these last words. "I need a drink."

"Franz!" Sand shouted towards the bushes, "Quit ransacking my forest and attend. Your Comtesse needs you!" A quivering hawthorn sprouted Liszt's blond head and ejected the rest of him moments later. He climbed the short incline towards their picnic cupping a pile of dirty grey mushrooms in both hands and bowed unceremoniously when he arrived at their feet.

"Let me put these down," Liszt kicked at the crockery, looking for something half-empty. De Musset struggled up the hill behind him just as his toe met with an elaborate gold-and-ebony piece that made a promisingly hollow clank. "Hello, George, what's this?"

"It's a lamp." Sand reclined and gave the blond man a bored shrug. "Hippolyte got it from a Gurkha in Morocco."

"No it isn't." Liszt crouched and pushed the top off the lamp. "Ah look, it's George's cassolette," he gave the raven-haired woman a wry grin which she returned with a mysterious downward cast of her huge, dark eyes. Marie felt her cheeks redden, and saw de Musset turn a brilliant shade of scarlet. "Well, never mind, I'm filling it with mushrooms." De Musset lay himself down on the blanket next to Sand like a protective lapdog. 

The four of them were now seated comfortably in the sun of a beautiful March day. Marie forced herself to smile. Liszt wiped the dirt from his hands and started in to the bottle of Margaux which was sure to solve all her problems. Marie took the crystal goblet from him and let her fingertips brush the back of his hand. She was pleased to see the hair on his forearm stand up in response.

"I can see this is going to be a liquid lunch," Liszt rallied, reaching out for the mushroom-filled cassolette with his free hand. "I propose a game." Marie raised an eyebrow and glanced at Sand. Her friend looked hungrily delighted.

"I don't think-" de Musset started, glancing uneasily at Sand, but Liszt cut him off with an impatient hiss.

"Pardieu, Alfred, when did you lose all your nerve? Look, drink up. I'm not here to offend your artistic sensibilities. This is an entirely wholesome and appropriate diversion. Now look here," Liszt held up the lamp-shaped-cassolette, "In this lamp, as we know, thanks to M. Galland, is a captive génie. I propose we release the enslaved spirit and bend him to our wills. We get one wish each. Who shall go first? Come on!"

"Excellent!" Sand exclaimed and beckoned the lamp towards her. "Me! I claim my rights as owner of these lands. I know just what I would wish for." Liszt handed the lamp to Sand, who took it and stroked it suggestively.

Marie giggled, as much at de Musset's uneasy glances at his mistress as at Sand's theatrics. The man was a mess. He looked as if he never slept, and clung to George like a drowning man to flotsam. Everyone in France knew of what had transpired between the pair in Italy last summer. That ancient doctor George came back with - what was she thinking? Half their circle would give their right arms to be at Nohant right now to witness the drama that was sure to unfold. Alfred couldn't go twelve hours without falling into a fit of self-destructive rage and jealousy. George encouraged it, growing drunk on the passionate violence of the handsome young man with his proud bearing, thick auburn hair and noble features. Even Marie, distracted by her own recent drama, could not bring herself to look away.

"Ohmmmm." Sand closed her eyes and hummed like a Yogi, holding the lamp up above her head in an entreating fashion. "Come forth, spirit of the lamp! I have a task for you. I have desires..." She began her tale.