Traditions of Dead Generations

At Nohant - Pt. III

Alfred's Wish

There was once a young girl of mixed birth whose mother was a negligent harlot and whose father, though noble, was long dead. She was raised and educated by her grandmother in the distant Chateau d'Empsay, a place known for its liberal bourgeoisie and extensive political library. The girl grew up enlightened, free, beautiful, and worst of all, idealistic.

At the age of sixteen, the girl was sent by her grandmother to Venice, where she was put under the tutiledge of an old Italian doctor known for his progressive ideas. Doctor Pagelli -

"Alfred-"

"No, do let him continue, Marie! I'm dying to see where this is going."

"You're a saint, George, pardieu."

-Doctor Pagelli was immediately taken by the young girl, who was remarkable not only for her beauty and intellect, but her caring and nurturing impulses. A better man would have removed himself from this dangerous situation, but the good doctor believed a liaison with the girl could only be beneficial to her, were she to learn the tenants of free love, spiritual humanism, and moral rationality that he espoused.

Venice conceals at night a labyrinth of secret alleys, tunnels, safe houses and meeting-places known only to agents of change, and it was into this world that the good doctor brought the young girl. She became a Queen in this underworld; a muse and a revolutionary all at once, capable of leading men into political, moral and emotional upheaval. 

A believer of free and public exchange, the doctor was happy enough to share his young charge with his colleagues and comrades. It was not until she took ill that his true cowardice was exposed, and her new followers abandoned her to plant the seeds of revolution in fresher, more fertile soil.

Alone in the back room of a milner's shop, the girl was given up for dead. Still, she was young, and she lingered for more months than the shopkeepers were willing to care for her, and soon they found themselves in need of relief. They circulated word of her availability for whatever uses the underbelly of Venice should find suitable.

I wish, génie du lampe merveilleuse, to reach her before it is too late. Who could save her if not a broken, drunken young artist whose heart is so like her own?

"How romantic, Alfred! You surprise me!"

"Thank you, Marie, but I am not done yet."

But when I came to the young woman, she was nearly finished. She was pale and leaden, forever lost, with hunger on her lips and prostitution in her heart. All that remained was to gather up her dignity and return her to the care of her grandmother.

The old woman was stricken. She sat at the foot of the girl's malaise for all the months that were left to her. The girl's perfect porcelain features and hair of once-shining gold were preserved, even in these final days, and I found that neither could I leave her side. I appealed to my family to provide the girl with a handmaid for the short remainder of her life, and together we three attempted to warm her last hours. Her light had not been completely extinguished by the callous usage of the Italians, and the life we lived in that short time was worth a thousand of the long, empty lives lived by the chattel of the world.

"...well?"

"La fin?"

"Is that it? I can't believe you, Alfred. You sacrificed the poor girl to your romantic idea of heroism? I would almost think you wanted her to die."

"All art is rooted in despair, my love."

"What! You are both morbid, pardieu. Give me that lamp. It's my turn. Honestly! Children!"