HASALYNX PRESS
Read Romance Ebooks Legally — Anytime, Online, With a Monthly Subscription

The summer of 1869 was a peculiar time. I have just finished my first college year and felt more compelled than ever to make it as a poet. I had something to say, and I hoped that public recognition would make my ideas fly far.

Wanting to help me succeed, my uncle advised me to look for people who have already made it. Thus, I began my quest of writing letters to more seasoned poets. I attached my humble writings to each letter, hoping that those great minds would respond and give me some advice.

However, the results were... oh, well, pretty disappointing.

In most cases, I got no reply, and those few letters that came back were, frankly speaking,  appalling. All I got was a mere “thank you for writing to me, but you aren't ready yet; you still need to learn a lot.”

Seeing my frustration, Denis - a friend of mine - mentioned one of his acquaintances, a talented literary artist, who was barely twenty-seven, yet had already published two collections. His name was Marcel Legrand. This was quite a common surname, but as soon as I heard it, I was struck by a strange feeling. I couldn’t overcome the impression that he would play an important role in my life... Perhaps it was wishful thinking, though. Perhaps, I secretly  wanted it to be so...

I carefully drafted my letter to him, in which I introduced myself as Gabriel Lavigne; a dear friend of Denis. I bought elegant, scented paper especially for the purpose of this letter; and unfortunately, I also wasted half of it, trying to write flawlessly, or at least... readably. It was a shame, but, despite my ardent love for literary arts, I was never good at calligraphy... I guess, I always felt that what I was saying mattered more than how neatly it was written.

After writing the letter, I sealed the envelope and spent many days wondering whether sending it was a good idea... For a reason that I couldn’t pinpoint, I was strangely nervous, and kept hesitating almost as if my whole life depended on it... I didn’t know why, but, maybe it was those premonitions related to him... I felt like meeting him would put me on a path that I would never be able to return from...

Moreover, it wasn’t like I felt particularly self-confident as a literary artist. From time to time, I just wanted to throw out my fountain pen and quit writing. It was difficult, and nobody even liked my avant-garde poetry...

I knew, I could only blame myself for it. I never attempted to fit in; I refused to write pastoral poems. For some reason, I just couldn't express myself through full-blown flowers and shimmering rivers. I felt that nature spoke of peace, while my internal world was full of emotions, most of them turbulent.

I couldn't think of my teenage years without a certain kind of sadness. I was born into a stern, patriarchal family filled with drama, rumors, and unforgiveness. My closest relatives hadn't spoken to each other for years, and they formed alliances against each other, too. I grew up aware of the fact that not even my own parents could be fully trusted, and this had a catastrophic effect on my relationship with other people.No matter how I wanted, I was unable to put genuine trust in anyone. This, of course, created a lot of fear in my heart, especially during my teenage years... And, although I didn't want to immortalize this broken mindset in my poetry, I couldn't help it; I kept writing about it. I just couldn't stop. It was what life had taught me; I meticulously converted my thoughts, emotions, and memories into images and symbols, sewing them together into a word riddle, dressed in beautiful metaphors. I was sure that someone, some day, would read it, and look right through me, see through the pain that I've been hiding...

When I finally threw the envelope with my letter into the post box, I felt queasy. I tried to persuade myself that I was ready for this meeting and the chance that it may bring - but deep down, I knew all too well that I wasn’t...

In the aftermath of this brave act, I began doubting my writing skills more than ever. In the past weeks, it had become clear to me, I would probably never get the recognition I desired. My fellow poets had no interest in telling me I could write... or perhaps, they truly didn't see anything in them: who could know it?

*

A quiet week passed by; I spent most of it in my room, watching large raindrops slide down the window glass. It was raining heavily, and my future seemed just as grim. I had started university merely last year but was already tired of the egocentric attitude of many docents. They looked down at us students almost as if to remind us, where was our place: at the lowest level of the university's hierarchal pyramid...

I was supposed to begin my second year in a couple of days, but life wanted things to go differently; Marcel finally responded to my letter!

When the postman brought the envelope, I immediately knew, it was going to be from Marcel. How, I wasn’t sure; I just knew it. And as if that wasn’t enough... my heart pounded with unbridled excitement when I touched the envelope. Turning it back to see his name, I couldn’t contain my emotions. I was thrilled, full of hope, and fear at the same time.

Needless to say, I immediately locked myself in the room to read it. He wrote me a short note in which he stated that it was a pleasure to meet me, and that he was very intrigued by my sublime poetry. I couldn't believe it. Fate finally smiled at me!

But that wasn't all! He invited me to his place so that we could discuss poetry in detail. And, he even sent me a prepaid train ticket! Of course, I immediately forgot about my major. This was my big chance... I couldn't say no to it!

I quickly packed my clothes and toiletries, bought some gifts, and the next day, I was already on my way to meet him.

*

Marcel resided in Paris, on Rue de l'Èglise, in a quaint second-floor apartment of an aged tenement building. His newlywed wife, Emma, greeted me at the door. Medium in stature and wearing a light blue dress, she appeared comfortably plump.

After exchanging greetings, Marcel crossed the main room. Although I had never seen his photograph and could have easily mistaken him for another male relative of Emma’s, a single glance was enough. I immediately recognized him; there was no mistaking it was him.

He... was a tall and handsome man, seven years older than myself, exuding a natural elegance even in a plain shirt paired with maroon pants and suspenders. His copper hair, stylishly tousled, stood out above his forehead, cascading onto his shoulders. However, it was his misty grey eyes that truly captured my attention... In spite of their cool hue, they held a warm, luminous gaze that was utterly captivating. “Gabriel Lavigne, yes?” He asked, and his voice sounded both cultured and sweet to my ears; I loved it from the first time that my mind registered it.

“Yes… That’s me!” I replied with an awkward grin, and we briefly shook hands; a spark tingling through my skin at his touch. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Legrand.”

“Oh, call me Marcel,” he responded with a warm smile.

He and Emma then ushered me into their modest yet impeccably clean apartment, which was filled with the inviting aroma of dinner cooking. Emma set the round table, and we all settled into wooden chairs for the meal. Marcel didn't delve much into his own life; he simply mentioned that he worked at the post office and that Emma was expecting a baby. I congratulated them warmly, wishing them a bright and joyful future.

*

We only started talking about poetry in the afternoon, when we decided to take advantage of the beautiful autumn weather and go outside.

As we were walking downstairs, Marcel mentioned being genuinely impressed by that poem I had sent him. He kept asking questions about small nuances, and we began discussing different literary techniques. We stopped by a nearby kiosk to buy some soda water in tin cans and walked into the local park. Soon, our light conversation became extremely passionate, as we began sharing our greatest inspirations and dreams. Marcel told me, he wasn't just interested in publishing poetry collections; he wanted to create a whole literary movement. I immediately realized that he wasn't a fan of Auguste Comte, and honestly, neither was I. Positivism persuaded people to take a scientific, down-to-earth approach to life. It was great after all the terrible superstitions of Romanticism. However, it made people overly focused on the material world. The emotional and spiritual aspects of one's life were disregarded, and, in my opinion, life lost much of its luster. Hence, hearing from Marcel, who was hoping to start his own artistic movement, made me fall in love with that idea. It sounded so exciting. I was totally in!

“Do you believe that you could stay here, with us, for some time?” Marcel asked eventually, as it became clear that we needed to be together to keep working on our brilliant ideas. “I know you have the university, but we could do great things instead.”

Some kids with toy balloons ran by, screaming joyfully about Jules Verne’s new book - The Children Of Captain Grant. They seemed really happy, and although it was stupid, I shared their mood. Marcel's offer made my day. I knew I should have declined it; I didn't want to bother him and his wife. But, I've been waiting for so long for something like this!

*

Emma didn’t seem to mind my presence. On the contrary, she seemed grateful I chose to stay and help Marcel. When he was busy hanging freshly washed and bleached laundry, she said:

“I haven't seen him this enthusiastic about anything for quite a while. Life isn't easy for artists...” She paused to wipe a clean plate. “Marcel has great plans, but there are challenges behind every corner. This city seems open and welcoming, but in fact, it's full of closed doors. Only certain cliques have enough power to dictate trends. Starting something brand new without getting stepped on is hard.”

I nodded to show her that I was listening, and she continued: “Marcel was trying for a long time to find somebody who writes similar poetry. However, most poets lack courage. Their writings aren't eccentric.”

“It looks like you know a lot about this?” I asked.

“Nah, not that much,” she waved her hand in which she was holding a small, checkered kitchen cloth. “Marcel brought some works from the local library... Yet, I didn't have enough enthusiasm to get deeper into them. I don't write, either. Somehow, I don't feel that...” she made an awkward gesture.

“Need?” I suggested as she seemed not to know which word to choose.

“Exactly,” she nodded. “I lack that need, that urge to write.”

“What do you do in your free time, then?”

“Ah, nothing much. I just sew on my machine!”

That small talk was, in fact, one of our longest conversations; I seldom spoke to her. She was Marcel's wife, and also, I spent almost all my time hanging out with him. I followed him so often that he got used to my presence, and later, we went everywhere together. It was odd, to become inseparable like this. But, it also brought me so much genuine joy. I adored him, and felt thrilled with our goal. As soon as our ideas crystallized, we realized we required a groundbreaking and controversial manifesto.

*

I found a job as a history tutor, and with this, I liberated myself from family pressure to be back in Marseille.