“A Decadent Affair”

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.