Chapter Two

Isolde Sforza's Journal

12 August 1852

At the urging of my father, I am keeping a journal to document the remainder of my single life. My father is growing more and more ill with each passing week; because of this, he wishes me to marry whjilst he remains alive and able to, if not walk me down the wedding aisle, to at least roll in his new contraption: the wheel chair. It actually allows him to sit in this chair which is set on wheels rather than legs. A person, through the use of handles on the back of the chair, may push the chair, allowing an otherwise immobile person to move and retain at least a semblance of a normal life. To this point, I shall add that my father is by no means poor. He is a gentleman here in Milan. Due to this fact, my father wishes me to marry at the very least at the same station if not up into nobility. I've few prospects of this at present, thanks t my rather reclusive lifestyle. Currently the only time which I spend out in society is at the opera, for both my father and I share a love of that musical theatre. In fact, I have a feeling that were I not born of gentility, that is the very profession I would pursue.

I've only just noticed that I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Isolde Sforza. I am named after the heroine of the opera Tristan und Isolde, at which my parents met. Had I ben born a boy they would have named me Tristan. Fortunately, this tradition has not progressed any farther than the naming of children. For instance, were I to marry, whatever opera I see first after meeting the man who becomes my husband must have the name of my child. Thus far it has provided some very interesting names in my family, such as my father's name: Figarro. Every close friend of my father has shortened this name to Fig. I believe the Americans call this type of name a "nickname", if you will pardon the phrase.

I have, again, come to a realization. I have been rambling, and for that I apologize. I shall attempt to keep to the topic I was meant to write of: my life.

I have not yet met any of the suitors my father says have contacted him. As of yet, they seem to be of a somewhat lower class, which my father will not agree to unless there is no other alternative.

On another topic, my father has met a new doctor with some abnormal methods he says may help my father to live longer, though it will not cure him. The doctor is a Dutchman: Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, MD, etc. He is to meet us at the opera tonight: Don Giovanni. It is an old favourite of mine, as wel as the operatic community's. This may all seem well and good save for two things. The first of these is that Dr. Van Helsing is young, young enough for me to marry should my father choose. The second of these is that a doctor, in my father's eyes, is a gentleman, regardless of if he is a Dutchman or not. In telling me this, my father has, in essence, told me that should we both take a liking to each other (however minor it may be) I will likely be married to him out of desperation.

This is the point at which I regret my lack of intimate friends or acquaintances. I have no one but my father with which to share this, which is what truly prompted the genesis of this journal.

Evening...

That was the first time I saw him. He was dressed similarly to the other gentlemen and noblemen. He wore a black dress suit and cravat; a stiffly starched white shirt; and shining, black shoes. His black hair hung in curls to his shoulders. His eyes were red, perhaps from some trick of the light. His face was both pale and noble. His nose was high and aquiline; the skin below it was clean-shaven. Perhaps his most striking feature was his height, which exceeded, if I am not mistaken, six feet. His frame was also very thin, though I could see the hint of muscle beneath his surprisingly Engliush apparel. Beneath it...Never before have I had such thoughts. God forgive me. I shall write again later when my mind is again clear.