Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  I stroked his damp hair, stroked the curve of his back, running my hands over the smooth, warm skin. Liszt slept, and the fire died down, a heap of rose-colored ashes, glowing brightly, growing dim, gray, and the darkness lightened as the first rays of morning sunlight streamed through the slightly parted curtains. He groaned in his sleep and shifted his body, his arms gathering me to him. Though I was deeply satisfied, warm, content for the moment, I thought about Brence and Anthony and was filled with cool determination. This time it will be different, I told myself. This time it will be on my terms. This time I won’t allow myself to be hurt.

  XXII

  George Sand, smiling warmly, put down her pen, glanced despairingly at the messy stack of papers on her desk, and stood up. Instead of a dress, she wore a pair of beautifully tailored black velvet trousers and a white silk shirt with a loose, flowing collar. A pair of brightly embroidered Persian slippers completed her unusual outfit. I had never seen a woman in trousers before, and it must have been apparent from my expression. She laughed softly, tucking the silk shirt snugly into the waistband.

  “I know it must seem shocking,” she said, “but trousers are extremely comfortable. Why shouldn’t I be comfortable when I work? Sitting at a desk for hours on end in taffeta and crinoline petticoats isn’t at all practical.”

  “They’re quite fetching.”

  “But you are shocked. I find that delightful. I didn’t know I still had the ability to shock anyone. When I first donned male attire fifteen years ago, people were really shocked.”

  “Is that why you did it?”

  “Well, I can’t deny that I enjoyed the sensation I made, but my real reason was purely financial. All my friends were male, and we were all poor, but women weren’t allowed in the inexpensive coffee shops the men frequented, nor were they allowed in the pit at the theater, the only seats we could afford. Simply because I was female, and poor, I was excluded from almost any kind of social activity, and I resented it bitterly.”

  She pulled a bell cord to summon her servant and, taking my hand, led me over to a sofa with a fringed purple-and-black shawl draped across its back.

  “Let’s sit down. Mathilde will bring refreshments. Anyway, I resented being excluded, and one night when all my friends had gathered for a night of stimulating conversation at their favorite coffee house, I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I borrowed one of Sandeau’s suits, tucked my hair up under a top hat, and went off to join them at the coffee shop. My friends thought it a grand lark. I thought it expedient, and I continued to dress that way when I ventured out. It gave rise to the most outrageous rumors.”

  She reached for a cigarette from a box on the table in front of us. Lighting it, she exhaled a plume of smoke and settled back against the cushions. Her fingers were stained with ink, I noticed, and despite her gaiety, she looked extremely weary. It was just after ten o’clock in the morning, and I guessed that she had been working all night.

  “Perhaps I’ve come at a bad time,” I said.

  “Nonsense. My note said Thursday morning at ten. Ordinarily I’d be coiffed and gowned and ready to greet you properly, but there was simply no stopping place. The work seemed to be flowing of its own accord, and those times are very rare. When they happen, you dare not stop. I was just making final corrections when you came in.”

  “You’re working on a new novel?”

  She nodded, and there was a rather worried look in her luminous brown eyes. “It’s called Lucrezia Floriani. I’m afraid a lot of people aren’t going to like it, Frédéric in particular. It’s our story, you see. I’ve tried to be objective, but objectivity isn’t one of my strong points. I write what I feel, and all my feelings for Frédéric are in this book, the bad feelings as well as the good.”

  Chopin was currently at Nohant, George’s estate in the country. His refusal to accompany her to Paris had caused considerable talk. Some said he was sulking, jealous of the attention she always received in the city, while others claimed he was preparing to leave the woman who had given him financial and emotional support for years. It seemed to me that if George Sand was writing a novel about their love affair, then the affair must truly be nearing its end.

  “The critics will call me a literary vampire again,” she continued. “They claim my books are written with the blood of my lovers. Frédéric won’t understand, of course, but a writer can only write about the things she knows. Anyway,” she added lightly, “I’ve always been more concerned with making a living than making love, despite what you may have heard.”

  The servant, Mathilde, bustled in with a tray, set it on the table and, making a face, opened one of the windows to let out the smoke. She cast a look around at the balls of crumpled paper littering the floor near the desk, shook her head in disgust, and marched out of the room. George poured the coffee into lovely blue-and-gold Meissen cups.

  “Mathilde hates it when I work all night. She’s convinced I’ll write myself into an early grave. Alas, I’ve two grown children to support, an estate to maintain, and a lover who’s grown accustomed to comfort and ease. Bills, bills, bills, and people wonder why I keep working so hard! It’s impossible for me to stop.”

  As she handed me a cup of coffee, she said, “Well, Elena, you’ve certainly taken Paris by storm. I can’t pick up a paper without reading about you. Gautier’s piece was quite good, and so were a couple of the others. You’ve only been here two weeks, and already you’re the darling of the press.”

  “They’re quite inventive,” I replied. “Three nights ago I was in Montmartre, dancing on top of a table in a noisy café, tossing flowers to students and artists, causing a riot. I’ve never been to Montmartre.”

  “They have columns to fill,” she said.

  “I suppose I should be grateful. Some of the stories may be outlandish, but at least they keep me before the public eye.”

  “I understand you’ve been offered several contracts.”

  “Dozens. The theatrical managers have been camping on my doorstep ever since they learned I was in Paris. The most persistent has been an American, a great bluff fellow with ginger sidewhiskers and an extraordinary flowered waistcoat. He wants me to tour America under his auspices. He claims we’ll both make millions of dollars.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s thoroughly convinced of it. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? P. T. Barnum.”

  “Of course! The man who brought General Tom Thumb to Paris. It created a tremendous stir. Louis Philippe received the showman and his midget both at the Tuileries, and Barnum got almost as much attention as the General. Both of them wore knee breeches, I understand.”

  “Barnum told me that before Tom Thumb he sponsored a Negress who was supposed to be 161 years old and George Washington’s nurse. There was also a mermaid from Fiji. After managing a midget, a mermaid, and a female Methuselah, he wants to sponsor Elena Lopez. I must say, it puts my fame in a rather unusual perspective.”

  George laughed and, setting down her coffee cup, lit another cigarette.

  “I take it you turned him down?”

  “I’ve turned them all down, at least for the time being. I’m not ready to go back to work just yet. I’ve been working so hard, for such a long time—”

  I paused for a moment and thought about the past year. The London engagement had been exciting, and the success had been elating, but it had been grueling, too, particularly when the whole show featured only my dancing. Every night I left the theater exhausted, and every day I awakened to the realization that I had to do it all over again. The responsibility and strain had taken their toll, and the tour that followed had been even worse, with constant travelling, constant adjustments, nerves on edge, tempers flaring, bags lost en route, hotel rooms cold and uncomfortable. The public saw a glamorous figure on stage, dancing in a whirl of color and light. Maintaining that glamor took an enormous effort, and I was simply not up to it again, not yet.

  “I’ll have to take an engagement in a few weeks for purely fin
ancial reasons,” I said, “but at the moment, I want a little time for myself. I’ve earned it.”

  George looked at me with large brown eyes full of wisdom and understanding.

  “I heard that your manager abandoned you,” she said. “He was your lover as well, I gather. No matter how strong we think we are, no matter how independent we might be, we’re very vulnerable creatures. Being abandoned causes terrible emotional damage that only time can heal.”

  How well I know, I thought.

  “I’ve been through it, my dear. Many times.”

  “You know about Franz and me. You couldn’t help knowing.”

  “I know that you’ve seen each other every night since my party. It’s the talk of Paris.”

  “He’s a fascinating man. I need someone like him just now.”

  George had been waiting for me to bring his name up, being far too tactful to be the first to do so. She and Franz had been friends for many years. I was anxious to hear what she had to say. George put out her cigarette and, picking up her empty cup, toyed with it for a moment.

  “I assume you’re aware of the dangers involved?” she said.

  “Fully aware,” I replied.

  “Franz can be extremely difficult. He’s a genius, you see, tormented by what’s inside, consumed by the need to express it. He’s selfish, spoiled, inconsiderate, far more temperamental than any prima donna. He’s one of the most sensitive men I’ve ever known, but all that sensitivity goes into his music. In human relationships he’s often icy cold, totally unfeeling.”

  I was silent. George poured more coffee, a slight frown creasing her brow as she sought just the right words.

  “He’s mercurial, sullen, frequently churlish, but if the mood strikes him, he can be gentle, persuasive, marvelously attentive. Franz is fiercely loyal to his friends, kind and helpful to other composers struggling to make a name for themselves, but he’s very hard on his women. A great many have been badly hurt.”

  “I don’t intend to be. I intend to keep my head.”

  “I hope you can, my dear.”

  “I have no illusions that it will be anything permanent. In fact, I have no illusions at all.”

  George studied me for a moment as though weighing my words.

  “When you came to my party,” she said, “you were like a sad, lovely sparrow, valiantly trying to put on a brave front. That aura of sadness is missing today. I detect a new strength, a new confidence. Franz could be very good for you—as long as you don’t allow yourself to expect too much from him.”

  “I’ve learned my lesson,” I told her. “I don’t think I’ll ever expect too much from any man again.”

  George took a sip of coffee. “It’s better that way, Elena. If we don’t expect too much, we’re better able to cope with the inevitable disappointments. Do you know about Marie d’Agoult?”

  I nodded. Franz had lived with the beautiful and wealthy Comtesse d’Agoult for several years while her doddering, complaisant husband played endless games of solitaire. An intellectual and a bluestocking at heart, she had borne him three children, but she had borne his infidelities with an increasing lack of tolerance. His recent liaison with the ailing courtesan Marie Duplessis had cause a permanent rift between them. The Comtesse d’Agoult had settled in Paris as the hostess of a literary salon, and, under the Sand-like pseudonym of Daniel Stern, she had written a novel about her affair with Liszt. Nelida had been serialized in the Revue Indépendante and, in book form, was creating a sensation, selling in the thousands.

  “Marie expected too much,” George said, “even though she knew it was folly. She’s putting on a very good front now, pretending to be independent and cerebral and uncaring. Nelida was merely an attempt to exorcise her love for Franz, but she’ll never be able to exorcise it, not completely. He broke her heart.”

  “He won’t break mine. My heart is immune.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was broken two years ago, in Cornwall.”

  George didn’t question me further, and I volunteered no information. I still wasn’t ready to talk about Brence Stephens. We had more coffee and talked of other things until, glancing at the clock, I realized that it was almost eleven-thirty. Reluctantly, I told George that I must leave. She accompanied me to the door and stepped outside with me. The day was gorgeous, the sky a pale blue, trees ashimmer with delicate green leaves. Sunlight bathed the housefronts and sent shadows dancing on the pavements. A hired carriage awaited me; the driver was perched on his seat, top hat on his knee.

  “Sunshine,” George said. “It’s glorious. I should get more of it. I long to return to Nohant and stroll in the fields.”

  “Franz is leaving for Germany next week,” I remarked casually.

  “Oh?”

  “He has several concerts scheduled, and he wants to go to Dresden to attend an opera by his friend Wagner. He’s asked me to go with him.”

  “Will you?” she inquired.

  I hesitated a moment before replying. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I promised him I’d give him an answer tonight.”

  George took my hand and squeezed it. “Life is very short. For our own protection we must be cautious, but we must also have the courage to take chances. Do what’s best for you, ma chère.”

  Hugging, we touched cheeks lightly, and then I climbed into the carriage. As it drove away, I looked back to see George still standing on the front steps, hands thrust into the pockets of her trousers, a serene expression on her face. Do what’s best for you, she advised. I knew what my answer should be. I knew, but I wasn’t at all sure it would be the answer I’d give.

  XXIII

  Lunch was with Théophile Gautier in one of the lovely outdoor cafés at a table shaded by chestnut trees in full bloom. As we had our wine and cheese and fruit, we discussed the excitement of Paris on a beautiful day. Later on, we went to the Louvre, and Théo grew eloquent, as we strolled through the Grande Gallerie, explaining some of the finer points of the art we viewed. I tried to concentrate, but my mind was on Franz and the decision I must make. People stared all the while, whispering about us, and several of them approached to ask if I would sign my name for them. I should have been flattered, but it took a great effort to be gracious. Théo smiled his wry, mischievous smile and reminded me that fame had its price.

  When I returned to the hotel late in the afternoon, I found the persistent Mr. Barnum lurking in the lobby, ready to pounce. His manner was even more flamboyant than his flowered waistcoat as he made a sweeping bow and launched into a paean about the wealth and glory awaiting me in America. Americans were starved for entertainment. They were ready to take me to their hearts. They would adore me. They would worship me. They would probably even erect a statue to me. The reception I’d had on this side of the Atlantic was as nothing compared to the one I’d receive on the other, and money—why, they’d shower me with gold.

  He whipped out contract and pen and pretended amazement when I refused to sign immediately. Explaining, again, that I wasn’t ready to return to work and that I certainly wasn’t prepared to cross the ocean in any case, I suggested he find another novelty to take back to his clamoring public. Barnum grinned good-naturedly, saying you can’t blame a man for trying, and told me I was making a big mistake. Handing me a card, he said I could always reach him at his address in New York if I ever changed my mind and decided to come to the land of the future. He made another sweeping bow and finally bustled away, not at all discouraged.

  Amused, I hurried to my suite. I wondered idly how Millie had spent the day. I had seen very little of her since George’s party. Franz had monopolized my time, and Millie was not one to sit staring out of the window. I knew that she had been seeing Dumas, and I was sure the two of them were having a rollicking good time together. Both possessed a great zest for life. Both loved fun and frolic. And Millie was more than a match for the exuberant Dumas.

  I read for a while as twilight thickened outside, and then I ordered a bath, luxuriating in th
e hot water for a long time. Night had fallen, and lights were twinkling in the park across the way as I dressed for the evening. I selected a taffeta gown with broad black and white stripes. My hair was sleeked back and worn in the French roll I had come to favor. Taffeta crackled as I stepped over to the mirror to affix a single red velvet rose just above my right temple. As I slipped on a pair of long black velvet gloves, I heard the door to the sitting room open. Millie called out merrily, and I left the bedroom to join her. Her eyes were asparkle, her cheeks aglow, her golden hair arranged in an elaborate coiffure. She gave me her pixie smile and whirled around to show off her new gown, a gorgeous confection of salmon pink satin adorned with frothy cascades of beige lace.

  “Isn’t it grand!” she exclaimed. “There’re seven more in my room, still in their boxes, and the undergarments are unbelievably gorgeous. Hats, too! Shoes. Everything! I thought we were going to buy the shop out!”

  “It’s beautiful, Millie. Exquisite.”

  “That’s the word. That’s what I said to him. I said, ‘It’s exquisite, Alex, but I’ll have to have accessories to match.’ He just kept shoveling out more money, beaming like a great big friendly bear.”

  “Dumas bought you the dress?”

  “Who else? He bought me the clothes, and we looked at a darling little apartment with its own garden. He’s signing the lease tomorrow. We also went to the bank, where he opened an account in my name and made a large deposit. I told him I didn’t come cheap. ‘If you want me to become your mistress, sir,’ I said, ‘you’d better get one thing straight right from the beginning. I expect an allowance.’ I’m getting a carriage, as well.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well, luv, you might congratulate me.”

  Millie smiled again and skipped over to the mirror to pat her golden ringlets. “I figured I’d better make some arrangement, since you’ve taken up with Liszt and will probably go to Germany with him. You certainly don’t want me tagging along.”