Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

  “And did he cure the count of this lovely… rash?” the woman asked with suspicious glint in her eye. There was no doubt to anyone in the present company that the count’s illness would have been one of those rather embarrassing conditions a gentlemen could acquire through liaisons with the so-called ‘ladies of mercy’.

  “Naturally!” the countess exclaimed, with far too much enthusiasm to seem remotely believable. “This doctor is a miracle worker, I tell you. He prescribed my dear Hector leeches, foot baths, mustard pads and an infusion of arnica. Oh, and of course, bloodletting and mercury ointments.” She paused for a moment, as if telling the story had tired her, and cooled herself with a small black fan. “And how is your health, my dear?” she asked suddenly, fixing the other woman with a piercing look. “Have you seen a specialist about that growth on your face yet?”

  The woman with the wart looked down and touched the wart instinctively, looking nervous all of a sudden.

  “It looks,” the countess mused, “somewhat larger than it was the last time I saw you, my dear. And it seems to be darker. You simply must have it checked. I couldn’t bear if it were something serious!” She placed her hand on her ample chest, as if to emphasize just how much it worried her.

  Hah! Priceless! Serves her right, he thought, amused that the woman had been beaten with her own weapon.

  Bored with eavesdropping on two women, he moved away, heading deeper into the salon. The guests had divided themselves into two groups: the younger guests in one area, the other in another. The musician couldn’t find the friend who had brought him to the party, and decided he must be busy with an amorous conquest somewhere out of sight.

  Damn him! he thought angrily. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was currently suffering from what he liked to call ‘consumption of the purse’ – better known as being flat broke – he would never have let himself get dragged along to such a boring evening. Who could have predicted that such a famous host would provide such lousy food?

  Those mutual shared dinners out on the town with his friends, where everyone took turns to pay for the group, had certainly taken their toll on his finances. The last one at the Palais Royal hadn’t even been that expensive – just two francs per person, including soup, three or four dishes to choose from, dessert, and half a bottle of ordinary but rather hideous wine. Multiplied by several people, though… well, it was a good thing he’d managed to acquire a few regular students. Either way, he’d have to write to his father soon, asking for help. Again. It hadn’t been long since the last time he’d borrowed money from home.

  I’ll pay them back one day, he silently reassured both himself, and his father.

  He found himself growing increasingly bored by the present company. If they weren’t talking about illnesses, then it was politics. He grimaced, irritated. These people really had no idea how to have fun, not like back home in Poland. He sighed and smiled at his memories, then he closed his eyes and recalled all the fun and games he’d enjoyed back home. What the French called Tableau Vivant was one of their favorites – a form of charades where groups of people came together to recreate the costumes and poses of famous works of art. The evenings during the harvest were the best, when they came together to celebrate with singing, dancing, and music. Oh, those people knew how to party. The sweet voices of the women were lovely to hear, and everyone danced in the courtyard until they dropped – sometimes literally. One time, a girl had stood on a rock in bare feet and fallen, dragging everyone down with her. Oh, how they’d laughed!

  But here? Here, there was nothing worth talking about.

  “I do not agree, my dear sir!” From somewhere nearby, he heard the booming voice of a man dressed in short, buttoned knee breeches and drooping silk stockings. “Now more than ever, we should look towards religion for answers. My wife and I…”

  “…I sent her a lace shawl, twelve foulards, eleven feet of grosgrain velvet, and an assortment of hat ribbons…” A high-pitched voice carried over the crowd, from the direction of a sofa on which three distinguished matrons perched stiffly.

  “Sir, you should only buy hats from Madame d’Herbault,” an older lady in black mittens and lacy ruffles instructed, in a voice that would brook no argument.

  Voices, high and low, loud and quiet, all merged into one unbearable monotonous, soporific noise. Even the venerable forefathers, who gazed down on the huge drawing room furnished in mahogany and red velvet from portraits on the walls, looked very bored.

  The young man resumed his desperate search for the companion who had brought him to the party, but had no luck. Suddenly, an unexpected and pleasant turn of events took place: finally, at long last, the wine was served. It was an excellent crystal Bordeaux, which at least partially compensated for an utterly atrocious evening. The volume of the conversations instantly rose, and the atmosphere warmed significantly. One sip was enough to ease the tension and embarrassment he’d felt a moment earlier, and the alcohol even took the edge off the toothache that had been bothering him for several days. He knew he should go to the dentist, but he was more afraid than he was willing to admit to himself. Besides, he needed to save money. The money his father sent last time had vanished at an alarming rate. New gloves were expensive, but he just couldn’t deny himself those.

  He leaned against the wall by the window and watched the street, which was still busy despite the late hour. By the light of the few gas lanterns, he could see the dark silhouettes of people walking by. Carriage wheels clattered over the uneven cobbles, and the hooves of horses click-clacked. He looked back at the people gathered in the drawing room. After his third glass of wine, and in the flattering yellow light of the lamps spaced out along the walls and ceiling, the women suddenly seemed much more interesting.

  Especially that little blonde over there, he thought. The one with the cherub bow lips and the tiny ringlets on either side of her face.

  Her ear peeked out from between the curls every time she moved her head, and the sight of it made his pulse quicken.

  Ah, and that freckle on her slim neck!

  He put his empty wineglass on the tray of a passing servant and moved over to the fireplace, the mantel of which housed a grand Louis XVI clock and a bronze bust. Pretending to admire the clockmaker’s intricate handiwork, he cast surreptitious glances at the blonde beauty out of the corner of his eye. She seemed to be thoroughly engrossed in conversation with her friends, but he thought he saw the odd flirtatious glance in return. Could it be…?

  I need someone to introduce me to this angel, he thought, glancing around in search of a familiar face that might help him. Oh please, for God’s sake, someone introduce me!

  “Excuse me, young man?” a scratchy voice asked from behind him. “I hear you come from Poland, n’est-ce pas?” The owner of the voice was a bow-legged old man in silk stockings, the same one who had been loudly enthusing about the need to submit oneself to religion a few minutes earlier. His foot, clad in a large shoe adorned with a decorative buckle, tapped in time to his voice, as if to accentuate every word he said.

  “Yes, that is true,” he replied. “Quite recent—”

  “Where from?” the old man demanded impatiently, so impatiently that he didn’t even wait for an answer before he resumed speaking. “I only know Varsovie. I was there… uh… when was I there? Oh, never mind. I was here recently, and that’s that. You don’t need to know when!”

  The musician stood motionless, afraid to even admit that he’d just arrived from Warsaw. The peculiar old man didn’t seem to care. Suddenly, his expression brightened and he grabbed the young pianist by the arm, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “Come, young sir! Let me introduce you to the most beautiful woman in Paris.”

  At last! the musician thought with relief, as they approached the object of his affections. Of all the days for him to have that dratted pimple on his nose! He’d almost wept with rage when he’d seen it in the mirror that morning. Oh well, he’d just have to keep his good side facing her – the
one without the pimple.

  The woman smiled brightly as she saw them walking towards her. Once they were close enough, the old man took her hand and brought it to his cheek, in gesture of utmost worship.

  “Darling,” he purred affectionately. “My wife, Nicolette. Allow me to introduce you to a young artist from Poland, monsieur… what’s your name again?”

  Young man leaned over her petite hand, adorned only with a modest ring, and mumbled his name. His discomfort escaped the odd couple’s notice. No one asked him any other questions. The old man only had eyes for his beloved wife, and peppered her with questions about her wellbeing, worried whether she was tired, or felt like going home. He didn’t seem bothered when he heard her cool reply that she was perfectly fine and would prefer to stay.

  “You’re a pianist, aren’t you?” Nicolette asked, her perfect lips curving into a grimace. “Perhaps you’d play something? It’s terribly boring here.”

  The young musician would have preferred to make excuses and politely escape, but the old man grabbed his arm with hands like talons and dragged towards the instrument.

  “But of course, my precious! He’ll gladly play something for you. Isn’t that so, young man?” His tone said that it wasn’t a question, and there was only one proper answer he could give.

  When news that he was going to play reached the hostess, she clapped her hands and shouted over the hubbub of voices.

  “May I have your attention, please! I am honored to introduce you to a young Polish musician, who has decided to play for us today.”

  “Ooooooh!” Came from salon’s left side.

  “Aaaaaah!” Was the right side’s answer.

  “Eeeeeeh…” complained a few voices in one corner, but they were swiftly silenced.

  Flustered, the young man hurriedly flagged down a passing waiter and grabbed two more glasses of wine, which he downed in rapid succession and returned to the tray a moment later. The buzz in his head muffled the one coming from the guests gathering around the piano. He smoothed his outfit, gracefully tossed its tails back, and sat at the piano.

  A ripple of excitement ran through the room. Although not everyone had heard of the young Pole, everyone was pleased to see that something interesting was happening. Maybe he would play something suitable for dancing? Perhaps something fashionable, pleasant for the ear? If not, they could mock him discreetly, pretending to be musical connoisseurs in front of the ladies, and that would be its own entertainment. All sorts of musicians were seen and heard during evenings such as this one.

  The piano seemed rather good: a walnut Pleyel, a bit neglected but definitely a very robust instrument. The young man lifted the lid, moved the candlestick closer, then placed his hands on his thighs while he studied the keys and decided what to play. The company was already a little tipsy, and probably not really very musical at even when they were sober. They probably expected a medley of popular arias and acrobatic tricks from a young, well-dressed foreigner, a’ la Franz Liszt. Yes, that kind of performance would guarantee him easy applause. Parallel octaves, major thirds chains, breakneck passages, with several melodies that everyone could whistle along with thrown into the mix.

  That kind of performance was no challenge to him. He was quite used to them. Great ambitions were one thing, but ensuring oneself a comfortable existence in Paris was quite another. The money from his father melted away swiftly, and he knew he couldn’t expect it to keep coming indefinitely. So, he had to adapt to the expectations of the local audience. He often played music he detested deep within his soul, because it won the audience over. Even his own works came not from his heart, but from the need to make an impression on the less sophisticated listeners. His musical ambitions had to wait. Until he’d built up his social standing in the city, he would sadly have to bend before the prevailing winds of fashion, just as one changed hats and gloves with the trends.

  But at that moment, the young Pole only cared about one person in the room. He was playing for her and her alone. He decided to give up on his technical tricks, and settled for a melancholic waltz in A minor. Those were always popular with the ladies.

  He raised his hands and softly ran his fingers over the keys. As the first notes filled the room, the conversations around him went quiet, but they didn’t stay silent for long. Once he’d completed his introduction and moved on to the first aria, the hubbub began to grow again. A stout woman with Italian features whispered something to a young man wearing gray pantaloons, who burst out into muffled laughter now and then, and cried: “Stop! Stop!” Someone issued orders to the help, an older man by the window choked and coughed, chairs shuffled, glasses rang out. It seemed as if nobody was paying any attention to the young man’s focused performance. On top of it all, a coachman began shouting just outside the window, reassuring his acquaintance that it apparently wasn’t going to rain any more that night. Under such conditions, the waltz sounded weak and colorless.

  He needed to change his plan. The musician calmly moved to the middle section, but only played a few chords, then, unexpectedly, slammed his hands down on the keys with all his strength. The powerful chord immediately silenced all conversation around the room. The stout woman and young man stared at him, their faces filled with surprise. The old man by the window froze, as if he’d heard a gunshot. A hurricane of double octaves followed a second later, which drew a general murmur of recognition from the crowd.

  You want circus tricks? The young musician thought with a malicious sort of satisfaction. You want galloping tierces? Here they are!

  He played several chromatic scales in the lower register, then went into the key of D minor and - after a few well-chosen effects – launched into Mozart’s Don Giovani, in an off-key bass. A tall, lanky Englishman, probably some banker from Liverpool, gave him a discreet, “Bravo!” but the musician didn’t hear him.

  Alcohol, excitement and the sounds flowing from his fingers made him feel separated from the others as if by an invisible wall. He even forgot, for a moment, about the blonde beauty. He was alone with the music. He slowed his music down a little, and moved the key of F major, instantly brightening the atmosphere. Mozart’s composition sounded completely different now, pure and naïve, like a child’s song. After a few bars he transformed it again, first into a festive song, then into a pompous march, as if the music were alive and completely separate from the popular opera.

  A slight change of rhythm and accentuation of Lydian fourth revealed another new, surprising interpretation of the composition. Now is sounded almost like a traditional Polish mazurka, though perhaps a bit more refined and sophisticated, but there was no need for him to exert himself for today’s audience. There was a spattering of applause; Polish music had become fashionable as of late, and nearly everyone was able to hum some mazurka or polonaise tune. He played a few more, introducing more and more folk motifs along the way. That may not have been in the best taste, all things considered, but the pianist was striving for the greatest effect, using the least sophisticated measures.

  He still felt a malicious sense of satisfaction, showing off in front of the people around him, as if he was mocking them by exposing the lack of sophistication in the Parisian audience. It was also revenge on the beautiful blonde, whom he felt was somehow as guilty as the others for not appreciating the intimacy of his waltz. Now he played on with all his strength, almost defiantly. He nearly fell off his stool when he leaned suddenly to the right, to play a double trill in the high register. Finally, he finished his improvisation with a series of brilliant, though not entirely precise, passages, and ended to a storm of applause and cheers from the tipsy men gathered at the cheese table.

  He rose from the piano and stood with a forced smile, listening to the continuing ovation. It didn’t escape his notice that the group of delighted fans lacked the one person he had silently dedicated his performance to. She stood in the corner by the window, and seemed to be completely absorbed in conversation with a skinny young man dressed in the English fashion.
The blush on her cheek and delicately lowered lashes left no doubts as to the nature of their exchange.

  “Perhaps you would care to play something for us now, madam?” he called, a little too loud, looking at her. The eager crowd joined in on the request, to the obvious embarrassment of the young woman who suddenly found herself the center of attention. The beauty didn’t resist for long, though. She pretended to hesitate, ever so coyly, but it was obvious that she was eager to take her turn at the piano. Her husband was delighted, practically panting with excitement, and proudly announced to all present that his young wife had been taking daily lessons and singing with the best teacher in Paris.

  And probably the most handsome, too, the Pole thought gloomily, surrendering his place at the piano to her. The company had officially ceased to amuse him. Using the momentary confusion to his advantage, he chose to make what the Polish called an ‘English exit’ – that is, to leave abruptly, without telling anyone he was going. He downed a few more glasses of wine, and with the buzz of intoxication roaring in his head, he slipped out of the drawing room. Behind him, the conversations grew in volume, to the point that they almost drowned out the mercilessly off-key tones flowing from the beautiful blonde’s fingertips. He wasn’t in the mood to wait for her vocal performance, which was sure to come.

  A stiff and proper servant at the exit handed him his coat, top hat and walking stick.

  “Shall I call you a coach, monsieur?” he asked, with a carefully enunciated words.

  “No, thank you. I’ll walk.”

  The servant’s expression clearly showed what he thought of young foreigners who walked the streets of Paris at night. He didn’t think well of them, that much was certain.

  The air was cool and damp after the day’s rain, but pleasantly fragrant. The tipsy pianist breathed it in, deeply and eagerly. He could smell the nearby Seine, horse manure and coal smoke.