Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

  “Marie!” she cried, grabbing her hands. “Mama asked me to pick flowers for the dinner table. You must help me!”

  Marie pulled her hands back impatiently. “I need a moment. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Juliette rolled her eyes and ran off again.

  “Let’s not keep her waiting.” Frederic rose to his feet and offered his arm. “I apologize, I just ruined the mood with those grim thoughts. I am a fool and a simpleton. Will you forgive me, Marie?”

  He raised her hand to his lips, and she realized that there was a different kind of expression in his serious gray-blue eyes. The warmth of his breath on her skin made her heart leap in her chest. She clumsily yanked her hand out of his grasp and covered her embarrassment with a delicate cough, averting her gaze. “Yes, of course. Ah, let’s go now. We best hurry.”

  They walked towards the house, chatting about the weather, the flowers, and the upcoming midday meal, but the conversation felt forced. Something had changed, and suddenly they felt awkward in one another’s company.

  Marie snuck a discreet glance at the young Pole, and discovered to her embarrassment that he was sneaking a glance at her at just the same moment. Their eyes met, then immediately flicked away.

  She quickened her pace, moving slightly ahead of her companion. The path led up a hill, as the garden had been sculpted around a slight slope. In the distance, surrounded by trees, she spotted a large glasshouse that seemed to be completely empty.

  That would be the perfect place for a painting studio, Marie thought, staring at it for a moment. I should talk to Auntie. Perhaps she’d let me use the space.

  Marie had already grown a bit tired of the constant hustle and bustle around the country house. There were always people wandering around the drawing room, peeking into the kitchen, walking in the garden – it made her miss the peace and quiet of her family’s chateau in Trigny. There, she could lock herself away in her room with a book and emerge only for meals, and nobody would bother her. The only person who might have interrupted her moments of solitude was her beloved older sister.

  After the death of their mother, the sisters had grown even closer. Their father had always been rather cool and absent, and didn’t devote much time to them. She believed that he loved his daughters in his own way, but he just didn’t know how to properly express his feelings. After his wife passed away giving birth to their third child, he’d retreated within himself and never really emerged again.

  He was the one who had bequeathed upon her the other option for when she wanted her own space: the small tower he’d turned into a studio for her. He’d never really said anything about her talent, but obviously he’d noticed it. He’d even allowed her to move to Paris, to hone her painting skills.

  The house’s whitewashed façade appeared through the trees as Marie and Juliette returned to the house a while later, their arms full of flowers. Brand new crimson shingles glowed in the sunshine, and the windows of the first floor sparkled. The terrace doors had been thrown wide open, revealing the interior of the drawing room with its grand black piano near the entrance.

  A large rectangular table covered in white cloth stood in the shade of the nearby trees, surrounded by high-backed chairs. The regular garden table was too small for so many guests, so the help had huffed and puffed to bring the massive oak dining table out into the garden. The girls transferred their flowers into vases and set them along the table, while the men took care of their own affairs. Some of them sat on the benches, flipping through newspapers and debating politics, while others smoked cigars and wondered aloud whether the cholera epidemic was winding down or whether they should stay away from Paris a while longer. Of course, the latter would be the perfect excuse to enjoy the hospitality of the count and countess for as long as possible.

  Frederic sat well away from the others in a comfortable wicker chair, lost in thought, with his ever-present notebook in his hand. Marie snuck a glance at him while arranging her flowers, and watched him scratching his ear with a pencil, then he made a note or quick sketch in the book.

  “You know, I heard him play once.” She overheard a muffled conversation from a nearby bench, hidden behind a lush bush. “Nothing special about it, I say. I just don’t see why some people are so excited about him. He’s not even French. You can tell by the name, he’s Polish.” The last comment sounded very disdainful.

  Marie tried to see through the dense foliage, but without success. Judging by the voices, there were several men sitting there.

  “I agree with you,” another man agreed. By the very distinctive hoarseness, Marie knew immediately that it was the young Count de Brouillard, a womanizing dandy known throughout Paris for wasting his wealthy family’s fortune. “I heard he has a huge ego. He’ll only play for those he likes, and charges a rip-off rate for the lessons he gives to his adoring fans. All young ladies, I might add. Young French ladies.”

  “Young ladies, you say? Hah! Perhaps it’s not their money that he’s ripping off, eh? Rumor has it that he’s got his sights set on a new target—”

  Marie dropped her flowers in shock and anger, and raced off towards her room. Incidentally, that brought her into sight of the men on the benches, much to their consternation.

  “That’s her!” one of them hissed. “Do you think she heard us?”

  The un-subtle whisper was like a whip crack in the silence, but she pretended not to hear it. She just sped up, so she could be in her room as soon as possible, where nobody would see her tears of humiliation.

  I won’t give anyone that satisfaction, she thought, clenching her hands into fists, so hard that her nails bit into her palms. I’ll never give you that satisfaction. None of you!

  During lunch, Frederic’s thoughts seemed to be somewhere else altogether. Occasionally he snapped back to the present and was eager to help Marie at the table, but then he fell right back into thought again, absently drumming his fingers on the table.

  “I have an idea for a nocturne,” he admitted when he realized she was studying him. “The atmosphere around here has proven to be quite inspiring. It would be in B major. I have the main tune almost ready, but only in my head for now. I’ll have to see what it sounds like on an actual piano.”

  After lunch, he disappeared into the gardens with his notebook. Marie sat on the terrace with a book in her hand and a white lace parasol to shield her from the sun. The next time they saw one another was just before dinner.

  The sun had set, but the evening was warm and romantic. The moon hung huge in the sky, illuminating swaths of the garden. Mysterious shadows drifted soundlessly beneath the trees, like lovers searching for a private spot. Soft whispers could be heard all around, but it may have just been the breeze in the leaves.

  Marie shivered as she sat on a low stone bench, and wrapped her shawl a little tighter around her.

  “Are you cold?”

  The scent reached her before she heard his voice. It was a familiar scent, a pleasant scent. Only one man she knew wore that particular cologne, which had become very fashionable in Paris of late.

  “No,” she murmured. “I just feel… strange, somehow. I feel like something’s about to happen. I feel anticipation.”

  In semi-darkness, she saw a shy smile on his face.

  “I feel it, too…”

  There was a faint rustling of cloth, and then she felt a tingling on her skin that told her he’d moved closer. She heard her own heart pounding in her ears.

  “Marie…” he whispered, and his warm breath tickled her ear. She heard him swallow hard. “Marie, I—”

  “Ah, there you are!” Juliette’s voice shattered their momentary interlude like the shot of a cannon. The two jumped away from one another, startled. Juliette deliberately ignored it, and planted her hands on her hips. “Everyone is looking for you. Dinner’s on the table.”

  Everyone gathered in the dining room, and after a debate and no small amount of coaxing, Frederic agreed to play for them after dinner.

  �
�I’m terribly embarrassed about playing in public,” he confided in Marie when she asked him about it. “During my last concert in Paris, I felt all those eyes on me and it was terrible. It paralyzed me and took my breath away. I nearly fainted.”

  “But this is just a few friends,” Marie said, smiling flirtatiously. “Please, don’t make me beg…”

  “All right,” he agreed quietly, leaning towards her. “I’ll play tonight, especially for you.”

  “But not as special as the waltz you wrote in my diary few weeks ago, right?” She couldn’t resist a touch of petty malice, after the conversation she’d accidentally overheard that afternoon.

  “I don’t understand…” he said, but the sudden flush that colored his cheeks told a different story. “What waltz?”

  “The one that was supposed to be only for me,” she answered with very deliberate neutrality. “The one you made me promise not to show anyone, and which – by some strange coincidence – I discovered two of my friends had in their diaries as well. They were also promised that it was special, just for them.”

  “Oh… that one.” Frederic fidgeted and looked down. “That happened later. It was for you, Marie, was the first and truly most special, but it’s hard for me to write something new every time someone asks, and there are so many requests…”

  “Yes, I understand,” she said, letting just a touch of bitterness enter her voice. “I know how besieged you are by the young ladies of Paris.”

  “But none of them are as dear to me as you are.” Frederic protested, looking deep into her eyes. “None of them.”

  Marie felt a rush of heat up the back of her neck, and she reached for a glass of wine to conceal her embarrassment. It felt like everyone at the table must have heard their quiet exchange.

  Meanwhile, Frederic allowed himself to be drawn into conversation with the family friend sitting on his other side. He looked relieved to be offered that escape route, though he did shoot an uncertain glance at Marie from time to time.

  “You know, it’s very lucky that you didn’t injure your hands while you were pulling that coach out of the muck,” the older lady commented. “Hands are a musician’s greatest treasure, the apple of their eye. Oh, what am I saying?” She laughed suddenly. “Forgive me, I’m talking gibberish. It’s just that I admire your talent so, young sir. Everyone in Paris is talking about you. You’re going to show the whole world someday, I tell you. I have a nose for talent.” She winked and lay a finger beside said nose.

  “Thank you, you are very kind, madam,” he replied graciously. “I don’t know whether I should be happy or worried that they’re talking about me. There are just as many who enjoy tearing an artist to pieces as complimenting him, I’m afraid. Oh, and as for my hands…” He smiled mischievously. “Fear not, I used my shoulder and knee more than my hands.”

  “Very clever,” she said, then she waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, and don’t listen to the critics. You know how it is. The smallest mutts always bark the loudest. That’s the price of success. The more obvious the talent is, the more jealousy it evokes in lesser men.”

  After dinner, everyone moved to the drawing room. Frederic sat at the piano, looking terribly nervous at first, but after a while he began to relax and improvise, to the joy of the other guests. After a few minutes, he turned serious. He shot a glance at Marie, and launched into Nocturne in E Flat Major, one of his most romantic compositions.

  The girl closed her eyes dreamily, succumbing to the sentimental mood that the music evoked. The final coda, with its spectacular embellishment in the high register, sounded strangely familiar. The sound resembled nothing so much as a cascade of pearls from a broken necklace bouncing down stone steps.

  Marie felt her eyes sting with tears. From the deepest recesses of her memory rose an image of a beautiful woman, standing at the top of a flight of stairs with her hand on her neck and a startled expression on her face. That sound… Marie had been too small to remember her mother, but it must have been her. There was a string of pearls in the jewelry box she’d left behind – perhaps the same ones that she’d carefully picked up one by one, and later restrung?

  She squeezed her eyes closed, and let the tears roll freely down her cheeks.

  The music changed, and with it the mood vanished. Now, he put on a very serious face and vigorously parodied the work of one of his contemporaries. Everyone in the room instantly recognized the imitation, and burst out laughing, Marie included.

  While Frederic continued to play, Marie picked up her sketchbook and began to doodle. With swift, efficient lines, she sketched out a portrait – or rather, a caricature – of the musician in the midst of his over-dramatic imitation. She drew him with his hands raised high above the piano, hands poised like birds of prey ready to attack the keys.

  After his recital, Frederic came over to see what she’d been drawing.

  “That’s fantastic!” he praised, admiring his caricature with great amusement. “You managed to capture my likeness so well. Bravo. Now, please, let me borrow your sketchbook? I’d like to return the favor.” He paused when he saw her expression. “By sketching a portrait of you, I mean. I promise I’ll try not to be mean, though I’m not yet sure how I’ll manage that.”

  His last words were obviously meant to be teasing. She smiled and surrendered the sketchbook to him, and he set to work. The portrait turned out to be very flattering, and everyone was impressed, including her. Apparently, Frederic Chopin was a man of many talents.

  Late that evening, as everyone was retiring to their rooms, Marie suddenly realized that the young hero of the evening had vanished without telling her that he was leaving.

  He didn’t even say goodnight, she thought with a disappointed frown. She picked her sketchbook up again, tucked her portrait inside it, and headed off to her room.

  Suddenly, there was a voice behind her.

  “Marie?”

  In the dimly-lit hallway, illuminated only by the flame of a distant gas lamp, she saw a silhouette coming towards her. As he drew closer, his outline resolved into Frederic, clad in an overcoat – with a bouquet of fresh lily-of-the-valley in his hand.

  “Here. I picked these for you,” he said, handing her the small bouquet. “I hope the fragrance brings you lovely dreams.”

  The smell of the flowers was intoxicating. She looked up at him, studying the curves of his face, his hair, those delicate, almost feminine lips. Before she quite knew what she was doing, she was kissing him breathlessly, shivering with fear that someone might come out into the hall and see them.

  Suddenly, she felt a stab of panic and tore herself away from him, fleeing to the sanctuary of her bedroom. There, she fell onto her bed and pressed her hands against her burning cheeks.

  Sure enough, she had lovely dreams that night – though not so very innocent at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Snuggled up in my blankets, I found myself enjoying a lovely dream of my own. Marie was kissing Frederic, by the faint light of a gas lamp, in some big house that I didn’t recognize. Was it here, in the Trigny chateau? And what was that exquisite scent?

  “Get up, sleepy head!” Tadeusz leaned over me, and gently kissed my ear. It tickled. I curled up and squeezed my eyes shut a little tighter, but then I smelt the familiar scent of soap and cologne. Recognition sunk in to my sleep-addled brain, and I felt a wave of buoyant joy.

  “Oh…” I moaned, pulling the covers over my head in mock distress. “I was having such a nice dream. I don’t want to get up.”

  “Fine, sleep then,” he teased. “Give me the prayer book, and we’ll go crack it open. We’ll tell you what was in there later.”

  “Ha! Over my dead body!” I cried. I leapt out of bed with lightning speed, and dashed into the shower.

  Breakfast was already waiting for us downstairs in the dining room, prepared by the irreplaceable Mrs. Leclerc. How did she always know when we were going to arrive for breakfast?

  “I heard the water running in your bat
hroom,” she replied when I asked her, a friendly smile casting a web of tiny lines across her face. “So, I knew you were taking a shower. Simply logic, dear.”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson,” Tadeusz quipped, apparently in quite a good mood. A moment later, a mischievous glint appeared in his eye. “Do we really have to wait for Claude to check out that prayer book? I forgot he had to work today. What if we—”

  “No.”

  “In that case, I have no more questions.”

  Warm air from the garden floated into the dining room, bringing with it the scent of freshly-mowed grass. The distant sound of a lawn mower was the only sign of Hari Singh’s presence. Only Tadeusz and I could indulge in sleeping late; everyone else had been hard at work for some time now.

  But they aren’t on vacation, I thought cheerfully, smearing rhubarb jam on a slice of toast. And we are!

  “So, what are we going to do with such beautiful day?” I asked, popping some more bread into the toaster. I’d have to go on a diet when I went back home, after all the eating I’d been doing in France.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, stretching lazily. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind stretching out in a deck chair and reading a book. What about you?”

  “Maybe I’ll get back to Marie’s letters,” I said. “I still have quite a few left to read.”

  “You had so much time, and haven’t read them all yet? Woman—”

  “Don’t forget, the letters are all written in French, so I have to translate them as well. Besides, I had something else to do in Paris.” I paused, seeing his expression darken. “Something to do with the mystery. I did find the prayer book there, after all.”

  “Right…”

  It was quite clear that he assumed all I’d done in Paris was gallivant around, getting into mischief. I looked at him, dejected. He gave me a sudden smile.

  “Relax, I was just asking,” he said. “Let’s go over those letters together. I thought we only had the mystery of the prayer book waiting for us, but I guess not. Let’s get to it!”