Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

“No matter how anyone else is,” Frederic scoffed, waving his hand. “Tell me, how are you? I heard you got married. Is that true?” She noticed a change in his tone throughout the last few words, but couldn’t work out exactly what that meant.

  “Yes,” she replied uncertainly, “but I was widowed a year later.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Did you…” He hesitated, looking as uncertain as she felt.

  “No, I didn’t re-marry,” she replied in answer to the question he hadn’t managed to articulate. She smiled at him instead. “But I’m not alone. I have a son, who is the love of my life.”

  “Oh, I envy you! I haven’t had much luck in that regard, I’m afraid.” His expression turned sad, but he forced a smile back onto his face. “You’ll have to introduce him to me! Little Marie’s son… Where is he now? Here, in Paris?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “He stayed in Trigny with my family. I didn’t want to bring him with me to see my aunt. She’s poorly at the moment, and he might have caught something, God forbid.”

  “A pity,” he said. Suddenly, a coughing fit overtook him, and he grabbed a large handkerchief out of his pocket to cover his mouth and nose. “Oh, forgive me. I just can’t seem to get better. This illness has been sucking the life out of me. I would have gladly stayed home in bed today, but I have an appointment with a photographer that I simply must get to.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “My family, you know. I cannot deny them anything.”

  “What do you mean?” Marie asked, confused. “What do they have to do with it?”

  “They’re demanding I have a photograph taken. They already have my daguerreotype from few years ago, but they claim I don’t look like myself in it. They’re not wrong, though. It makes me look like an idiot!” He laughed merrily, which triggered another coughing fit. Once it passed, he picked the topic up where he’d left off. “Apparently photographs today are much clearer. I’ve heard they don’t reflect the light now, not like the metal ones. You know what it’s—” He stopped suddenly, then abruptly changed the subject. “So, anyway, I recently met—”

  “When did you have that daguerreotype made?” Marie interrupted him, studying his expression closely.

  Frederic looked away, unable to meet her eye.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember, exactly.”

  “Could it have been about three years ago?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. Does it matter?”

  “Perhaps. You see, I had a daguerreotype made three years ago, too. When I came in to pick it up, I was told that someone else had already paid for it. I don’t suppose you would know who might have done such a thing, would you?”

  He was silent for a moment, then waved his hand impatiently.

  “All right,” he said, his voice a little too loud. “It was me. So? Am I not permitted to leave a gift for an old friend?”

  “But how did you know I had a picture taken there?” she demanded.

  Frederic lowered his head to avoid eye-contact again, his voice taking on a strange, unreadable tone. “I saw you arriving at the studio. I was in the next room, getting ready to leave.”

  Marie thought back, and remembered a comment the photographer had made about his previous client, who had apparently fussed quite a bit.

  “That’s what artists are like,” the photographer had summed up with a dramatic shrug, but she hadn’t paid much attention at the time. Her mind had been occupied by Phillippe, who had been suffering through a childhood illness at the time, and she wanted to get back home to him as soon as possible.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” She looked at him, bewildered and a little hurt. “You were so close…”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to talk to me,” he admitted softly. “You left so suddenly, without a goodbye. I thought you never wanted to see me again. Besides, you were accompanied by a man. I thought it was your husband.”

  “No,” Marie said, her voice choked by building tears. “That was my dead husband’s brother. Oh, God… All these years, I secretly hoped we might meet again somewhere. What reason would I have not to talk to you?” She fell silent for a second, because her voice began to break. Finally, she took a deep breath and waved her hand as if to chase the topic away. “No matter. That’s in the past. Let’s leave it behind.”

  Frederic fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Well, I suppose I should admit,” he said hesitantly, “that I asked Eugene to paint me a portrait based off your daguerreotype. The photographer didn’t want to loan it to me, but I managed to convince him for the right price. That’s why you had to wait so long to pick it up.”

  She thought back again, and recalled that the first time she’d arrived to pick up the daguerreotype, it hadn’t been ready. When she’d come back the second time, the photographer had stumbled to clumsily explain that someone had already paid for the piece. She’d always assumed that the photographer had just discounted it, to apologize for inconveniencing her.

  “Oh, Frederic…” She squeezed his hand, her eyes filling with tears. “You ridiculous, lovable coward. What am I to do with you now? Perhaps I should strangle you?”

  They both sniffled for a while, staring at one another with some uncertainty.

  “All right.” Marie pulled herself together first, wiped her eyes and nose on a kerchief, then put it in her pocket. “So what’s going on with that new picture? You think you’ll look smarter in it? I doubt it.”

  “I doubt it, too.” He laughed aloud, relief spreading across his face. “But they simply won’t budge. They claim paintings are paintings, drawings are drawings, but a photograph is the best possible likeness and will last well beyond my lifetime. Unbreakable! A memento for future generations! Do I need to keep quoting them? They did rather go on about it.” He smiled mischievously, and suddenly Marie saw the Frederic she knew reflected in his aging face. The Frederick so merry and eager to share a joke – and prone to fleeing difficult situations, unfortunately.

  “In the simplest terms,” he continued, obviously glad for a subject less intense than the question of their history, “they ordered me to do it, and even sent money for it. They left me no choice, so I made an appointment to see this magician of images at my publisher’s house. Whether I want to or not, I have to go. Listen—” Suddenly, he seemed to choke on his own saliva, and coughed until he was red in the face. When he finally recovered, still gasping, he hurried to squeeze out the words. “Perhaps you could come with me? So we can talk some more? Perhaps dinner afterwards?”

  “We won’t be able to talk much while we’re there,” Marie said. “You’ll have to sit still for almost quarter of an hour.

  “Oh, don’t say that!” he cried, looking horrified. “I heard it was just a few minutes now.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s probably less now,” she admitted, “but remember how long it took last time? Ugh, the sun was in my eyes and I felt like there were ants crawling all over me. Everything itched, and I couldn’t move to scratch it. It was a nightmare!”

  “Oh, I remember.” Frederic shuddered. “I thought I was going to explode. That’s probably why I have such a ridiculous expression in the daguerreotype. Now, everything is very modern, much better equipment, and better conditions as well.” An inviting smile flicked across his face. “So, will you come with me?”

  “But I’m not dressed for dinner,” she protested half-heartedly, looking down at her dark, modest dress and well-worn shoes.

  “You look beautiful, as always,” he reassured her with a warm smile. “More beautiful than any women on this street. Oh, look at that one for example. Over there!”

  Marie looked, then shot him an amused glance. “That’s a man with long hair, wearing a cloak…”

  “Oh, really?” Frederic leaned out of the carriage as if to get a better look, then when he eased himself back into his seat she saw that familiar flicker around his eyes that had so often warned her in their youth that he was teasing her.
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br />   “Okay, okay,” she agreed, disarmed by his charm once again. “Apparently I still can’t say no to you. Some things never change.”

  “That’s because I haven’t changed all that much,” he replied with a mischievous grin. “I even still write that same waltz in the diaries of young ladies who simply insist I must…”

  Marie laughed aloud and have him an impulsive hug.

  “Good!” she said firmly. “I wouldn’t want you to change too much.”

  There was still some time left before his appointment, so they decided to leave the coach at Tuileries Garden, and walk the rest of the way from there. Frederic ordered the coach to stop at the entrance, then climbed out and offered his hand to Marie to help her down.

  “Come,” he said. “Let’s go sit in the sun. I’m always cold these days, and I need to warm up.”

  They walked to the northern terrace, which faced Rivoli Street. Below, they saw ladies strolling along in velvet gowns and taffeta stoles. Their crinoline skirts and wasp waists fascinated Marie.

  “I don’t even know what’s in fashion these days,” she said, heaving a sigh. “News reaches us so late out in Trigny. How does one even wear something like that?” she wondered out loud, watching a young woman bending over to retrieve something off the path. The hem of the wide skirt flicked up, revealing a glimpse of the complex undergarments beneath.

  “A very curious trend, if I do say so.” Frederic laughed quietly. “And what a view…”

  They sat on a small bench, near a handful of older gentlemen napping in chairs with newspapers draped over their faces. A wide ditch ran around the eastern edge of the garden, separating the public spaces from the royal ones, as a result of frequent assassination attempts on the king. They could see a handful of National Guard soldiers scattered about, discreetly maintaining the peace.

  “Tell me, have you heard from Franz Liszt?” Marie asked, recalling old mutual friends. “Is it true you two had a falling-out?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s in the past.”

  “So it’s true, then,” she said. “What happened? After you were such good friends for so long?”

  “My dear,” he replied, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Let it be enough for you that it had much to do with our friend’s libido. I’m sure you’ve heard many rumors on the subject. He pulled such a prank on me, in my own apartment, that—No, I don’t want to remember it. We do still keep in touch, but our relationship is not as cordial as it once was. Besides, each of us has our own life now and our own problems.

  “I see. Well, I shall not ask any further questions on the subject, if that is your wish. I assumed your falling out was professional, not private.”

  “There was a bit of that, too,” he admitted. “It was a bit of everything. He just started to annoy me.”

  They both fell silent. Marie had a fleeting thought that perhaps Frederic was jealous about Franz’s well-known success with women. She saw the way his brows furrowed in anger, and wondered how he could still be upset even years after the event. Though, she remembered his temper quite well. When Frederic held a grudge, he could hold it for a very long time. Well, whatever had happened, it didn’t matter now.

  A dog ran past them, its panting owner racing along behind it. One of the National Guards hurried over to catch them; dogs had to be leashed in Tuileries Garden.

  “What are you working on now?” Marie asked, changing the subject. “Are you still giving concerts?”

  “No,” he replied, his expression turning sad. “I don’t really do much of anything these days. My music seems to have failed me. I feel so weak all the time that I just want to spend all day in bed. Can you believe, there was a time not long ago that my servant had to actually carry me up the stairs to my apartment? Even giving lessons is too much when I’m so tired and irritable. All these people hanging around, with their ‘care’. I just wish they’d leave me alone so I can die in peace.”

  “What?!” Marie jumped, suddenly frightened. “Don’t talk like that! You can’t even think like that! You will recover!”

  “No, I won’t,” he replied bitterly. “I stopped believing that a long time ago. I feel terrible. I’m bored with myself, and I don’t know how others can stand me. I don’t work, so I don’t make any money. In some ways, I’m glad I didn’t start a family. Maybe it’s better that I don’t have children. Now I can die alone in the hospital, without having to worry about how a wife or child would survive without me. But, I’m glad you found love and happiness in life. And that you have a son.” He reached out and took her hand. “I’m really glad.”

  Marie lowered her head without a word. What could she say? Whatever she said now would sound cliché, like some kind of empty consolation that he didn’t want. She decided that Frederic just needed someone who would listen to him, without trying to force their unwanted advice on him or making it about their own problems. He just needed someone to care.

  She had wanted to admit to him, someone close and dear, that her son was the product of great love, but not for her husband. She decided against it. He didn’t need that now. It would only upset him and disturb his peace. After all, it was an illegitimate child. Maybe he would be angry at her for not telling him. No, she wouldn’t say anything.

  “I’ve upset you,” he said, with a bitter smile. “See, I can’t even talk to people anymore, not even friends. I can tell you something more optimistic, if you want?”

  She nodded and looked at him encouragingly.

  “Well, it’s not quite true that I don’t do anything,” he began mysteriously. “I’m designing a new concert piano, because I’m not content with those Warsaw ones. And for some time, I’ve had an idea in mind for a manual on piano playing, about my method.”

  Marie felt a rush of pleasure when she saw the way her friend’s face came to life as he talked about his projects. His eyes sparkled, and a kind of color crept back into his pale cheeks. It was obvious that just discussing his ideas made him happy, despite how obvious it was that he was having trouble speaking. He constantly seemed to be short of breath, and often looked frustrated by his own weakness when his body forced him to pause for breath mid-sentence, but that just made him attack the subject with greater fervor when he could speak again.

  “What kind of fingers does your son have?” he asked all of a sudden.

  “What?” She paused for a moment to think over the unexpected question. “Ah… long and slim, I think? Yes, long and slim. I remember once telling him that he should become a musician.”

  “Does he play the piano?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” she admitted, shaking her head. “I could never find a good enough teacher. None were able to keep him interested for more than a month. Phillippe gets discouraged easily, and…”

  “Phillippe?” Frederic smiled. “That’s a nice name for a boy. I always thought that if I had a son, I’d name him something grand like Titus or Nicolas, but Phillippe is nice too.” He paused for a moment, as if in thought, then resumed his previous line of inquiry. “So, you say he has long fingers? Well, if he decides to try again, please advise him to begin his exercises in G flat major, because the black keys are most comfortable for longer fingers. Then, gradually reduce his usage of the black keys and move into the most difficult of the C major. But, don’t force him. Perhaps piano is simply not his instrument. Long, slim fingers are perfect for violin, too.”

  He paused for a moment to catch his breath, and pulled a pocket watch out from beneath his coat.

  “We still have some time,” he said, tucking the watch away. “We should probably start heading that way, though. Rue de Richelieu isn’t far from here, but I don’t walk very fast these days. “

  “All right,” Marie agreed, getting up from the bench. “We can finish our conversation along the way.”

  “Where was I?” he murmured as the strolled towards Rivoli Street. After a moment of thought, he slapped his forehe
ad with an open palm. “Oh, yes, I was going on about fingers. Some believe that all the strength of all fingers should be developed equally, but I disagree. In my opinion, it’s best to train each finger individually, taking their natural predisposition into account, and not drum the piano equally with all of them.

  He started gasping for air and had to stop for a moment. In an effort to avoid offending him, Marie pretended to be focused on removing a pebble from her boot. The garden’s pathways were lined with fine gravel.

  “Wrist work is important, too,” he continued when he’d recovered enough for them to resume walking. “Most pianists use their whole arm, elbow or even their shoulder, but the force should come from the wrist. It should be loose, like this.” He briefly demonstrated it in the air for her, then stopped again to rest, his palms on his knees, like a sprinter recovering from a race.

  “I’m planning to put these and other tips in my book,” he rasped, still slightly winded. “After all these years of practice and teaching students, I know what you need to pay special attention to. Perhaps someday my manual will prove useful to you and your son? Maybe it might even help him to learn the joy that should come from his lessons? Do make sure of it, Marie. He should be able to play.”

  Again, he had to stop to catch his breath, and this time Marie felt short of breath as well; just watching her friend suffering was exhausting.

  “Music is an art, a means of expressing ones thoughts and feelings as sounds,” he said at last, his voice husky, barely more than a whisper. “He needs to learn technique, otherwise whatever sounds he milks from the instrument will just be pointless. Maybe that’s why playing is so difficult for him. They’re just sounds right now, not music.”

  Frederic seemed to be talking to himself now, as if he’d forgotten that Marie was walking next to him. She didn’t want to interrupt him, so she stayed silent as they walked, listening to the sound of his voice and remembering similar lectures from years ago. They used to be able to talk about music for hours on end.

  They eventually reached Rivoli Street, but by then Frederic was too exhausted to continue on foot. As they sat on a bench, she noticed how bothered he was by his swollen legs. He hailed a passing coach and asked the driver to take them to Rue de Richelieu, looking increasingly irritated by the inconvenience of having to take that picture.