Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

  “The Devil take that photographer,” he muttered under his breath. “If not for this, then I wouldn’t have had to leave my house today. Though, if I hadn’t left the house…” He glanced at Marie. “We probably wouldn’t have met again. Well, then. At least something good came of this whole unpleasantness.”

  Some things never change, she thought, smiling to herself. He’d always changed moods like he changed his gloves, and he changed his gloves frequently.

  A room in the building’s annex had already been prepared for the photography session. It was clear the photographer had taken great care to make sure the space was perfect: a light wall behind the chair would serve as the background, with a tall bookshelf and a table with an album placed upon it flanking the shot. It looked very professional, just like an actual photography studio. The box camera, with its shining glass lens, was pointed straight at the motionless subject.

  “Keep your head this way,” the photographer said, carefully adjusting him to the proper pose. “Don’t move until I say it’s done.”

  He walked over to the camera, looking terribly self-important.

  “Apparently that’s called a camera obscura, or something like that,” Frederic whispered to Marie, motioning almost imperceptibly towards the dark box set atop a tall tripod. “An acquaintance explained to me how it works, but…” He shrugged.

  “I said, don’t move!” the photographer scolded him. “We can’t sit here all day!” Suddenly, he seemed to realize that he was being unnecessarily harsh, so he called out a few compliments to smooth it over. “You look wonderful, sir! Oh, yes, keep your head just like that. And now, please don’t move. Try to breathe as little as you can.”

  Frederic froze with his hands in his lap. Marie noticed the pained expression that appeared on his swollen face. Only now could she truly study him, and she felt a deep sadness as she saw the havoc illness had wrought upon his once-handsome face.

  Despite several layers of clothes, clearly visible under his unbuttoned overcoat, he seemed to be constantly shivering with the cold. His half-open mouth and the furrow in his forehead revealed great tension within him, if not outright pain. Even ten seconds was an eternity to someone who had as much trouble breathing as he. Marie was genuinely afraid her friend wouldn’t make it, that he’d either faint or leap out of the chair and flee the courtyard, regardless of the consequences.

  But somehow, he endured.

  Finally, the photographer covered the glass and cried: “Merci!”

  Frederic grunted in pain and lurched to his feet, accidentally knocking the album off the table. He braced himself against the table and struggled to force his chest muscles to inhale as much air as he could possible drag into his tormented lungs.

  “Jesus, I thought I would suffocate,” he gasped, doubled over, his eyes still closed.

  His face had become ashen, and he seemed to have somehow shrunk within himself. Marie observed the transformation with genuine horror.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said, hurrying over to him. “I’ll take you home. You need to rest.”

  “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “I need to lie down. I feel very tired, and I can’t stand this stuffy room any longer.”

  “Don’t you want to see your picture?” the photographer called after him. “I’ll put the negative in the baths, and it’ll be ready for viewing soon. We also haven’t decided how you want me to frame it yet.”

  “No, no. I can’t right now. I know my likeness well enough from the mirror, and I’m not curious about it.” Frederic waved him off impatiently. “Please frame it in whatever manner is most appropriate for such things. I know nothing about this. Just send me the bill, and have the photograph delivered to my home.”

  They walked together towards the gate, where the photographer’s assistant hailed them a coach.

  “We were supposed to go to dinner,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I’m not such an interesting companion today.”

  “I’d have to eat a second dinner at my aunt house, anyway,” she said to cheer him up. “I’m sure you remember, there is no bigger social faux pas than missing dinner at her house. I’m not sure if I could handle two dinners, anyway.”

  “Oh yes, I remember very well. Very well indeed.” He sighed heavily. “Perhaps next time we’ll be able to spend more time together. You’ll bring your son along, won’t you? I’d very much like to meet him. How old is he?”

  “Fifteen,” Marie replied, with tears in her eyes.

  In the autumn of the same year, she saw an announcement in the papers about the great Polish composer’s death. She immediately took Phillippe and headed to Paris, just as she’d promised him when they last saw one another. The wait for the funeral dragged on for too long, though, and she ended up sending her son back to Trigny so he wouldn’t miss out on his lessons. She, herself, stayed until the very end.

  Many people attended the solemn service at St. Magdalene’s Church, friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike. The church was filled to capacity, and those who didn’t fit inside stood in a crowd outside, hoping to at least see the funeral procession, and walk with the great composer to Père Lachaise cemetery.

  Marie left her aunt and uncle at the door, and made her way as close as possible to the catafalque which would hold Frederic’s casket. As it was carried in, the orchestra played the Funeral March from his Sonata in B minor. Her eyes filled with tears; she remembered reading that the piece had always filled him with dread. Apparently, he’d been reluctant to ever perform it.

  Sitting in a pew near the altar, she noticed a pale woman who looked very much like Frederic, her face a mask of grief.

  His sister? she wondered, watching her discreetly. It had to be Ludwika, of whom he’d spoken with such fondness. She hoped that he’d at least managed to say his goodbyes to her before the end.

  Who are you pretending to be now, Frederic? she whispered in her mind, watching as the casket was raised onto the catafalque. I don’t like this impression. Stop it.

  She smiled in spite of herself, remembering a show he’d put on one day at her aunt’s house. Everyone had been fully convinced that there were three people arguing behind closed doors, only to discover there was just the one. Frederic had looked so pleased with his trick. Her uncle had searched the whole room thoroughly, refusing to believe that he could have imitated three people so perfectly.

  Marie’s thoughts returned to sad reality. There would be no more jokes for him now.

  The church filled with the sound of Frederic’s preludes, performed by a very talented organist. The instrument’s deep, powerful sound sent tears flowing uncontrollably down her cheeks. It was his music, after all. His expression. His soul.

  At the end, the orchestra and the Concert Society choir performed Mozart’s Requiem, in accordance with his last wishes. Marie was touched. Frederic would certainly have been pleased, if he’d been able to listen to this performance. The musicians gave it their all, and the soloists sang their arias with great skill, and even greater feeling. Or at least, that was how it seemed to Marie. Later, she heard rumors that they’d been paid a great deal for their performances that day.

  The funeral procession left the church, accompanied by numerous funerary vehicles and private carriages. The composer’s closest friends walked around the casket, holding the shroud. Amongst them, Marie noticed Eugène Delacroix, stooped and broken by sorrow. Ludwika and her daughter, Frederic’s niece, walked behind the coffin, followed by the other mourners. Due to her aunt and uncle’s advancing years, they travelled in a carriage all decked in black, and Marie rode with them.

  At the cemetery, nobody spoke over the grave. The silence said far more than any pompous speech.

  Marie stood for a long time beside the grave, long after her aunt and uncle had returned to their house. She needed this last chance to talk to Frederic alone, to tell him everything she hadn’t been able to say during their last, and final, meeting.

  The fire was dying
in the hearth again. Marie set her daguerreotype back on the table, and reached for the bell pull with great effort. Marcel, an old servant of the family, appeared almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting just outside the door for her call. Without a word, he hurried to the wood box and added more wood to the fire. As soon as he was finished, he vanished again just as silently as he’d appeared.

  Outside the window, the snow had turned into rain, and hammered against the windows. Marie’s thoughts drifted back to their final meeting.

  Funny, she thought to herself, smiling faintly. Frederic frightened me when I saw him for the first time, that evening in the street, and then again when I saw him the last time, in the dark coach.

  But, he had looked quite suspicious! She laughed to herself, at the very thought of it. Frederic, always so charming and handsome, with his flawless manners and wonderful music, taken for a common drunk and a ruffian. Good thing he didn’t know what her first impression of him had been. Very good…

  A violent cough shook her entire body. Exhausted, she fell back on the pillows. Suddenly, it seemed brighter outside the windows, as if the sun had appeared from behind the clouds and filled the world with beautiful colors. The raindrops clinging to a spider web outside her window flashed with a rainbow of colors.

  Like handful of diamonds cast across a black tulle scarf, she thought, watching the way the wind ruffled the web. Just like the jewels on that dress Velazquez painted. I would know how to reproduce them now.

  Bedroom door creaked opened again, and her father appeared in the doorway with a small bundle in his hands. His balding head shone in the firelight, and his once-beautiful dark eyes had become dull and expressionless, sunken and rimmed with red.

  “Papa!” Marie struggled to sit up, frowning at the effort. “Did something happen? You look ill.”

  “Please, child, don’t get up,” he said, gesturing gently for her to stop. “You can’t tire yourself out now, and I…” He hesitated for a while, then added softly, “and I don’t deserve such effort from you.”

  “What are you…” she began, confused, but her father interrupted her impatiently.

  “I don’t deserve it. I hurt you terribly. I’ve come to beg your forgiveness, though I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Silence fell for a while, interrupted only by the cracking of the fire. Marie froze, waiting, afraid to speak for fear of chasing the moment away. It was true, he had hurt her. He’d forced her back to Trigny and married her off against her will, but that was a long time ago now. Even the worst wounds scabbed over and healed after a while, and the worst suffering became but an echo of the original experience. Everything that could be survived, could be forgiven.

  At first, she had suffered most terribly, but she’d regained her joy in life once Phillippe was born. The child was her reward for all of life’s suffering and sorrows. And now, once her father had finally met, accepted, and learned to love his grandson, she felt truly happy. She wanted nothing more from life.

  “But Papa, dearest…” she began carefully when he didn’t say anything more. Her father was a proud and haughty man, who rarely, if ever, admitted his mistakes. She’d never once heard him apologize before. Marie took a deep breath, and grabbed his hand. “Papa, I forgave you a long time ago…”

  Old man shook his head vehemently.

  “You don’t know anything!” he snapped, and she couldn’t tell whether he was angry at her, or himself. “You’re going to hate me for what I have to tell you, but I need to get this weight off my chest. I can’t live with it any longer!”

  He pulled a heavy oak chair over to his daughter’s bedside and plopped down in it, burying his face in his hands.

  “You remember the day I brought you back here from Paris?” he said, his voice subdued. Suddenly, he sat upright and continued, his voice almost angry. “You were pregnant to this… this sickly, penniless weakling. I couldn’t let my beloved daughter live in poverty with an artist!” He almost spat the word. “And a foreigner, at that! Our family—”

  “How did you know I was pregnant?” Marie interrupted, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. She’d heard enough stories about how exceptionally aristocratic her family was, and who was appropriate for her and who wasn’t. Right now, she was more interested in finding the answer to a mystery years old. How could her father have known about her pregnancy, before she’d even had a chance to tell her beloved? It wouldn’t change anything now, but she still wanted to know. That question had bothered her for years.

  “A man named Potignac,” he admitted reluctantly. “He learned that you’d visited a doctor, and bribed the doctor’s assistant to tell him why you’d gone there. Then, he wrote a letter to me telling me exactly what was going on, and I set out to Paris immediately to bring you home. But, that’s not all…” Her father pulled a large handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his sweaty forehead. “He wrote to you. Your lover, I mean, not Potignac.”

  “He didn’t write!” she shouted, and that one short sentence contained all the years of bitterness and regret she’d been forced to suppress. “He didn’t write at all! He didn’t even write me back…” She thought for a moment about a note, delivered by her sister, which she’d received when Sophie returned from a visit to their aunt’s house. That was the one thing she’d ever received from him, the one precious note which she’d hidden inside her prayer book. She’d sent a reply, but never heard from him again. Tears welled up in her eyes. “There were no letters! He didn’t even want to—”

  She paused, as if only then noticing the bundle in her father’s lap. Suddenly, the pieces fell into place. She shook her head, as if to drive away the terrible realization that came with her understanding, and then she fell limply back on her pillows.

  “He did write,” her father said softly. “But the letters came here, not to your husband’s address, so I kept them. I couldn’t allow such a scandal, and besides, you were already married...”

  “I thought he forgot about me,” Marie gasped, making no attempt to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. “I thought he didn’t want to know me anymore…” Suddenly, she felt a surge of relief. “Wait, so that means he did know about Phillippe? I wrote to him about our son, and—”

  “He didn’t know. All your letters are here. All of them.” Her father put his hand on the small bundle.

  “What?” She looked at him, shocked. “But I sent them from the other house. I used my most trusted servant.”

  One look at her father’s face told her the truth about that, and more. He lowered his head and placed the bundle silently on the edge of her bed.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Marie, but I’ll understand if you cannot. I’ll understand if you hate me for the rest of your life.” The old man stood up with some difficulty, and left the room.

  Marie stared for a long time at the closed door, then at the dying fire, the window – anything she could look at the avoid looking at the bundle of letters that lay so close beside her hand. A gust of wind tore the spider web off the window frame, sending the sparkling droplets flying, and left it hanging from the frame like the ripped lace of a widow’s shawl. The world turned gray and cold. Marie shivered.

  Eventually, she reached for the letters. The paper was grey and dusty, and rustled between her impatient fingers.

  Where did Papa keep these? she wondered dispassionately, taking a packet of letters out of the bundle. On some of them, she recognized her handwriting. Those letters she put aside; there was no need for her to read them again. The feelings she’d written about had burned themselves out a long time ago, and she couldn’t bear to relive that longing and hope again. It was too late, for either of them.

  The handwriting on the other letters was so familiar to her that it sent all the blood rushing to her head. She felt more than heard the throb of her own pulse in her ears. She knew the shapes of each letter by heart, from the messages brought to her in secret by her cousin Juliette, without her aunt’s knowledge. The letters
suggested the dates, times, and places of potential meetings, scraps of paper filled with love poems and vast longing.

  The first letter was dated several months after she left Paris – or rather, had been kidnapped from Paris as she thought of it. She was already married to Mr. Vieillard by then, and living in his cold, ugly house, surrounded by the unfriendly company of her new family. Especially her sister-in-law, who was constantly staring at her growing belly, and asking suspicious questions about their intimate matrimonial affairs. Nobody in the family knew about her husband’s deal with her father. Marrying Marie and keeping silent about her secret had earned him a large sum of money, to save his failing business. The greedy butcher wasn’t about to do anything to jeopardize that arrangement.

  The stiff paper crinkled in her hand as she unfolded one of the letters.

  My dearest,

  I cannot live without you. What did I do? How did I offend you so much that you would just abandon me without a word? We were so happy. What about our plans for the future?

  “Enough!” Marie whispered to herself.

  She crumpled the letter into a ball and closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought of reading it. Reliving the drama of her youth was the last thing she needed. The pain came rushing back with a vengeance, accompanied now by a sense of impossible helplessness. It was too late for everything. That love had died, both literally and figuratively, and nothing could resurrect it. Reopening those old wounds wouldn’t help with anything now.

  She threw back the covers impatiently and hauled herself out of bed. The dying fire flared up in a bright burst of flame. A moment was all she needed, just a moment for it to ignite the old packet of letters, then she watched them curl and blacken in the hearth. The last shred of unburnt paper bent back and revealed her beloved’s signature for a second, then it turned into a pile of ash.