The Catalyst
The piano had always seemed to Alan the most heavenly of all modern instruments. Through the ingenuity of modern instrument-making its voice, which had struggled so long to attain an even and pleasant timbre, had been at last perfected. A single note could ring with all the bright, shocking beauty of a bell or chime, but rounder and warmer, and without producing that piercing metallic dissonance. There was a voice within its tones too, and though the piano's vocal qualities were inarguably subtler than those of the violin, they were equally mesmerizing—well, thought Alan, recalling with amusement his former piano instructor's weekly criticism of Alan's phrasing—if a true musician is at the bench.
There could be no doubt that the man whose fingers graced Lady Berkshire's Bosendorfer was a true musician. The second movement of the sonata was so strikingly different from the first that Alan could at first scarcely believe it was the same instrument, and had he had his back turned, he certainly would have denied it was the same pianist, yet the sensitivity of his touch in the Adagio had by now all but erased the memory of the Allegro from Alan's mind. The performance shifted moods through a graceful minuet, and as the strains of the third movement wound to a close, he tensed with expectation, knowing full well the explosion which was to occur.
The finale erupted in fire. Alan let his eyes wander furtively for a moment so to observe the reactions of others around him, and noticed with private amusement that the intensity of Rubinstein's playing did seem to have overwhelmed more than a few members of the audience. It is so fashionable to appreciate Beethoven, thought Alan, so long as he is not played properly. As Alan continued to survey those in attendance, however, he happened upon a figure that caught his attention more than the others, and his gaze fixed there despite the protests of his mind, which urged him to turn his attention back to the performer.
It was a well-dressed young man that had caught Alan's eye, sitting not far in front of him and a bit to his left, angled just so he could see the profile of his face. He could not have been more than twenty years of age, though he could easily have been younger. (Alan himself was merely twenty-three, but his youth was not so immediately striking; his own mother had told him several times that his low, dark brow lent him a more "mature" appearance.) He leaned forward in his chair, clearly not intimidated by Rubinstein's explosive bravado; in fact, the boy's eyes were unblinking and his lips slightly parted as if mesmerised by the grisly, whirling dance.
The performance ended with a crash of the old man's powerful hands, and as the applause began, Alan's eyes finally snapped back to the stage, though he kept stealing glances back at the young man, who was now applauding politely with gloved hands, the spell apparently broken—though Alan felt now that similar magic had been worked upon him. He mumbled quietly, cursing himself for this inappropriate fascination with someone he had never met. Scientific study, or, indeed music, could usually focus his mind and distract him from his occasional wandering thoughts, but it seemed now the latter, at least, was no longer sufficient; still, he longed to meet the boy, fearing that he would be even more bothered by leaving without having introduced himself. He is a lover of music, Alan told himself as he wandered through the mingling crowd filtering through to the lounge, peering about feathered hats as he searched for the captivating young man. It is justified to seek him out.
Almost immediately upon entering the lounge, Alan found the boy standing at the far side of the room, holding a champagne glass and twirling its long stem between two fingers. He was smiling, which Alan found rather unusual, seeing as he was nearly being asphixiated by the proximity of two well-to-do young women who gazed admiringly at him from either side. Alan quickly realised this was likely the sort of thing that would inspire a smile in most gentlemen who did not spend countless hours shut up in a lonely laboratory with samples and a logbook, far too self-absorbed to bother analysing the unique compound of pleasure and pain that is woman.
The boy said something that Alan could not hear from his distance, and the two women erupted into simultaneous, shrill, irritating laughter. He himself uttered only a short breath of a laugh and raised the glass to his lips; at that moment his eyes met Alan's as he stared at him from across the room. Though the blood rushed immediately to his cheeks, Alan tried not to look away instantly, fearing this would only confirm the young man's suspicions that Alan was indeed watching him. Alan glanced away only as the youth lowered his glass. He took a few steps away, trying to merge into the crowd. Despite his solitary nature, Alan suddenly wished he had attended the event with a friend, though he could not at the moment think of anyone he knew who would have been interested.
It was not long at all before Alan felt a hand on his shoulder. Feeling tense already, he whipped around rather quickly, startled; he felt even more so when he realised it was the one he had been watching who was confronting him now—not, as he would have expected, with a disapproving scowl, but with a charming smile. Hopelessly flustered as he was, Alan could only utter a few broken syllables, and did not look directly at him. The youth only continued to smile until he could at last compose himself (as well as step out of the way of a small cluster of impatient socialites.)
"You will have to forgive me," said the young man. "This is far too civilised an establishment to worry about etiquette." This struck Alan as an incredibly odd statement, if not altogether nonsensical. He at last had the courage to meet the other's eye full-on, but only for a moment; just as Rubinstein's pianism had been too much for much of the audience, that face was too much for Alan. His hair was the Golden Fleece, his eyes were impossibly, intolerably blue, and his youth-flushed lips, tugged gently into that friendly smile, almost seemed to be too soft and content, as if he carried some beautiful secret. No, Alan could not look anymore, and his eyes flashed downward.
"I—beg your pardon?" replied Alan, and regretted his quiet, mumbling tone immediately.
"Perhaps I should be begging yours," laughed the other. "I was under the impression that you wished to engage me in conversation. I see now that I was mistaken. I should be introducing you to Miss Belinda Silsbury or her sister Tabitha. I assure you, they have no attachments to me other than their fondness for my stories."
"Thank you, but that will not be necessary," said Alan in a much more confident tone, even braving another glance upward. He found the young man's face much more tolerable now, just as one might adjust to stepping out in the sunlight after sitting for a time in a room with the curtains drawn. "I was searching about for some friends, and I momentarily mistook you for someone else." Alan could adopt a very clipped manner of speaking at times, particularly when he felt trapped or angry. Alan felt trapped now, and as much as he had previously wanted this conversation to occur, he now desperately wanted out of it.
"I am rarely mistaken for someone else," said the young man lazily. He did not seem to at all notice Alan's attempts to cut the exchange short, and appeared intent, Alan thought with dismay, upon drawing it out as long as possible. "Perhaps we do know each other after all, or better yet, perhaps we should. We have both come to appreciate music, after all, and that is one thing we have in common already. If that is all we have in common, that will be enough. One should never have too many things in common with one's friends. Without sufficient differences one is missing that spark of altercation and hostility that is at the foundation of every decent friendly conversation." He took the last drink of his champagne and discarded it on a tray carried by a passing server.
Alan could not help but smile at this, although he could not imagine what it meant. His humiliation had been entirely forgotten now, replaced by a continuing interest and a slow-burning admiration.
"I am Dorian Gray," said the boy, adjusting his blue silk ascot with one hand in an absent gesture that managed to look only halfway vain. Alan could only watch the youth's delicate fingers tuck the fine fabric into the collar of his shirt. Dorian Gray is a pianist's name, and he has a pianist's hands, though built more for Mendelssohn than Liszt.
"A pleasure, Mr. Gray," said Alan promptly, not letting his daydreaming tempt him into a belated reply. "My name is Alan Campbell."
"I shall not accept anything but Dorian," said Dorian Gray, and although there was no evident mirth in his voice, his brilliant blond curls seemed to laugh, bouncing playfully as he shook his head. "Have I not said already that this place is too civilised to worry about etiquette?"
"Very well, Dorian," said Alan, with a crescent of a smile. Out of the corner of his eye he caught one of the two women he had seen with Dorian before jealously glancing over at him. He quickly looked back.
"What did you think of the Schubert?" said Dorian, changing the tone suddenly.
Alan hesitated. "I suppose I do not remember it."
"It was the finale," said Dorian patiently.
"Do you mean the Beethoven sonata?" Alan raised his eyebrows.
"Ah, no, that was Schubert." Dorian smiled insufferably.
"I am convinced it was Beethoven." Alan was taking on that short and stern manner again.
"It was dedicated to Beethoven, but it is Schubert. Have you ever heard a tarantella by Beethoven?"
Alan paused, then laughed, feeling defeated. "I am sure you are absolutely right. I am a scientist. Music is only a hobby for me. I have to remember I cannot hope to know everything."
"That is a grave error," said Dorian. "One should never seek to stifle one's pursuits."
"I must focus my pursuits," explained Alan, stepping aside for another elaborately dressed lady who snorted derisively at him as she passed. "My primary interest is chemistry, and while I may dabble in the violin and piano, it would be a mistake to spend too much time on those things at the expense of that which is truly important: my ongoing scientific learning."
"What is truly important is to do that which is pleasing to you, and all of that which is pleasing to you," said Dorian calmly. "You are far too concerned with the constraints of time. The only truly wasted time is time whittled away with worry and regret—yes, for those things we did—but even more so for those things we did not do."
The crowd was thinning now, but Dorian seemed to be paying them no mind. He was surveying Alan's face carefully with his blue eyes, both innocent and keen in expression. Alan could almost feel the searing cut of those eyes as they studied his features.
"What is it that pleases you, Alan?" continued Dorian. He tilted his head a few degrees. "Is there something in particular you want? Logic and reason can only provide half the equation."
There was something in Dorian's tone and manner that made Alan begin to feel uncomfortable again—stiff, tingling and cold—but he could not move, as he was held captive by Dorian Gray even as the rest of the crowd wandered away in pairs and small groups.
"It seems everyone is going home," said Dorian casually, glancing about. Alan felt immediately relieved, and his shoulders relaxed at once.
"Yes, it seems you are," said Alan, more hurriedly than he intended.
"Then I would not want to keep you waiting. To-morrow you will dine with me, surely? We can discuss tonight's performance in-depth—but I am very serious when I say I will send you away if you arrive without your violin. I have a decent piano of my own, though it always sounds rather sickly after hearing such a treasure as this Bosendorfer. Shall we say six o' clock?"
Alan paused for a moment, not quite knowing how to respond to such an invitation. He wanted to go; although something about Dorian made him inexplicably nervous, he became more intrigued with the young man every moment they spoke. Still, he knew Dorian's influence would only be a distraction. Alan was only at the very beginning of his work, but it was a very important phase, and he needed focus now more than ever. New friends, especially friends that believed that one should do all of that which is pleasing to oneself, had no place in Alan's life.
"I am afraid I had better not," said Alan reluctantly. "I am quite busy then. My work keeps me occupied."
Dorian only smiled and pulled out a small notebook and decorated pen from his shirt pocket. "I thought you might say that," he said as he wrote something upon the top page. "Here is my address, just in case your burning curiosity gets the better of you." He tore off the page and offered it to Alan, who slowly reached out to accept it.
"It was a pleasure, Dorian Gray."
"Good-bye, Alan Campbell," said Dorian.
With this, the last two men in the lounge, save for those servers who were now cleaning up and a very impatient-looking doorman, finally parted ways.