Le Cadeau Chapter 4
The wine is not right. It will contrast with the soup. The young woman makes another circuit around her table, straightening the flatware a millimeter to the left. The flowers look wrong. They're at the point of wilting. She brushes the lilies with her hands, impervious to the petals' delicious softness or their delicate scent. The lamb will be tough. Where is everyone, anyway? Blandine gives a tiny shudder of anxiety as she awaits her dinner guests.
A light tap on the dining room door breaks the mood. Erik stands in the doorway, a little hesitant to enter. Blandine takes one look at the slender young man and nods in satisfaction.
"Come here and let me see you. Turn around. Yes, the tailor did very well."
Erik shyly models the evening clothes for Blandine's approval. Until last week, the suit had hung in the back of Emile Ollivier's closet, a reminder of his younger, slimmer days. Blandine gives each detail her full attention, and then smiles. The new mask was Erik's own request from the tailor, made of a shimmering fine white silk that contrasts dramatically with the deep black of his garments.
"You look quite distinguished. Formal dress suits you," Blandine pronounces.
Erik drops his eyes, unaccustomed to compliments of such a personal nature. "Thank you, Mme. Blandine. I will do my best to make you proud of me tonight."
"Just remember what I taught you, and you will fit in perfectly," the young matron replies. She absentmindedly rubs her back and lets out a moan under her breath. The child has grown noticeably in the past few weeks and Blandine feels pain whenever she stands on her left leg. Erik feels a stab of worry pierce his own nervous tension. She has worked so hard for this day. I must not let her down.
Blandine checks the watch that hangs from her chatelaine. "Twenty minutes until they are to arrive. I think I shall go mad."
"Then allow me to attempt to calm you, Madame." Erik gestures for Blandine to follow him into the salon. The room has by now been completely restored. The gleaming walls of robins' egg-blue contrast sweetly with the delicate ivory wainscoting of the perimeter. The Ollivier family portraits look down from their gilded frames. The magnificent grand piano has been newly tuned and polished in preparation for the night's entertainment.
Erik sits at the piano and raises his hands to the keyboard. Blandine allows herself to settle onto one of the gilt chairs in anticipation. The lulling strains of Erik's berceuse float gently upon the evening air and fill the house with sweetness for a moment. Blandine inhales deeply. Music is the best thing to calm her these days, and Erik's playing touches a little place inside her soul that nothing else can reach.
The song dies away as Erik looks upon the tranquil face of his tutor. She smiles for a moment, but the insistent ringing of the doorbell dispels it.
"They are arriving! Erik, come and be introduced."
Erik fights off a transitory flash of panic as he rises from the keyboard. "Of course, Mme. Blandine." Erik steels himself as he follows Blandine through the hallways to the foyer. They are musicians, like you. Just like you. Although every nerve in his system is telling him to withdraw, Erik draws himself up straight and tall. He will make her proud of him.
The heavy front door opens. A young woman who bears a remarkable resemblance to Blandine makes her way inside. She has her arm through the arm of a striking older man, and she leans toward him a little. A younger man brings up the rear, weighted down with a large package and a pot containing a live Easter lily. The young woman disengages and throws her arms around Blandine's shoulders.
"Look at my beautiful sister, full of expectation! Oh Richard, she is glowing, is she not?" Blandine embraces her younger sister for a heartfelt moment. It is clear that she has tender feelings for this headstrong girl. Blandine pulls away reluctantly, remembering her training as Ollivier comes down the long stairway to welcome his guests.
The clatter of a carriage draws Blandine's attention. "That will be Papa!" she exclaims as she dashes out the door to the portico. She inadvertently nudges the heavy clay pot and sends the unfortunate bearer reeling.
Erik rushes to the side of the man bearing the gifts as he totters and threatens to spill his burden. He takes the large plant and sets it down upon the marble floor. Under his breath, he whispers, "I'll take care of these. Go round to the back and Madame Portager will make sure you get some supper."
The man looks at Erik with a combination of indignation and horror. He splutters, "I'm the husband! Cosima's husband, Hans Von Bülow!" Cosima and the older man turn around simultaneously and begin to snicker. Ollivier steps in, unwilling to allow Erik to become an object of derision.
"I am remiss in my introductions tonight. Allow me to formally introduce Blandine's music student, our guest, Erik…LaFosse."
As Erik draws himself up and makes his bow, he reflects, LaFosse–it's very somber, but I like it. The younger man he has so recently insulted extends his hand in friendship.
"A music student? Well then, all's forgiven. Please, call me Hans. Allow me to present my lovely wife, Cosima." Von Bülow pumps Erik's hand with the forcefulness of one who is desperate to be liked. Cosima allows her hand to be encased in Erik's two large ones as he makes a deep bow to her. The older man utters a little "Hmmph" in anticipation.
Ollivier steps in smoothly. "Of course, where are my manners? We are fortunate to have the great composer Richard Wagner grace us with his presence." The older man preens a little. Ollivier continues, "What a pity that your dear wife Minna is indisposed."
At the mention of the absent lady's name, Wagner's eyes narrow. Cosima notices the composer's displeasure and begins to expostulate when the front door swings open again. A tall, unusually handsome man, with silvered hair swept back from a noble brow enters as a radiant Blandine leads the way. Ollivier throws his arms around the older man and warmly busses both his cheeks.
"Papa Liszt, welcome back to our home! It has been too long." Liszt tolerantly pats Ollivier upon his back at this outpouring of emotion and waits to be unhanded. Blandine notices Erik making himself inconspicuous in the corner and leads her father over to the shy teenager.
"Papa, this is the young man I wrote to you about. My music student, Erik, in whom I have great hopes."
This is it, Erik gulps to himself. He clicks his heels together and makes a deep formal bow to the composer. As Liszt returns the courtesy, Erik struggles for a second to remember the first word of his speech. Oh, yes.
"Mester Liszt ez egy becsület -hoz csinál -a ismeretség. Ön egy nagy belélegzés -hoz egy szerény zene hallgató." (Maestro Liszt, it is an honor to make your acquaintance. You are a great inspiration to a humble music student.)
Liszt cocks his head in surprise to hear his native Hungarian spoken so fluently. Yet something bothers him. "Ön egy cigány fiú," (You are a gypsy boy,) he retorts.
Erik is unnerved by this. Quickly, he protests, "…n nem egy Cigány." (I am not a Gypsy.)
Liszt now takes a closer measure of this young man, the only one in the room tall enough to look him in the eye. Dubiously, the composer continues, "Ön beszél -val egy Cigány hangsúly." (You speak with a Romany accent.)
Erik is about to continue his protest when Blandine intercedes. "Gentlemen, I am sure you could tell one another stories in my father's native tongue all evening, but then our dinner would become cold! Papa, will you escort me?"
Once again, etiquette smoothes over awkwardness as the elder man gives Blandine his arm. Ollivier, greatly relieved, places Cosima's arm upon his own and proceeds to the dining room. Richard Wagner stiffly follows, clearly annoyed at not being given precedence in this gathering. Hans Von Bülow catches Erik's eye for a moment and shakes his head, bemused at the intrigue of it all.
Dinner is an informal, almost homey affair. While the table shines with all the Ollivier silver, and beautifully decorated blown-out Easter eggs adorn each place setting like jewels, the service is carried out by Blandine and Cosima, who serve their father and the guests in deferential Hungarian fashion. The lamb is fork tender, garnished by bowls of fresh greens and accompanied by egg noodles made with spinach to echo the tones of the new spring. The conversation flows in fits and starts; lively when the subject is music, and more stilted when Ollivier attempts to turn the subject to the political climate of the day.
At last, Blandine rings for the maid Jeanne Marie to come in and clear away the dishes. As Blandine and Cosima retire to the salon, the men rise to follow Ollivier into his study for brandy and cigars. Erik pauses for a moment, unsure whether he is invited into Ollivier's inner sanctum. But a quick nod of acknowledgement from his host is all Erik needs to seize upon the opportunity to congress with the men.
Ollivier's study is actually quite familiar to Erik–he has regularly been plundering his host's library almost from the time of his arrival in the Ollivier household. Books on engineering, mathematics and architecture line the paneled walls of the study, perfumed with the scent of old cognac and fine tobacco. Erik gratefully accepts a snifter of brandy as the men make themselves comfortable. Wagner, of course, usurps Ollivier's personal high-backed wing chair, so the host has no choice but to stand.
After the initial interchanges about the age of Ollivier's brandy and the quality of his Cuban cigars, a silence falls over the men. There is much that must remain unsaid if the evening is to be continued, especially as it pertains to the extreme familiarity between Richard Wagner and the lively Cosima, who is kin to almost every other man in the room. Finally, Liszt turns to Ollivier and gruffly inquires, "So, son, will it be the diplomatic corps for you? Are you angling for an ambassadorship that will take you far away?"
Ollivier shakes his head genially. "No, Papa Liszt, I fear I should never succeed at diplomacy. I wish to help reform France right here, right in that monster of an edifice across the street," as he gestures with his cigar toward the window, through which the Tuileries Palace can be seen.
Richard Wagner snorts loudly over his brandy. "Good luck to you, my foolish friend! It is ridiculous to believe that the French will ever change themselves into a civilized nation. They are too Latinate, too hot-blooded. The Southern character is inherently disordered. Reform will have to be imposed from without, not within."
As Ollivier turns red-faced at this attack, Von Bülow steps in to change the subject. "LaFosse, tell us, how did you come to study with our dear Madame Ollivier?"
Erik clears his throat, conscious of every eye upon him. "Madame Ollivier heard me playing her piano and offered to give me lessons. She is a very generous, merciful lady." He casts his eyes to the floor. "I cannot ever begin to repay her kindness."
Liszt muses upon this. "I would not usually characterize my daughter in those terms. Willful, determined and intelligent, yes. My son was always the gentle one."
Ollivier takes another sip of his brandy. "Your daughter is a remarkable person, Papa Liszt."
Wagner lets out another snort. "You are remarkable too, to let your wife move a young music lover who wears his Fasching mask forty days too late under your roof when you are gone so frequently. I must say, you're very trusting, not to wonder about their repertoire."
Erik is shocked. He blurts out, more loudly than he should, "Shut your trap! Madame is a fine lady! I should knock your tongue out of your mouth." He struggles to rise to his feet, but Liszt's muscular, bony hand restrains him.
"Nyugodt önmaga" (Calm yourself). In French, the composer continues, "My old friend Wagner has a wicked sense of humor. People who know him do not take his teasing seriously." Liszt turns to Ollivier and nods, "Do you think my girls are ready for us to rejoin them? I think we could all do with some music."
Ollivier is coldly furious at the deep insult he has just sustained from Wagner. Wordlessly, he opens the door to the study and gestures for the men to follow him. As they file out Erik feels the knot on the ribbon holding his mask give way. It slips off and flutters to the floor.
As Erik desperately grabs at the scrap of satin, his eyes lock with those of Liszt. The composer takes in the reality of Erik's deformity; the scarred, red ridges of tissue that gnarl one side of his face and twist his eye and nose into a painful rictus. Yet there is no condemnation in Liszt's visage, but great compassion.
"What happened to you, my son?" he whispers to the frightened teenager.
"I was cursed by God," the young man replies as he hastily re-ties the mask to his skull.
"God does not levy such curses. Come, Erik. Will you play something for me?"
Erik nods a mute assent as they hasten to catch the others.
The raised voices of the ladies can be heard before the door to the salon opens. Erik's acutely sensitive hearing allows him to pick out the differing timbres of Blandine and Cosima's discourse. He hears Cosima protest, "…I have to follow my heart! He is a musical god, like no one else before or since…"
Erik hears Blandine give an exasperated groan. "…you will disgrace us all and subject us to gossip once again! What's the matter with Hans…"
As Ollivier opens the salon door, the two women immediately fall silent. Von Bülow notices the stormy looks passing between the sisters, but says nothing as he seats himself at the piano. Blandine sits by her husband and motions for Erik to pull up one of the gilt side chairs. She leans over and whispers in Erik's ear, "My brother-in-law is a fine conductor. He loves to champion new talent."
Von Bülow nods to himself as he chooses what he will play. "In honor of spring, an arrangement of the "Trout Quintet" for piano, by Schubert," he announces rather formally.
Von Bülow is not a masterful pianist, and the lilting melody is played perhaps a hair under tempo, but the charming tune fills the room with its sunny chords anyway. As Von Bülow concludes the final measures of the first movement, Liszt generously begins to clap, joined by Ollivier, Blandine and Cosima, and Erik. Wagner ostentatiously pauses for a moment before adding a few feeble claps of his own.
Von Bülow rises from the piano and bows a little, clearly happy to have the experience over with. Cosima looks over at Wagner expectantly. He shakes his head at her and looks away.
She begins to wheedle, "Richard, play us something too. Perhaps the ballet from "Tannhäuser?" Please?"
Wagner grunts. "My muse has deserted me. I'm gutted."
Cosima screws up her face. "For me? Please?"
"Enough, Cosima!" Blandine snaps. "If the man doesn't want to play, we won't force him. Not while there are those who most certainly can." She turns and catches Erik's eye. Quietly, she speaks to him. "Are you prepared?"
Erik rises to his feet. "Yes, Mme. Ollivier." His hands start to shake and his fingers feel numb and prickly as he walks what seems to be a kilometer from his chair to the piano. As he looks down at the ebony and ivory keys, he announces in a quiet tone, "This is my own composition."
Chords chime like bells, and a sweeping series of scales ascend, then die away as Erik opens his mouth and begins to sing as he plays.
For thee, my angel, for thee I tune my lyre;
With Heavenly song thou dost my soul inspire.
What other name with rapture fills my mind?
No other song, no other path, I find.
It is thy look that makes my darkness light;
It is thine image makes my dreams so bright.
Fearless I walk through shades, my thoughts with thine,
Far from thine eyes celestial glories shine.
Thy gentle prayer my destiny shall keep,
And safely watch me should mine angel sleep.
When thy voice soft, yet proud, my heart doth thrill,
It sends me forth life's duties to fulfill.
The song concludes with an extended reiteration of the main theme, and then diminishes into the same chiming chords of the introduction, but now peaceful and serene. The effect is that of coming through a fierce summer storm, only to have the sun peer out brilliantly once more and set a rainbow in the sky.
Erik looks up from the keyboard. There is silence in the room. Blandine is perfectly motionless, but there are tears rolling down her cheeks.
Was it good? Have I ruined everything? Erik's mind begins to race wildly. I'll pack my things and leave--she won't have to tell me–when Liszt gets to his feet and begins to clap. All the others join in, even as Wagner's scowl deepens. Erik remembers what Blandine has instructed him to do and gets up from the piano. With one hand resting on the instrument, he makes a formal bow to the company.
Liszt comes to Erik's side. The older man puts his arm around the teenager's shoulders and embraces him warmly. "How long have you been studying, my boy?" he inquires with wonder in his voice. Erik is too stunned and relieved to reply, so Blandine answers for him.
"Four months, Papa. He couldn't read music when he came to us. You should hear him play his violin!" The pride and affection in Blandine's voice is unmistakable. Erik feels a little woozy and idly thinks for a fleeting moment that he must be drunk on Ollivier's brandy when Von Bülow comes up and claps him on the back heartily.
"Wonderful, LaFosse! We shall have you placed in the Paris Conservatoire at once!" the conductor burbles with excitement.
"Nonsense! The only place to nurture talent is Leipzig!" Wagner growls from across the room.
Liszt takes up one of Erik's long, slender hands. "He reminds me of our poor Fréderic Chopin. The same hands–you can span a twelfth, can't you?" Erik mutely nods as Liszt holds the young man's hand up in comparison to his own.
Von Bülow pipes up again, eager to lay claim to this new find. "We must obtain a patron for you at once! I know the Conte de--"
At last, Erik finds his voice. "Thank you! It is too much…but please…I would rather continue to study with Mme. Ollivier if she will still permit me." He looks to his tutor with desperation–he had expected every possibility except success.
"Of course, Erik. For as long as you wish," Blandine replies, touched by the young man's loyalty. She feels the baby kick inside her, hard, as she leads Erik back to his seat. "Papa, won't you give us something too? Something beautiful?"
Liszt settles himself at the piano. "I am no singer," he begins, "but this is one of my favorite pieces. I wrote it for your mother, girls." The virtuoso breathes in for a long moment, hearing the music, feeling it travel through his nerves and synapses. He raises his hands and begins his "Liebestraum."
As the music fills the salon, each heart in turn is touched in some way, by longing or envy, by simple wonderment and enjoyment, and for Blandine, a sense of joy and triumph. The news of her protégée will be all over Paris within the week. Her protégée, her salon, her own name. All is going as she had hoped.
Erik is completely transported by the power, the delicacy and the fluidity of Liszt's playing. He can only think one phrase over and over as he thrills to the magnificent music: I made her proud of me. I made her proud.
Notes:
The lyrics to Erik's song are from a poem by Victor Hugo, with some minor changes.
Fosse -- grave, pit, stone, tank