This was the very slightest of consolations to me, however. And for now, the only person from my past I could find who seemed clearly intent on my destruction was me. That one seemingly harmless lie I had told to Verdi continued to hurtle through Paris, leaving a trail of rumor and chaos in its wake.
I was determined to at least stop the damage to my reputation and to repair what I could of this life. Afraid of what I had done and what I might still do, I thought to cancel all of my social engagements and take to bed, where I could at least, perhaps, finally read the novel and not lie to anyone any further. But before I did so, I still wanted some further assurance that this composer Simonet had mentioned existed—if he was real, and the opera real, that alone could assure me this was not the trap I feared it was.
This all seemed quite impossible, though, without contacting Simonet. And as that lie had been inspired by Simonet’s own seemingly ridiculous confession to me—well, I mistrusted him and his novel even more.
Even worse, I had begun to believe he—and Madame Verdi—were right, and my little lie was the truth and, perhaps, always had been.
Doro opened the door then and brought in my tray. As she set it down, she asked if, as it was Thursday, I was to go to Madame Viardot’s as usual, for madame had written, her note was there on the tray, and if I was to go, what would I wear, would I dine in or out. . .
I cried out and hugged her, at which she protested and laughed, and left me to my breakfast and my note.
If Mondays were for Euphrosyne when I was in Paris, I usually saved a Thursday or a Sunday for my teacher, Pauline Viardot-García—the teacher the tenor brought me to study with in Baden-Baden. Pauline’s salon on Thursdays at her home on the rue de Douai in the ninth arrondissement was the most exciting of its kind in Paris and the most important. She lived with her husband, Louis Viardot, a former director of the Théatre-Italien and now an art historian, as well as her friend and intimate of many years, the writer Ivan Turgenev, the three of them living amicably together under one roof much as they had when I first met them. Together they attracted an audience of actors, singers, painters, composers, musicians, and writers. It was not uncommon to attend and find Delibes, Fauré, Brahms, Clara Schumann, and the newest genius or the oldest living one, not just in attendance, but singing, presenting, playing. Something about her put these talented and distinguished men and women at their ease and brought out their best performances. There was a very good chance that the Verdis or Simonet or even the protégé himself would be there. Whoever this man was, someone there would know, Pauline, I was sure, most of all.
Pauline’s note apologized for not being able to attend Faust, and she insisted I return to the salon the moment I could to perform for her.
I heard a story about you, several, actually. One is that you are leaving the stage and finally marrying our mutual tenor friend, which seems impossible, for you would not dare become engaged without both of you coming here with this news first, yes? Another is that you were a sensation at the Sénat Bal last week, with an impromptu Jewel Song in the garden. A sensation! This I believe. Perhaps you will repeat the sensation tonight? Come, and if you do intend to sing, wear some conspicuous jewels so that I will know at once.
I remain your teacher,
Pauline
She meant only one thing by her request. And so, dressed in my conspicuous jewels, I went.
§
On entering Pauline’s salon one passed through a gallery of painting masterpieces separated by red-velvet drapes that led to her astonishing Cavaillé-Coll pipe organ, installed along the far wall of the downstairs gallery like a throne for a queen—a queen who could also play music. The organ had been made for her so she could face her audience seated on a beautifully carved wooden pedestal and accompany herself on the organ as she sang. At the foot of this pedestal was a piano, and chairs were set out near this for any fellow musicians who were also to play. Rows of chairs in circles ringed this for the rest of us in attendance.
The scene was somber at the start due to the news that both M. Viardot and Turgenev were in poor health. I’d heard Louis was not well, but the truth described in the conversations around me was worse than imagined—he’d had a stroke. In the meantime, Turgenev, often afflicted with painful gout in recent years, was now said to be suffering from an angina as well. Pauline took a moment to address us all and assured us we were very welcome and that our merriment would not disturb her patients—some had expressed concern. She said Turgenev, who occupied the fourth floor by himself, had even had a long listening tube installed so he could hear us. To cancel would sadden them, she said. They had asked us to carry on, and she extended it to us as a duty to be happy for their sake and improve their spirits also.
I had not seen Pauline since my return. She seemed vital still, if also weary from nursing what were effectively her two husbands. Leonine in appearance, she wore her hair in something of a silver crown; her skin was still smooth, her large dark eyes still shining, her cheeks full. She was the youngest of the trio, but there was something else to her, some vitality that had brought her all this way and remained, undimmed by her trials.
She then went around the room to greet us, and if we at first were somber, given the news, we soon saw she was happy to see us and tried to match her. When it was my turn, she kissed me on each cheek and, touching the earrings, said, Ah! You are prepared. How I love you, thank you. Now tell me, I must know at once—are you truly marrying? And what is this nonsense about curses and retirements?
Lies, every one, I said, and she laughed.
You were away too long, she said, and set her face in a moue. You must return Sunday when you can see the men at dinner. They won’t forgive me if I don’t get you up the stairs. Come early, though. And wear something especially beautiful. And forgive me for not seeing you in Faust. I don’t dare leave them alone.
With that, she swept on, greeting the next of the room’s guests.
Paris had been cruel to Pauline as a young woman. She came of age as a singer amid a field of established singers who’d felt they’d only just emerged from the shadow of her older sister, the legendary Maria Malibran, who had died some years earlier, far too young. If Pauline had been only half the singer Maria was, she would have been a threat to them, but she was much more than that from the beginning—a mezzo-soprano with a three-octave range, she could sing freely in many roles.
After her debut, the Paris opera houses turned their backs on her on the orders of these older, more experienced, vengeful sopranos. She’d needed to go abroad just to sing. Once there, she made herself into someone who could not be ignored by any opera house anywhere in Europe. She eventually returned to Paris with much acclaim, basking a little in the fury of her enemies.
Now that she had retired, this salon in Paris was her revenge on those earlier enemies, whatever else it was—a stage in her own house that she commanded, where no one could dismiss or surpass her. Those other singers might have paused at her age as their voices faded; her technique and her command of her repertoire was such that she made more of her ailing voice than most younger singers did with theirs.