You will have to decide for yourself, the tenor said. This was debated in the papers at the time of her debut, I understand—was she beautiful or not, and did this affect her art? He laughed. Once you know her, she’s lovely, however. And you will know her instantly when you meet her. You will see. She is very correct in her appearance, very elegant, he noted. I think she is a beauty—a beauty like a queen out of legend is a beauty, he said. And as she is the ruler of this world of music, that, at least, is true.
We rode on in silence a little more and he said, As a girl, she was cursed to be the younger sister of a great singer who was also a great beauty. Maria Malibran. Those who’ve seen both will say Pauline is the greater singer, but not in front of her. Maria died very young, and Pauline, she worshipped her. He paused and then said, When people say she is ugly, they mean she is not her sister—a debased cruelty, I think. And Pauline knows she is not her only too well.
At this, the carriage made its way onto Fremersbergstrasse, her street.
Pauline came down to greet us at her gate as we arrived, waving cheerfully, and I understood what the tenor meant at once. In her presence I was embarrassed to have asked my question. She was handsome and queenly indeed—she radiated a magnetic authority. Her thick dark hair was worn close to her head that day and pulled back at her neck in the plain style of a busy woman, but it flattered her beautiful brow. Her eyes were large and dark, lit with a mischievous intelligence, and they seemed to comprise nearly half of her face, though I think it was mostly because they were entrancing. The mouth was generous and expressive, her chin soft, her nose oddly smaller when you faced her than in profile, but this can be one of the physiognomic signs, I know now from her, of a powerful singing instrument.
And with that instrument, she could speak and sing in French, Russian, Italian, German, Spanish, and English, what she jokingly called her salad of tongues. She could accompany herself as she sang with the impeccable force of a virtuoso and had been, as her father and sister before her, a legend in all the capitals of Europe. She had retired at the height of her fame after a successful run seven years earlier in Paris, singing in Gluck’s Orphée et Eurydice, and now she was one of the most distinguished music teachers alive, as well as a woman composer. Over time, it seems to me, people called her ugly because they felt they needed one thing to be counted against her brilliance.
The question of beauty in a woman, as a result, amused her greatly, as I saw when she greeted me.
Ah, they’ve sent me the cocotte I ordered at last, she said, after the curtsy I made for her. She held my hands and took me in. You’re so beautiful they’ll come just to see you walk on the stage. But we will make sure they hear you also.
I stood before her in the general’s coat, worn over my poplin, the ruby flower pinned to my chest like a medal. She tugged at my coat’s cuffs and then looked to my four trunks—the one from the Comtesse, the three from the tenor. I’d not seen them lined up this way until now as the driver and footman set them down.
And you’ve brought costumes for us all, she teased.
I blushed, embarrassed—I’d imagined my luggage modest—but then I saw the humor of it and saw her wait for me to find it. This endeared her to me, and any apprehensions I had about her vanished in front of her immediately. Whether or not I knew her, as the tenor had put it, I knew I belonged to her and would do anything she asked.
She winked. Come, my dear. Let’s get you inside.
And you, she said to the tenor. You rogue. When did I last see you? Was it in Leipzig with Liszt? And what will you do with yourself while she studies? Where are we to put you?
He gestured to the air. I’m sure there’s something here that requires my attention, he said.
My Haustheater, I’m sure, she said, with a proud lift of her head. We sometimes need a tenor to sing across from the girls. Perhaps you’ll do.
§
Her Haustheater was really two houses side by side—her villa, where she lived with her husband, Louis, and Villa Turgenev next door, built for Turgenev. The two sat close to each other away from their neighbors at the end of the road. They made for a strange pair: the Viardot villa looked to be of a piece with its neighbors down the road, but Turgenev’s villa was newer, built soon after Pauline and her husband had moved to Baden-Baden, and had the appearance of a strangely new French chateau but in the old French style. Her traditional German villa seemed to be keeping time with a French stranger who’d snuck out of the forest, acting as if he’d always been there.
Turgenev himself was entirely at home, however, as I discovered when, on entering Pauline’s villa, we found him taking a late cup of tea in her parlor. He stood, surprised to see us, and greeted us in impeccable French as Pauline tutted at him for being at his leisure with guests arriving. Mistaking him for Pauline’s husband, I greeted him as Monsieur Viardot, and he laughed, if a little ruefully, and corrected me.