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There was a painting that kept me company outside the Compiègne ballroom, a night scene, figures moving through what I first thought was a night sky, flying across the clouds like angels, a dark and angry-looking earth below. I stood there night after night, and as I did, it became like a story I told myself again and again, for it was most of what I could see. Soon I thought it was horses riding across a night beach, the moon high in the sky casting a beautiful light on the riders and mounts. Then I came to think of it as swans swimming at night. Later, I was told it was a mythic scene of the first Napoléon’s wars, a night battle.
This was not my post; that was nearby. A bell would ring if I was needed. Standing here, I was in the foyer to the ballroom. I could glimpse the ballroom and still be in shadow. Another tiny rebellion, though this time it was done so I could listen.
The dance master had been winding a mechanical piano for the dances before this, but it seemed the effort eventually winded him, and the guests had begun to despair, if quietly. Still, word of their discontent had reached the Empress, and she had mentioned she intended to correct it at once. I had guessed she meant the pianist.
A quadrille began, accompanied by just a piano, and vigorously so; my pianist was playing, I was sure. His nocturne had left me with a portrait of his movements, his intelligence, his emotions; all playing does. I knew this was him. He was a guest, then, but no common performer.
I stepped closer.
The blur of sparkling gems, the candy colors of the ladies’ gowns alternating with the black-and-white flash of the gentlemen—each couple as they turned went from dark to light, a chiaroscuro following the beats of the dance, and I longed to enter.
The quadrille ended, and a mazurka began. I heard something more tender than what had come before, more lovely. They are not as quick as some dances, but the movement of them, the triple time, one-two-three, one-two-three, has the feeling of something that moves again just when you think it has reached its end. They can be quick and fast; they can be as slow and sad as a funeral march. It seems to me you have to be a little in love to write a mazurka or to play one, and if you dance to one with someone you don’t love, well, for me it’s unendurable.
I believed two things at once in that instance. I was both entirely sure I belonged to this pianist, and he to me, and I was sure that at night the Empress would bring him to her room and that he was hers. I wondered if she likewise commanded her lovers to undress, to come to her naked as the Emperor demanded. I imagined him under the flower of light, her antechamber’s chandelier, the little rainbows on his skin. She would still be painted, the sadness still there on her face as she looked at him. As she perhaps traced her fan over his heart.
Was her mouth as forbidden as the Emperor’s?
This mazurka was Chopin again, the no. 2 in F minor, op. 63, though, again, I didn’t know this then, but instead I felt only the way that this mazurka, in my pianist’s hands, sounded like something undeclared and hidden, impossible—like love or, at least, the love I felt then.
The musical education that awaited me included the knowledge that a Chopin mazurka was unlike any other mazurka; fans of mazurkas were not always pleased to hear them. They were impossible to dance to, being very slow, proceeding in a threefold series of movements, timid, bold, timid, or minor chord, major, minor, just as I’d heard that night. A “proper” mazurka was to be like a jeweled waltz, ornamented, decorated with flourishes so, of course, it was popular with the Empress Eugénie and her friends, but Chopin liked to conceal the rhythm with syncopation, and on the whole, his resembled a lover’s feint in the dark.
It was, in other words, a bit of a disaster for this dance. The frustrated dancers ambled through ably, but another piece was soon called for by the dance master, and it began promptly. A proper mazurka.
The Empress pretended not to notice and kept up her dance with the Duc de Tascher even as she surely understood the gesture. Her asking him to play as a mere entertainment, an honor in some other circumstance, must have humiliated him. The Chopin mazurka as lover’s complaint was noted, perhaps, by the one who knew to find it, and for the rest of the room, only artistic caprice—the musician-composer’s inappropriate tribute to a newly dead musical hero.
At this point he was simply an infatuation of hers for a handsome young artist. For him, he felt sympathy for the woman who could transform his career overnight, and had. He loved that she loved him, and while this was not quite love for her, this feeling inspired its own loyalty from him, and jealousy, too.
The bell rang, the signal she was to change, and so I left for my post in her antechamber.
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