‘I know you’re all
looking at me wondering where I’ve left my skirt, you insufferable old women,
and soon I’ll be the talk of the entire neighborhood. Especially with this
stuffy young man, looking all embarrassed, standing there red-faced and about
to drop that violin from his hand… Who’s
this anyway? Mummy’s boy, come here and
introduce yourself. Oh poor you, your
voice is shaking, just like these clammy cold hands’, she thought to herself as
she entered defiantly the drawing-room. ‘Why
does Mother have to call me in as soon as I enter the house? Oh, I hoped I could just escape quietly
upstairs!...’
“Stravinsky? Nice to meet you. Are you a music student?” She withdrew her hand quickly, slipping it out
from his sweaty grasp and wiping it discreetly on the back of her thigh.
She smiled sweetly. ‘I’m
tired and flushed after the bicycle ride’ she thought, ‘now, how am I supposed
to ride the darn thing wearing a full-length skirt and corset, for God’s
sake? Haven’t they all seen the advert
in the latest Paris Match for those lovely new Turkish trousers, specially made
for ladies who wish to ride a bicycle?
Of course not, stuffy old cows, when would they ever open Paris Match,
busy as they are, sitting there, pretending to listen to music, drinking tea
and ruining my reputation… who cares, it’s lost anyway, and Father loves to see
me try the latest inventions.’
“Miriam,
show the gentleman the garden.”
“Certainly,
Madam, I’ll be downstairs presently.”
A few
minutes later, she came downstairs in a long white dress, holding a sun
umbrella in her delicate gloved hands.
“This way, Mr Stravinsky.”
They walked
quietly together through the fragrant rows of blossoming cherry trees. As she passed the bow-windows of the ground
floor, she caught a glimpse of the sun dropping lacy shadows on her face
through the umbrella. ‘I’ll just tour
the garden once with him, that should be polite enough, and then I’ll make my
excuses.’
…..
The
beginning of the 20th century was the era of the Belle Epoque, of
the enigmatic jewels of Art Nouveau, an era when the woman was pictured as a mysterious,
dark, magic temptress. It was an era of
discovery and experiment. At the Paris
Exhibition, Japanese stamps were being shown to Europeans for the first time, the
Eiffel Tower was being built and Guimard was drawing the red-eyed, tentacled
Metro entrances of Montmartre.
....
“I’ll play
this Minuet of Boccherini for you.” He
picked up his violin and started playing.
The music
burst like a ray of sunshine after the rain, making the green leaves sparkle,
gushing forth with such joy that she couldn’t help but close her eyes, swaying
to it, smiling in deep reverie.
“I wonder
how you dance to a minuet.” The violin
weaved a silken thread of light and joy, a deep, simple, childish joy for life
that swirled around in a rhythmic, playful dance.
“What is it
about rhythm that makes me so happy? Or
sad?”
He put the
violin down, listening to her intently.
“How can I
go from the deep melancholy of a tango to the cheer of a dance so suddenly? Why?
Is it that my heart suddenly beats to the rhythm of the dance, and
starts dancing despite my static body?
Why? Is it that once, in the dark
of time, we were fashioned to start beating faster, like herds of wild horses
running from a beast?”
He smiled. She carried on, without noticing.
“Just the
sound of many feet pounding the ground, the soil trembling rhythmically under
your feet, would instinctively make your heart beat faster and make you want to
jump and run, move your feet to the beat, despite your judgement or your
feelings? And that sudden change to
happiness? I mean, in those Spanish
legends of El Cid, they would go to war to the sound of the drums, wasn’t that
making them feel just as I feel when I hear those dance beats? Aren’t we all just primitives when it comes
to music, ready to jump and dance and run at a bare sound, no reason, no
explanation?”
She
stopped, surprised at how much she had spoken to him. She didn’t like him, after all.
“Let me
take you somewhere you can join the herds of wild horses.”
“Ha ha ha!!”
Despite herself, this bland-looking
young man had made her laugh.
“That’s the
most amusing offer I have ever been made!”
“Let’s go
to a guinguette. We’ll dress like
servants and go dancing! In the fresh
air, along the river, you will like that.”
“Can we do
that?’ She said, incredulous at his daring. Her skin tingled with excitement. “You won’t
tell on me?” – oh, just think of it, the adventure! - ” If you’re just tricking
me and you’re going to tell my Mother and Grandmother, I promise I will have
your little finger chopped off so you never play the violin again, I will!”
“Ouch,
that’s cruel! Fine, I do promise. Saturday evening, I will meet you in the
little park near the church just before Mass.”
“I’ll be
dressed like a servant, be careful not to run off with some other maid!”
“Better
than those ridiculous trousers!”
She
giggled, pleased at his camaraderie.
....
Saturday evening
came. As she stepped in the park, she
couldn’t see him in the crowd. She
looked around, and at last, his eyes looking straight into hers, she found
him. All proper-looking, his blond hair
brushed back above his pale forehead, his washy- green eyes barely showing any
feeling at all. A wide smile beckoned to
her, and she walked over relieved.
‘I don’t
know why I’m going to the dance with him; he is really not that handsome, not
even half as any of the others. But who
else would dare ‘insult’ me and take me to a guinguette?! And I’ve been longing to go to one for so
long, just when I pass them in our carriage and hear the music, they call out
to me. This is so exciting, I hope we don’t meet anybody that knows me!’
‘He is so
gentle and I can see so little in his eyes, I wonder why he wanted to go there
together. Did he just find me amusing? Is
he attracted to me? How can he show so little?’, she thought as she took his
arm.
“I didn’t
imagine you much of a dancer!”, she said playfully.
“I am a
musician, after all. I make music, I write songs. This – he gestured around –
is music. Living music. The best there is.”
“I bet you
don’t say that in the salons where you play those Mozart sonnets to the serious
ladies of the nobility!”
“Of course
not, they’d throw me out for blasphemy.
But those lovely new sonnets they so gracefully patronage me to write,
where do you think they come from?”
“Here?” she
whispered, incredulously. “Your
inspiration are the chansons?! Most
people are even ashamed to admit to ever listening to them, let alone liking
them!”
“Music is
something beyond people, society, and what they say is acceptable. Music is
something that talks straight to your heart. It may be venal or even slightly
obscene, and yet it can still move you beyond words and prejudice.”
He bent
slightly and took her hand:
“May I have
this dance?”
“You may, sir”,
she smiled.
His arms
were light and he kept a respectable distance. A vague flicker passed in his
pale green eyes, but she didn”t see it.
He was much taller than her, and she was looking to the side, watching the
other dancers sway to the heart-felt melancholy trills of the red-haired
singer.
“You dance
very well”, he said.
“To this
day I cannot listen to such music without dancing.” She blushed. “At least in my mind.” She suddenly felt she could tell him
anything.
“Dancing is
the only true way of listening to music. I am sure I was dancing long before I
could speak, before I was born even. The warm round sound of a deep beat just
shows me how to move. I want to simply
float along its pellets or merry song as if along a bubbly stream. I could spend all day splashing around in the
sea. I could spend all day splashing and
whirling around in waves of music. It
talks directly to my muscles, to my bones, to my sinews, and they just have to
move to it.”
He suddenly
drew her closer, so close his chin brushed her fringe. A tingling wave of desire swept, warm, through
her body. She skipped a breath, her
stomach gave a pleasant jolt. ‘Thank God
he can’t tell’, she thought. He could.
She had gone too quiet. After a few
moments she stole a glance at his face. ‘Is
he holding back? Does he like me? Then why?...’
This was far more tantalising than any of the open compliments she was
so used to. She caught herself imagining
his eyes longing for her, searching for hers, his fingers on her arm, his
lips... She drew breath sharply. ‘This just isn’t practical, Miriam. He is a musician,
a poor student and not a suitable husband for you’. A sweet and heavy lightning bolt slashed
through her lungs. She sighed.
...
A hollow
sense of despair lurked in his bowels.
“I will
never be able to offer you the kind of life you want, Miriam. And I would loath you to live in any other
way than you do. ” He sighed deeply and hung his head low, looking at the hat
in his hands. Then he kissed her deeply,
passionately, despairingly, and he was gone.
...
Her mother
looked very pleased that day. Her
daughter had made a good alliance with one of the most sought-after bachelor of
the day: Maurice Benoit, son of wealthy
merchant. Her daughter held the arm of
her well-dressed new fiancé, a faraway look in her eyes. He looked very pleased with himself, and Miriam was glad he didn’t look at her face.
“Why are you so quiet, my darling?”, he said in between greeting guests with a
magnanimous smile.
‘Oh, no,
Mother, why do you have to bring more musicians? Today of all days!’, she thought to herself,
at the faint chords coming from the garden.
Music only made her sad today.
“He is
caring, and handsome, we will be happy together”, she told herself. All the while, she searched inside her heart
for something - something that was not there.
No spark, no tremor, no joy, no anticipation, all silence. Deep, velvety silence, in the middle of the
noisy crowd of guests and her fiancé’s voice thanking them for the engagement
wishes.
“Let us to
the garden, my darling”, Maurice said cordially.
The music
started a strange, unfamiliar new tune. ‘Mother
and her modern music! I wish she were as
modern about other things in life!’, she thought to herself.
Then,
something in the music changed. She
turned her head slightly, tilting her forehead to hear it better, tuning in
through the noise. She held her
breath. Rain drops, then a ray of
sunshine, making the green leaves sparkle, gushing with joy – and then plunging
in deep, sad darkness and fading out in the rumble of a thunder. Then silence.
Then, again, thunder. She
listened to that receding silence, and felt it deeply, that silence, through
the babbling noise of the crowd. She
knew it was his song, for her. It was a
message. She felt him deep in her heart,
amid the silence she had been searching, and he was saying good-bye. And yet he was there, deep and sad, part of
her. She felt her throat tightening, a
tightness that rose and rose, stronger and stronger, until she burst into tears.
“But Miriam
darling, I thought you were going to like it!
You are always like the latest inventions, and this music is just
that!”, said Maurice, puzzled by at his fiancée’s tears.
“Don”t
worry, Maurice! She is just happy! Engagements always make me cry!”, said her
mother, patting her arm reassuringly.
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