by Sarah Bryant
“I’ve never loved Chopin,” I said slowly, “but the études have always appealed to me. I suppose because they’re so meticulous.”
“And this is perhaps the most meticulous of the lot. The most mathematical, at any rate.”
“The most difficult.”
“In some senses.”
“I’ve been trying to learn it for weeks, and I haven’t even got through the first page.”
He scrutinized me. “It is difficult, Eleanor, but so is the last of opus twenty-five, and you played that beautifully. I am certain that your problem is psychological rather than physical. Position yourself at the bench.” I sat up straight, near the edge of the seat, resting my right foot on the sustain pedal, my heel firmly planted on the ground. “Now play,” he demanded.
I smiled at him incredulously, and he looked back, ingenuous. “I told you, I can’t play it,” I said when it was clear that he really meant it.
“I think you can.”
“Alexander, this is ridiculous. I’ve been trying for months—”
He shrugged. “I can’t possibly help you if I haven’t heard what you can do.”
I looked at the music for a moment, then began to play tentatively, far short of tempo. I stumbled over the fourth line and glanced at Alexander helplessly. His face was devoid of expression.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well what? Is that all you’re going to do?”
“Isn’t that enough?” I was beginning to be irritated.
He laughed. “With all due respect, Eleanor, I’m glad I never had you as a student.” I raised my eyebrows haughtily. Apparently unperturbed, he asked, “Is this your approach to every piece?”
“What approach?”
“Try once, give up if it doesn’t come immediately?”
“I told you,” I cried, “I’ve worked and worked on this piece, and it never moves!”
Alexander stood up, began pacing the room. “Because you approach it as an adversary, a trial—something to be defeated. A piece of music is not an adversary but a vessel. An implement. Without you, it is a jumble of hieroglyphs. I am not so trite as to deem music your friend, Eleanor, but it is certainly not an enemy. Rather, it is something poor and malleable, dust and water under your fingers. Don’t you see, you hold its soul in your hands! Human beings are flawed creatures, but some are gifted as well, and within a piece of music, you can be God. Now, play!”
His eyes had caught fire; patches of color burned on his pale cheeks. He was looking not at me but through me, and for the second time I realized that I was in the presence of a man more gifted than I could imagine. Obediently I turned back to the piano and played. I did not stumble until the sixth line, then looked back at him in exasperation. He had resumed his pacing and did not look at me.
“Now then, those lines were perfect; a little short of tempo, but that of course comes with time. Think of the rest of the piece as repetition of those lines, albeit with variation. Have patience.”
“Something in which I’m sadly lacking.”
“I can see that. And I understand, it is frustrating to know what a piece should sound like and not be able to play it. But you must stop trying to do it all at once. You can’t.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You sound just like my teacher from Boston. He was always telling me not to rush, to correct the old mistakes before I went on to the new parts. And most of all to make myself read it, even though I knew how it should sound.”
“Why didn’t you listen to him?”
I shrugged. “Impatience, I suppose. Or just plain conceit.”
He came back to the piano and sat down, the passion draining gradually from his face. “Well, with music, you must channel the one and quell the other. May I?” He gestured to the bench. I got up. He took my place and began to play. The first five lines of the étude spilled fluidly from beneath his fingers before he broke off.
I shook my head. “I’ll never play so beautifully.”
He looked at me, honestly puzzled. “You already do.”
“Well, then,” I conceded, “never so easily.”
“That’s not true, either. I only have a different approach.”
“Are you going to enlighten me?”
He studied the music for a moment, then said, “Let’s try something. I want you to look at the first line. Study it until you can close your eyes and see it.” I studied it until I couldn’t look at it anymore, then I looked at him.
“Now play it. Don’t think about making a mistake. Don’t think about anything and don’t look at the music, except inside your head.”
I began to play. I made one mistake, then another, and another, until I threw up my hands in despair.
“You thought about it.”
“I can’t help it!”
He walked to the window and stood with his back to me, a dark silhouette against the turgid rain clouds. I found myself paying more attention to the line of his back and shoulders than his words. “You see, it’s a chain reaction,” he explained. “You make one mistake, then you begin thinking about the next one you will make, which causes it to happen. Soon you are misstepping in all directions, and you can’t stop.”
“It’s so difficult.”
When he turned back to me, I had the feeling that he had momentarily forgotten I was there. “Of course it’s difficult! Learning anything is difficult. But you cannot give up because of that. Now, try it again. Clear your mind. Close your eyes if it helps, and don’t think of anything but the music. Think always a step ahead, to the next measure, and you won’t be able to think about making mistakes in the one you are playing. Come, try it.”
I took a deep breath and set my hands on the keys. I looked at the music once, then cast my eyes down, focusing on my left hand, which has always been the weaker of the two. I began to play, tentatively at first. I was aware only of the music, its intrinsic movement. All of a sudden I stopped in surprise: I had played the entire first page, too slowly, but without stumbling once.
“Why did you stop?” asked Alexander.
“You were right!”
He shrugged. “It’s a good system. I think, though, that part of the reason this worked so well is that you’ve listened to the piece so much. You have a very good ear. I’m better at sight reading, so the more I study the music before I play it, the better I play. It’s all relative, like I said. Here”—he sat beside me on the bench—“I’ll play the left hand, you play the right.”
We began to play, stumbling in some parts, laughing at our clumsy coordination, stopping when our hands ran into each other and starting again, finally reaching a shaky cadence. We laughed, and then stopped abruptly, startled by applause. Simultaneously we turned toward the door.
For a moment time seemed to stop. I felt Alexander’s body tense beside mine. Then the man in the doorway began to laugh. I tried to smile back at him, but I was cold, the muscles of my face frozen.
“This is unexpected,” the man said in a resonant voice with the faintest British clip. “I have never before elicited quite so dramatic a reaction.” He had been leaning against the doorjamb. Now he straightened and removed a cream-colored Panama hat. Alexander stood slowly, and I scrambled to my feet as he moved toward us.
“I am Dorian Ducoeur,” he said, taking my limp fingers in a firm grasp and kissing them. “You must be Miss Rose.” His blue eyes flickered toward Alexander. “And you, sir, I do not know, but I can say that your lesson was one of the finest I have ever witnessed, and I flatter myself that I have witnessed some of the best.”
Alexander and I looked at each other, and I hoped that my dismay was not as clearly stamped on my face as was his own.
Looking back and forth between us, his smile fading, Mr. Ducoeur said, “I hope that my call isn’t unwelcome?”
ELEVEN
I no longer recall any preconceptions of Dorian Ducoeur; I only know that the actual person would have defied any. To begin with, he was neither young nor old. That is, he fel
l into the group that is past thirty-five but not yet fifty, for which it is often difficult to pinpoint an exact age. He had symmetrical European features, neatly trimmed grey-blond hair, and eyes of an un nervingly bright blue, even through his wire-rimmed spectacles. In the vein of the hat, his clothing was precise and expensively made. He wore a natural-colored linen suit and white shirt, a red silk kerchief around his neck, and he carried a grey raincoat over his arm.
The overall effect of his person and his face was pleasing to the eye—inoffensive in its predominantly neutral color scheme, while small bright flashes such as the kerchief and the eyes continually recalled one’s own eyes to him. Yet it was curiously difficult to pinpoint a deeper reaction to him. Though his eyes were bright and attentive, they were fundamentally expressionless, and though he smiled, I had the feeling that it was as superficial as his clothing. Moreover, his appearance was familiar in the infuriating way that makes the resemblance impossible to place.
I finally recovered myself enough to say, “I received your letter this morning. I hadn’t expected to see you so soon.” I felt Alexander’s eyes on the side of my face but didn’t turn to meet them.
“My fault, Miss Rose,” Mr. Ducoeur soothed. “I didn’t send the letter until I arrived here yesterday.”
“In Baton Rouge?”
“No, at Joyous Garde. You do know it?”
“I’ve heard of it,” I said, trying not to sound overly eager, though I was overwhelmed with questions I wanted to ask him. “We couldn’t figure out . . . I mean, without the postmark . . .”
He was laughing, yet I had the uncomfortable awareness that the laughter didn’t penetrate the surface. “Of course. It must have seemed mysterious to you. But there’s little mystery to Dorian Ducoeur.” He waved a hand abstractly in the air, indicating that he wished to change the subject. “Now, who is your friend?” He regarded Alexander calmly; I was surprised to see Alexander return the look with decided coldness.
“I am Alexander Trevozhov,” he said, not offering his hand.
For an instant Dorian’s mouth thinned and tightened. Then he was smiling coolly again, apparently unruffled, but it was too late. In that moment I had seen in his face the fair man from the dream I had shared with Alexander, and I understood Alexander’s coldness. I, too, felt cold.
“You are Russian, then,” Dorian was saying, still addressing Alexander, though it seemed that many minutes had passed since Alexander had introduced himself. “From St. Petersburg?”
Alexander raised his eyebrows. “Is it so obvious?”
Dorian smiled again. “The accent is distinctive, but I admit, I have heard your name before, and something of your origins; I believe in musical circles?”
“I’m a concert pianist.”
“Splendid!” Dorian cried, but this time I quite clearly detected a note of insincerity in his bravado. He turned back to me. “I hope that my forwardness hasn’t offended you. Your housekeeper showed me in.”
“No, of course not,” I faltered. “We’ve just had tea . . . I’m sure there’s plenty left . . .”
“Thank you, but I had a late lunch.”
There were footsteps in the hall outside, and Tasha’s golden laughter. In a moment she entered, leading Mary by the hand. Both of them stopped short at the sight of Dorian Ducoeur. Tasha clutched Mary’s skirt, and Mary put a reassuring arm around her.
“And who is the little beauty?” asked Dorian, turning the brilliance of his smile onto them.
“Mary,” I said quickly, “this is Mr. Ducoeur. The one who sent the letter. Mr. Ducoeur, this is my friend, Mary Bishop, and Mr. Trevozhov’s niece, Natalya.”
Mary looked at me questioningly for a moment and then smiled. “Of course.” She offered her hand, and Dorian kissed it, flustering her further. “We hadn’t expected you so soon.” She turned to the little girl. “Tasha, there’s no reason to be frightened. Mr. Ducoeur is a friend of ours.” Tasha tilted her auburn head closer to Mary’s hip, regarding Dorian with silent suspicion, not unlike her uncle’s.
Dorian was speaking again, this time to Tasha in a softened tone. “Do you like flowers?” he asked. She watched him silently. “All little girls like flowers, perhaps because they look like them, in their pretty pale dresses. You yourself look rather like a white rose.”
When the compliment failed to win a smile, he continued: “Do you know that you can grow roses?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Right here.” He extended one arm, untied his red kerchief, and draped it over his fist. “Blow a kiss to warm the seeds.” He watched the child’s uncertainty mix with curiosity. “Go on, see what happens,” he coaxed.
Reluctantly Tasha kissed her hand to the covered fist. Dorian flicked the kerchief aside, and in his hand was a bunch of ivory roses. Tasha’s face melted into a smile as she accepted the bouquet. Dorian laughed at her formality; Mary and I couldn’t help smiling. Conscious of the many eyes on her, Tasha ran to Alexander’s side, slipping her free hand into his. He looked down at her, smiling faintly through the consternation.
“Time to go home now, Natashenka,” he said. “You must rest.”
“Oh, surely you’re not going already!” Mary cried.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Will you come again for supper?” I asked, searching his face for an explanation of his strange and sudden reserve.
“Thank you,” he said, the formality in his tone unmistakable and crushing, “but there is work I ought to see to tonight.”
“Well,” I said, “if you’re set on going now, I’ll walk you to the door. Mary, try to persuade Mr. Ducoeur to have some tea.” I turned and followed Alexander out of the room.
On the doorstep we hesitated, looking at each other over the sudden, subtle barrier Dorian Ducoeur had erected between us.
“Why don’t you go and pick some more flowers, Tasha?” Alexander said. She nodded, still clutching her roses, her hair catching the sunlight as she ran into the long grass by the driveway. We watched her for a moment, I snared by her fragile loveliness, Alexander doubtless by something more powerful.
“He looks so like the man in the dream,” I said.
He didn’t answer me immediately. The silence between us expanded until he asked abruptly, “Why didn’t you tell me about the letter?”
It was undeniably a reprimand, and I fluctuated between a woman’s anger and a child’s wounded pride, answering with a little of each. “I . . . I forgot all about it.”
His face was grave, and the set of his mouth had the tinge of cruelty I had seen in it before. “Will you tell me what it said?”
I shook my head and laughed flimsily, further unnerved by the look on his face. “Nothing, really. It was a letter of introduction. Apparently he spent a summer at Joyous Garde as a child. He remembered the twins, and wanted to introduce himself.”
Alexander’s lips tightened into a stubborn line. “I wouldn’t be so quick to trust him.”
“Why would you assume that I trust him? And even if I did, you can’t condemn a man you’ve just met for resembling someone you’ve dreamed of.”
He only looked at me, but there was an accusation in his eyes that made me lower my own.
“You can’t think that he really is the man in the dream?” I asked.
“At the moment I think only that he cannot be trusted,” he repeated.
I was annoyed by his cryptic look and tone. “What would you have me do? I couldn’t tell him to leave without good cause.”
Alexander sighed, his eyes moving again to Tasha’s bright form in the swaying grass. “You needn’t have asked him to stay.” Before I could answer, he said, “Be careful, Eleanor.”
Powerful emotion moved beneath those words, but when he looked at me again the anger was gone and he was smiling gently, his eyes elusive. I nodded, my own anger dissipating as quickly as it had arisen. He took my hand and squeezed it once before he turned away.
I watched the Trevozhovs until they disappeared around the side of the house,
then went looking for Mary and Mr. Ducoeur. I found them seated on the terrace overlooking the rose garden where Alexander and I had spoken that first night, laughing over glasses of tea.
“Oh, Eleanor!” Mary cried, pulling up another chair. “Mr. Ducoeur is telling stories about your grandfather—”
“I didn’t know you knew him well,” I interrupted peevishly, more troubled by Alexander’s reaction to Dorian than I had realized.
He looked at me and flashed another wide smile. The extraordinary brightness of his eyes struck me again. “He was a well-known commodity here,” he answered. “Any Yankee is. You yourselves are the topic of much speculation among local society.”
“But why?” Mary asked, clearly already snared by his charm.
“Because you are Yankees won over to the beautiful South. The musical talent adds to the intrigue, along with the fact that you apparently don’t need local society. It rankles them bitterly . . . and piques their interest.”
“Oh, dear,” Mary said. “I knew we ought to have given a party by now. We’ve been so wrapped up in our own affairs, I’m afraid we haven’t got around to it.”
“Think no more of it now,” Dorian soothed. “I assure you that you are better off without the company of those who are offended by your discretion. The Baton Rouge ladies have always secretly worried about their inferiority to the Ducoeurs and the Fontaines. But I can see that Miss Rose’s mind is elsewhere.” He turned to Mary. “Do you think that I could make her speak her thoughts?”
Mary laughed and shrugged. “You can try, but I’ve never known anyone to succeed in making Eleanor do anything.”
I glared at her, but answered nonetheless, “I was wondering whether Mr. Ducoeur, who seems to know so much about our history, could enlighten us on the matter of a certain Louis Ducoeur. He must be your cousin?”
Dorian considered for a moment before he answered. “I believe he grew up in Europe,” he said slowly, “which would explain why we never met. I’m certain I’ve heard the name in connection with one of the Fairfax twins, though I can’t recall which one . . . I believe there was some talk years ago of his engagement to one of them.”
