Seen
Paris, August 30th, 1847
It has been a month since that exasperating woman left. But dare he say he did not have a hand in worsening this turbulence of a relationship, what was so-called "a matchmade among the romantics"? Not exactly, Frédéric is self-conscious enough to know that he's insufferable (but not alerted enough to recognize himself as the ghastly sickly prince in that woman's allegorical novel, or perhaps he was just too polite to admit it). Paris has already had too many busybodies, yet it is best that a baron being caught in an affair or a countess having her earrings stolen for the eighth time in the week are enough to pry their nosy attention away from him, from his recent break-up; and even more so when nobody bats an eye when their favorite poet of the piano has taken a liking to smoking.
Not just any smoking. It's opium.
First and foremost, this substance made from grinded poppy tears is quite commonly used in soirées, gatherings, meetings of the gents,... as Frédéric would often defensively tell himself so. Even medications recently prescribed for him included such portion, just a drop daily "To soothe the coughing", the doctor said. A drop turned into two, two into five, five into a vial, and soon the composer resorted to smoking and found himself owning a pipe. To his family back home, this is a taboo as no music prodigy son of Poland should be bewitched by frivolous drugs. To his friends and fellows, some accepted with lenient ease and bashful recognition, some regarded him with genuine concern. To the larger social circles, this is a popular pastime worth indulging in. So it should not do much harm.
"Just a whiff, and I'll get back to work", the thought would flash across his mind as his trembling hands would lift the pipe and light it up, the bright ember flickered yellow before burning away, followed by the familiar surge of warm air up his nostrils, filling his windpipes and seeming to spare his lungs from suffocation. Tis' an illusion of comfort and robust as one can gradually but really feel their chest warming up and their airway cleared, only to have their sight clash into blurry distortions right after that - sunlit windows became crystals, smoke rings turned glowing halos and music notes smeared into dancing inked butterflies on manuscripts. The second stage and beginning of the high. If the composer is lucky and his mind unburdened that day, consider him having had the good fortune to see Euterpe and her muses in person.
However, pity that the nymphs did not pay him a visit today, and neither does the composer have time for them in this evening's soiree - busy as always, champagne glasses clinking, guests chattering, the gentlemen's tailcoats neat and the ladies' velvet dresses of the elites, they hustle and bustle around like a bunch of flowerette, garish and redundantly eyesore. Our composer is no stranger to all that opulence as he has been a part of it long since, yet at the moment, his eyes should be on where his fingers are dancing on the keyboard, each note glimmers in the air but all in all just to entertain the gawking crowd. At least they let him play with lights off as he wishes - candles blown out and giving way for the moonlight only.
"Someone fetch the light already, the pianist drifted off!"
There it is again, an exclamatory cry across the dim room supposedly to pull him back to reality whenever the high got the better of him, poor anticipating audiences fluttering their hand-fans in inpatience when their hunched performer has gone dazed and is left engulfed in the dark. Frédéric couldn't care less, as whatever mere inconvenience of the settings cannot be more important than the impromptu melody left hanging in his mind, yet to be expressed properly. Through half-lidded eyes, all he's supposed to see are the keys basked in silvery moonlight, white, cold and solid.
Then, at the corner of his eye, something seemed to melt, blurry around the edges. Its warm glow spreading over a smooth red platform, melted into amber in scarlet, giving off the color that painfully resembled the woeful bloom. A poppy? No, just a lady in red with a sconce in hand who happened to light up a match in time. Strangely though, in a batch of colorful silk cravats and ruffled petticoats, the only thing that caught his eye is this beacon of crimson moving across the dim room; flat panels of her robe swayed slightly as she moved to put the candle on the table. The lady then shuffled quietly back to her seat. Dark haired and small eyes, red robe with wide sleeves and black loose trousers, "must've been a guest from the East", he thought, as his fingers continued their effortless gliding across the keys. But oh so he would've wished he could regard this foreign admirer like he did to any other miscellaneous audiences, had the lady's robe not been as red as the noxious plant implanted in his conscience and guilt tripping him every time he picks up the pipe.
The poppy blooms in his mind and lingers in his sight anyway.
.
"Frédéric, mon ami, such a pleasure to meet you again."
From afar was the German composer - Mendelssohn - approaching him, gently keeping an eye on the pale Polish man like a responsible senior caring for a younger brother.
"Fancy seeing you here, Felix."
Chopin replied, his gaze still lingered on the keys instead of looking up at his friend long after the performance had ended.
"As always, how can I not pay regard to my companion in music, for once in a blue moon would you only play for the audience?"
"I appreciate your concern. No need to worry though, you know how I am."
Chopin doesn't like being nagged on and Mendelssohn knows better than to overlook the too-polite smile that doesn't quite reach his friend's eyes. He cuts him off instantly.
"Pardon me, I'd rather not delve into your daily habits and... personal indulgement in contemporary medicaments, Frédéric, but allow me to express my slightest concern for your conditions--"
"I know. I'm not touching the pipe today, 'm promise."
One stubborn and the other insisting. They two and Chopin's close social circles know too well about his fixation on the drug, and every time it is brought up, they either evade the topic or nudge him to at least take something nutrious like helpless caretakers, and he would brood like a child being caught red-handed only to poke around the brown vial a week after that. Chopin would turn a deaf ear to whatever his friend was lecturing about - something like finding a new doctor and opting for Eastern medications this time? He didn't even mind the sigh of defeat coming from his usually polite and patient friend. Only when Mendelssohn reminded him of approaching guests did he take his eyes off the keys and look up, but that isn't enough to make their animated chattering less than a muffled blur to his ears.
That was until he caught a glimpse of the fluttering crimson again. That lady who brought the light earlier, now standing quietly next to seniors who wore similar-looking robes with five panels and loose silk pants, is now in front of him. Her hair neat in a low bun, her posture straight, her temper fair and her manners immaculate.
"Bonsoir, monsieur. I hope our greeting from Đại Nam finds you well."
Her French is rather decent, softer than the snarky Parisian lilt that he's been familiar with, yet no less than a narrow mockery to his miserable condition. "...Hoping their greeting finds him well", she said, as if the muted earthy tones from the East she carries isn't already reminding him of his downfall. He looks up, really focusing on her again, only to find her not a timid and bashful maiden to not look back. Brown eyes (that steady gaze which shows the cognizance of his filthy doings, he feared) and red robes (the very color that reminds him of the damning obsession he holds dear).
Fate is cruel enough to send another poppy to his life.
.
The lady's gaze bore on him, surely she means no harm as it would be imprudent for a guest to be too inquisitive about their guest. But to the composer, he simply cannot bear being pried upon. Those steady dark eyes feel like they are piercing through years of desolation and recent months of guilty pleasure he's been drowning in, even his sunken eyes and scraggly frame easily gave him away. Well, who is he to not be well aware and ashamed of himself in such situation? Yet the lady appears too calm and serene. There's more to meet than the lady's polite smile, he believes so, and he can't help but turn away with his stomach churned at the guilt and sheer embarrasment already. Wouldn't want to frighten and leave a bad impression on a newcomer just because you smoke, would you, Frédéric?
It took him a while to pull himself together and divert his attention to what Mendelssohn has been suggesting.
"May I present to you, master Đặng, an physician from Tonkin. It is this person with his astounding apothecary medication that has spared me from terrible migraines."
Chopin's gaze is unfocused again as he would rather have himself marinating in the Parisian rain than seeing new people - the senior man in blue robe whom Mendelssohn is referring to. But basic protocols precede him nevertheless, just a nod of acknowledgement is enough. Mendelssohn ought to pull a smile despite his seething exasperation for the brooding Pole.
"Without a doubt, I trust that his treatment is capable of tending to your condition, Frédéric."
Resorting to traditional medication, he said? Surely, his friend has always been too considerate for Chopin's liking when the German couldn't even bring himself to utter the word "opioid addiction" as it is. And our composer must have a word to preserve his dignity, he gives a wary glance at the senior man and scoffs.
"They treated your migraine, you said. I can see life coming back to your voice compared to months in prior."
"Oh, hush. Even my dear sister Fanny, who once suffered from the same ailment as I, reserves praise for their work. Eastern medicine made its name from China to France."
"Do you always confide your health in the hands of foreigners this easily, Felix?"
His tone is hushed enough only audible to both of them. Chopin doesn't mean to utter a word of discouragement with a raised brow at the moment, especially not in front of Mendelssohn, but in some way his friend's persistent precaution is starting to feel cumbersome. They're treating him like glass again.
"...Please, you needn't have to go an extra mile for me-"
Sighed the man, now with nowhere to turn his gaze to as Mendelssohn persists. It isn't like he is shy from the idea of being cured - how blissful it would be if there is some way to clear out the excruciating ache in his lungs as well - but perhaps it is the pride and fear of becoming a burden again that gnaws at his heart, years of living and keeping pace with Sand had taught him so. Amidst the unhandy silence, Chopin wishes for lightheadedness or another surge of coughing fit to sweep him off his feet and to escape this torturing social position, he can at least blame his lungs for a sudden withdrawal.
.
"Pardon me, messieurs. Shall I recommend my apprentice in this doing? I reckon that her capability is far more suitted to manage monsieur Chopin's predicament here."
The calm Tokinese physician spoke up as he gestures to the young lady next to him, the one in red, a candidate to do the work in her mentor's place. And before Chopin could reply, Mendelssohn looked delighted more than ever to seize an opportunity to help improve his friend's miserable state.
"Why, we are always open to encourage young talents whose expertise outstands. I'm sure that her reputation precedes her. Your word, madamoiselle?"
Mendelssohn turns to the lady, while Chopin doesn't dare to meet those eyes again as she speaks.
"You flatter me, monsieur . What I have learnt and accumulated all these years was necessary to carry on social life and my own apprenticeship."
"That being said, you certainly are well informed about the First China war and... its relevant societal factors?"
"I suppose that one can say so."
"Then perhaps you can tend to emaciated patients of Paris, ah, I mean as in the differences in culture and customs? You know what the West is like." (Felix did not have to add this line, he knows exactly who he is referring to)
At that point, Chopin would like to pretend that he hadn't just been verbally sneered at; albeit the lady has probably been evaluating with judgements, in her head, how she should fix his gauntness and bring colors back on his porcelain skin.
"Certainly. A doctor and an apothecary's work is to make sure the illness is cured and the patient properly cared for, regardless of their status and frames of mind."
It seems like there has been an agreement in prior between the German and the new guests. Look at how her and the Mendelssohn's exchange appear more natural than ever, and how fast uneasiness is sneaking up Frédéric's spine the more he listens. She is not speaking out of turn, if anything, it further proves that she has the right attitude to manage his bad temper. Then what is it? What is it about this exchange, for the purpose of bettering his well-being that makes him look like an outcast to an agreement of which he is presumably the subject? Their words aren't far from being blurred to his ears now.
"Would it be convenient for you two to start by... say, two days?"
Mendelssohn meekly suggests, to which the lady glances up and murmurs something in her mother tongue to her mentor, as he would give a nod of approval.
"It will be our pleasure."
.
Chopin watches the red vanish through the salon crowd - that last flicker of silk like a flame being snuffed out - and only then realizes he's been holding his breath. He barely has time to exhale before a hand clamps onto his arm.
"Frédéric. A word with me."
Mendelssohn is already tugging, not roughly, but with the kind of insistence that says I have tolerated enough of your nonsense today. Chopin follows, half-dragged, until they reach a quieter alcove behind a velvet curtain where the chatter of the soirée blurs to a distant hum. His nerves are already frayed. And being moved around like fragile furniture? Absolutely not helping.
He rubs his brow. "Felix, what is it? I'm exhausted."
Mendelssohn pins him with that look - the "I love you dearly but you are the bane of my existence" look.
"You knew very well what it was about," the German murmurs. "And yet you acted like a ghost being forced into sunlight."
Chopin bristles."I did not act-"
"Oh, hush," Mendelssohn snaps softly. "You turned away every time she tried to meet your eyes. Do you think I do not notice? And now - now you are going to pretend you had no idea what arrangement was being made?"
Chopin stiffens. So. Felix admits it. He looks away, jaw tight. "You did not consult me."
"I could not consult you," Felix counters, arms crossed. "You would have fled the room."
"That is hardly fair-"
"It is perfectly fair." Mendelssohn steps closer, his concern sharp as a reprimand. "If I give you space, you spiral. If I try to help, you retreat. What do you expect me to do, Frédéric? Watch you drown yourself in opium because you are too proud to ask for a rope?"
Chopin feels heat rise to his face - indignation, humiliation, guilt, all tangled. He bites out.
"Two days, Felix? Two days?! Are you out of your mind?"
"It is the earliest she could take you,"
Mendelssohn fires back. "And frankly, you should be grateful she agreed at all."
The Polish composer stares as if struck. Betrayal is a childish word - but that is exactly how it feels. "I never thought you would conspire behind my back."
Mendelssohn runs a hand down his face. "It is not conspiracy. It is care."
"It feels the same," Chopin whispers.
There's a long silence. And then, inevitably, the memory hits him like a gust of cold wind. Her eyes. Those brown eyes - calm, dark, and far too knowing. The kind that didn't look at him so much as look through him. Through him and straight into the drawer at the back of his mind where he hides the laudanum. Into the cracks he patched with excuses. Into the rot he pretends is dust. No wonder he felt stripped bare under her gaze.
Mendelssohn's voice cuts back in, gentler now. "She is not here to shame you, Frédéric."
Chopin swallows, throat tight. "Then why," he croaks, "does it feel like she already knows everything I wish to hide?"
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