Désirée (41 page)

Someone's arms were around me; gold epaulettes scratched my cheek. "Désirée—?"

"Do you know the amendment to the catechism that Oscar has to learn?" I sobbed. Jean-Baptiste held me close. "I've forbidden it," I whispered. "Is that all right with you, Jean-Baptiste?"

"Thank you. Otherwise I would have forbidden it myself," he said. He still held me tight.

"Jean-Baptiste, I nearly married that man. Just imagine!"

His laugh released me from the prison of my thoughts. "There are things I don't want to imagine, little one."

A few days later we were ready, Oscar and Jean-Baptiste and I, for our concert by the Viennese musician. M. Beethoven is a middle-sized, thick-set man with the wildest hair ever seen in our dining room. His face is round, and tanned by the sun. He has pockmarks and a flat nose, and sleepy eyes except when anyone speaks to him. Then his eyes wake up and he pays strict attention. Since I knew the poor man was deaf, I shouted right at him how very pleased I was to have him with us. Jean-Baptiste slapped him on the back and asked him for the latest news from Vienna. He asked, naturally, only out of politeness. But the musician answered earnestly, "Vienna is prepared for war. It expects the Emperor's armies to attack Austria."

Jean-Baptiste wrinkled his brow and shook his head. He hadn't wanted to be taken so literally. "How do the musicians in in my orchestra play?" he put in quickly.

The stocky man merely shrugged his shoulders. Jean-Baptiste repeated the question as loudly as possible. The musician raised his heavy eyebrows, the sleepy eyes blinked mischievously. "I understand you perfectly, Ambassador— excuse me, Marshal—you're called that now, aren't you? The members of your orchestra play very badly, Marshal Bernadotte."

"But you will, nevertheless, conduct your new symphony, won't you?" Bernadotte shouted at him.

M. Beethoven looked pleased. "Yes, because I want to know what you'll say about it, Ambassador."

"Monseigneur," screamed my husband's aide into M. Beethoven's ear.

"Just call me Herr van Beethoven, I'm no seigneur," said our guest.

"The Marshal is called 'monseigneur,'" yelled the aide desperately.

I held my handkerchief over my mouth because I had to laugh. Our guest fastened his deep-set eyes seriously on Jean-Baptiste. "It's difficult to get all these new titles straight if one has none oneself, and is deaf besides," he said. "Thank you,
monseigneur,
for introducing me to this professor in Göttingen."

"Can you hear your music?" sang out someone close to the stranger. Beethoven looked searchingly around. He had heard the high childish voice. Someone tugged at his coat—Oscar.

I wanted to say something quickly to make him forget the heartless childish question, but the large unkempt head was already bending over. "Did you ask me a question, little boy?"

"—If you can hear your own music," Oscar shouted at the top of his voice.

M. van Beethoven nodded seriously. "Yes, very well. Here, within." He beat on his chest. "And here." He touched his wide, bulging forehead. And with a broad smile, "But I can't always hear the musicians very well who play my music. And sometimes that's fortunate; for example, whew the musicians are as bad as your papa's."

After supper we all took our seats in the great ballroom. The members of the orchestra uneasily tuned their instruments and peered at us shyly. "They're not accustomed to playing a Beethoven symphony," Jean-Baptiste said. "Ballet music is simpler."

Three red silk armchairs, decorated with the gold crowns of the royal House of Hanover, had been placed in front of the regular rows of chairs. Here sat Jean-Baptiste and I, with
the child between us—almost out of sight in his deep chair. Herr van Beethoven walked among the musicians, giving them final instructions in German. With vast sweeping gestures, he emphasized every word.

"What is it?" I asked Jean-Baptiste.

"A symphony he wrote last year."

At the same time, Herr van Beethoven turned from the orchestra and came over to us. "I had intended dedicating the symphony to General Bernadotte," he remarked thoughtfully, "but I now believe it might be more correct to dedicate it to the Emperor of the French. But—" He paused, stared dreamily into space, apparently forgetting us and the audience. Suddenly he remembered where he was and pushed a heavy lock of hair from his forehead. "We shall see," he said and then, "May we begin, General?"

"Monseigneur," hissed Jean-Baptiste's aide, from right behind us.

Jean-Baptiste smiled. "Please—do begin, my dear Beethoven."

The awkward figure climbed up on the podium. We saw only the broad back. The wide hand, with curiously slender fingers, held a baton. He rapped on the music stand. It was dead still. He spread out his arms, swung them up and— it began.

I'm no judge of whether our musicians played well or badly. I only know that that strange-looking man with his outstretched arms inspired them to make such music as I have never heard before. It swelled like organ music and still was sweet as a violin, it rejoiced and shouted, it enticed and it promised. The music had nothing to do with the song of Marseilles. So must it have been before, back when they fought for the Rights of Man and France still had frontiers. Like a prayer and like a cry of triumph. . . . I leaned forward to look at Jean-Baptiste. Jean-Baptiste's face was stony. His lips were drawn tight, his nose stern and straight, his eyes shone. His right hand gripped the arm of the chair so hard the veins stood out.

None of us had noticed that a courier had appeared at the
door. Nor that Colonel Villatte, the aide-de-camp, got up quietly and took a letter from the courier. Nor that the aide-de-camp looked only fleetingly at the sealed message and then went immediately to Jean-Baptiste. When Villatte tapped Jean-Baptiste's arm, my husband jumped. For a fraction of a second he looked bewildered, then he met the eyes of his aide-de-camp. Jean-Baptiste took the letter and motioned to him. Villatte stood still beside him. The music soared again, the walls of the great hall fell away. I felt myself floating, hoping, believing as I had once, holding my father's hand and having faith. . . .

In the brief silence between two movements of the symphony, we heard paper rustling. Jean-Baptiste first broke the seal and then unfolded the letter. Herr van Beethoven turned around and looked at him questioningly. Jean-Baptiste nodded. "Play on." Herr van Beethoven raised his baton, spread out his arms, the violins rejoiced.

Jean-Baptiste read. Once he looked up briefly. It was as though he longed to eavesdrop on this heavenly music. Then he took the pen his aide-de-camp offered him and wrote a few words on the pad he always carries with him. The aide-de-camp disappeared with the message. Noiselessly another officer took his place beside Jean-Baptiste.

He also vanished with a message on a piece of paper, and a third stood at attention next to the red silk armchair. This third one clicked his heels together so hard that the noise jarred the heavenly music. Jean-Baptiste's mouth twitched in irritation but he went on writing. And not until this third officer had disappeared did he listen again. Jean-Baptiste was no longer erect, his eyes shining with rapture, but stooped slightly, with half-closed eyes, and gnawing on his lower lip. Only at the end—once again the music sang of freedom, equality and brotherhood—did Jean-Baptiste lift his head and listen, not to the music, I knew very well, but to a voice within himself. I don't know what this voice said to him; it merged with Beethoven's music and Jean-Baptiste smiled bitterly.

There was a storm of applause. I took off my gloves so I could clap louder. Herr van Beethoven bowed awkwardly,
obviously embarrassed, and indicated the musicians, of whom he had been so scornful. They rose with a great clatter and bowed, and we applauded some more. Beside Jean-Baptiste now stood all three aides. Their faces were terribly tense. But Jean-Baptiste walked forward and held out his hand to help Herr van Beethoven, clumsier and younger than he, down from the platform, just as he would a high dignitary.

"Thank you, Beethoven," he said. "With all my heart, I thank you."

The pock-marked face looked smoother, more composed; the deep-set eyes shone happily.

"Do you still remember, General, how one evening at M Embassy in Vienna you played 'La Marseillaise' for me?

"On the piano, with one finger. That's all I can do," laughed Jean-Baptiste.

"That was when I first heard it. The anthem of a free people—" Beethoven's eyes never left Jean-Baptiste's face. Jean-Baptiste towered over him, and Beethoven had to look up. "I often thought of that evening while I was writing this symphony. That's why I wanted to dedicate it to you.
A
young general of the French people."

"I am no longer a young general, Beethoven!" When Beethoven said nothing, Jean-Baptiste shouted louder. "I said, I am no longer a young general—"

Still Beethoven didn't answer. I noted the three aides behind Jean-Baptiste begin to squirm with impatience.

"Then came a younger man who carried the message of your people beyond the frontiers," said Beethoven wearily. "So I thought I should dedicate the symphony to him. What do you think, General Bernadotte?"

"Monseigneur!" cried the three aides behind Jean-Baptiste, in unison. Jean-Baptiste waved them angrily away.

"Beyond all frontiers, Bernadotte—" Beethoven repeated seriously. His smile was sincere, almost childlike. "That evening in Vienna you told me about the Rights of Man. Before that I had known little about them. I don't concern myself with politics. But that—yes, that had nothing to do with
politics—" He smiled. "You played the National Anthem for me with one finger, Bernadotte!"

"And this is what you created from it, Beethoven," said Jean-Baptiste, deeply moved. There was a short pause.

"Monseigneur—" one of the aides whispered.

Jean-Baptiste drew himself up and passed his hand across his face as though to wipe away a memory. "Herr van Beethoven, I thank you for your concert. I wish you a pleasant journey to Göttingen and sincerely hope that the professor will not disappoint you."

He turned toward our guests, the officers of the Hanover garrison with their wives, and the social leaders of Hanover. "I must bid you farewell—tomorrow morning early I ride with my troops to the front." Jean-Baptiste bowed and smiled. "The Emperor's orders. Good night, ladies and gentlemen."

He offered me his arm.

Yes, we were happy in Hanover. The yellow light of the candles fought back the grey of the dawn when Jean-Baptiste took leave of me.

"You and Oscar must return to Paris today," he said.

Fernand had long since packed Jean-Baptiste's field kit. The gold-embroidered marshal's uniform was carefully laid between special covers in his big travelling bag. He travels with table silver for twelve people, and a wretchedly narrow camp cot. Jean-Baptiste wore the plain field uniform with general's epaulettes.

I held his hand against my face. "Little girl, don't forget to write often. The Ministry of War will . . ."

"—Forward my letters. I know," I said. "Jean-Baptiste, will this never end? Will it always go on, always and always?"

"Give Oscar a big kiss from me, little one!"

"Jean-Baptiste, I asked you whether this would go on forever."

"The Emperor's orders: to conquer and occupy Bavaria. You are married to a marshal of France, it shouldn't surprise you." His voice was expressionless.

"Bavaria— And when you've conquered Bavaria? Do you
come back to me in Paris, or do we both return to Hanover?"

A big shrug. "From Bavaria, we march against Austria."

"And then? There are no more frontiers to defend. France has no more frontiers, France—"

"France is Europe," said Jean-Baptiste, "and France's officers march, my child. The Emperor's orders."

"When I remember how often they asked you to take control. If you had only . . ."

"Désirée!" He was cross, forbidding. Then more gently, "My darling, I began as an ordinary recruit and never attended the War College, but I could not imagine ever fishing a crown out of the gutter. I don't fish in the gutter. Don't forget that, never forget it!"

He blew out the candles.

Just before I climbed into my travelling carriage, Herr van Beethoven was announced. I already had my hat on my head and Oscar was beside me, proudly clasping his own little travelling bag. Beethoven moved toward me slowly. His walk, was awkward and he bowed clumsily.

"I'd be pleased if you—" he stuttered a little but soon he pulled himself together "—would tell General Bernadotte that I cannot, after all, dedicate the new symphony to the Emperor of the French. Him least of all." He paused. "I will call the symphony
Eroica—to
the memory of a hope which was never fulfilled." He sighed. "General Bernadotte will understand."

"I'll tell him, and I'm sure he'll understand," I said, and held out my hand to him.

"Do you know, Mama, what I want to be?" asked Oscar, as our coach rolled along the endless country roads. "I want to be a musician."

"I thought a sergeant, or a marshal like your papa. Or a silk merchant like your grandpapa," I said absently. At last I had my diary out and, bracing it against my knees, was writing.