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The air was still in Liszt’s apartment, the only sound was the noise of the ticking clock on the mantelpiece. Only ten minutes ago, Liszt had been improvising on the piano before his two guests, Berlioz and Mendelssohn. Now, however, they sat together on the sofa in silence, waiting for Liszt to return. It was a knock at the door that had interrupted their host, whose voice now echoed from the stairwell outside the apartment. He was talking with Chopin, his new friend. Not even Berlioz‘s music excited Liszt as much as Chopin’s anymore. Not that he minded; less time with Liszt meant more time with Mendelssohn.
Sitting on the sofa now as they were, Berlioz tapped his foot awkwardly. He was well aware of the musical talent of the man sitting beside him and was a true admirer. But he still wasn’t sure where they stood. Berlioz should like to be friends, but he didn’t dare say so. He eyed the other man out of the corner of his eye and was startled to see that Mendelssohn was already looking at him. Mendelssohn smiled joyfully.
“Franz is very preoccupied with Frédéric nowadays, isn’t he?”
Berlioz blinked. “You say preoccupied, I say in love…”
Shrugging, Mendelssohn glanced at the open door to the apartment. “Whatever makes them happy.” He shifted, pulling something from his trouser pocket. “I do love the walk here, don’t you?”
“Oh, I came by carriage.”
“Well, even so, the view over Montmartre is spectacular.” He shuffled closer to Berlioz who suddenly felt very tense as Mendelssohn produced a small book before his eyes. He found himself panicking at the proximity of the other; Mendelssohn’s black curls were practically tickling his face. Berlioz shook himself as Mendelssohn started to speak again.
“I drew a picture, if you’d care to look? Don’t you think Montmartre is wonderful? You can even see the Pantheon.” He flipped through the pages of his sketchbook to his most recent drawing— a beautiful watercolour sketch.
“It’s brilliant,” breathed Berlioz, in spite of his nerves. “Not just the landscape, but your drawing… I didn’t know you had talents besides music; I certainly don’t.”
Mendelssohn flushed with pleasure but shook his head. “You’re very talented Hector, you studied medicine for God’s sake.”
“And then gave up. I couldn’t even dissect bodies. What kind of medical student can’t dissect bodies?”
“Well, even so, you shouldn’t be so self-deprecating. I know you’re clever.”
Berlioz bit back his small smile. It didn’t do him good to receive compliments; his pink cheeks always clashed horribly with his ginger hair.
“You’re too kind.” Perhaps they were friends after all.
Feeling that he should do something to impress Mendelssohn in the same way that Mendelssohn had impressed him, Berlioz asked, “Do you think Franz would mind if I used his piano?”
Mendelssohn grinned. “Without a doubt. And if he does mind, I’ll fight him.”
Berlioz rose from the sofa, stalked over to the piano, and sat down. He knew his piano playing wasn’t all that, so he decided that playing an original composition might be more impressive. Haltingly, he began to play the piano accompaniment from Le ballet des ombres. He swore internally as he botched the ominous melody of the piece. His sense of malaise only grew as he played and he felt quite awkward as he reached the end. Eventually, he turned back around to face Mendelssohn.
“Did you write that?”
Berlioz nodded nervously.
Eyes sparkling, Mendelssohn gestured widely. “It’s amazing! Quick, off the chair, let me play something.”
Berlioz stood quicker than if the chair had been on fire. He didn’t understand what Mendelssohn was saying.
“But my playing was awful…”
Mendelssohn brushed past Berlioz, assuming his place at the piano. He pressed a few keys, testing the sound.
“It wasn’t awful. Besides, you’re a composer, you’ve never professed to be a pianist.”
“You’re a pianist.” The inane statement had a tinge of jealousy which Berlioz failed to hide.
Mendelssohn turned and smiled at him. “Have you forgotten you can play the guitar? Everyone plays the piano nowadays. With your guitar you can wow Paris with its novelty.”
Berlioz stayed silent; Mendelssohn was lying for his sake— the sort of thing a friend would do. Everyone knew that the Parisian socialites only cared for pianists and, occasionally, if they were skilled enough like Paganini, players of string instruments. Thalberg, Liszt, Chopin: all of them were adored by the aristocracy. Berlioz’s only saving grace was the fact that he could compose, and that opera was in high fashion.
Turning back to the piano, Mendelssohn said softly, “Why don’t you sit down?”
Like an obliging dog, Berlioz ran over to Liszt’s sofa, sitting back down. He watched as the other began to play. It was a piece from his ‘Songs Without Words’, Sweet Remembrance. As Mendelssohn played the gentle piece, Berlioz found his shoulders starting to relax. Though he enjoyed being alone with Mendelssohn, spending time with him, he often felt like his heart was being pulled in every which way. But now he listened. He let the music flow over him. How did Mendelssohn play with such ease? It was a mystery to Berlioz.
“Perfect,” he gasped on the last note of the piece. He did not know whether he was referring to the music or Mendelssohn himself. “Your playing, your composition, it’s so perfect...” Suddenly it was too much, he had to know: “Do you want to be my friend?” The desperate words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. He felt himself flush terribly. Mendelssohn would think him some sort of a fangirl!
But when Mendelssohn turned around on the piano stool, his little rosebud mouth was turned upwards in a bemused smile.
“Sorry?”
Berlioz gulped painfully. “Do you… want… to be my friend?”
Appraising him and then nodding slowly to himself, Mendelssohn stood up.
“Hector.” He crossed the room and joined Berlioz on the sofa. “We are already friends… you don’t have to ask.”
“Are we?— I mean, sorry, of course we are. I forgot.”
Mendelssohn’s mouth twitched. “You forgot.”
“Uhhh… Yes.” Berlioz looked down. Was there any way this day could get more embarrassing?
“You’re silly,” Mendelssohn huffed in good humour. “Of course we’re friends.” He took hold of Berlioz’ hand, the other’s eyes darting up to look at him again. He squeezed. “And we always will be if I have it my way.”
Looking down at their conjoined hands with eyes as wide as saucers, Berlioz felt his chest swell with elation. Felix Mendelssohn, the man whom he admired so much, was calling him a friend. Feeling more shy than he ever had before, he met Mendelssohn’s gaze once more.
“I would like that very much.”
Mendelssohn grinned. “Then everything’s perfect!”
With a trembling grin in reply, Berlioz said, “Yes… then everything’s perfect.”
The End.