Chapter Text
The days at Villa Medici were hot and long and I was often struck by a sense of boredom, despite being surrounded by the vast and fascinating city of Rome.
The Renaissance villa, which had been built by Annibale Lippi and had been added to by Michelangelo himself, had a brilliant view over Rome. If one looked between the stone pines that surrounded the villa, one could see the bell towers of Santissima Trinità dei Monti and San Silvestro in Capite; I often walked slowly up the Spanish Steps that lead to the former church when returning to the villa.
On the other side of the villa were its beautiful gardens, made up of sixteen well-cultivated squares and six lawns. Several fountains could be found around the place and a row of orange trees, which were well endowed with fruit, had been planted at the end of the gardens. In the evenings my fellow boarders and I would sit out on the terrace, having eaten a little and drunk a lot at the Caffè Greco, and sing opera arias together. Often, my guitar-playing was called upon for accompaniment as we sat around the small fountain in the moonlight. My companions also seemed to revere my singing voice and I would sometimes (quite unwillingly) sing solo to appease them.
On the whole, the interior of the villa was luxurious. The vestibule was opulent and as were the director’s quarters. This luxury, however, didn’t so much extend to the boarders’ rooms, which were small and poky. But, as the only payment for such quarters was a new music score sent once a year to the Academy in Paris, I found that I could make do.
I had been in Rome for over a fortnight and had already done everything that was worth doing. I was also in a fairly sour mood since Marie, the love of my life, had stopped replying to my letters over a month ago, and it seemed more and more likely that she’d run off with that Camille Pleyel back in Paris.
I was quite pleased then, when I learnt that my fellow composer, Mendelssohn, was in Rome and wanted to visit me. He had apparently already met my co-winner in the competition of the Prix de Rome, Alexandre Montfort, who had told him of my talent (something which I was never quite sure of myself, though I would never say so) and who had convinced him to meet me on account of my wistful and melancholy demeanour. Montfort was staying at the villa with me and so far I had tried to stay out of his way due to his interfering nature.
Mendelssohn asked if he could visit me at the villa and at once I sent the messenger back with an affirmation.
So, on Tuesday afternoon, a servant knocked on the door to my room and told me that a Sig. Mendelssohn was waiting for me in the Petit salon. I fluffed up my curly red hair, adjusted my cravat and made my way downstairs.
When I entered the salon, I was surprised to find Mendelssohn sitting comfortably on a sofa waiting for me. Usually, when I visited a new person, I could hardly sit still, to the point where sometimes I didn’t sit at all .
He stood up and, shaking my hand warmly, said, “You must be M. Berlioz.”
“Hector, please. And you must be Herr Mendelssohn.”
“Felix.” He let go of my hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. Montfort wouldn’t stop talking about you in the Caffè Greco the other day. I heard you were bored in Rome and I thought we might entertain each other.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Have you been here long?”
“In Italy, since October. In Rome, only a few days, although I was here in the winter too. What about you?”
“A fortnight. Though it feels longer.”
He squinted at me and muttered, “He said you were melancholy…” In a louder voice he said, “Can I ask what is wrong? It can’t truly just be boredom… Don’t you like your companions here?”
I ignored his second question, deciding that Montfort had been gossiping even more than I had guessed. “Personal problems,” I replied. “A woman.”
“Oh,” Mendelssohn said softly. Apparently understanding that a swift change in conversation was needed he asked, “Have you visited any of the opera houses during your stay?”
“Yes. I haven’t been impressed by their orchestras…”
As we continued our small talk, I led him to the Salon de musique, wondering if I could perhaps get him to play me something. He gravitated to the piano seemingly subconsciously and sat down on the stool, still facing me.
“Look,” he said, tucking a black curl behind his ear. “Montfort had me hear a few parts of your winning piece for the Prix de Rome— What was it?— Oh yes, Sardanapale . It really was very good.”
I felt my brows raise in surprise. “Really? I don’t like it at all! I only wrote it as a means to an end. Not my style at all. Too old-fashioned—” I saw Mendelssohn frown at that. I stumbled on, nervous that I’d already offended Mendelssohn due to his more traditional values. “Or, well, I don’t know. I don’t like the opening allegro. It’s wrong. And I cannot conduct it.”
Mendelssohn’s eyes brightened. “About time! Everyone has been singing praises about Sardanapale , quite rightly in some places, but I cannot stand that allegro. I compliment you on your taste!” He smiled at me. “I was worried that you would be happy with it; frankly it was terrible!”
Taken aback by Mendelssohn’s abrupt words, I said, “Oh… Well, was there any part you did like?”
“The use of wind instruments when Sardanapalus is recalling the luxury of his past was particularly effective. And I hear you were the only one to set the words of the third stanza to music. The part celebrating the memory of a great king…”
I didn’t bother pointing out that it hadn’t been me who had chosen the subject matter but the Institute; I was sure that Mendelssohn already knew this.
“I’m no royalist,” I said shortly. “I merely felt the piece ought to be finished properly.” I looked at Mendelssohn. He had angered me with his cheerful criticism. It was one thing to criticise yourself, it was quite another thing for people to agree. “I was there for the July Revolution…”
Mendelssohn’s eyes widened and he tilted his head to the side.
“You fought?”
I shrugged. “I looked out for myself. No more, no less.” I had not picked a side, though if I had, I would have been tempted to aid the students. But to make one’s way through the armed streets of Paris during those three days, one had had to be ready with a gun.
He looked me up and down but I found that his gaze was not judgemental, merely just… interested . Finally, he said, “You have taken me to the music room, did you want me to play something?”
For the first time that afternoon, I smiled.
“Of course! Please, play anything you’d like. I haven’t been to Germany so I have never seen you play before.”
Mendelssohn smiled back. “Then I shall play to you now.”
He played his piano sonata in B Flat Major and then we chatted some more. Before he left, he told me he had heard of my talent on the guitar and that perhaps I could play him something the following day. Eventually, I agreed and we said goodbye to each other in the vestibule.
The next day, I found Mendelssohn waiting for me in the Petit salon again. He was brimming with excitement at the sight of me holding my guitar and begged me to sit down and play something.
“You sing too, don’t you?” he asked as I sat opposite him on the sofa.
I could barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Did Montfort tell you that?”
“Yes. If you already have something prepared, don’t worry about it, but I would really like to hear you sing.”
I felt confused. All this desire to hear me sing was getting quite ridiculous. I had a nice voice and could sing quite pleasantly— I knew this— but it was strange how suddenly everyone had taken an interest. I was certainly no opera singer. I could hold a note, that was all.
I opened my mouth only to close it again. There were no songs written for guitar. I wanted to say so, but the look on Mendelssohn’s face brought me to a halt. Perhaps I could improvise.
“This is an improvisation,” I explained before I began, lest he thought my playing was awful.
I played Il mio tesoro and sang, somewhat softly and shyly, as I did so— not in an operatic voice at all.
When I was finished, I looked up at Mendelssohn. He stared at me. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth was hanging slightly open. For a second, he looked devastated. Then he shook himself.
“Hector! Why didn’t you become an opera singer?”
I thought my own cheeks were probably flushing now too.
“My voice isn’t that good. Besides, I like my guitar!”
Mendelssohn nodded vigorously. “Yes, you play guitar wonderfully too. But your voice, it’s so sweet!”
Having no idea how I was supposed to respond to that, I lowered my head.
Mendelssohn let out a laugh that verged on a giggle. “You can’t take compliments, I see. Well, I
apologise for telling you the truth.”
I could take compliments, of course I could, but there was something about the way that Mendelssohn spoke which was so honest— I knew not how to cope.
He rose from the sofa. “Now I must play something for you, in return. Ask an opera of me, like your Don Giovanni .”
Caught up in the other man’s joy, I started thinking out loud. “ Voi che sapete? Or… No, Piano, Pianissimo . Wait, I know! Che Farò Senza Euridice! ”
“Gluck? You like Gluck?” Mendelssohn was standing by the piano stool with a look of surprise upon his face.
I paused. He had said that as if to say, ‘How could a little idiot such as you possibly like Gluck?’, as though it was absurd that someone of my stupidity could understand the opera composer's greatness.
“Why wouldn’t I like Gluck?” I asked, suddenly apprehensive.
Mendelssohn looked off to the side and I wondered what he was thinking. Did he think so little of me after all?
“Gluck’s German,” he said finally. “I would’ve thought your tastes ran along French lines, or possibly Italian.”
“I like Mozart, don’t I? He’s German.” (1)
“Everyone likes Mozart. But yes, I suppose what you say is true.” Mendelssohn appeared to sense that there would be conflict if he lingered on the subject much longer. “Alright, I’ll play Voi che sapete .”
I felt anger simmering beneath my skin that not even the graceful first notes of Mozart’s aria could dissipate. I watched him play with indignance that he should be so talented but so aloof. And as I watched, like a sibling that has been slighted, I plotted my revenge.
We met a few days later thanks to Montfort. Montfort was always friendly towards me, despite my dislike of his character, and was always happy to receive me in his room. Ostensibly, Montfort must have invited Mendelssohn over, for he was now in the other man’s room, chatting. Feeling Montfort would be glad to see me, as I had been avoiding him all week, I went next door and knocked three times.
Footsteps approached and suddenly Montfort threw open the door.
“Hector!” he cheered. “Do you need something?”
“No, no,” I said. “I just thought I’d come over. If that’s okay with you, that is.”
“Of course, you’re always welcome in my room.” Montfort bustled out of the doorway to let me in. Inside his room I could see Mendelssohn leaning against the window seat, watching me carefully.
“Good morning,” I said out of politeness.
He nodded back at me but said nothing, clearly waiting for Montfort to close the door so that they could continue their conversation.
As they conversed about Catholic liturgical music— which apparently Mendelssohn disliked— I slowly approached Montfort’s piano which stood on the left side of the room. Concealed in my jacket, I had a copy of the manuscript of Asteria’s tune in Gluck’s Telemaco . An admirable but little known piece, I had brought it with me to Italy from Paris. Conveniently, the copy didn’t have the author’s name on it and, as the two talked, I shifted it onto the piano.
I had been sitting drowsily in an armchair, with my ears half open to their conversation, when suddenly Mendelssohn pushed himself off of the window.
“You have a nice piano, Alexandre,” he said to Montfort. “Erard?”
“Yes, it is. I’ve had it for five years now, I think. I felt I should take it to Italy with me.”
He wandered over to the piano and I watched him with interest.
There were already several manuscripts spread across the piano lid but, as mine was at the top, it was the first to catch Mendelssohn’s eye. He pulled it from the pile, placed it on the music stand and, sitting down, he began to play.
It was immediately evident that he believed the music to be a fragment of some modern Italian opera. I felt a satisfying churn in my gut at his failure and I observed with a smirk as he carried on playing. In the last four bars, Mendelssohn even went as far as to imitate the singer Rubini, singing in a rather grotesque way, "O giorno! O dolce sguardo! O rimembranza! O amor!"
I stood and held up a hand, purposefully arranging my face into one of mock confusion.
“So you don’t like Gluck?”
Mendelssohn sat back from the piano.
“What do you mean?”
“Alas! My dear,” I said with a self-satisfied grin. “This piece is his, not Bellini’s as you so thought. You see, I know him better than you, and my opinion of him is higher than your own!”
For a moment, he looked quite angry. Then, suddenly, he started to laugh. He roared with mirth as he tipped back his head, cackling in a way I never would’ve guessed of him.
“Oh, you’ve tricked me! How delightful!” He stood up and came over to where I sat. He held out his hand and I shook it. “You may be the Gluck expert if you wish,” he said. “I acknowledge your familiarity with his work.”
“Thank you, Felix.” I couldn’t help my pleased smile. I hadn’t known my little trick would tickle him so much.
He smiled back.
Over the next week we met up several times, on this occasion without Montfort. Mendelssohn made sure that I left the villa most days and got some fresh air. We visited the Pantheon and the Sistine Chapel and, even though I had already been there, I found that it was much more entertaining with Mendelssohn in tow. On Monday we visited the Forum Romanum. When we returned to the villa, I was perplexed to find Mendelssohn staring at me and smothering a smile.
“What?” I asked.
“I should’ve known not to let you out in the sun with your hair.”
“What do you mean?”
Mendelssohn’s hands on my shoulders startled me as he pushed me towards the mirror in my bedroom. Instantly, I saw what he meant. My face was sunburnt— very sunburnt— from where we’d been walking around outside.
I groaned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Shrugging, Mendelssohn replied, “I only noticed once we came back.” He poked my peeling nose, making me wince. “You look like you’ve been stung by a thousand bees.”
I turned to face him in annoyance. “I can’t help that I burn easily…”
Mendelssohn raised his eyebrows. “Stay in the shade…?”
“Did you see any shade in the Forum Romanum?”
“No…”
“Then be quiet.”
It was not unusual for us to be at each other's throats like this. One day, as we were sitting in the Petit salon, I told him of my appreciation of the metronome.
To my surprise, Mendelssohn asked, “Why bother using the metronome? It is a very useless instrument. Any musician who cannot guess the tempo of a piece just by looking at it is an idiot.”
I could have told him that there were a lot of idiots; but I stayed silent.
In comparison to the other man I felt severely unaccomplished. I had hardly produced anything yet and Mendelssohn only knew my Irish Melodies with piano accompaniment. One evening, not long after our conversation about the metronome, I was quite pleased to have another chance to wind the other man up. Having asked me to see the manuscript of King Lear's opening that I had just written in Nice, he first read it carefully and slowly, then, when he put his fingers on the piano to perform it (which he did with incomparable talent), he said, “Give me the right tempo.”
“What on earth for?” I replied, “I thought you said that any musician who couldn't guess the tempo was an idiot?”
Though he hid it well, I suspected that my outwitting him had caused him irritation.
Sometimes, conversation strayed from music and, inevitably, whether by purposeful decision or by some fault in the universe, we would end up revealing far more to each other than intended.
In the days since meeting Mendelssohn, my relationship with Marie Moke had grown increasingly stale— a state of affairs which upset me greatly. One morning, when I had been marinating in my own misery since the night before, Mendelssohn came to my bedroom of his own accord, fed up with waiting for me in the Petit Salon. He found me, red-eyed and horizontal on the sofa, unable to tear my gaze away from the ceiling.
“Hector?” His usually smooth voice was tinged with worry. I didn’t care. How could I care? The woman I loved was replacing me with the wealthier man.
I said nothing.
“Montfort said that you haven’t come downstairs for two days,” he continued. I wasn’t surprised that Montfort had told him. Montfort seemed to consider himself a sort of guardian over me.
“Are you okay? Have you eaten?”— apparently the sentiment was rubbing off on Mendelssohn. Marie had turned me into a lost child.
I found the energy to roll over and face him. Still, I couldn’t speak and instead two tears slowly rolled down my cheeks. Mendelssohn’s face tightened in concern and he strode across the room to sit on the arm of the sofa.
“What troubles you so, Hector?”
I was startled to feel a gentle hand stroke my hair. My eyes shut tiredly.
“Marie.”
He hummed. “The woman you spoke of before?”
My heavy sigh was answer enough. I couldn’t bear it. My fiancée, the woman who I was engaged to, for God’s sake, had stopped replying to my letters. And when she did reply, her letters were always brief and indifferent. What sort of a man was I?
“Sit up.” Mendelssohn’s voice was soft but stern. He wasn’t a domineering man, but he was always certain of the best thing to do in a given situation. And I found that he was usually right.
I sat up, pinching my nose between my fingers. The tears were starting to give me a headache.
Mendelssohn sat down beside me and his right hand resumed stroking my hair. I pondered the fleeting thought that my red curls might interest him, but any curiosity I held with regards to Mendelssohn was dulled by my internal pain.
“Tell me about her,” he said, guiding my head to rest on his shoulder. I could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt; it was too hot for coats or jackets in this weather. His skin smelt of honeyed tea and fresh petals where my own stank of sweat and alcohol.
“I proposed to her last year, in December… See, before her, there was Harriet, who I loved immensely and whose rejection inspired in me the need to write Symphonie fantastique— ”
Mendelssohn, who had apparently heard my symphony, interjected, saying, “She must have caused you a lot of despair.”
I nodded. My despair over Harriet was very much evident throughout the entire piece.
“And because of this anguish, I had not noticed Marie’s affections for me for several months… until around October. But when I did notice her, her slim and graceful figure, magnificent black hair and large blue eyes could not be resisted,” I sighed again. “And so I yielded. And I let myself find consolation for all my sorrows in a new passion.”
“And now there is no consolation,” said Mendelssohn.
Except you, I thought to myself. Most of my friends, bar Liszt, shied away from physical comforts. And Liszt was hands-on with everybody. But Mendelssohn wasn’t. His touch was a consolation. His embrace. His words. Everything felt personal.
“And no passion,” I added. “I believe her mother has drained her of any passion she had for me. She never approved of the marriage, and since I’ve been occupied here in Italy, I suppose Marie’s mother has had all the chance in the world to whisper evil words in her ear.”
“Poor thing,” said Mendelssohn. “Don’t give up yet, Hector. She may just be getting cold feet about the wedding. It’s quite natural.”
“Her mother is trying to marry her off to Camille Pleyel.”
“The piano manufacturer?”
“And virtuoso. And socialite.”
Mendelssohn exhaled a long breath that ruffled my hair. I sensed that he was having difficulty in finding the words to comfort me. I really was useless, relying upon someone I had not yet known for a month for comfort.
“Come out with me, Hector,” Mendelssohn said, finally. “Going for a walk should take your mind off things. I am here after all, and I would like to do something with my day. Let me treat you to a lunch out.”
I lifted my head from his shoulder. It was true that he was my guest, and so I pulled myself together enough to accompany him to a café, where we ate and drank coffee. And where, for a moment in Mendelssohn’s presence, I forgot about Marie.
My admiration for Mendelssohn, both his character and his music, only grew the longer I spent with him. At this time, he had just finished the Hebrides overture, Fingal’s Cave . With his prodigious ability to render even the most complicated scores on the piano, he played it for me one afternoon. Never before had I heard a piece of such delicate and fine musical fabric, a weave of such rich colours. The landscape around the cave, which had been visited by Keats and Wordsworth before him, became alive behind my eyes, and I saw the rushing waves, felt the whirling wind and heard the squeaking cry of the cliff-dwelling guillemots.
For those few weeks, he came to live, practically, in Villa Medici. Between my room, Montfort’s and the Salon de musique— where he sometimes composed— it had become a second home to him.
Often, worn out by the scirocco and thoroughly out of sorts, I would hunt him out and tear him away from his composition. With perfect good humour—seeing my pitiable state—he would lay aside his pen, and, with his extraordinary ability on the piano, would play whatever I chose to name. This ranged from Beethoven sonatas to Gluck’s Armide, which we would both sing along to as he played. Always, in this unbearable heat, he would remain properly and soberly seated at the piano, whilst I curled up in an angry ball on the sofa.
Mendelssohn seemed to hold a certain reverence for my voice. When I had lain on the sofa and had sung the tune of Iphigénie en Tauride: D'une image, hélas! trop chérie , he had exclaimed: "It's beautiful! It's beautiful! I could listen to it from morning to night without getting tired. Forever and ever!”
He also liked for me, with my wearied voice, to murmur out two or three melodies that I had written on Moore's verses, and that he favoured. I was always singing him my little songs. And sometimes he was so particular as to request that I sing with the accompaniment of my guitar, because to him my true instrument was my voice, and not the guitar on which I had spent several years of practice in becoming a virtuoso.
In contrast to my adoration of his music, he never seemed to take mine completely seriously. Apart from my singing voice, of course, which he almost seemed to claim for his own. In fact, he never spoke the name of Bach without ironically adding "your little student!” This was because he believed I thought myself superior to the old Maestro. In his opinion, in order to understand how to compose a decent bass line, one had to study Bach. I disagreed. Bach be damned, I would compose my bass lines how I liked.
Anyway, it was no surprise he liked Bach; he was German and a Lutheran.
Occasionally it was Mendelssohn’s turn to be moody. Once, I had come across him in the Salon de musique, sitting tensely in an armchair and scowling at the contents of a newspaper. When I had asked him what was wrong, he had become aloof, telling me that I “couldn’t possibly understand”. Then he had folded the paper quickly, tucking it under his arm and going upstairs to talk to Montfort. It was the first time that I had seen him truly upset. Whatever had been in that newspaper, it had had a far more profound impact than any of my own irritating remarks.
Some days, we would venture on horseback to the other side of Rome. Mendelssohn would show me around all the famous ruins. I confess that they never impressed me very much, but for the time spent with him, it was worth it. These trips were always lovely, apart from one occasion.
One evening, we went to explore the Caracalla thermal baths together, riding down roads bordered by long grass in the peachy sunlight.
On the way there, I was suddenly struck by a thought.
“Isn’t it strange that no one has yet written a scherzo on Queen Mab?”
Mendelssohn’s eyes lit up and he grinned at me as he was gently jostled by the horse’s rhythmic trot. One thing we shared in common was our deep love of Shakespeare.
“What a brilliant idea. I should like to do that, it would be a great challenge. A scherzo would fit perfectly as well, you’re quite right. Mercutio is nothing but teasing in his speech…”
I tuned out to the sound of horse hooves clip-clopping on the cobbles. I was rather regretting putting the thought into his head, for I now thought that I might like to write it myself. Should Mendelssohn write his own version, however, anything that I might write would be tame in comparison.
We arrived at the baths, the conversation having moved on to religion. Mendelssohn broached the topic of the advantages and disadvantages of human actions and their remuneration during this life. Were the good rewarded enough… Were the bad punished enough…
I have little interest in religious questions and as we trampled through the ruins, I found myself saying, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you… I suppose that means I should start handing out free opium.”
At that, Mendelssohn came to miss his footing, and he tumbled, gaining bruise upon bruise, down the ruins of a very steep staircase. As he stopped in a heap at the bottom, I couldn’t help but snicker.
“You should admire divine justice," I told him, following him down and helping him to get up. “It is I who blasphemes, yet it is you who fall.”
He glared at me, shaking off my hands as he stood. This was not the first time I had shocked him deeply by mocking the Bible.
“You are not funny, Hector. And neither is your opium addiction.”
I rolled my eyes with a laugh. “Maybe you just have no sense of humour.”
Mendelssohn frowned further and turned his back on me to start towards the next part of the ruins. I didn’t know it yet, but this was to be the beginning of the end for the first stage of our friendship: a friendship which was strangely complex for having only begun three weeks ago.
The state of our friendship always hovered halfway between an argument and a warm embrace. This was demonstrated quite literally on the night that things reached a head.
The air was balmy and once again the boarders and I were outside by the fountain, singing songs to my guitar. This time, however, Mendelssohn was here too, and he sat beside me looking particularly unimpressed.
It wasn’t unusual for everything to turn to vice after a visit to the dark interiors of the Caffè Greco. Once again, we sat around loosely as we smoked opium and finished any bottles that had not been finished in the café.
Mendelssohn refused anything that was handed to him.
I leant against him, elated, blood rushing in my ears as I floated somewhere above Villa Medici. He did not push me off but somewhere in the back of my mind, I noted that he avoided touching me back. The opium high had abated all inhibitions and I voiced my disappointment.
“I like… t’when you put… hand in my hair… or shoulder.”
Mendelssohn was so good of heart that he did not deny me, even though in retrospect he was almost definitely uncomfortable. His hand found my shoulder and held me against him, tightly, as though I might fall over. And I might’ve. Anything to forget Marie…
In his embrace, I felt safe. I didn’t care about the fact that my trip to Italy had been incredibly unproductive. I didn’t care about Marie. I didn’t care about the fellow boarders, who all annoyed me to no end. I didn’t care about anything.
As I watched the slow run of water in the fountain, I found myself becoming drowsy. I groaned against Mendelssohn’s shoulder and was glad when one of the boarders handed the pipe back to me so that I could take another drag… Except Mendelssohn’s arm had come between me and the pipe. I reached out to grab it but he batted my arm away again.
“Stop it. You’ve had enough.”
“But…”
“No ‘but’s, it’s not good for you.”
I shook my head and leaned forwards, this time managing to bypass Mendelssohn and take hold of the pipe. I took a drag before he could stop me.
Suddenly I was on the floor and Mendelssohn was standing from his chair. He’d let go of me.
“I’m not just going to sit around watching you destroy yourself.” Then he was stalking back to the villa.
Apparently I’d underestimated his dislike of this particular vice. In my defence, he hadn’t mentioned the strong smell of alcohol that had been emanating from me the day he’d found me crying on the sofa. Thus, I had assumed he was not judgemental in these matters.
I scrambled up off the floor and determinedly followed him inside. Since I couldn’t quite feel my own legs, by the time I reached the staircase, I had taken to an undignified crawl. When I finally made it to Montfort’s room, where I knew he would be hiding, and hauled myself up against the doorframe, I saw that Mendelssohn was sitting at the piano in silence, staring at the keys unseeingly. At the awful clomping and clattering that I made in trying to keep myself upright, he looked up.
“Why are you here.” It wasn’t phrased like a question. It was phrased more like “Go away, you pathetic idiot.”
I gave up on standing and let my heavy limbs fall to the floor. I closed my eyes momentarily to the blissful oblivion.
“You’re… upset.”
“You’re not taking things seriously,” he countered.
I opened my eyes again. “What?”
Mendelssohn looked incensed. He gestured at me. “You don’t take your life seriously, you don’t take music seriously. You’re not serious in your dedication to learning it, you think you’re better than you are… Better than Bach? ” He stood up, shaking. “You don’t understand the hard work and effort it takes to be a composer. You think you can just call yourself one and it’ll be so! You’re a pretender. But it’s worked, hasn’t it? Because you won the Prix de Rome. You’re a valued composer, now. I can’t take it anymore! ”
I blinked. He had started speaking in German… No, English? The entire situation seemed very odd; he seemed far too upset over me taking opium. He returned to speaking French.
“I put in so much hard work, and even after everything, everything I’ve done, I’m still ‘just a Jew’!”
Selfishly, I was almost glad that the problem was indeed bigger than me. I wondered if this was anything to do with the newspaper article I’d seen him reading. I watched Mendelssohn’s pale and screwed up face as he continued.
“Everything’s tainted. Nothing’s worth as much. And yet it’s so easy!” He took a deep breath, swaying on his feet. “Everything’s so easy!… So easy…” Weary eyes met mine. “For you.”
The sound of his collapse echoed through the corridor outside as he keeled over like a bowling pin, pitching right into the piano with a loud clang!
My slow heartbeat sped up almost unbearably as I watched his prone body on the floor. It pounded so hard I thought the organ might burst through my chest and land on the floor, spurting lazy streams of blood. A wave of nausea crashed over me. What had I done to Mendelssohn?
Sluggishly, I began to drag my boneless body across the floor towards the other man.
“Ffffelix?” I called as I reached his side. I poked his cheek softly, wondering what to do. It wasn’t usual for someone to faint during an argument, was it?
He remained unconscious. On his forehead, I could see a bruise blooming from where he’d hit the piano. I felt so terribly guilty, even through the blur of the opium.
I glanced at Montfort’s bed. There was no way I would be able to haul Mendelssohn onto it; it was too high up and I lacked the strength. Perhaps then, I could bring the bed to him.
I stood unsteadily and lurched towards the bed, or rather, the bed lurched towards me. I tore the sheets off, and the pillows, flinging them on the floor behind me. As I did so, Mendelssohn stirred.
“Hector?” he groaned.
I threw the last of the cushions on the floor and turned to face him.
“Hush,” I said. “Hush. I’m going to… I’m going to make everything better. You… You should stay there, I think. Yes.”
In a daze, I arranged the pillows and blankets so that they formed some kind of a bed on the floor. Then I knelt back at Mendelssohn’s side.
He squinted up at me. “My head…”
“You fainted.” I pressed my hands up against his side. “If I— um— push you, will you roll?”
Mendelssohn looked tired and confused.
“I mean, will you roll over? I need to get you…” I waved vaguely in the direction of the blankets, “over there.”
After a slow nod from Mendelssohn, I began to roll him over to the makeshift bed. Once he was there, I sat back, holding my dizzy head in my hands.
“Lie down, Hector,” came Mendelssohn’s wispy voice. He sounded concussed.
I didn’t need to be told twice. I drooped with exhaustion and fell to the floor beside him. Shifting so that we were sharing the blankets, I curled up next to him, basking in his body heat.
“I’m sorry,” I said, taking in his pained face somewhat miserably. I reached out a hand; my limbs still felt like they belonged to someone else. Gently, I brushed my numb fingers over his forehead, moving his tangly hair out of his eyes. I hovered over his bruised temple, not knowing what to do. Blinking tiredly, he grasped my fussing hand in his, holding it between us.
“Go to sleep,” he whispered. I gazed at our conjoined hands, hardly noticing as Mendelssohn’s breath evened out. In that moment, I felt so tenderly towards him. Just to look at him, a soft affection bloomed in my chest. And like at the fountain earlier, I felt safe next to Mendelssohn. With him, my inner demons couldn’t get to me.
Nestling down in the blankets, fatigue overcame me swiftly. My eyes drifted shut.
I didn’t wake up until five o’clock in the afternoon the next day. When I did, it was to discover that Mendelssohn had disappeared. Not only from the makeshift bed, not only from Villa Medici, but from Rome itself. As Montfort informed me on going downstairs, he was going to Switzerland for a hiking holiday, and had moved the trip forwards by a few days. I couldn’t help but feel abandoned at this news. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
Equally, whilst I had been too numb for his words to hurt the night before, now they stung like acid. I wasn’t a ‘serious’ composer. I didn’t understand the meaning of hard work. Everything was easy for me. (I supposed the last one was true, with regards to me not being jewish in any way). He had not hesitated with his words. The only conclusion I could reach was that he truly felt that way.
In the aftermath of Mendelssohn, I hurt like never before. If he’d wanted to help me to curb my opium addiction, he’d managed the exact opposite. I drank enough alcohol to pickle my insides, and I returned to being a hermit. My bed was my only friend and not even Montfort could get a word out of me. It was horrible.
And things were only going to get worse…