a riddle is hid in your eyes
title a riddle is hid in your eyes
pairing frédéric chopin/franz liszt (kind of), frédéric chopin/george sand (kind of)
summary the variation shouldn't have meant as much as it did.
rating pg
word count 2315
disclaimer i lie
notes chopin and liszt were alive and living in paris at the same time. that much is true. i fucked with the timelines a little, though. hexameron was written in 1837, chopin went to Spain with sand in 1839, and liszt was actually living in geneva at the time. but for the sake of this piece, let's pretend everything's happening in the same year and liszt is in paris. that's not too much to ask, right? the "george" mentioned is george sand, female writer. i can't remember her real name. she and chopin actually were together for about ten years but then his TB got worse and worse (it tends to do that, funnily enough) and she got sick of being his nurse instead of his lover, and i could go on but i'll stop. liszt was with marie d'agoult for a while and they had three kids (i think it was 3). the princess belgiojoso was a real person and that is her real name. i can't make shit like that up. the title is from a poem by elinor morton wylie. i don't know if i like how this ends, it feels super abrupt (read: i want your opinion) so i may write a sequel at some point, we'll see. also, I'M NOT CRAZY I SWEAR, this thing just kind of wrote itself.
As he plays, he notices for the first time that his skin matches the keys almost perfectly.
The opening chords of the Ballade are more substantial than he, and a slow sense of melancholy creeps over him as he continues to play. His fingers don’t have to be nimble for this piece, and Frédéric is grateful. He does not like the Salle Pleyel, and he does not have the strength tonight to fill it. It is too large and impersonal, and the thought of having to greet his audience after he finishes almost makes Frédéric miss a beat. Almost.
--
Frédéric had thought Franz was on tour; he remembers hearing something about his friend’s concert somewhere in Germany being better received then anyone could have possibly hoped. He remembers thinking briefly that he should be jealous that Liszt could tour with such freedom and success, before remembering how much he himself hated performing.
“Marvelous expression, but a bit weak in terms of sound, don’t you think?” Franz asks, sipping his champagne and not offering Frédéric a congratulatory smile or handshake. Frédéric wonders why he refers to the Hungarian as his friend.
“Not all of us feel the need to play as heavy as a peasant,” Frédéric replies, keeping his voice light, and it pleases him that Franz isn’t quite sure whether or not he’s being serious. He himself isn’t sure. “Why aren’t you out playing concerts yourself?”
“Lost interest,” Liszt shrugs and Frédéric marvels at his nonchalance.
--
“Play this, please.”
Frédéric forces his eyes open and picks his head up from the desk.
“I won’t comment on your sleeping habits if you just play the damn piece,” Liszt tells him solemnly, and Frédéric fights the urge to cuff his friend over the head. It would all come to nothing, of course, as Franz would have an obvious physical advantage over him in any fight, but it would certainly make Frédéric feel better.
He picks himself up and makes his way to the piano, glancing at the music Franz has set upon it before letting his fingers dance along the keys, playing an outline of what his friend has written.
“More passion, Chopin, more passion!” Franz pauses in his criticism to chuckle, not unkindly. “I would never have thought I would be telling you, of all people, you of the romantic ballades, to play with more passion!”
Frédéric pauses at the piano, and replies without turning around, “It’s too virtuoso. It’s not…Franz, this is all for show, there isn’t any substance.”
Liszt stops laughing abruptly and Frédéric can feel his glare from across the room. “You write a variation then,” he snaps.
--
Frédéric can’t get the idea out of his head. He doesn’t particularly want to write for Liszt’s composition; he respects Franz as a performer, but has never been enraptured by any of his works. He also thinks vaguely that Franz is taking the easy way out, not wanting to finish the piece by himself. There’s also the fact that Frédéric has no idea if Franz was being serious or bitter, anyway, so really, there’s no point.
But that doesn’t stop the melody from coming, and Frédéric can’t get the lush pedal tones out of his head, the simple line rising out of the chords, so pure and beautiful, growing ever stronger. It plays in his head, over and over, and he cannot sleep for it.
Eventually, he does write it down, telling himself he only does so in order to get some sleep, which he desperately needs; even George has noticed he’s been coughing more than usual lately, making suggestions to holiday in Spain, telling him that the warm weather would be good for him. Frédéric doesn’t doubt that the weather would be beneficial, but he isn’t so sure about her company.
The variation is hidden in a manuscript for a concerto Frédéric has no intention of finishing. Franz will not find it there, Frédéric thinks contentedly, not because he does not like the variation, but because it reads as a love letter.
That’s not what it is, Frédéric tells himself.
--
“Are you ever going to write that variation for me?”
Frédéric raises an eyebrow at Franz and does not deign to answer, instead sipping his coffee and leaning back in his chair. He rarely goes out, these days, except to salons to perform, on occasion, and he is surprised to find that he is enjoying himself. It is past midday and he is nursing his second drink. He has only had one coughing fit.
“I wasn’t joking, you know,” Franz says, all trace of playfulness gone from features. His dark eyes are focused only on Frédéric, who isn’t sure whether or not he should feel so pleased about his friend’s attentions. “I would include it. I want to.” Franz’s voice is more earnest than Frédéric has ever heard it, and he thinks to himself, this is why we are friends. Because when Franz is being serious, they can actually enjoy each other’s company.
“Maybe,” Frédéric replies, and he feels a little guilty.
--
He tries to write another variation, but the notes come out muddy, with no direction, downright ugly, even; superficial, the very thing that had gotten him into this mess to begin with.
--
“What’s this?”
Frédéric looks up from the piano frantically, and thinks fleetingly about trying to cross the room and snatch the variation out of Franz’s hands. He would have to tackle the Hungarian to succeed, and the mere thought of it makes his joints ache and his chest feel tight. He settles for looking pleasantly bewildered. He can lie, say he wrote it ages ago. It would be useless, though; Franz might not be the most delicate of composers, but he’s no idiot, he knows how to recognize a theme.
Franz crosses the room and settles down on the bench next to Frédéric, who very deliberately does not meet his eyes, instead shuffling over the tiniest bit to make room for his friend. Their thighs touch, and Frédéric’s skin sears under his trousers. Franz puts the music on the stand and spends a few seconds reading through it; Frédéric uses the time to examine his fingernails in great detail. His skin is becoming papery, and he will not be surprised if one day it is whiter than the piano keys.
There is nothing Frédéric could have done to prepare himself to listen to Franz play his variation.
It is short, two minutes at best, and Frédéric isn’t sure if he’s grateful or sad when Franz stops playing. He shifts a little on the bench to play a few of the chords himself, realizing that he will need to revisit this if it is ever going to be published.
“Were you ever going to show it to me?” Franz asks, and Frédéric would be kidding himself if he said there wasn’t any hurt or accusation in his friend’s voice.
“It’s not finished, it’s still so rough, it doesn’t fit the style of your piece at all,” he babbles, stalling for time until he can think of something real to say.
“Stop being superficial,” Franz tells him, and Frédéric doesn’t reply, only continues to fiddle with the chords.
--
It’s easy to forget that Franz has children, with grabby hands and chubby faces and dirt underneath their fingernails. Frédéric has never liked dealing with children -another reason he cannot go on holiday with George, he adds it to his mental list- and so he finds maneuvering past the front hallway of Franz’s house rather difficult. He holds the score above their heads and tries to herd them into the foyer, but is largely unsuccessful.
He is in the middle of trying to fight back a fit of coughs when Marie appears, and like magic, the children flock to her. She pets their hair and looks more motherly then Frédéric would have deemed possible for her.
It’s also easy to forget how much he likes her, genuinely, and he smiles when she finally sends the children on their way. He is even sad to have to end their small talk and ask after her husband.
“He’s in the study,” she tells him, her voice soft and musical, and Frédéric can see why Franz is so productive when she’s around.
--
Frédéric pushes against the heavy door of the study and is frustrated that it actually takes an effort to open it. He is momentarily disgusted with himself.
“I have the variation,” he offers, both to himself and Franz, and it sounds pathetic to his ears. Franz turns around, though, from where he’s sitting at the desk, scribbling away at some new sonata for four hands; Frédéric vaguely remembers Franz talking about the piece when they last spoke.
He steps further into the room and sets the score down on the piano’s closed lid. It rests there like a peace offering, and Frédéric’s fingers begin to tap out the melody.
He stills when Franz’s hand covers his own, and they play the variation together, the only sound in the room the gentle tap-tap of their fingers against the piano cover.
--
Paris cannot stop talking about the piece by Liszt, the variations. The Hexameron, he is calling it. Frédéric isn’t sure what to make of the name as he takes a seat in the Princess Belgiojoso’s salon, eager to hear Liszt’s own variations to the piece, wondering vaguely if they are at all more substantial then the one Franz played for him. He wonders how his own contribution will fit in with Franz’s determinedly more virtuoso style.
He is shocked to realize that he is not the only person to have contributed to the piece, and then it strikes him that he should be embarrassed to have thought he would be the only person Franz asked to write a variation. He rubs his temple and wants desperately to leave the salon. His variation does not fit with the others, has none of the flair, none of the fireworks. His is simple, his is for Franz, not for an audience expecting this style of music. It is not meant to be performed along with Herz’s acrobatic, playful movement, or Czerny’s vivo.
The sting of the blow is slightly lessened by the fact that Franz added a lento before Frédéric’s movement, took the time to make it fit, to introduce the largo, but intellectually, Frédéric knows Franz only added it so the piece would flow.
Frédéric does not want to wait in the receiving line to congratulate his friend on the performance, so he does not.
--
“Franz Liszt is here,” George calls from outside his study, and Frédéric grunts an acknowledgement. He wonders vaguely why she is here; he does not remember inviting her.
Franz walks in brusquely and Frédéric pulls himself out of his work to focus on the Hungarian, whose company today, it seemed, would require some effort.
“Why did you leave?” There was no prelude or preamble to the question, and by Franz’s tone, it was an outright accusation. Frédéric felt sick to his stomach, and contemplated feigning a coughing fit in order to force his friend to leave, but the idea that a feigned cough could easily become a real one restrained him.
“I was tired,” he replies, not feeling strong enough for a fight.
“Did you honestly think you were the only one I asked?” Franz demands.
Frédéric sighs. He had been right to feel embarrassed, then. “What was I supposed to think?”
Franz has no answer, and so they sit in silence for a few long moments.
“For what it’s worth, yours was my favorite,” Franz tells him as he gets up to leave.
--
Frédéric plays his last concert of the year at a smaller salon than the Princess’s. The program is typical of him, he things derisively as he sits down at the bench and begins to play, a Berceuse to start with, then a few Ballades, and he’ll end with a Barcarolle.
It goes quickly, despite the pace of the music itself, and the cold in his fingers that slows it down further. He is glad to be done, although he isn’t sure if he’s glad he decided to holiday in Spain with George, after all. It was a decision of impulse, after the Hexameron’s premier, and the thought that one moment of impulse would leave him stuck in Spain with George and her children -children, dear Lord, had he been possessed to make such a decision? - made him feel slightly ill.
The receiving line is short, much shorter then that at the Salle Pleyel all those months ago, and it moves at a good pace. All Frédéric has to do to encourage the guests to move along is reach for his handkerchief; the knowledge makes him feel powerful, for once.
“The Berceuse was lovely. You filled the hall well.”
A month ago, and Franz would’ve added “but maybe that’s just because it’s a smaller hall” and grinned. Now, he lets the comment stand as is, and Frédéric doesn’t know how to respond. It doesn’t help that he hadn’t been expecting Liszt; he was supposed to be touring again soon. Frédéric is getting sick of being surprised by his friend. He’s never liked surprises.
“Thank you,” he finally replies. “When does your new tour start?”
“After the New Year,” Franz says, his fingers playing with the hem of his sleeve. Frédéric is a little gratified to know that the other man is just as uncomfortable as he is.
“I’ll wish you the best now, then,” Frédéric mumbles, deliberately dropping eye contact. “I’ll be on holiday in Spain with George until March,” he adds by way of explanation.
It was designed to hurt Franz, but somehow it doesn’t feel as good at Frédéric had anticipated, to know that he’d succeeded.
pairing frédéric chopin/franz liszt (kind of), frédéric chopin/george sand (kind of)
summary the variation shouldn't have meant as much as it did.
rating pg
word count 2315
disclaimer i lie
notes chopin and liszt were alive and living in paris at the same time. that much is true. i fucked with the timelines a little, though. hexameron was written in 1837, chopin went to Spain with sand in 1839, and liszt was actually living in geneva at the time. but for the sake of this piece, let's pretend everything's happening in the same year and liszt is in paris. that's not too much to ask, right? the "george" mentioned is george sand, female writer. i can't remember her real name. she and chopin actually were together for about ten years but then his TB got worse and worse (it tends to do that, funnily enough) and she got sick of being his nurse instead of his lover, and i could go on but i'll stop. liszt was with marie d'agoult for a while and they had three kids (i think it was 3). the princess belgiojoso was a real person and that is her real name. i can't make shit like that up. the title is from a poem by elinor morton wylie. i don't know if i like how this ends, it feels super abrupt (read: i want your opinion) so i may write a sequel at some point, we'll see. also, I'M NOT CRAZY I SWEAR, this thing just kind of wrote itself.
As he plays, he notices for the first time that his skin matches the keys almost perfectly.
The opening chords of the Ballade are more substantial than he, and a slow sense of melancholy creeps over him as he continues to play. His fingers don’t have to be nimble for this piece, and Frédéric is grateful. He does not like the Salle Pleyel, and he does not have the strength tonight to fill it. It is too large and impersonal, and the thought of having to greet his audience after he finishes almost makes Frédéric miss a beat. Almost.
--
Frédéric had thought Franz was on tour; he remembers hearing something about his friend’s concert somewhere in Germany being better received then anyone could have possibly hoped. He remembers thinking briefly that he should be jealous that Liszt could tour with such freedom and success, before remembering how much he himself hated performing.
“Marvelous expression, but a bit weak in terms of sound, don’t you think?” Franz asks, sipping his champagne and not offering Frédéric a congratulatory smile or handshake. Frédéric wonders why he refers to the Hungarian as his friend.
“Not all of us feel the need to play as heavy as a peasant,” Frédéric replies, keeping his voice light, and it pleases him that Franz isn’t quite sure whether or not he’s being serious. He himself isn’t sure. “Why aren’t you out playing concerts yourself?”
“Lost interest,” Liszt shrugs and Frédéric marvels at his nonchalance.
--
“Play this, please.”
Frédéric forces his eyes open and picks his head up from the desk.
“I won’t comment on your sleeping habits if you just play the damn piece,” Liszt tells him solemnly, and Frédéric fights the urge to cuff his friend over the head. It would all come to nothing, of course, as Franz would have an obvious physical advantage over him in any fight, but it would certainly make Frédéric feel better.
He picks himself up and makes his way to the piano, glancing at the music Franz has set upon it before letting his fingers dance along the keys, playing an outline of what his friend has written.
“More passion, Chopin, more passion!” Franz pauses in his criticism to chuckle, not unkindly. “I would never have thought I would be telling you, of all people, you of the romantic ballades, to play with more passion!”
Frédéric pauses at the piano, and replies without turning around, “It’s too virtuoso. It’s not…Franz, this is all for show, there isn’t any substance.”
Liszt stops laughing abruptly and Frédéric can feel his glare from across the room. “You write a variation then,” he snaps.
--
Frédéric can’t get the idea out of his head. He doesn’t particularly want to write for Liszt’s composition; he respects Franz as a performer, but has never been enraptured by any of his works. He also thinks vaguely that Franz is taking the easy way out, not wanting to finish the piece by himself. There’s also the fact that Frédéric has no idea if Franz was being serious or bitter, anyway, so really, there’s no point.
But that doesn’t stop the melody from coming, and Frédéric can’t get the lush pedal tones out of his head, the simple line rising out of the chords, so pure and beautiful, growing ever stronger. It plays in his head, over and over, and he cannot sleep for it.
Eventually, he does write it down, telling himself he only does so in order to get some sleep, which he desperately needs; even George has noticed he’s been coughing more than usual lately, making suggestions to holiday in Spain, telling him that the warm weather would be good for him. Frédéric doesn’t doubt that the weather would be beneficial, but he isn’t so sure about her company.
The variation is hidden in a manuscript for a concerto Frédéric has no intention of finishing. Franz will not find it there, Frédéric thinks contentedly, not because he does not like the variation, but because it reads as a love letter.
That’s not what it is, Frédéric tells himself.
--
“Are you ever going to write that variation for me?”
Frédéric raises an eyebrow at Franz and does not deign to answer, instead sipping his coffee and leaning back in his chair. He rarely goes out, these days, except to salons to perform, on occasion, and he is surprised to find that he is enjoying himself. It is past midday and he is nursing his second drink. He has only had one coughing fit.
“I wasn’t joking, you know,” Franz says, all trace of playfulness gone from features. His dark eyes are focused only on Frédéric, who isn’t sure whether or not he should feel so pleased about his friend’s attentions. “I would include it. I want to.” Franz’s voice is more earnest than Frédéric has ever heard it, and he thinks to himself, this is why we are friends. Because when Franz is being serious, they can actually enjoy each other’s company.
“Maybe,” Frédéric replies, and he feels a little guilty.
--
He tries to write another variation, but the notes come out muddy, with no direction, downright ugly, even; superficial, the very thing that had gotten him into this mess to begin with.
--
“What’s this?”
Frédéric looks up from the piano frantically, and thinks fleetingly about trying to cross the room and snatch the variation out of Franz’s hands. He would have to tackle the Hungarian to succeed, and the mere thought of it makes his joints ache and his chest feel tight. He settles for looking pleasantly bewildered. He can lie, say he wrote it ages ago. It would be useless, though; Franz might not be the most delicate of composers, but he’s no idiot, he knows how to recognize a theme.
Franz crosses the room and settles down on the bench next to Frédéric, who very deliberately does not meet his eyes, instead shuffling over the tiniest bit to make room for his friend. Their thighs touch, and Frédéric’s skin sears under his trousers. Franz puts the music on the stand and spends a few seconds reading through it; Frédéric uses the time to examine his fingernails in great detail. His skin is becoming papery, and he will not be surprised if one day it is whiter than the piano keys.
There is nothing Frédéric could have done to prepare himself to listen to Franz play his variation.
It is short, two minutes at best, and Frédéric isn’t sure if he’s grateful or sad when Franz stops playing. He shifts a little on the bench to play a few of the chords himself, realizing that he will need to revisit this if it is ever going to be published.
“Were you ever going to show it to me?” Franz asks, and Frédéric would be kidding himself if he said there wasn’t any hurt or accusation in his friend’s voice.
“It’s not finished, it’s still so rough, it doesn’t fit the style of your piece at all,” he babbles, stalling for time until he can think of something real to say.
“Stop being superficial,” Franz tells him, and Frédéric doesn’t reply, only continues to fiddle with the chords.
--
It’s easy to forget that Franz has children, with grabby hands and chubby faces and dirt underneath their fingernails. Frédéric has never liked dealing with children -another reason he cannot go on holiday with George, he adds it to his mental list- and so he finds maneuvering past the front hallway of Franz’s house rather difficult. He holds the score above their heads and tries to herd them into the foyer, but is largely unsuccessful.
He is in the middle of trying to fight back a fit of coughs when Marie appears, and like magic, the children flock to her. She pets their hair and looks more motherly then Frédéric would have deemed possible for her.
It’s also easy to forget how much he likes her, genuinely, and he smiles when she finally sends the children on their way. He is even sad to have to end their small talk and ask after her husband.
“He’s in the study,” she tells him, her voice soft and musical, and Frédéric can see why Franz is so productive when she’s around.
--
Frédéric pushes against the heavy door of the study and is frustrated that it actually takes an effort to open it. He is momentarily disgusted with himself.
“I have the variation,” he offers, both to himself and Franz, and it sounds pathetic to his ears. Franz turns around, though, from where he’s sitting at the desk, scribbling away at some new sonata for four hands; Frédéric vaguely remembers Franz talking about the piece when they last spoke.
He steps further into the room and sets the score down on the piano’s closed lid. It rests there like a peace offering, and Frédéric’s fingers begin to tap out the melody.
He stills when Franz’s hand covers his own, and they play the variation together, the only sound in the room the gentle tap-tap of their fingers against the piano cover.
--
Paris cannot stop talking about the piece by Liszt, the variations. The Hexameron, he is calling it. Frédéric isn’t sure what to make of the name as he takes a seat in the Princess Belgiojoso’s salon, eager to hear Liszt’s own variations to the piece, wondering vaguely if they are at all more substantial then the one Franz played for him. He wonders how his own contribution will fit in with Franz’s determinedly more virtuoso style.
He is shocked to realize that he is not the only person to have contributed to the piece, and then it strikes him that he should be embarrassed to have thought he would be the only person Franz asked to write a variation. He rubs his temple and wants desperately to leave the salon. His variation does not fit with the others, has none of the flair, none of the fireworks. His is simple, his is for Franz, not for an audience expecting this style of music. It is not meant to be performed along with Herz’s acrobatic, playful movement, or Czerny’s vivo.
The sting of the blow is slightly lessened by the fact that Franz added a lento before Frédéric’s movement, took the time to make it fit, to introduce the largo, but intellectually, Frédéric knows Franz only added it so the piece would flow.
Frédéric does not want to wait in the receiving line to congratulate his friend on the performance, so he does not.
--
“Franz Liszt is here,” George calls from outside his study, and Frédéric grunts an acknowledgement. He wonders vaguely why she is here; he does not remember inviting her.
Franz walks in brusquely and Frédéric pulls himself out of his work to focus on the Hungarian, whose company today, it seemed, would require some effort.
“Why did you leave?” There was no prelude or preamble to the question, and by Franz’s tone, it was an outright accusation. Frédéric felt sick to his stomach, and contemplated feigning a coughing fit in order to force his friend to leave, but the idea that a feigned cough could easily become a real one restrained him.
“I was tired,” he replies, not feeling strong enough for a fight.
“Did you honestly think you were the only one I asked?” Franz demands.
Frédéric sighs. He had been right to feel embarrassed, then. “What was I supposed to think?”
Franz has no answer, and so they sit in silence for a few long moments.
“For what it’s worth, yours was my favorite,” Franz tells him as he gets up to leave.
--
Frédéric plays his last concert of the year at a smaller salon than the Princess’s. The program is typical of him, he things derisively as he sits down at the bench and begins to play, a Berceuse to start with, then a few Ballades, and he’ll end with a Barcarolle.
It goes quickly, despite the pace of the music itself, and the cold in his fingers that slows it down further. He is glad to be done, although he isn’t sure if he’s glad he decided to holiday in Spain with George, after all. It was a decision of impulse, after the Hexameron’s premier, and the thought that one moment of impulse would leave him stuck in Spain with George and her children -children, dear Lord, had he been possessed to make such a decision? - made him feel slightly ill.
The receiving line is short, much shorter then that at the Salle Pleyel all those months ago, and it moves at a good pace. All Frédéric has to do to encourage the guests to move along is reach for his handkerchief; the knowledge makes him feel powerful, for once.
“The Berceuse was lovely. You filled the hall well.”
A month ago, and Franz would’ve added “but maybe that’s just because it’s a smaller hall” and grinned. Now, he lets the comment stand as is, and Frédéric doesn’t know how to respond. It doesn’t help that he hadn’t been expecting Liszt; he was supposed to be touring again soon. Frédéric is getting sick of being surprised by his friend. He’s never liked surprises.
“Thank you,” he finally replies. “When does your new tour start?”
“After the New Year,” Franz says, his fingers playing with the hem of his sleeve. Frédéric is a little gratified to know that the other man is just as uncomfortable as he is.
“I’ll wish you the best now, then,” Frédéric mumbles, deliberately dropping eye contact. “I’ll be on holiday in Spain with George until March,” he adds by way of explanation.
It was designed to hurt Franz, but somehow it doesn’t feel as good at Frédéric had anticipated, to know that he’d succeeded.