The Education of Delhomme
The Education of Delhomme
The Education of Delhomme © copyright 2020 Nancy Burkhalter, PhD. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, nor by recording electronically or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.
ISBNs: 978-1-7329508-3-2 (pb); 978-1-7329508-5-6 (hc); 978-1-7329508-4-9 (eBook)
Front cover illustration “Watercolor landscape of the castle Conciergerie and the river Seine in Paris” courtesy of Sibirtseva Marina/Shutterstock
Cover and book design by Mayfly Design
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937696
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)
Names: Burkhalter, Nancy, author.
Title: The education of Delhomme : Chopin, Sand & La France : a novel / by Nancy Burkhalter.
Description: [Roseville, Minnesota] : History Through Fiction, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: ISBN 9781732950832 (pb) | ISBN 9781732950856 (hc) | ISBN 9781732950849 (eBook)
Subjects: LCSH: Piano technicians—France—19th century—Fiction. | Spies—France—19th century—Fiction. | France—History—Second Republic, 1848-1852—Fiction. | Chopin, Frédéric, 1810-1849—Fiction. | Sand, George, 1804-1876—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.U75587 E38 2020 (print) | LCC PS3602.U75587 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
To Tuners Everywhere
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1: Fate – Bells
Chapter 2: Medical School – Shame – Death
Chapter 3: Dr. Dittmar
Chapter 4: George Sand’s Diary – Chopin, Finally!
Chapter 5: Cash – Conservatoire – Failure Again
Chapter 6: Tuning – Loan
Chapter 7: George Sand’s Diary – Switching Lovers
Chapter 8: Recruitment
Chapter 9: Meeting Chopin
Chapter 10: Sand’s Diary – Rating Men
Chapter 11: Tailor – First Hurdle
Chapter 12: Publishing
Chapter 13: George Sand’s Diary – Majorca
Chapter 14: The Ring – Silence
Chapter 15: George Sand’s Diary – Attempted Rape
Chapter 16: Performing
Chapter 17: Arrival
Chapter 18: First Day in Jail
Chapter 19: Dinner
Chapter 20: Snooping – Reporting Out
Chapter 21: Confrontation
Chapter 22: George Sand’s Diary – Regrets
Chapter 23: Concert – Uprising
Chapter 24: George Sand’s Diary – Shaken
Chapter 25: Entanglement – Club – Galvanized
Chapter 26: Resistance – Tea – Regaled
Chapter 27: George Sand’s Diary – The Snub
Chapter 28: Factory – Je Suis Français
Chapter 29: George Sand’s Diary – Memories
Chapter 30: Homecoming – Turned – Church Work
Chapter 31: George Sand’s Diary – Lament
Chapter 32: Theft – Death – Rest
Chapter 33: George Sand’s Diary – Sorrow
Chapter 34: Quarrel
Chapter 35: Arrest
Chapter 36: Trial
Chapter 37: Final Hours
Chapter 38: Qualms
Chapter 39: Le Petit George
Profiles Of Major Characters
Recommended Resources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Pierścień by Stefan Witwicki (1801-1847)
Language: Polish
Smutno niańki ci śpiewały,
A ja już kochałem,
A na lewy palecmały
Srebrny pierścień dałem.
Pobrali dziewczęta drudzy,
Ja wiernie kochałem,
Przyszedł młody chłopiec cudzy,
Choć ja pierścień dałem.
Muzykantów zaproszono,
Na godach śpiewałem!
Innego zostałaś żoną,
Ja zawsze kochałem.
Dziś dziewczęta mnie wyśmiały,
Gorzko zapłakałem:
Próżnom wierny był i stały,
Próżno pierścień dałem.
The ring
Language: English
Again you stand before me
Clothed in childlike pride, my love,
As when in boyhood
I asked you to be my bride,
Then I, your youthful lover,
Gave you a tiny ring.
And you promised me
To wear it until death.
But now I am far away,
Wishing I was near you.
And now you have married another man,
Forgetting me and my ring.
But you will never be
Separated from my love.
You, and that dear ring,
Will be cherished in my thoughts forever.
Description by Robert Cummings*
Even those with a casual interest in classical music are aware that Chopin is almost exclusively known for his piano compositions. His 19 songs, however, are all worthwhile compositions and all quite short affairs, able to be accommodated on a single CD with room for fillers. This song, The Ring, at a minute-and-a-half, is rather typical of the composer’s terse manner in the vocal realm, but its quality is fairly high. It should be noted that although The Ring is counted as No. 14 in his output, it was chronologically his 12th song. Its text is derived from a poem by Stefan Witwicki (1802-1847) and deals with man’s rejection by his lover and his lamenting over the rebuff. The ring in the title pertains to the ring he gave to his betrothed in his youth, a ring he cannot forget. The song, while not chipper or joyous in mood, surprisingly does not come across as melancholy or sad, either. The piano begins with a rather sunny, energetic introduction, presenting music seemingly at odds with the text. The vocal line, however, exudes regret and anguish, even expresses moments of anger. Chopin feels the heartrending emotions here, but also exhibits a measure of scorn for the young woman. Still, the brighter music from the introduction makes two more appearances in the song. This is an attractive though probably minor masterwork.
* * *
* https://www.allmusic.com/composition/pierscien-the-ring-song-for-voice-piano-op-74-14-ct-142-mc0002664958
Author’s Note
People are always surprised to hear that I’ve written a book about Frédéric Chopin’s piano tuner. “How did you come up with that idea?” they ask. It’s a good question and one I can’t readily answer because all my inspirations come from a place with no address, no accountability, and no way to access it on demand.
But that idea would never have surfaced without becoming a piano tuner myself. As a newly graduated linguistics and foreign language teaching major from Northwestern University, I spoke four languages and expected the world to fall over itself to hire me. It did not. I was bored and frustrated. Seeing my malaise, my friend, apropos of nothing, said, “Why don’t you become a piano tuner?”
Why not, indeed! I finally convinced Don Wilson, a tuner and rebuilder in Chicago, to take me on as his apprentice. A year later, I hung out my shi
ngle and the rest is—yes, I’m going to say it—history.
During that year of working in the damp, cobwebby basement of Don’s shop, I was surrounded by piano actions, books, parts, tools, and a radio. I listened all day to classical music and fell in love with Chopin. Sometimes, I even wept. I decided Chopin must have had a tuner since that skill takes a long time to learn and requires stamina, something the tubercular Chopin lacked.
During my doctoral work in linguistics, I learned how to find even the most obscure book or article. That research expertise was applied to the max for this book. I leapfrogged from one source to another about France, Poland, and Russia; music; tuning; Chopin; Sand; Vidocq; Berlioz; trains; clothing; and on and on. Since pulling on one thread of history tugs on several others, the hard part was knowing when to stop reading. I also traveled to Warsaw, Paris, and Nohant to see things for myself, including Chopin’s grave. In Warsaw’s Fryderyk Chopin Museum, I saw the pièce de résistance—a piano he’d played on. This is the stuff that feeds a historical novelist’s soul.
Taking liberties with facts is a big no-no in recounting history. But for historical novelists, the rules are more elastic. I labored to plot all events, fictional or not, on their true timeline. One problem cropped up, though, with Hector Berlioz, who graduated medical school in 1824, twelve years before my fictional tuner did, yet I made them classmates. I also fashioned diary entries by George Sand. No such texts exist, but they are true to her autobiography and others’ accounts. I created them because I wanted her to have her own say since all else is told from Delhomme’s point of view. I hope the reader will forgive these liberties in the service of story.
To write is to learn. Now I understand much better the long and violent roots of the workers’ struggle for better pay and working conditions. I appreciate even more now that the world has forever been ravenous for good music, even if it means devouring the very musician who creates it. Finally, it seems that the social hierarchy favoring men over women, rich over poor, and educated over unschooled has shown great staying power. Plus ça change . . .
Here are answers to questions my tuning customers always ask: Yes, I play the piano, but tuners don’t need to, although it is pleasing to check the tuning from a musical standpoint. Next, we don’t adjust a string until it “sounds good.” We count beats, the pulse created when two sounds of different frequencies cross. Each interval on the piano has a specified number of beats. Learning to count them is but one of the challenges. Last, perfect (aka absolute) pitch is useless to a tuner. The A below Middle C must be set to exactly 440 cycles per second. Someone with perfect pitch may perceive a sound as an A even if it vibrates anywhere from 435 to 445 cps. For tuners, that measurement is too imprecise. Have tuning fork—will travel.
Sadly, I no longer tune. I miss it and all the wonderful people who trained me and were unstinting with their knowledge and support. Now, I only write about tuners and their antics. Oh, did I just say antics? I meant actions.
Chapter 1
Fate – Bells
Fate
Spy. What a stupid, lethal choice. Now I sit shivering on the mud floor of a crowded cell with four walls and a black door. Five other men stare blankly into space. A sixth sticks his hands out the window and cries for food from passersby—anything to stop the hunger—coffee grounds, vegetable peelings, shriveled berries, cheese rinds.
The noxious stench from their unwashed bodies and buckets of excrement numbs the nostrils. The Seine threatens to overflow from snow and rain. But what does it all matter? I am days, likely hours, away from the guillotine. “I am innocent!” I say to the others. But no one listens. No one cares. There are only the sounds of chin-wagging shoppers and clicking horseshoes. The sparse straw is a paltry shield against the cold earth. I stretch the thin blanket from the jailer over my head and face and sit in a corner farthest from the window. Chill winds blow. There will be no January sun today.
Spying was supposed to be a brief stint, something to earn money so I could marry Lili. That delusion has cost me dearly. I want to atone for that. But not with death!
My trial is nigh. I will stand proudly in court, pound my fist, and declare that Vidocq tricked me into joining his detective agency. All to help King Louis Philippe control the masses. I will ask the judge, ‘What truck would I, a lowly piano tuner, have with radicals wanting to kill the king? I care about wood and wire and wonderful music. How does this mean I betrayed the monarchy? Let those who killed innocent people with their muskets and knives go to their death!’ That is what I will say.
Who will come to my defense? Frédéric Chopin would have, but he died three months ago. George Sand is volatile and untrustworthy; I hope she can muster fairness. Even so, I doubt her testimony can undo Vidocq’s devilish words. He will swear I sided with resisters, hobnobbed with radicals, and became a counterspy. Never mind that he lured me with easy money. He is the ruler’s vaunted, powerful toady. Loyalty trumps scruples in this man’s government.
I did everything Vidocq asked of me—reluctantly, I am proud to say now. Then one day, I fed him wrong information on purpose. It was my attempt to fight the domination of those who ignored the suffering of others. Then, Vidocq’s wrath came crashing down. Now here I sit. Accused of treason. Jailed. Condemned.
Bells
We are housed in the Conciergerie. This prison has evoked fear since the Reign of Terror over fifty years ago. Some forty thousand people died in that one short year after being paraded around the Place de la Concorde like animals going to slaughter. The ominous Bonbec Tower still holds the threat of water torture, dismemberment, decapitation, drawing and quartering. Some undergo the boot torture where legs are squeezed by a wooden instrument. That tower exhorts all citizens to behave.
Guards check on us hourly. Escape is impossible from the exercise area surrounded by unscalable walls. The famed Marie-Antoinette tried once but was caught and moved farther away from the entrance. A trial remains my lone hope. For justice. For freedom.
I seesaw between terror and resignation. But then, it is my fault. I could have become a doctor like my father, or a musician like Chopin. And I certainly could have refused Vidocq’s filthy money.
Bells from Notre Dame toll midnight. I cover my ears and hope sleep will come soon.
CHAPTER 2
Medical School – Shame – Death
Medical School
My twentieth birthday found me penniless and restless. Still living at my parents’ house in Marainville-sur-Madon, I clerked in Petrichor, the local seed store. My day was spent filing papers, stamping receipts, dealing with customers. “How many sacks of wheat seed do you need this year, Monsieur Flambé? Oh, you say you are rotating in barley this year? Wonderful idea. Will you need delivery?” Day after day, tedium was paired with penury, with no escape.
I wanted to play the piano, accompany singers, perform with an orchestra that would play mighty symphonies. Each night I fell asleep to imaginary applause after my brilliant rendition of a tempestuous fugue by Bach or Beethoven’s moody Sonata Pathétique. For an encore I would dazzle listeners with a saucy piece by Mozart, or when I felt bold, an étude by Chopin that would stun the audience. People would marvel at my virtuosity, then stand and clap and shout “Bravo! Bravo!”
Dawn brought reality. I left my bed, dressed, ate breakfast, and steeled myself for another day just like yesterday: stamping and collating, adding and subtracting, tallying and filing. Occasionally, I entered local piano competitions. I won first place several times. On weekends, Father Bernard counted on me to play the organ for church services, weddings, and funerals. He saw my fire and thought I should attend music school.
But Papa scoffed at this plan. He said I would attend his same medical school in Paris. End of discussion. “Become a doctor! Study anatomy! Dissect!” he said with his booming voice. “I will pay your way.”
Paris! How I dreamed of living there but co
uld have never afforded it.
“You can return to Marainville after you graduate,” he said. “This is a wonderful place to settle.”
Marainville-sur-Madon in the Lorraine region had been home to several centuries of Delhommes. A small, agricultural village with fertile soil, thanks to the Madon river, which snaked north from the Vosges mountains and emptied into the Moselle. It was a daylong coach ride from Paris, just far enough to keep unsavory city dwellers away. Papa liked treating the farmers who plowed the land and maids who minded the children of wealthy landowners. With his wiry red hair, straight back, thick shoulders, and hands strong enough to bale hay and milk cows, he looked more like a peasant than a doctor. Those laborers and domestics saw him as one of their own. He wanted to live out his days in this small town doing the magic of healing. He wanted—expected—me to join him.
I wanted no such life. But my father’s wishes ruled. So, after celebrating my twenty-first birthday, I packed my bags and left for Paris to enter la Faculté de Médicine, his alma mater. I listened to lectures about humors and Hippocrates, bloodletting and bile. But each class soured my stomach more than the previous. If just the theory about wound care nauseated me, the thought of debriding purulent lesions and attaching slimy leeches to someone’s body made me gag. And the horror of touching a cadaver!
The day finally came to face that fear. After several months of lectures, our first gross anatomy class met in a specially designed area on the first floor of the medical school building. Tall, wide windows allowed plenty of light. An aisle divided ten tables equally and led to a fireplace that lent a modicum of comfort in the winter months. But heat was used sparingly to keep the room cool enough to preserve the bodies. The stone floor was strewn with sawdust to soak up fluids. Despite that precaution, we walked in a cesspool of blood, sheets of peeled-off skin, a discarded heart, and a glob of fat excised from the omentum of an obese man who had suffered cardiac arrest. The sawdust muffled the talk and noise of instruments, creating an eerie atmosphere. We had been advised to inhale camphor to disguise the odor, but the putrid smell prevailed.