Flowers Stained With Moonlight (17 page)

Rose was returning, and the noise quieted down to the merest rustle. She put the music stand aside, advanced her chair, and sat down alone. She remained for a long moment without moving, unaware of the waiting audience, capturing some inner mood. Then she shook back a strand of hair, set her bow on the strings, and began to play the second suite by Bach.

Now her playing appeared to me of devastating simplicity. I listened as the music developed itself onwards and forwards, moving inexorably, as it seemed, to its foregone and unavoidable conclusion. If such a thing were
possible, I would have said that Rose’s playing added nothing and subtracted nothing from the very soul of the notes themselves; I felt as though I were reading the music directly as Bach had written it, as if no arbitrary interpretation came between the notes and me. Movement followed movement in their right and prescribed order; Prelude, Allemande, Courante, then the bitter beauty of the Sarabande, the absurd cheer of the Gavotte and finally the strange irony of the Gigue, the natural gaiety of whose rhythm was belied by the weird agony of the melody.

The music stopped, followed by clapping, and there was a pause; many people got up and squeezed past my knees to go wander about outside. I believe even Arthur went, but I remained fixed in my seat, unwilling and indeed quite unable to return to a normal state of mind. I remained so, half hypnotised, mixed fragments of melodies running through my mind, until the bell rang again, the audience returned, the lights dimmed and Rose returned with her pianist, this time to launch directly into the passion of Beethoven’s third Sonata. I followed the music as in a dream, and the dream continued; in fact I awoke to my senses quite suddenly by feeling my arm pulled unceremoniously. Arthur was tugging at it and saying,

‘Everyone is leaving. Don’t you want to go backstage and visit Rose?’

The music was over, the applause many times repeated had come and gone, and people were gathering up their wraps all around me and pouring out of the doors.

‘Oh, please come with me!’ I exclaimed, feeling almost
dismayed at the idea of confronting the young crowned goddess I seemed to have been watching. He took my arm, and together we worked our way against the direction of the great majority of the crowd. I should not have known where to go, but eventually we went down some stairs and around a corridor, and there was a large room, and Rose was standing in it laughing, surrounded by several people, all of whom were kissing and congratulating her warmly.

‘Oh, what
am
I doing here?’ I exclaimed, overcome with shyness and the strong impression of not being in the same world as all these gaily dressed, cheerful people. ‘Oh, do let’s go!’

But before we could make a move toward the door, Rose spied me, and jumping towards me, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me happily.

‘Oh, I’m so glad you came!’ she exclaimed, and my vision melted and disappeared, and there was Rose in front of me, exactly as she always had been; perhaps just a little taller, but really no different at all!

‘I’m going away from Cambridge, did you know?’ she told me eagerly. ‘I’m going to study in London, at the Royal Academy! I
am
frightened – I’ll be the worst student there, I just know it!’

‘Nonsense,’ I laughed with relief. ‘Surely if they accepted you, they mustn’t think so! How did it come about? Did you have to go there and play?’

‘Oh, yes – it was
awful
!’ she cried. ‘I played for a professor who called me into his room. First I played my prepared pieces, and then he made me play scales and studies and
horribly difficult exercises and things – they were much too difficult! He said “Do wat Ai do” and I had to try to imitate it all, and his hands are absolutely enormous – it wasn’t at all fair! I thought he must be thinking how awful I was, but then he said “Eet ees good, you study wiz me.” He’s Italian – his name’s Professor Pezze frrrrom Milano. Then I listened to his class and heard all his students. They’re all wonderful – one of them is a girl, and she’s even younger than I am! Her name is May Mukle. “Remember her name,” he told me, “eet weel be famous some day!” Oh dear, oh dear.’

‘I wish I could say “So will you”,’ I told her, ‘but after hearing you play, I don’t want to any more; it seems of no importance whether one is famous or not, when one can speak so with the voice of a wooden instrument. What matters is that voice. Never lose it, Rose! Don’t let a teacher train it until it becomes unrecognisable!’ I kissed her, and then turned away, for I felt near tears with emotion.

‘Music tells everything, but everything,’ I mused, as Arthur and I walked home through the quiet streets. ‘I didn’t think about Sylvia for a single second during the music, yet now that I remember her, I feel as though her whole story, and everything that must happen, and all that I must do was told there. The Sonata by Grieg told a story of mysterious passion, while the Bach suite described a kind of mathematically inexorable fate; then the Beethoven Sonata ended it all with a tale of intense suffering mellowing into unbearable sweetness. That’s how the music says it will end, and I believe in such messages – at least, I pray that it may happen so!’

Arthur slipped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed hard, without speaking.

We arrived home, and were precisely in the process of kissing each other goodnight most tenderly – goodness, we
are
engaged! – when Mrs Fitzwilliam’s door popped open and I nearly had a heart attack from dismay. I turned to her, sure that I was about to be the victim of serious remarks.

‘You’ve received a telegram,’ she said, ‘I took it for you.’ She handed it to me, and forgetting all about the kiss, I tore it open and read it together with Arthur. Its brief but powerful contents were as follows:

‘We shall leave as soon as possible,’ Arthur said simply. ‘We’ll arrange it tomorrow.’

So Pat was right. Oh, I do feel frightened of what I may find out in Paris. But there is nothing for it. It is clear that I must go.

Your deeply moved and worried

Vanessa

My dearest sister,

Here we are in Paris – we arrived yesterday rather late and tired, booked into a hotel –
Le Grand Hôtel de Paris,
if you please, on the Rue de Rivoli – and spent the
evening trying not to make fools of ourselves while getting something to eat, and then walking along the indescribably beautiful moonlit banks of the Seine. The whole of today was devoted to exploring the city under the expert guidance of our ubiquitous friend Mr Korneck, who arrived separately (under more luxurious conditions, I have no doubt) but has made arrangements to join our party with alacrity.

I must write down these experiences while they are fresh in my mind, for I feel that if I do not, they will soon fade away and disappear. There is something so very unreal, so gossamer fragile, about all that is happening to me at this moment. I, Vanessa Duncan, ignorant and inexperienced schoolmistress from the country, taking a walk in Paris – why, one might as well take a climb up Mount Parnassus and meet the gods! The beauty and the history of the city make me feel simultaneously very humble and altogether euphoric, and I admit that for the space of one day, the purpose which brought me here slipped somewhat towards the back of my mind; but I shall turn my full attention to it again tomorrow.

The windows of our hotel rooms overlook the Tuileries where poor Marie-Antoinette, Sylvia’s unhappy heroine, whiled away many miserable months before the axe of the Revolution finally descended upon her and her family.

I am armed, for detection, with the names of two of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue’s friends in Paris whom Sylvia and Camilla frequented last winter; I retained them from our conversations. Indeed, I clearly remember her mentioning the Hardwicks of the Embassy – they should be easy
enough to find, and then the Mrs Clemming with whom she was acquainted of old. Although Mrs Bryce-Fortescue would probably not have wished me to come here, she knows nothing of it, and I shall profit from this ignorance by making shameless use of her name in calling upon them, before they can find out the truth.

According to Sylvia, Mrs Clemming is a widow who is quite well off; constrained to live the simplest and soberest of proper lives during her husband’s lifetime, she sold everything the moment he died and moved to Paris immediately, where she has lived ever since, having succeeded in establishing a rather chic
salon
, which means that writers and artists, with a seasoning of a few members of the minor aristocracy of various countries, frequent her house regularly once a week. It sounds rather fun – I only hope that she will think me fit to be invited there, as Sylvia was! As for the Hardwicks, I do not know what they are like, but I do know that Sylvia saw them when she was here, and that will be a starting point for my investigations. Tomorrow I will call at both their homes, and if they are not in, I shall leave notes; it should be cards, of course, but alas, I am not possessed of any!

Enough concerning my plans for tomorrow – I want to tell you everything we saw and did today. We began quite early by leaving the hotel to have our breakfast outside;
café crème
and
croissants,
namely, at a lovely sunny
terrasse de café.
If only Annabel would speak for us, all this would have been easy enough, but she would not, and obliged us all most severely to order for ourselves in French, saying
that all our studies, and the many lessons she has given me, ought not to be wasted. I tried my best to overcome my shyness and remember much that I had carefully learnt, and was quite pleased at the unexpectedly reasonable result. As for Arthur and Charles, they are unashamedly British. In fact, it makes very little difference whether the words they speak are French or English really, as they sound exactly the same in both languages. The
garçon de café
looked down his nose upon hearing them, and pretended not to understand, while simultaneously leering in Annabel’s and my direction.

‘Bother the “confident and over-lusty French”,’ observed Arthur coldly, unconsciously touching his pocket.

‘Hm,’ I said as I made out the oblong flat shape within it, ‘I really don’t think you should be using
Henry the Fifth
as your guidebook to France. Is that what you’ve been doing? I ought to confiscate it! You can’t possibly learn to love the country with that as your inspiration!’

After this breakfast, we walked about the Louvre palace and the Tuileries gardens, and then purchased and consulted a map which we used to find our way to our prearranged meeting place with Mr Korneck.

‘I tried to persuade him to meet us somewhere else,’ said Charles with a guilty smile, ‘but he
would
insist on meeting us in front of the Academy of Sciences. It’s the epicentre of Paris as far as he’s concerned, and he clearly can’t think of anything more exciting than having a look around it. Girls, I promise you we won’t talk shop – will we, Arthur?’

‘No, no, we shall resist at all costs,’ he laughed. ‘I must
admit that I’m longing to see the place myself, though, even just for a moment. It will make me feel less of a complete stranger here, to glimpse the place where so much of the history of mathematics has been made, and where we ourselves will spend most of our time for the next two weeks.’

After consulting our map, we crossed a delicate bridge arching over the Seine – a glorious great mass of water running between banks of royal stone, plied by large flat boats going seriously about their business; a true city river, so different from our secretive, lovely Cam, dotted with little pleasure crafts as it winds amongst the green fields and hedgerows. The famous Academy was not far; it lies on the southern bank of the Seine, which they call the left bank, on the Quai de Conti. We had not yet arrived at the main entrance before we perceived our portly friend, puffing and looking about him with great impatience.

‘Ah, what a pleasure, what a pleasure,’ he said, shaking hands with an irrepressible air of pride and proprietorship. ‘It is such a lovely day, we shall walk about Paris and see many sights. I promise these young ladies that we shall not dally too long within these illustrious walls, but let us walk inside briefly and see the main hall.’

We entered. The interior was cool and dim. Few people were present, a lone figure here and there crossed the hallway, loaded with books. Mr Korneck led us to an imposing round room with a podium and seats all around it.

‘Here is where the meetings and announcements of the
Members take place,’ he pronounced respectfully. ‘The history of this room, with all the events of importance that occurred here, is an astonishing one.’

‘Has Fermat’s mysterious theorem ever been discussed here?’ I asked politely, seeing that he was longing to recount what he knew, but hesitating at the idea of boring us to tears with his pet topic.

‘Indeed it has!’ he replied with an air of delight. ‘The terrible intellectual duel between Gabriel Lamé and Augustin Cauchy took place, week after week, in this very room!’ He took a deep breath, assumed a special, dramatic expression, lowered his voice, and began to speak, stopping now and then to search for sufficiently impressive words.

‘It was more than forty years ago, and at that time, my dear ladies, you should be aware that mathematics was a subject that was discussed and debated in the most elegant
salons
of Paris, and books were written expressly for young ladies to learn about it, so as not to appear ignorant when the theme arose naturally in conversation. The work of Sophie Germain had appeared so promising to the Academy that they established a glorious prize, to be awarded to anyone who could finally solve the mysterious theorem, and many of the most renowned mathematicians of the day were struggling for it, and dropping hints about their progress. And one fine day in the year 1847, during the regular Academy meeting, Gabriel Lamé arose and announced that he had solved the problem! At that time Lamé was one of the most illustrious mathematicians in all of France, and yet, it was an extraordinary thing for him to be interested
in Fermat’s theorem, for he was really more of a physicist than a mathematician, and deeply involved in designing and building the railroads that criss-cross France today. But his researches in physics had led him, a few years before, to study Fermat’s beautiful equation
x
ⁿ
+
y
ⁿ
=
z
ⁿ
when
n
is equal to the number 7, and he had succeeded in discovering a brilliant proof of the expected result that no solution to this equation can exist. This result had led him to new ideas, and he believed that he had solved the entire problem once and for all, and would soon become the winner of the newly established prize! He had not yet written his proof completely, but he was in the process of doing it, and expected to be finished within a few short weeks.

‘No sooner had he finished making his announcement to the assembled company, who were stunned by the magnitude of the news, than another mathematician arose and pushed his way forward to the podium. It was Augustin-Louis Cauchy, devoted Catholic, ardent Royalist, unpleasant personage (if I may say so), but one of the most prolific mathematicians this country has ever known. Cauchy was a dangerous character; his understanding of mathematics was so gigantically vast, his ideas were so astoundingly varied and prolific, and his speed and eagerness so immense that he easily crushed any smaller or less influential person that crossed his path, and very possibly he never even noticed it. It had happened before and would happen again, and on this day, he could not endure Lamé’s declaration, and the astonished and admiring faces of the audience, and their murmurs of approval. No sooner had Lamé returned to his
seat, than Cauchy announced that he, too, had solved the problem, and that he, too, would have written down a full proof within the next few weeks. Look!’

Taking down one of the fat volumes of
Proceedings of the Academy
which lined one of the walls, he turned the pages and showed us a passage that I must admit I found more amusing and revealing than I would have thought possible for a dry scientific tome.

‘You see – it was the first of March, 1847,’ he said, showing us the date, ‘and here is the report of Lamé in which he sketched out his proof. And Cauchy could not bear to stand by and hear that! He could never endure someone else’s making a discovery on anything to which he had already bent his fertile mind.

‘Monsieur Cauchy says that he had deposited a memoir – when was it? half a year earlier – in which he gave a method that he thought could also lead to a proof of Fermat,’ translated Arthur. ‘He had turned to other work and hadn’t had time to check it, but his method was very different to Monsieur Lamé’s, and would be the subject of a new article.’

‘Doesn’t he sound jealous!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘Just in the way it’s written, you can almost imagine the stenographer thinking so.’

‘He was jealous,’ agreed Mr Korneck. ‘After this, a race began between the two men. Lamé deposited a sealed envelope at the Academy, in case there should be some dispute over priority later on, and on the very same day, Cauchy did the same! Lamé published some small portions of his proof in these
Comptes-Rendus,
and Cauchy did the same. Each of the two claimed to be smoothing out the final details of their proofs. They continued to publish at regular intervals for two months – and then came the catastrophe, in the form of a letter from Germany! Ernst Kummer of Berlin had been reading the rival articles by Cauchy and Lamé as they appeared, and he soon recognised that both mathematicians had fallen into a trap that was perfectly familiar to him, for he had fallen into it himself not long before, but had subsequently realised the error of the method. When he read the announcements of the proofs, which I just showed you, he had his suspicions, and when he saw their subsequent articles, he became certain. He wrote a letter to Liouville, to be read out in front of the whole of the Academy, in which he detailed what he believed was their
error. Kummer showed that there were two kinds of prime numbers, those called regular and those called irregular. The proofs Cauchy and Lamé were developing could only be applied to the regular primes – but Kummer himself had already understood how to deal with these many months earlier! As for the obstacle of the irregular primes, he felt that the methods proposed in the Academy publications could not succeed in vanquishing it.

‘Cauchy could not endure to read Kummer’s work – he reacted exactly as he had reacted to Lamé’s announcement. Look here, what he wrote in May 1847,’ and he turned several dozen pages in the same volume.

‘What a hypocrite!’ said Annabel. ‘Just look – he says that Kummer appears to have found results which he himself had already discovered – but that
if
Kummer
had done more than he had, then he would be the first to applaud! Why, he can’t have been a good mathematician, can he? He sounds like he needed to attribute everybody else’s work to himself!’