And Chopin's days of playing the wind spectrum month

【Life is full of sorrows and joys】

Chopin received, the first real gift from Aurora, a writing desk.

Well, for François Pison.

To that, he wished to throw away his membership card of the Polish Literary Association in Paris, his authorship - this table was just to celebrate his recovery and allow him to work better.

zal!

Since the beginning of the so-called "cohabitation", the frequency of this interjection has almost increased exponentially.

Shouldn't cohabitation be wonderful?

Why is it completely different from what he imagined?

The young man who suspected that he had picked up the wrong life script, his eyes were as empty as a statue.

Mr. Frederick Chopin, who can be described by the model worker, just wants to forget his industrious qualities at this time, and never go to that damn table.

But that is impossible.

His little tit was playing on that piano, dutifully doing his work as an overseer.

"Maybe you need to adapt to the new environment, Francois, don't worry, you can slowly find the feeling."

"Writing is a grind, François, what emotional music do you need, call me at any time."

"Francois, have you been visited by the muse today?"

"Still at a loss, François, have I disturbed you?"

……

No, dear Aurora, it has nothing to do with you, it's my own problem.

As a composer, how can I do the work of a writer-I'm not that guy Franz, he can still pick up a pen and express his thoughts in the music newspapers-I never take the initiative to talk.

The youth couldn't ignore the girl's expectant eyes.

He knew everything that Aurora didn't expect him to write any shocking works, and he didn't necessarily ask him to hand over any manuscripts.She just hopes to find a kind of harmony, and hopes that their lives can blend into each other.

If it is "Chopin", it may be much simpler.

Driven by his heart, the young man's restless heart gradually calmed down, and he began to write and draw on paper.While he was concentrating with his head down, the girl playing the piano secretly glanced at him, as if infected by something, she immediately relaxed and continued the melodious movement between her fingers with a smile.

When Chopin came back to his senses and saw clearly what was on the paper, he quickly folded the paper in a petrified millisecond, and shivered like a guilty conscience, and put it in his coat pocket.

Thanks to Heavenly Father for his mercy, Aurora was not so curious as to give up playing the piano to see what he had written.

Chopin unconsciously drew five lines by himself, following the memory in his mind, he went on to write a few more lines of the "Second Ballade" he just started, right under Miss Titmouse's eyes.

When the young man breathed well and picked up the pen again, the ink that had just been put on the nib was thrown onto the paper by his trembling hand in an instant, and a small black flower bloomed.

He froze for a long while, before he dared to glance away at Aurora.He saw that she was immersed in the practice, and her body relaxed.

It was simply too difficult for his little Polish heart that couldn't help being frightened.

Even the composition had to be carried out secretly...Chopin rarely felt jealous of Berlioz: because the French always cursed and wrote manuscripts to support the family and took up too much of his composition time.But Berlioz could fish openly, but he had so much time that he didn't even dare to write down the tunes he had rehearsed in his head.

Then write a letter...

Although it was difficult to write a letter—at least, it would make him look like he was "writing", right?

Chopin, who picked up the pen and began to draw the hairspring slowly, could already predict that his circle of friends would start a discussion meeting all night again.

such as--

The Poles have been so close and warm to me recently, there must be something wrong!What, you got dozens of letters from him too?Oh, God, when did Frederick change his temper behind our backs, won't the sun set tomorrow!

……

"Today seems to be quite fruitful, François."

Cheerful birdsong sounded behind him, and Chopin, who was tormenting the elongated letter, noticed a shadow on the desktop.

He jumped up in astonishment, grabbed the white paper in a panic, and covered the words.

"Aurora!"

"I'm sorry, François, I'm sorry to scare you, but I won't be like this in the future."

Panting heavily, he stared in shock at the girl who raised her hands and surrendered to him.

Franz Liszt—this bastard must have led her in, and he won't accept rebuttals.

"You... are so afraid of being seen by me..." Aurora narrowed her eyes and approached him with a smile on her face, "Francois, could it be... are you really writing something indescribable?"

"Reserve, miss—" Chopin was impatient, and he used etiquette to suppress her, "What are you thinking, what is an 'indescribable thing'!"

"Then let me see, and I can find spelling mistakes for you."

"No, I refuse—"

"Then you're writing the indescribable."

"No, you're wrong—"

"Then I can see, you want me to get it myself, right?"

"!"

Miss Titmouse happily flew to the desk, and after spotting the stack of manuscripts, she stretched out her slender arms precisely.

Mr. Hedgehog rang the alarm bell, and his actions were faster than his thoughts. He immediately stood in front of the table and built a city wall with his body.

The form changed instantly, and the force was too late to retract. Under the effect of inertia, she bumped into him full of arms.

Chopin folded his arms and put Aurora into his cage.The tit was imprisoned in his arms, and he couldn't go there either.

His heartbeat, her face's heat, mixed with their breath, is as gorgeous as a symphonic poem on the piano, making people unable to open their eyes.

Words and voices have been stolen by goblins, and there is nothing left but hugs and each other.

"Aurora, do you want...to be my heroine?"

The deep and misty male voice is like the temptation in the golden cup of Dionysus. It doesn't even need to enter the throat to make people drunk.

"What do you mean?

The extremely weak female voice murmured in the young man's chest and turned into a fantasy dream. She was like a disturbed butterfly, trapped in the fog and unable to find her way.

"It means, I write 'Aurora' into my story. With your facial features, with your voice, with your touch, with your fragrance... with everything about you, the only heroine. "

"Ugh?"

He let her go slightly, teased her hair hanging by her ears, and continued to use his warm breath to spread dangerous temptation along the pinna of her ears.

"Remember how you guessed my occupation? If you dare to peek again, I can't guarantee what you will see..."

"You—I don't have any adjectives!"

He was pushed away by her, shaking the table.

She seemed to raise her hand to give him a hand, but she remembered his startling words, and she gave him a hard look in shame, stomped her feet, and fled without a trace like a gust of wind.

Aurora's face was flushed all over her eyes, and her reproachful eyes made half of the young man's heart sink into numbness.

Chopin grabbed the clothes on his chest, slumped on the seat, and covered his face with his arms in self-loathing.

It's really... terrible slander, I probably have no image at all.

In order not to be exposed, in order to abide by the rules of the game, lying again and again is like walking a tightrope. It is indeed an extraordinary and exciting experience, and it is indeed possible to see a different scenery.

But Chopin was faintly tired.

It’s not that he’s tired of love, but that he’s tired of deception—he knows now that he wants to play the piano with Aurora more than being by Aurora’s side all the time, and give her the first interpretation of the product of every inspiration, and then He was happy to hear the expression he wanted most, restrained his inner joy and praised her lightly, "That's it, Aurora".

For example, now that he can't speak any words, he can play impromptu songs for her on that piano that are almost never repeated throughout the day.

oh, the piano...

Chopin gripped his hand tightly, stamping down the frantic desire to play.

As a composer, how do you give up composing?As a pianist, how to suppress the attractiveness of the piano?

"In order to prevent you from cheating, you must never offer to say 'You are Frederic Chopin'."

Pettit's advice began to ring in his ears again. This must be punishment, and he now knew how hard it was to swallow.

If he can't take the initiative... he probably has to make another plan. No matter what happens, "Chopin" should really come out and see the light.

He really can't play the role of a writer well, so let him use this table to compose music in the future. As for the pianist's occupational disease, which is already faintly showing signs of outbreak...

You can go to the salon to maintain the feeling of playing, and you can use tutoring as an excuse for enough practice every day-there will be income when the piano class is reopened, which is just not a lie.

Aurora.

Even if I'm not a real writer... don't run away, you have long been my heroine, written in my heart.

Pleyel House.

Camille handed the cane to the maid after entering the door, unbuttoned the jacket, loosened the bow tie, and shook the goblet a few times.

The wine from Burgundy exudes a wonderful aroma of grapes, and his fatigue slowly dissipates. After drinking half a glass of wine, the misty feeling brought by the alcohol completely relaxes him.

Don’t have to be tortured by the recent decline in the business of concert halls... Oh, and I think of the Pole again—probably the worst agent in Paris is Pleyel, the spokesperson has a lot of rules, ask Chopin to give a concert and talk nonsense The skin is useless, but he is still happy to spoil him, at most suppressing his salary to force him to move more.

Look at Eral next door. Compared with Chopin, Liszt really has too much peace of mind—this is the only thing about his competitors that makes him jealous.

"Camille, you're back."

"Ah."

The businessman looked up and saw that the young wife was sorting out a bunch of invitations on the coffee table.

Mork, who had just returned from a trip abroad, presumably couldn't wait to start consolidating her social status again.

"Camille, do you have any news about Fried recently? I haven't seen him in the salon these days... I heard from the ladies that he almost disappeared in Paris."

"Well, if you ask him what to do, don't worry, before he completes the contract, God can't let Chopin disappear from my presence."

"Oh, I want to invite him to my comeback salon... You know, whoever can lure Chopin to the salon now will definitely attract attention."

"..."

The businessman didn't answer, he drank wine without a trace, looked at his wife who was tossing with the small cards in high spirits, and his smile slowly faded.

"Do you expect people who are engaged to go out to the salon in the middle of the night like before?"

"Fried is really engaged? Ah... his wife is really... Chopin belongs to Sharon, how can she monopolize it?"

"Ah."

He thought of the lady playing the piano, and his friend's awkward way of dealing with it. In his ears, Mo Ke's words were no different from a joke.

Camille did not refute. He watched his wife's performance, and his eyes became deeper and deeper.

"According to this, their relationship... is really good?"

"Honey, believe me, the Pole has endured to the limit, how could he give up the piano?"

"Ah, then I'll send him an invitation right away, I miss his piano so much."

"I never lied to you, ma'am."

Camille raised her head, swallowed all the wine in the glass, closed her eyes to hide the coldness in her eyes.

I never lied to you, Miss Mork, what you most hope for will never come true.

I will give you one last chance.

A tavern in Paris.

Receiving an extra payment, Berlioz ordered himself a glass of spirits at the bar to celebrate.

The high-strength alcohol was down his throat, and he hadn't touched it for a long time. The hot stimulation instantly made him fall into some kind of hallucination, and the chapters of the symphony that had been forced to forget reverberated in his mind again.He bit his lip and greeted his muse again, but he could only return with tears.

"This year... the funniest joke... Chopin... got divorced... hahaha... divorced..."

The person who was walking behind him stopped suddenly, and the person turned around and tapped him on the shoulder.

Berlioz propped his head up in a daze, his body paralyzed by alcohol, it was too difficult to look up at a person.He didn't bother to care about who it was, in the world with double shadows, he could only see the white gloves clearly.

Oh, white gloves.

Only Frederic Chopin liked to carry that contrived thing with him everywhere.

"Mr. Berlioz, you just said... Chopin, what?"

"Chopin?"

"Yes, you said his marriage?"

"Oh, marriage...Chopin? His marriage has already been blown."

Berlioz shared the untrue joke with amusement, not letting the opportunity to laugh at the superior man go.

As for true and false, isn't that something that a discerning person can see clearly at a glance?

"Thank you for your information, Monsieur Berlioz. Waiter, I will take all the drinks for this gentleman tonight."

jingle--

Berlioz opened his eyelids, and the three gold louis were spread out in front of him along the white gloves.

"Smile, please, have a nice evening. Your news made me very...happy."

The author has something to say: a small desk as a gift is an anti-historical easter egg.It originated from the fact that when Chopin accepted Sang's care, he would give her some popular furniture as a gift in return.And the nominal investor of Miss Ou's house here is Xiao Xiao, and she gave him a desk.

Later updates will return to normal times.