Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 602 The Lingering Ghost!
The Paris Opera is undoubtedly the highest temple of European drama and music; its music director must have profound qualifications and a distinguished reputation.

Only established musicians with significant connections and status in the French music and theater world can compete fiercely for this position.

The current director, Mr. Ernesto Artes, is himself a highly respected conductor and composer, so his appointment was recognized by the art world and high society.

And Raoul Pounío claims he held this position at the age of nineteen? Even in a dream, that's absurd enough to be no laughing matter.

Lionel even wondered if he had misjudged the man; this guy was simply spouting an outrageous lie!

He finally caught his breath and stared intently at Raoul Pounio: "Mr. Pounio, you? Nineteen years old? Music Director of the Paris Opera?"

Raoul Pounio seemed used to this attitude: "Mr. Sorel, believe me, this is not some enviable 'honor'."

He picked up the glass, downed the remaining beer in one gulp, and then slammed the glass down on the wooden table with a "thud."

"Yes, Mr. Sorel. Nineteen years old. Music director of the Paris Opera. That was in the spring of 1871, after the Commune seized power."

"The Commune!" The word instantly embodied the blood of Lionel, Debussy, and Paul Broad. Lionel quickly realized a possibility.

Raoul Pounío’s voice was so calm it sounded like he was telling someone else’s story: “I was young and passionate then. I read some Proudhon and thought the world should be fairer.”

I support the commune. Perhaps it's because I can play the piano and have a little bit of fame that they—the leaders of the commune—felt they needed someone with artistic knowledge to manage things.

Therefore, I was appointed as a member of the 'Paris Commune Music and Artists Support Committee'. At the same time, I also served as the 'Music Director' of the Paris Opera.

Lionel regained his composure: "Appointed by the commune? That's not surprising."

Raoul Pounio nodded: "Yes. As a 'reward,' the leaders of the commune also proposed that the opera house should stage two operas written by me."

Sounds amazing, doesn't it? A nineteen-year-old opera director, performing two of his own works—a meteoric rise!

He paused for a moment, then shook his head: "The commune only lasted seventy-two days. As for me, the 'director,' I didn't actually take office for even a minute."

Paris was in chaos at the time, and I didn't even hear about my two titles until several days after the appointments were made, from a friend.

Everyone was busy building barricades, finding food, or figuring out how to escape; who cared about opera and music? The opera house had long since closed.

Paul Broad suddenly remembered something: "Wait! Raoul Pounío...you're a student of Master George Massias! That piano prodigy!"

"You're Raoul Pounío! My God, I've heard of you! I've heard my teachers mention you at the music academy! I've seen your records!"

He turned to Lionel and Debussy, speaking rapidly: "It's him! Yes! Monsieur Raoul Poignant! He was known throughout Paris at the age of six!"
Her first public performance was a solo at a charity concert at the city hall! After entering the music academy, she won first prize in piano with a unanimous vote in her first year!

Later, he won the gold medal for sight-singing and ear training, and the first prize for harmony—all in Mr. Bazin's class! Then he won the first prize for organ—in Mr. Benoît's class!

There were also second prizes in counterpoint and fugue, which were taught personally by Master Ambrose Thomas! I've seen those records in the academy's archives!

Paul Broad exclaimed with admiration, “Each of these awards is as precious as gold! By comparison, my college’s first prize in piano is as faint as the light of a firefly!”

Debussy was astonished, and Lionel also showed an expression of understanding and regret. Such talent and starting point were undoubtedly dazzling.

Raoul Pounio listened quietly as Paul Broad recounted his long-forgotten honors, his face showing no pride, but rather a dazed expression.

He said softly, “That’s all in the past. Mr. Paul has a good memory. I’m afraid there aren’t many young people in the music academy who still remember me.”

His tone returned to its previous calm: "The commune failed, 'Bloody Week'...you all know that. I wasn't executed; the teacher saved me."

But after that, no music school was willing to hire me, not even as a teaching assistant. The nobility and republicans alike despised me because of my support for the revolution.

Lionel nodded: "So you'll have to go to the church organ."

Raoul Pounío smiled, a smile that held both sadness and relief: "This is my story, just an insignificant ripple in that great tide."

After he finished speaking, no one spoke for a long time. The sounds of clinking glasses and laughter from the next table made the silence at this table all the more striking.

Debussy's emotions were complex, including sympathy, sighs, and a sense of loss for his own kind.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he only whispered, "That was a really... terrible time."

Paul Broad, on the other hand, was much more agitated. He clenched his fists, his face flushed red: "This is not fair! Because of politics, a genius has been buried for more than a decade?"

"This is outrageous! The music scene in Paris... those old men..." He wanted to swear, but his manners prevented him from speaking. Lionel listened quietly, without immediately offering his opinion.

French society, especially in Paris, has been rife with decades of fierce struggles between deeply entrenched factions, leaving indelible scars on society.

The Commune of 1871 was not merely a failed uprising; it was like an axe that cleaved French society, especially Paris, in two.

The victors' reckoning with the losers continues to this day, affecting countless individuals like Raoul Pounío who are swept up by the tides of time.

Lionel finally spoke: "Art and talent are always incredibly fragile in the face of political stance. Just as they can be used as a banner, they can also be used as a reason for purging."

Therefore, this will not be the first time, nor will it be the last. Politicians are always adept at creating sacrifices. And those who survive often bear the shackles for a very long time, perhaps even until death.

Debussy nodded: "Paris... sometimes embraces genius with the utmost enthusiasm, and sometimes it wants to drown all the outcasts. Especially after a period of turmoil, when everyone is on edge, drawing lines is more important than appreciating talent."

Paul Broad remained indignant: "But that's music! It's art! Shouldn't it transcend all of that?"

Lionel shook his head: "Art can never truly transcend. It is born of specific people, exists in specific times, and is stained with blood and mud."

He looked at Raoul Pounío: "But Mr. Pounío, it is already remarkable that you have not given up playing the piano, that you have not given up music."

Raoul Pounio listened to their discussion silently, his face calm, but his heart was inevitably stirred.

For more than a decade, he had heard too many comments about himself, some expressing pity, some disdain, and some simply out of curiosity, wanting to see a genius fall from grace.

But conversations like this, calm and understanding, are rare. Especially since the speaker was from Lionel, it carried a different weight for him.

The group whispered amongst themselves about the chaos and bewilderment in Paris during those years, but carefully avoided touching on any particularly sensitive individuals or events.

After all, in Paris in 1883, the wounds had not yet fully healed. Even though all the Commune members had been pardoned, their ghosts still lingered in people's hearts.

Lionel extended his hand to Raoul Pounío: "Mr. Pounío, in any case, what has happened cannot be changed."

But the future is in our own hands. Your performance just now proves that your talent has not been extinguished by time; it still burns as brightly as the sun!

Raoul Pounío also extended his hand, shook hands firmly with Lionel, nodded, and said nothing.

Lionel smiled and continued, "I hope that starting with 'The Legend of 1900' will be a completely new beginning for you."

Music should be heard, talent should be seen, and on stage, not just in the shadows of a church.

Raoul Pounio looked curious: "The Legend of 1900? This is your new film? It's a story about a pianist?"

Lionel nodded: "Yes. It's the story of a genius pianist who spent his entire life at sea and never set foot on land, so the music is its soul."

Ashley composed the music for it, but those pieces, like the ones you just experienced, aren't easy to handle. We need pianists who can master them.

You and Mr. Paul are exactly the people we were looking for. I'm so glad to have met you both!

Raoul Pounio's eyes gleamed with genuine curiosity. A pianist at sea? Never set foot on land? Wasn't that similar to himself?

Playing the organ alone in a church, only those attending worship can hear it. Isn't that just like a pianist on a cruise ship playing only for the tourists?
He nodded: "That sounds interesting."

Lionel then extended an invitation: "The Comedy Theatre is currently rehearsing. Mr. Punio, if you are free tomorrow afternoon, why don't we go and take a look?"

Raoul Pounio agreed almost without hesitation: “I would be happy to, Mr. Sorel. I will be there on time tomorrow afternoon.”

After spending more than a decade in front of the organ at the Saint-Eugène Church, the rehearsal hall of the Comédie-Française held an irresistible attraction for him, even if it was just to "look around".

Moreover, the play, the music, and everything around him gave him a long-lost sense of vitality.

At this moment, several people with pens and paper seized the opportunity to gather around; they were all reporters from major Parisian newspapers.

"Mr. Sorel, what was the name of the new movie you just mentioned? 'The Legend of 1900'?"

(First update, thank you everyone. Please vote with monthly tickets.)

(End of this chapter)