Finding the Beauty Underneath

I

"Goodbye, my little flower. I shall be gone only a few hours." Father said as he tugged on his coat.

"Where will you be going?" I asked as I cleared the table from our supper plates.

"Out for a drink. I won't be gone very long." I quickly put the plates aside to clean them later, then joined Father at the big wooden front door. "I'll see you in a bit, little one." He said before kissing my forehead. He took a few steps out the door, then stopped himself and turned to face me. "And remember: don't touch my violin."

"I know." I said quietly as I cast my eyes down.

"Good girl." He turned around again and walked out of the house. I shut the door before continuing to clear the table.

Once that was finished, I quietly walked over to Father's room and opened the door. Though I knew there was no need to be quiet as I was alone in the house, I always walked that way to Father's room purely out of habit. I reached for the candle that was kept on a table by the bedroom door and silently lit it. While holding the candle, I walked over to the violin case that was kept by Father's bed. As usual, I ignored the "Do Not Touch" note he always kept on the case.

I took the violin case back to my bedroom as I was more comfortable there and lit a lamp with the candle. I sat on my bed and opened the case and the violin's beautiful polished wood greeted me. I carefully took out the violin and bow. After carefully tuning each string, I eagerly put the violin on my shoulder. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pretended that I was performing in front of hundreds of adoring people. I put my fingers into position on the strings and skillfully began to play. Of course I was not as good a musician as Father, but I had been practicing for many years without his knowledge and have become very good at playing it. I would never tell Father, though.

Once I was satisfied with my playing, I carefully put the violin back in the case and in its proper place in Father's room. I blew out the candle after lighting more lamps around the house as the sky grew darker by the minute. I sighed to myself. Though I felt horrible for lying to Father all these years about his violin, it felt good that I was skilled at something.

I remembered with distaste of when Father had forced me to attempt many performing activities for women such as singing, dancing. . .even just acting. I was not even remotely good at those things. Even to this day I was inadequate in those areas. I knew that Father frequently wondered why I received no skills from my mother. She was a proficient singer and even performed at the grand Opera Populaire. She had tried to teach me how to sing, but did not force it upon me when it was revealed I was not good at it nor interested in it.

So Father would play his violin, Mother would sing along, and I would watch.

Father was very good at what he did. He also worked at the Opera Populaire and continued to work there to this day. Mother and Father would oftentimes remind me that they had met through work. They had made it sound so romantic that when I was younger, I would dream of meeting a man through work just like they had. As I've gotten older, I've realized how unlikely that would be. In order to meet a man at work, I first had to figure out what I was good at in order to get some work. Sure, I was good at the violin—great even. But who would want a woman to play for them? All the positions in orchestras were always taken by men. No one wanted a woman to play for them.

I supposed it did not matter anyway. No one knew I could play the violin well. Not even Father.

I start washing up the plates and utensils from supper.

"Bring me more tea, Emilie." Father grumbled as he sat at the kitchen table, eating his breakfast the next morning.

I stepped away from the stove and brought over the kettle and poured more of the hot beverage into his cup. Then I did as I did every morning. "Father?" I asked.