The Swan King

by Nina Clare

  The guest box was smaller than the royal box, not wishing to sit conspicuously beside Herr Weimann, Elisabeth took the seat near the apprentice, though the corner seats, were shadowy and not well lit.

  Herr Weimann held court as men in formal evening attire and ladies in jewels came to greet the new royal favourite. They praised Herr Leonard’s performance. They rejoiced that the king had reopened the royal theatre and not prolonged the period of mourning. Herr Weimann’s bows and gestures were worthy of the stage behind him, and he outshone everyone with his beautifully embroidered waistcoat, his ornately tied cravat, his diamond cufflinks and pearl buttons.

  ‘A gift from His Majesty,’ Herr Weimann was telling his present acquaintance, a lady in blue silk and sapphires who was admiring his cufflinks. He turned his wrist, so the light caught the stones. ‘One of many. The king is so very generous. He surpasses all. “My Friend”, he said to me, “take this trifle as a mark of my attachment and my recognition of your genius.” He always calls me Friend. So generous. How humbled I am by his patronage and deep affection.’

  ‘Most generous,’ drawled a deep voice. Elisabeth felt a jarring sensation—that voice—it was familiar, but not in a welcome way. It struck a chord of fear. For a moment she could not breathe. She dared to look. It was a tall, lean man, standing with his gloved hands behind his back as he stood in the entrance to the box. She could not see his face, for his back was to her. She could have stretched out an arm and touched his sleeve, so close was he.

  ‘Fräulein Schwan,’ said a low voice. ‘Are you well?’

  She turned to the apprentice, and realised she was trembling, but she did not know why.

  ‘A man as young as the king, barely out of the schoolroom,’ the tall, lean man was saying, ‘is easily swayed by those of more mature years whom he admires.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ said Herr Weimann, squaring his shoulders and pursing his lips.

  ‘It is no criticism,’ replied the man. ‘Make the most of what opportunities come your way, that is one of my mottoes.’

  The orchestra were preparing to begin. There was a stir as people returned to their seats for the second act. The stranger made a slight bow, his companion, the lady in sapphires, allowed Herr Weimann to kiss her fingers, which sparkled with more sapphires. The smell of pomade caught Elisabeth’s nose as the stranger passed her by. It had a hint of camphor, and for some reason the smell turned her stomach.

  It was a mercy the man had not turned to look at her, she did not know why, she only knew that she did not want him to see her. She leaned against the back of the velvet chair cushion, willing her stomach to stop churning, and wondering what it all meant.

  ‘Take this,’ said the voice of Herr Weimann’s apprentice. He held out a glass towards her. ‘You seem unwell.’

  Her mouth was dry, so she took the glass and sipped. She could barely concentrate on the second act; her thoughts were swirling, and she felt confined and trapped in the darkened box. Before the next interval began, she swallowed her pride and leaned over to the apprentice and whispered, ‘Could you escort me back to the palace, please? I feel unwell.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If you care to get your cloak, I will meet you at the entrance. I shall speak a word to my master first.’

  ‘I could not get a carriage,’ the apprentice said apologetically. ‘Are you able to walk?’

  ‘Yes, perfectly able. It’s not far.’

  ‘I’m sorry your evening has been spoiled,’ he continued. ‘But Herr Leonard is not the best Tannhäuser, in my opinion. Herr Hermann is far better.’

  ‘I would not know. I’ve never heard him sing. I don’t think.’

  ‘I saw him in Berlin. He performs with such honesty, such passion, as though he really is Tannhäuser. Herr Leonard sings as though he is only acting, or so I have always thought.’

  ‘You differ from your master’s opinion,’ she observed.

  He only tilted his head to one side as a gesture of assent.

  ‘I can have no opinion on the subject, I cannot recall having been to the theatre until tonight.’

  ‘All the more pity that you were taken ill.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She struggled to talk. She was uneasy and unsettled by her peculiar reaction to the stranger. The worst of it was that she did not know if her reaction was in response to something real or imaginary.

  The apprentice tried to make further conversation, but gave up eventually.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, relieved when the entrance to the palace was in sight, lit by large, brass lanterns. ‘I can make my way from here.’

  He bowed and turned to leave. A pang of conscience assailed her. He had been very kind, and she had been distracted and distant. ‘Thank you for escorting me,’ she said in a softer voice. ‘I am grateful.’

  He paused and gave a half smile. ‘You are most welcome.’

  She put out a hand for him to shake as an offering of conciliation. He accepted.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked; she could not remember if he had told her or not.

  He hesitated, as though the question made him uncomfortable, he dropped a glove he had been carrying. He seemed to drop things a lot. But why should he feel discomfort when asked his name?

  ‘Herr Haller,’ he said. ‘My friends call me Christian.’

  ‘Good night, Herr Haller,’ she said, and left him.

  Chapter 19

  Maiden’s Blushes

  The nightmare was more intense the night after the theatre. Now her assailant in the dream smelled of camphor.

  She told the prince what had happened next morning; he said he would make discreet enquiries as to the identity of the man. He would not trouble the king directly, as he was with the Cabinet Secretary being persuaded to agree to a date for the banquet in honour of the emperor, as well as contending with worse news—the Duke of Preußen was continuing to press for unification. The duke was preparing his troops, and urging Bayern to make ready her army.

  ‘Is it serious?’ Elisabeth asked. ‘Might we be forced to go to war?’

  ‘It is serious. And His Majesty hates war. He will do all he can to avert it, although that is not a popular decision with the government.’

  ‘You are right not to trouble him with my concerns,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘He will want to know,’ Paul assured her. ‘But I shall wait until the right time to tell him, and in the meantime, I will make enquiries and report it to the Chief Inspector. He wishes to interview you as soon as can be arranged, though he is out of the city at present.’

  ‘It may be nothing,’ she said. ‘I may have imagined it all. The man could be a perfectly innocent stranger. I don’t know what is real anymore.’ She wrung her hands, feeling strained from her nightmare-filled night.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the prince, taking her anxious hands and smiling softly down at her. ‘We will find out the truth.’

  His confidence reassured her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. It was impossible to feel anything but safe and warm with him looking at her as he did. She did not voice the thought that the truth might not be something good. She was half afraid of finding out who she was. She almost wished she could stay just as she was at that moment.

  ‘I have something that will take your mind off last night,’ said Paul, still holding her hands. ‘A visit to Herr Weimann’s, when the king is finished with his meetings. It ought to be entertaining, if nothing else.’

  The carriage bore her through the wide, orderly streets. The city walls soared, ornamented with pillars and arches and festooned with stone wreaths. Stone lions guarded the head of every street, lying atop their stone mounts, or seated, with shield in paw, on stone pillars.

  Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen strolled the clean streets, pausing to speak to acquaintances, eying the riders and carriages that rumbled past to see if there were anyone of note travelling by. Prince Paul, riding on horseback ahead of the king’s carriage was a sight to draw ever
y admiring eye. Elisabeth was glad her own small carriage was anonymous, without insignia or coronet.

  The driver reined the horses to a slow walk as they reached a pair of tall gates, which swung open at the arrival of the prince. The carriages and outriders passed through them, and up a sweeping driveway to a mansion of pale stone, built in the new style.

  A columned portico led into a circular hall of marble floor and walls. Alcoves lined the hall, housing life-sized statues of ancient people. The chandeliers above were grand enough to rival those at the palace, as were the sweeping twin staircases ahead.

  From one of many doors a figure appeared. It was Herr Haller, the apprentice. ‘If you would care to come this way, Your Majesty,’ he greeted the king with a bow. ‘Herr Weimann awaits you in the yellow drawing room.’

  Paul gave his crop and hat to a footman who stepped forward to take them. Herr Haller bowed in greeting to the prince and then to Elisabeth. ‘Fräulein Schwan,’ he said pleasantly. Elisabeth thought, as she lifted the short veil on her hat, that he looked pale and very tired.

  Herr Weimann stood waiting in the centre of the drawing room. His yellow beret and waistcoat in vivid accord with the yellow silk-hung walls. The carpet was of yellow, a pattern of green leaves woven on it. The long couches and upholstered chairs were of yellow velvet.

  ‘Come and see, Your Majesty!’ cried Herr Weimann, opening his brocaded arms to gesture to a round, marble-topped table behind him. ‘Is it not beautiful? It was completed last night, and it was all I could do not to send word to come at the hour of four in the morning!’

  Herr Weimann stepped aside to reveal a model, standing on a cloth of baize. The king moved to the table, bending to inspect it more closely. Silence fell upon the room as he scrutinised the model of a castle. A castle of white walls, with high towers and turret roofs the colour of the blue mountains of Bayern.

  ‘Stand aside, Your Highness,’ Herr Weimann said to the prince. ‘You are blocking the light.’

  Paul moved away from the window, and the summer sun fell full upon the model. The white towers gleamed.

  The king moved about the table, examining the model carefully. His expression was closed, and Elisabeth felt the tension in the air as Herr Weimann waited for his response. It did not bode well, for no smile, no show of pleasure showed upon the king’s face.

  ‘Does His Majesty approve?’ Herr Weimann asked finally. ‘He observes the harmony in the symmetry of the gatehouse? He sees how noble the lines of the windows of the singers’ hall are? Perfectly aligned to the west, so the golden evening sun pours in through the coloured glass to fill the hall. And His Majesty’s own private suite—see how it commands a full view of the mountains, unimpeded by the towers? Observe the galleried walkways, Your Majesty, their archways framing the views beyond.’

  The king was still silent, his eyes passing from the model to the carefully drawn plans laid down beside it.

  Elisabeth noticed the apprentice stifling a yawn. He caught her glance and gave a lop-sided smile. She had to suppress a giggle at the contortions his face was making in trying to not yawn. The tension in the air was making her feel the need to yawn or laugh too.

  The king stood up from his examination. His face a mask of gravity. ‘Herr Weimann,’ he said in his musical voice.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty?’ Herr Weimann stood with hands clasped before him, as though appealing for a word of acceptance. ‘Does my humble translation of the inspiration of the Muse satisfy the king?’

  ‘Herr Weimann, you are not The Friend of the King.’

  ‘I am not?’ Herr Weimann’s beret feather trembled.

  ‘You, Herr Weimann, are The Beloved Friend of the King. You are his Genius, his True Artist, the only one who understands his soul’s need for beauty!’

  ‘Hah!’ laughed Herr Weimann, bowing low. ‘His Majesty is the divinely appointed Patron of True Art! His Majesty is most Treasured Friend to the Muse. History shall remember His Majesty forever as the Champion of Beauty and Vision! What is the Beloved Friend without his Patron? Who is he but a lowly artist?’

  ‘The work must begin at once,’ said the king, marching around the table. ‘Oh, that this wretched banquet did not keep me here when I desire to be surrounded by mountains of everlasting stone, not these temporal bricks of the city. I must return home and begin the work!’

  ‘Indeed, His Majesty must,’ agreed Herr Weimann. ‘But His Majesty must not forget his duty to his people. The banquet, the ball—are they not works of beauty also? Should not the king extend his patronage to his subjects in the city as well as in the mountains? Will he not spread his light, his love, his radiance to us poor dwellers of temporal bricks?’

  ‘The king will do his duty,’ said the king soberly. ‘He always does.’

  ‘And His Majesty’s most humble servant, The Beloved Friend, he shall bear the honour of a lowly seat at the royal banquet?’ Herr Weimann put a hand to his own breast, as though it ached with longing.

  ‘Forgive my intrusion, Herr Weimann,’ said Prince Paul, ‘but the banquet is strictly for members of state and nobility. The emperor himself is the honoured guest.’

  Herr Weimann’s face turned dark for a moment, and his hand upon his breast clenched.

  ‘If the king wishes The Beloved Friend to eat at his table, then eat he shall,’ said the king.

  Herr Weimann’s fingers unclenched. ‘And does the king wish it?’ he dared ask with a quivering voice.

  ‘He does. Among such a table of war-mongering ministers and dragon-tongued courtiers should not the king have one friend?’

  Herr Weimann beamed and made his bows while the king made his farewells.

  Elisabeth trailed behind the departing men. Herr Weimann was pointing out articles of decor and ornamentation to the king as they passed through the sumptuous rooms.

  ‘I trust you are comfortable in the accommodation supplied,’ she heard the king say.

  ‘Delighted, Your Majesty,’ Herr Weimann assured him. ‘My poor artist’s soul could desire nothing more to minister to his small needs as he labours night and day. The only trifle that is lacking, Your Majesty, is the lack of music. There is but one piano, Your Majesty, only one.’

  ‘How many pianos does one need?’ enquired the king.

  ‘When The Beloved Friend is pacing through his chambers, night and day, up and down stairs, searching for that image of perfection, sometimes only the sound of beautiful music stirring the air, filling the halls and rooms will entice the elusive Muse to come to him. The sound of the harp, the strings, the ivory keys of the piano—the sweet harmonies of a beautiful voice—only His Majesty can understand how music and song brings forth life and meaning.’

  ‘Paul shall arrange all things,’ acceded the king.

  ‘Art thanks His Majesty with all her soul!’ declared Herr Weimann. ‘Come, let me show you the gallery where I am assembling a collection of busts of every artist and poet and musician throughout history.’

  The king and Herr Weimann swept away up a staircase, with Prince Paul following close after.

  ‘Would you care to see the gardens?’ a voice behind Elisabeth asked. ‘The roses are beautiful at this time of the year. The gallery of artists is quite lengthy. They will be some time.’

  She turned to the apprentice. ‘Thank you, Herr Haller. I should infinitely prefer roses to dead poets.’ She thought privately that he looked as though a walk in the sunshine would do him good, for he was pale with shadows under his eyes.

  He smiled and gestured the way, almost walking into a doorframe as he did so.

  ‘What is it you do for Herr Weimann?’ she asked as they walked leisurely along the garden pathways.

  ‘Whatever he asks of me. I draw, sketch, calculate, build models.’

  ‘Did you make the model of the new castle?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Does he keep you up all night working as he does?’

  He pulled a rueful face. ‘One of us works all night,’ he said. ‘T
he other prefers to dine out and visit concerts and performances.’

  ‘But he takes you with him? You were at the theatre last week.’

  ‘Only if there is something he wishes me to take note of.’

  ‘Take note?’

  ‘A piece of architecture; a style or design that he thinks might be relevant to the project in hand. He wished me to see the theatre to observe the mouldings on the exterior of the balconies. He would like it replicated in the new castle.’

  They reached the rose garden, and it was as he had said: beautiful. ‘If I were building a castle,’ Elisabeth said, inhaling the warm, scented air, ‘I should look to such beauty as this for inspiration.’ She stopped to look up to admire the trailing roses in the trellis walkway above them.

  ‘As would I,’ agreed Herr Haller. Elisabeth was distracted from the hanging roses by him stumbling into a trellis post.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked.

  He rubbed his forehead and attempted a grin. ‘I get so clumsy when I’m tired. Or anxious.’

  They walked on, Herr Haller telling her some of the funny names of the roses. They laughed over Big Maiden’s Blush, wondering if it was the blush or the maiden who was big. He plucked the stem of one climbing rose and held it out to her. It was a spray of white buds. She hesitated. It seemed a little forward to be accepting a gift from a young man, even if the gift was so slight.

  ‘My mother used to say that flowers have meanings,’ he said, still offering the cluster. ‘White rosebuds are for purity. A man would give such a rose to his sister, or friend.’

  She took the spray.

  ‘There you are!’ called the voice of Prince Paul.

  ‘I’m sorry, have you been looking for me? I only stepped out to see the gardens.’

  ‘So, I see,’ said the prince, reaching them. He looked at the roses in her hand, then glanced at Herr Haller, and back at her.

  ‘Good day, Herr Haller,’ she said with more briskness than she intended, unsettled by the thought that the prince had read more into the scene than was really there.