The Storm Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  Therefore, he reasoned with himself, his story wasn’t exactly a lie. He had felt quite dreadful this morning, and had slept through Dora’s timid attempts to wake him. He knew the maid was in love with him, which was why she colluded in his pretences whenever he needed her to.

  ‘It was a shame that you were out last night, Jens. I had my good friend Herr Hennum, the conductor of the Christiania orchestra, here for supper.’ Margarete interrupted his thoughts. His mother was a loyal patron of the arts, using his father’s ‘beer money’, as the two of them privately called it, to fund her passion.

  ‘And was it an enjoyable evening?’

  ‘Yes, it was indeed. As I’m sure I’ve already told you, Herr Grieg has written a wonderful musical score to accompany Herr Ibsen’s marvellous Peer Gynt poem.’

  ‘Yes, Mor, you have told me.’

  ‘The premiere will be held in February, but sadly, Herr Hennum tells me that the current orchestra is not up to Herr Grieg’s expectations, or in fact his own. The music compositions are apparently complex, and must be played by a confident and proficient orchestra. Herr Hennum is looking for talented musicians who can play more than one instrument. I’ve told him of your skills on the piano, the violin and the flute and he has requested that you go to the theatre and play for him.’

  Jens took a mouthful of the catfish brought in especially from the west coast of Norway. ‘Mor, I am currently at university studying chemistry, to fit me out to take over the family brewery. You know very well Far would not allow me to leave to play in an orchestra. In fact, he would be furious.’

  ‘Perhaps if it was a fait accompli, he may relent,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You are asking me to lie?’ Jens felt suddenly as sick as he’d pretended to be earlier.

  ‘I am saying that when you reach the age of twenty-one, you will be a man, and may make your own choices, whatever others may think of them. You would receive a wage from the orchestra, albeit not a large one, which would give you some modicum of financial independence.’

  ‘It is seven months to my birthday, Mor. For now, I am still dependent on my father and under his control.’

  ‘Jens, please. Herr Hennum will hear you play at the theatre at one thirty tomorrow. I beg you, at least meet him. You never know what may come of it.’

  ‘I am unwell,’ he said as he stood up abruptly. ‘Forgive me, Mor, but I’m returning to my bedroom to lie down.’

  Margarete watched her son march across the room, open the door, then slam it behind him. She put her fingers to her forehead, feeling her own temples throbbing. She understood what had engendered Jens’ departure and sighed guiltily.

  Since her son had been little more than a toddler, she had sat him on her knee and taught him the keys of the piano. One of her most pleasant and abiding memories from his childhood had been watching his fat little fingers fly across the ivories. It had been her greatest wish for her only child to inherit her own musical talent, one she had not used to its full potential, due to her marriage to Jens’ father.

  Jonas Halvorsen, her husband, was not an artistic soul, and was interested only in the amount of kroner on the ledgers of the Halvorsen Brewing Company. From the start of their marriage, he had seen his wife’s passion for music as something to be discouraged, and even more vehemently, that of his only son. Still, when Jonas was out at his office, Margarete had persevered with developing Jens’ talent, and by the time he was six, he was effortlessly playing sonatas that would challenge a student three times his age.

  When Jens was ten, defying her husband’s disapproval, she had organised a recital at their house and invited the great and the good of the Christiania music establishment to attend. Every one of them who had listened to her little boy play had been enthralled and had predicted great things for his future.

  ‘He must go to the Leipzig Conservatory when he is old enough and expand his knowledge and his skills, for you know that the opportunities here in Christiania are limited,’ Johan Hennum, the newly installed conductor of the Christiania orchestra, had commented. ‘With the right training, he has great potential.’

  Margarete had said as much to her husband, who had responded with a cruel chuckle. ‘My dear wife, I understand how much you long for our son to become a famous musician, but as you well know, Jens will join the family business when he’s twenty-one. My forebears and I have not spent over one hundred and fifty years building it for it to be sold on my deathbed to one of my competitors. If Jens wishes to tinker with his instruments as he grows up, then of course I am happy for him to do so. But it is no future career for a son of mine.’

  Margarete, however, was not to be deterred. For the next few years, she had continued to teach Jens to play the violin and the flute as well as the piano, knowing that to join any orchestra, a musician must be accomplished on more than one instrument. She’d tutored him in German and Italian, both of which she felt would help him tackle complex orchestral and operatic works.

  Jens’ father had continued to resolutely ignore the beautiful sounds which emanated from the music room and echoed throughout the house. The only time that Margarete could force him to listen was when Jens played the hardanger fiddle. She would sometimes encourage him to play to his father after dinner, and would watch as Jonas’s features – aided by several glasses of good French wine – relaxed into a dreamy smile as he hummed along to a familiar folk song.

  Yet despite her husband’s indifference to Jens’ talent, and his insistence that it could never become a career, Margarete continued to believe that a way forward could be found when Jens was older. But then, the little boy who had worked so diligently at his music lessons began to grow up, and Jonas had taken him into his own hands. Instead of the two hours a day of music practice, Jens trailed behind his father at the brewery as he oversaw production or the preparation of the accounts.

  The situation had crystallised three years ago, when Jonas had insisted his son go to university to study chemistry which would, he said, fit him out for the brewery, even though Margarete had gone down on her knees to beg her husband to allow Jens to go and study at the Leipzig Conservatory.

  ‘He has no passion for chemistry or business and such a talent for music!’ Margarete had entreated him.

  Jonas had looked at her coolly. ‘I have indulged you up until now, but Jens is no longer a child and must realise where his responsibilities lie. He will be the fifth generation of Halvorsens to run our brewery. You have been deluding yourself if you thought your musical aspirations for our son would ever come to anything. Term starts in October. The matter is closed.’

  ‘Please don’t cry, Mor,’ Jens had said to her after he’d heard the news from his devastated mother. ‘I never expected anything else.’

  Just as Margarete had known would happen, in being forced to give up music for a subject in which he had no aptitude or interest, Jens had done little studying at university. And even more dangerously, his natural high spirits and devil-may-care attitude had begun leading him astray.

  As a light sleeper who woke at the slightest noise, she knew her son was often out until the small hours. Jens had a large circle of friends, who were all attracted by his joie de vivre and easy charm. Margarete knew he was generous to a fault, so much so that he would often come to her halfway through the month saying he’d used up the allowance from his father on gifts or loans for this friend or that, and could she possibly see her way to tiding him over?

  She often smelt stale alcohol on his breath, and had considered the possibility that excessive drinking also played a part in the emptying of his pockets. She suspected too that there were women involved in his nocturnal exploits. Only last week she had seen a stain of lip paint upon his collar. But this at least she could understand: all young men – and even older ones – had their needs, as Margarete knew to her cost. It was just masculine nature.

  In her mind, the problem was very simple: with the prospect of a future he did not want, and without his beloved music, J
ens was unfulfilled and turning to drink and women to drown his sorrows. Margarete rose from the table, praying that Jens would go to meet Herr Hennum tomorrow. In her opinion, it was all that could save him.

  Meanwhile, Jens lay on his bed upstairs thinking much the same thoughts as his mother. Long ago, he’d realised that a music career could never be a reality. In a few months’ time, he would leave university and take his place in his father’s brewery.

  The thought appalled him.

  He wasn’t sure who he pitied most out of his parents: his father, a slave to his bank account and the endless machinations of his successful brewery, or his mother, who had brought a much-needed pedigree to the union, but was anxious and dissatisfied with life. Jens could see clearly that their marriage was little more than a deal that had been struck for mutual gain. The problem for him was that as their only offspring, he was forever being used as a pawn in their emotional chess game. Long ago, he’d learnt that he couldn’t win. And these days, neither did he particularly care to try.

  Although today, his mother had been right. He was almost of age. What if it was possible to reinvent the dream he’d once worked so hard for as a boy?

  Hearing his mother leave the house after lunch, Jens slipped downstairs and, on a whim, entered the music room where his mother still took her occasional music pupils.

  He sat down on the stool in front of the beautiful grand piano, his body automatically adopting the correct posture. Lifting the smooth wooden fallboard, he allowed his fingers to trail up and down over the keys, realising it must be over two years since he’d last played. He began with Beethoven’s Pathétique sonata, which had always been a favourite of his, remembering his mother’s patient tutoring and how easily it had come to him. ‘You must put your entire body into your playing,’ she had once said, ‘as well as your heart and soul. These things are the mark of a true musician.’

  Jens lost track of time as he played. And as the music swelled in the room, he forgot the struggle of the chemistry lectures he loathed and the future he dreaded, and allowed himself to disappear into the glorious music, just as he used to.

  As the last note reverberated around the room, Jens found there were tears in his eyes, simply from the joy of playing. And he made up his mind to meet Herr Hennum tomorrow.

  At one thirty the following day, Jens sat down on another piano stool in the deserted orchestra pit of the Christiania Theatre.

  ‘So, Herr Halvorsen, I last heard you play ten years ago. Your mother tells me you have become an exceptional musician since,’ said Johan Hennum, the esteemed conductor of the orchestra.

  ‘My mother is somewhat biased, sir.’

  ‘She also says that you have had no formal training at a music conservatory.’

  ‘Unfortunately, no, sir. I have been at university for the past two and a half years studying chemistry.’ Jens could already sense that the conductor believed he was wasting his time. He had probably agreed to see him as a favour to his mother in return for the generous funding she provided for the arts. ‘But I should add that my mother has tutored me in music for many years. She is, as you know, a most respected teacher.’

  ‘She is indeed. So, which do you regard as your main instrument out of the four your mother tells me you can play?’

  ‘Certainly, I enjoy playing the piano the most, but I feel I am able to acquit myself equally well on the violin, the flute or the hardanger fiddle.’

  ‘There is no part for the piano in Herr Grieg’s orchestrations for Peer Gynt. However, we are looking for a second violinist and another flautist. Here.’ Hennum handed him some sheet music. ‘See what you make of the flute part and I’ll be back shortly to hear you play.’ The conductor nodded at him and disappeared through a door beneath the stage.

  Jens glanced through the music: ‘Prelude to Act IV: “Morning Mood”’. Taking his flute from its case, he fastened it together. The theatre was almost as cold as the sub-zero temperature outside and he rubbed his numb fingers together vigorously in an attempt to get the blood circulating. Then he put the instrument to his lips and tried the first six notes . . .

  ‘Right, Herr Halvorsen, shall we see how you’ve got on?’ said Johan Hennum briskly as he returned to the orchestra pit five minutes later.

  Jens felt a need to impress this man, to prove himself capable of the task at hand. Thanking God for his ability to sight-read – a skill that had always helped to convince his mother that he’d practised far more than he actually did – he began to play. Within seconds he found himself completely immersed in the haunting music, which was unlike anything he had ever heard before. As he finished the piece, he lowered the flute from his lips and looked at Hennum.

  ‘For a first try, that really wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Now take this,’ he said, handing Jens another sheet of music. ‘It’s the part for the first violin. See what you can do with it.’

  Jens took his violin from its case and tuned it. Then he studied the music for a few minutes and practised the notes quietly before beginning to play.

  ‘Very good, Herr Halvorsen. Your mother’s description of your talent was not misplaced. And I admit to being surprised. You are certainly an excellent sight-reader, which will be essential in the weeks to come, as I put the rather disparate members of my orchestra together. I will have no time to spare for mollycoddling. And let me assure you, playing in an orchestra is very different to being a soloist. It will take you time to grasp the ways of it, and I should warn you that I tolerate no slack behaviour from my musicians. Normally, I’d be reticent to take on a novice, but needs must. I’d like you to start within a week. What do you say?’

  Jens stared at him, astonished that this man seemed to be offering him a position. He’d been absolutely sure that his lack of experience would elicit a negative response. Then again, it was no secret that the Christiania orchestra was a ragbag mixture of musicians, given that there was no proper music school here and little talent to choose from. His mother had told him that a boy aged just ten had once played in it.

  ‘I think that I would be honoured to take a place in your orchestra for such an important premiere,’ he found himself answering.

  ‘Then I am happy to have you, Herr Halvorsen. You have the makings of a fine musician. However, the wages are somewhat meagre – not that I believe that is a problem for you – and the hours of rehearsal in the next few weeks will be long and arduous. And as you may have noticed, the surroundings are less than comfortable. I suggest that you wrap up warmly.’

  ‘Yes sir, I will.’

  ‘You mentioned to me that you are currently studying at the university. I presume you are happy to put your employment with the orchestra before your lectures?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jens replied, knowing what his father would have to say on the matter, but deciding that since it was his mother who had got him into this in the first place, it was up to her to quash any objections at home. This was his route to freedom and he was taking it.

  ‘Please tell your mother I am grateful to her for sending you to me.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘So, rehearsals begin next week. I will see you bright and early on Monday morning at nine o’clock. And now I must go in search of a decent bassoonist, which for the life of me I cannot find in this godforsaken city of ours. Good day to you, Herr Halvorsen, and please see yourself out.’

  Jens watched the conductor leave the orchestra pit, feeling bemused by the sudden volte-face his life had just taken. He turned and looked into the gloom of the auditorium. He’d been here many times with his mother to watch concerts and operas, but as he sat down abruptly on the piano stool, he felt suddenly overwhelmed. Recently, he knew he’d been drifting, simply taking each day as it came, dreading graduation and his future as a brewer.

  Just now, as he’d played Herr Grieg’s exquisite new composition, he’d felt a spark of his old exhilaration. When he was younger, he used to lie in bed thinking up tunes in his head, then trying them out on the piano
the next morning. He’d never written them down, but it was composing his own music that really inspired him.

  Now, in the dim light of the orchestra pit, Jens put his frozen fingers to the keys of the grand piano and cast his mind back to the melodies he’d composed as a boy. There was one in particular, not dissimilar in structure to Grieg’s newest composition, reminiscent of folk songs from the past. Jens began to play it from memory to the empty auditorium.

  17

  Stalsberg Våningshuset

  Tindevegan

  Heddal

  14th February 1876

  Kjære Anna,

  Thank you for your last letter. As always, your descriptions of life in Christiania are informative as well as amusing. They never fail to bring a smile to my face. And rest assured your penmanship and spelling improves each time. Here in Heddal, all is the same as it has ever been. Christmas was as always, but worse for the fact you were not here to celebrate it with us. As you know, it is the coldest and darkest part of the year, where it is not only the animals who hibernate, but us humans too. The snows have lasted longer and been deeper than usual and I have discovered there is a leak in our farmhouse roof, which will require me to replace the turf before the spring thaw or we will have an indoor lake on which we can skate. My father tells me it has not been replaced in his lifetime, so at least I feel it has served us well. Knut has promised to help me in the spring, for which I am grateful.

  He himself has recently been courting a young lady from a village outside Skien. Her name is Sigrid and she is sweet and pretty, if a little quiet. The good news is that your parents approve of her. And wedding bells will chime from Heddal church this summer. I pray that you will be able to return home for the event.

  It is hard to believe that you are part of the stage premiere of my favourite Ibsen poem, with the music written especially by Herr Grieg himself. Have you set eyes on Herr Ibsen at the theatre yet? Surely he will appear to check the piece is as he wishes it to be, although I believe he currently resides in Italy. You may not have time to write again before the opening night as it is only ten days away, and I imagine you are kept very busy with rehearsals. If you don’t, then may I wish you and your beautiful voice the best of fortune.