‘Don’t worry,’ cried Lewes, ‘Klesmer will drown them all out.’
The theatre filled up to the gunnels like a great ship transporting expectant emigrants seeking New Worlds, and many sat munching pastries as the rumoured lack of an interval did the rounds and caused some digestive alarm. How can we get through three hours without ice cream or sweetmeats? The audience, noisy, hot and cheerful, anticipated an astounding spectacle and a riot of emotions. Two ushers fled round the auditorium, lowering the gas light, a trick upon which the Maestro had insisted, as essential to his emotive effects. The orchestra trooped in, greeted by unsteady applause. An army of brass and timpani assembled in too small a space. Klesmer clearly intended to lift the roof off the theatre. Well known in the town for his concert performances, he proved something of a favourite with the audience, and two squat candles balanced either side of his score threw his face, lit from beneath, into a dramatic mass of shadows. He resembled a demon, risen from the depths.
‘Klesmer! Klesmer! Klesmer!’ bellowed a rowdy section far above the stalls.
This enthusiasm was rapidly dowsed by a collective intake of breath as the curtain soared upwards, revealing two gigantic ships rocking, dangerous in moonlight, before an implausibly vertiginous precipice, with distant cliffs reaching to infinity. Simultaneously a terrifying gust of wind blustered through the strings. The catastrophe of imminent shipwreck seemed inevitable. Sailors, apparently swinging from the rigging, appeared in little bursts of limelight, then faded away into shivering gloom. Throughout the overture the stage shuddered, gleamed, darkened, and the audience gasped, thrilled to their stomachs. The rollers on the diorama were inaudible above the blazing orchestra, and as they shifted and slithered, the black ghost ship with wonderfully red-painted ripped rigging loomed above Daland’s smaller trader, like a vampire apparition encircling its victim. Then, in the far depths of the stage, a pale face, leery as Mephisto, hovered high on the mast of the black ship with ripped sails. The pale man stared out beyond the limits of the diorama into eternity. The audience recognised Süßmann, and screamed in unison. Klesmer urged the orchestra onwards, the grand outline of his face and floating hair flung into sinister relief by the stage lamps, as if he was in pursuit of his own shadow. Then, for one second only, the audience glimpsed the soprano, perched on the rim of the cliff, her arms outstretched, as the Overture thundered to its close. The emotional narrative of the opera, condensed into a few precious minutes, now unfolded at greater length. One or two people set off towards the foyer in search of drinks and pastries.
The Dutchman’s long opening monologue wooed even the doubters standing at the back. Tragic, white-faced, Herr Süßmann transformed himself into the Solitary Wanderer, terrifying, corrosive, predatory, heart-rending in his longing for peace.
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ screeched someone close to them, longing for an encore. But Klesmer continued, inexorable.
‘I was delighted with this opera when we were with Liszt in Weimar,’ murmured the Sibyl. Her shawl fell across Max’s arm.
The mighty conflict imaged in the two ships proved to be a metaphor for the entire production. Daland’s dapper modern waistcoat and fob watch, his scrubbed sailors and natty trading vessel smacked of profit, successful capitalist ventures and domestic prosperity. The sea, raving against his native rocks, remained simply an inconvenient antagonist. But for the Dutchman, that cursed image of white-faced damnation, the sea, the storms, the flood tides and the infinite horizons formed his only element, as one of the eternal undead. And between him and the voyage that has no end stood one young girl and her peculiar passion for a legendary man she had never seen.
But how does a revolutionary composer wean a conventional audience off their customary diet of operatic song? The public longs for arias, duets, romanza, cavatina – for three whole acts, yea, sometimes four acts, with a ballet in the middle. And how do you stop them walking about, taking the air in the foyer, looking up their acquaintances and chatting, stepping out for a cigarette or a mislaid shawl, and then nipping back inside just to hear their favourite solo? Abolish the intervals and tighten the plot; if they so much as shift a leg they will miss something crucial!
Those two threads, the Dutchman’s curse and Senta’s promise of redemption, shrill tremolos on the high violins, diminished seventh chords, a mixture of diatonic chromatic figures in the basses and ah! that familiar, endlessly rising motif in fourths and fifths, they saturate the score, bending the pale man towards his own salvation. No one can step into the shadow where grace cannot reach them, nor can they ever escape the compassionate grasp of the Everlasting Arms. It is the stage manager’s business to transform the scenery, rapidly and in secret, as the music rages onwards, firing the singers, pulverising the audience into their seats.
And on that night it worked. There they all were, sweating, breathless, gripped. Will she be true to her pale-faced wanderer? Can her handsome huntsman lure her back to a safe life, where nothing more will happen to her, but days of marriage, children, peace and happiness? Will she choose one supreme moment of glorious sacrifice or the patter of long summer days? She has been sold to the Dutchman! Daland’s cupidity made him sell his daughter to the captain of a ghostly black ship with ripped red sails. She is promised to another, but here at last, risen from the ocean’s depths, stands the man she loves.
Klesmer knew that subversives lurked in the audience. The author of the Wagnerfrage and his friends had pinpointed the Stuttgart production as a crack in the dam of orchestrated prejudice, which had so far successfully kept Wagner’s operas out of the provincial theatres. But Liszt and Klesmer had triumphed in Dresden. Their friendship and their adulation of Wagner stood revealed for all to see! The Jews have joined forces with the Wagnerians! This creeping evil must be stopped!
How far through the score had they actually got?
Steuermann, lass die Wacht! Steuermann, her zu uns! Helmsman, leave the watch! Come to us, come to us.
A ripple stirred the slips. Three young men had risen to their feet. No, they were being dragged down and drowned out by a detonating chorus of Norwegian sailors apparently based in the row just behind them. Max noticed the disturbance and its rapid suppression. Nothing could stop Klesmer now. Here from the belly of the phantom ship came the eerie hollow cries of the Dutchman’s crew, spectral lights flickered in the rigging like will-o’-the-wisps. Max worried about the incendiary nature of the extraordinary stage effects. The Sibyl tucked her arm through his. Yes, the climax approached! Every part of the scenery, including the flats, appeared to shiver and undulate. The singers, unwavering, plunged onwards, keeping pace with Klesmer. The heat in the house soared to levels equal to that of a tropical rainforest. Max loosened his collar, and noticed that Carus and Lewes had already done so. The Sibyl’s massive upper lip shone gently with perspiration. Then, suddenly, a smoking object, the size of a gin jar, flung from above, sailed past them and landed amongst the cellos. The sizzling odour of sulphur, accompanied by dense clouds of smoke, engulfed the musicians.
The huntsman, closely observed by the Dutchman, had almost completed his cavatina – Willst jenes Tags du dich nicht mehr entsinnen? – and the Finale loomed in sight. Klesmer, his lips compressed and his head flung back, stood proud of the belching smoke emerging from the bomb in the pit. He had no intention of losing a single note. Not one member of the orchestra flinched or dared to move.
Du kennst mich nicht, du ahnst nicht, wer ich bin! You do not know me, you do not suspect who I am!
The Dutchman bared his soul, at last and in a thundering declaration, boomed the truth of his identity to a horrified cast and the sweating public, most of whom believed that the sulphurous stench and dense, rising clouds of yellowish smoke constituted yet one more bold stage effect, intended to enhance the performance. A fight broke out in the slips as the two factions closed upon one another. A shoe flew through the air and struck Lewes on the forehead. He leaped to his feet, staggered, and then collapsed upon Carus.
Klesmer increased the pace.
I am the Flying Dutchman! bellowed Herr Süßmann to the enraptured mass. The Sibyl suddenly noticed that her husband lay bent double bleeding on Carus’s lap. She let out a little smothered cry, which vanished in the wash of the soprano’s ecstatic vow.
Here I stand, true even unto death!
A shrill gasp rose from the audience as she appeared to fly from the cliff’s edge into the arms of the Dutchman, who then soared away from the mast up, up, up into the murky dimness of the painted sets. They vanished as the mighty ship of ghosts collapsed in a series of gigantic crashes, echoed in the orchestra, all of which drowned out the fight now raging throughout the slips and bursting out on to the staircases.
‘Klesmer! Klesmer! Klesmer!’
The conductor’s supporters took up the chant as the entire auditorium filled with nauseous smoke. The crowds in the stalls, now thoroughly alarmed, burst the doors asunder and poured out into the foyer and the autumn night. Some abandoned coats and hats in the vestiaire, seeking safety in the streets. But some never actually noticed what was happening at all in the lowered gas light, and remained on their feet, flinging flowers at Herr Süßmann and the soprano, who had descended from the heavens unobserved, and re-emerged from behind the tabs, bowing to left and right. Klesmer and his orchestra now barely visible in smoke, sank out of sight into the pit. Lewes drew himself upright, and wobbled a little, clutching a handkerchief to the wound, which was now bleeding copiously. But, ebullient as ever, he snatched up the offending shoe and waved it around his head, anxious to swing a punch at whoever had made him their target.
‘Dearest, we must go home immediately,’ cried the Sibyl.
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ yelled the ascendant Wagnerians.
Max batted the smoke, using the Sibyl’s shawl like a bullfighter’s cape, and peered into the surrounding fog, desperately seeking the exit.
They rattled back to the cottage in a cab, squashed against one another, handing clean handkerchiefs to Lewes whose wound still dripped. The Sibyl, now a little blood-spattered and ruffled with maternal concern, pressed each one to his head, then passed the bloodied improvised bandages to Max. Lewes never stopped talking. He praised Klesmer’s courage, but thought the staging full of self-indulgent pantomime trickery, designed to amuse infantile minds. Carus raced away in search of the doctor, who arrived in full evening dress, also replete with opinions about the night’s operatic events. By the following morning the incident was being reported as a full-blown riot, with opposing factions fighting it out, first in the theatre, and then in the streets. Lewes ceased to bleed and the doctor galloped away into the night to conduct an emergency surgery for the embattled contestants.
Max disliked the stifling anxiety flooding forth from the Sibyl. After all, Lewes wasn’t badly hurt. Give him a cordial and a chance to sleep it off and all he’ll have to deal with is a headache in the morning. Max strolled in the night garden; the air, perfectly still and warm, even at that late hour, stirred as he passed and then settled around him. He lit a cigarette and wandered down the little gravelled paths, crushing the weeds and brushing against the overgrown lines of box. Small squares of light illuminated the house behind him.
At first he did not hear her coming. The Sibyl, wrapped in her Indian shawl over her astrakhan short jacket, floated towards him on a cushion of warm air. He felt her gloved hand on his sleeve.
‘Thank you, Max,’ she murmured softly, ‘for all your kindness. George is lying down quietly now. Carus is with him. I came to say goodnight.’
She took his arm and Max placed his hand upon her own. They set off round the long walk, talking quietly, like old and confidential friends. The emotions of the night brimmed over into their conversation: Wagner’s endless passion for the love that braves death itself, Klesmer’s miraculous triumph, and the jubilant Wagnerians, ransacking the town, Lewes’s unfortunate accident, a supporter caught in the line of fire.
‘He is so full of energy, my dear Max, that you would not think him frail in health, but I often fear, when I am not laid low by toothache or by bilious attacks, that his constitution is yet more fragile than my own. I must seem excessive in my concern for him. Indeed, I know I do. And I am sorry for it. But, Max’ – and here she paused by the dead fountain – ‘your friendship is too precious for me to be less than honest with you. I have been blessed with nearly twenty years of unchanging happiness, and I dread, dread with all my being, that final parting, when we are separated for ever. Wagner dreams of an eternal union, but we know that cannot be.’
Max shivered slightly. He saw Senta and the Dutchman, transfigured, ascending to the heavens.
‘And yet, we need to grasp the meaning of that last farewell, for it gives the utmost sanctity of tenderness to our relations with each other. For even our own deaths are as intimate and natural as the approach of autumn or winter.’
Death, and an eternity of being dead, had never before figured in Max’s calculations. And the Sibyl, enraptured by the depth and conviction of her own teachings, had quite forgotten the thirty years that lay between them. Max had yet to live his life. She stood, gazing at the end of her own journey, leaning against his youth and strength, and yet her gentle and inspiring tones, speaking of the four last things, her soft voice filled with certainties, offered a vast consolation, tender, passionate, infinite in its mild calm. They paused in the summer house, still warm, dark and dry. The Sibyl spoke of sympathy, friendship and the unbreakable power of human bonds. She convinced Max that nothing mattered more to her than that moment in the dying gardens. He was her knight errant. And his lady’s grace and beauty, luminous in that strange twilight gloom, had never seemed more eloquent and necessary. But into this momentary calm the Sibyl flung down one sentence like a spear that poisoned all the earth.
‘As soon as George has recovered we will return to England.’ Panic engulfed him as she spoke. His compass and guide threatened to absent herself, possibly for ever. They stood inside the little summer house, surrounded by faint odours of damp and rotting vegetation. The Sibyl ceased to speak and gazed beseechingly at Max, who began to gibber.
‘I can remain silent no longer, Madame. I must speak. If I seem impertinent it is because you have overthrown all barriers between us. I no longer see my way forward with any certainty or conviction. I believed myself a man of faith and now I doubt. I have always pleased myself, rather than seeking out a mission or a purpose in my life. There seemed to be no urgency in my decisions. Now my very identity is in question – and I cannot continue as I am – washed ashore with every tide. I tell you that I must speak.’
Max circled on the spot, his voice low, violent and agitated, stubbing the toes of his boots. He plucked at the fading leaves trailing from the wisteria, which mounted above them. The trunk spiralled upwards, coiling the trellis like a serpent, more massive than his forearm. Max braced himself against the uncomfortable helix and stared down at her shadowed face. The Sibyl settled her skirts and raised her massive chin, complacent, attentive, and utterly tranquil. She awaited the outcome of his impassioned incoherence. She had no premonition whatever of the declarations that were hurtling towards her. She made herself comfortable during the terrible pause in which Max found himself quite unable to voice the emotions bubbling in his chest. He suddenly settled for Shakespeare.
‘“You have bereft me of all words.”’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ smiled the Sibyl. He saw her white face, leprous in darkness, the voice amused and detached. ‘Our intimacy is based entirely upon words, for the most part judiciously chosen.’
Max suffered a curious implosion. He had reached the brink of rational discourse and a vast dark staircase stretched away before him, following the Sibyl’s vanishing cape as she ascended into the realms of eternal light. He could not – would not – let her go. He flung himself upon the tomb-cold stone before her and gabbled like a madman.
‘Madame Lewes – Marian – you cannot be unaware of how deeply our frie
ndship has touched me – how unqualified my admiration – in short how much I love you. I beg you – do not cast me adrift.’ He seized her gloved hand. With astonishing strength she took hold of his wrist and hauled him back on to the wooden seat beside her.
‘Max. Take a deep breath. Sit still. And stop talking.’
But alas, Max, now quite beside himself, could not stop. Fixed in his brain was the idea that he had to propose to someone. And the woman in front of him had shaken him to the core. He raced to the edge of his own operatic precipice.
‘Madame! I adore you. I tell you I must speak. Make me the happiest man that ever lived. Marry me. I beg you to marry me.’
The fatal words quivered in the air between them like a descending flight of arrows. Sincerity rather than sanity clamped Max firmly in her jaws. He meant every word of it. The Sibyl drew herself up like a tower under siege; her white lace shimmered with the unintended insult, and she rose, shaking.
‘Sir, you appear to forget that I am already a married woman.’
But the fact that she was just as free to marry whom she chose as the ardent young man before her incinerated her flesh, draining all remaining colour from her face. The abyss yawned between them.
‘Forgive me.’
Max plunged into the waters of abjection. The Sibyl clutched the twisted wisteria for support, ignoring his outstretched arm.
‘Can you ever forgive me?’ The wheel of fire to which he was now bound churned onwards, desperate and unhinged. ‘My feeling for you cannot and will not ever change.’ And in the unspeakable pause that followed both the old woman and the young man poised above her knew that this would remain true for ever. The Sibyl lowered her veil. Her recovered self-possession tolled his doom.
Sophie and the Sibyl Page 16