Was she beautiful or not beautiful? And what was the secret of form or expression which gave the dynamic quality to her glance? Was the good or evil genius dominant in those beams?
Sophie read on, appalled, for the opening episode of the young woman gambling rose up before her in insolent accusation; there she was, her irresponsible recklessness, the pawning of the necklace, the young man who stalks her steps, the September day, the long tables, the scene of dull, gas-poisoned absorption, that afternoon, now nearly four years past, reworked, remade, becoming more vivid with every sentence. But the Sibyl’s heroine, foolish, reprehensible, lost again and again and again. Sophie sat, scarlet and trembling, awash with shame and rage. As she reached the end of the second chapter, hardly noticing the transformation into fiction, she actually read the message as she had originally received the handwritten note, with her own name inserted over that of the Sibyl’s ambiguous heroine.
A stranger who has found the Countess von Hahn’s necklace returns it to her with the hope that she will not again risk the loss of it.
Sophie read not one word more. She hurled the slender volume away into a corner of her warm room and sat staring into the fire, her palms damp and shaking. She felt utterly naked and exposed, her young heart ripped open. Max! What did Max know? For one terrifying moment she believed that Max had sanctioned the book, to teach her a lesson. But she jettisoned this strange idea at once. Max loved her more than his own soul, of that she was quite certain. And so far as he was concerned everything she did was wonderful just because she did it. But why then was this evil witch so jealous of her happiness? She remembered the message Mrs. Lewes had sent upon their wedding day and how it had disturbed her beloved Max. What strange power did the writer have to intimidate and unsettle people she hardly knew? And why did she fling Sophie’s youthful folly back in her face, and in so public a fashion, with an image distorted and broken? Why had she redrawn the scene so that the lovely gambler wagered all, and lost?
She wanted me to lose, to lose my money, my necklace and my husband. She cannot bear it that another woman should have beauty, youth, wealth and still be loved. She wants to punish me.
And perhaps, in thinking this, Sophie stumbled upon a truth that remained entombed in the writer’s unconscious mind. The Sibyl’s heroines are young women with everything to learn and everything to lose. Dorothea, short-sighted, obtuse, deluded and idealistic, learns who her husband really is the hard way, by marrying him. And finds herself chained to an old man, who is very far from being a ‘great soul’; he is fraudulent, mean-spirited and vindictive. Gwendolen Harleth, vain, self-satisfied, egotistical, naïve and confident, is almost destroyed by her husband, the monstrous Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt, and by the plot of Daniel Deronda. Most authors use the plot to punish their characters. Thomas Hardy is famous for doing just that. But who is that woman in the Sibyl’s novel, the woman who lurks on the edge of the tale? Who is the discarded mistress, demanding justice for herself and for her bastard children? Remember that the Sibyl never married George Henry Lewes. This woman’s fate might have been hers. Some malevolent ill-wishers hoped that it would be. Here stands Lydia Glasher, baying for blood. Would Grandcourt ever have married her? Who knows? Her curse upon the heroine comes good: You will have your punishment. I desire it with all my soul.
The older women in the Sibyl’s books are startling creations: unfettered, unleashed, seeking their prey and hungry for vengeance. Had Sophie von Hahn possessed all the elements in the story she would have seen this, and proudly taken their part. A fierce passion for justice and a curiously English understanding of fair play reigned in Sophie’s heart. There is a great deal of unmapped country within us, which would have to be taken into account, as an explanation of our gusts and storms. Sophie shared many things with the Sibyl; both women blazed with the desire for knowledge, a desire that reduced milder forms of curiosity to mere politeness. Both women grasped their lives, fortified by an unyielding common will, convinced that what they did and said mattered and echoed beyond their small circles and concerns.
Some say the Sibyl was fragile, insecure, lacking in confidence and self-esteem. But do frail and timid women decide to be atheists, challenge their fathers, refuse to go to church, educate themselves to an astonishingly high degree, run off to London, live abroad on their own, fling themselves at married men, beguile women too, and clearly enjoy doing so, edit distinguished literary journals, learn Hebrew, write fiction that will live for ever as long as we remember how to read, become rich and famous, and think for themselves?
Ah, that’s the key, the power of independent judgement. Sophie and the Sibyl tested everybody else’s judgement against their own. Both women believed in their inalienable right to discriminate and decide, and both were inclined to accept their own opinions. Both women loved getting their own way. Never give up! Neither woman had any intention of ever doing so. A crisp modernity defined their approach: no shame, no guilt, no fear, no hesitation. And no quarter.
Well, what happened next?
Sophie’s warm sitting room, filled with mementoes of equestrian achievements, with large double windows overlooking the bare gardens, not yet quite risen from their winter grave, led into the bedroom she shared with Max, who had his own dressing room beyond. She prowled once round the bedroom, searching for a handkerchief and weighing her fears and suspicions. Then she poured clear, cold water into her washing basin and scrubbed her burning face. Outside, dusk settled over the smoke rising from thousands of freshly built fires. Wary as a cat, Sophie approached the first instalment of Daniel Deronda, which lay in a fluttered heap behind an armchair, smoothed the pages and slid it carefully into one of her leather travelling cases. She had not decided what to do, but knew the book constituted undeniable, published evidence. As she set off down the staircase she heard Max crashing through the door, bellowing at the servants.
‘Has the Countess come home?’
He saw her descending towards him and pounded up to the first landing in a climactic sequence of bangs and creaks.
‘Sophie! The statue is all packed and ready for the train. It’s locked in the depot with two men on guard. Dearest! Whatever is the matter? You’ve been crying.’
And this immediate recognition of any glint of pain or trouble in her open face and red-rimmed green eyes reassured her completely. He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me. And he has nothing to do with this vicious treacherous book. Max embraced his wife, suddenly riddled with unease.
‘It’s all right.’ Sophie told the truth, if not the whole truth. ‘I’ve been reading a novel. And I was so affected by the story that it made me cry.’
Husband and wife mounted the stairs, their arms around one another. Sophie stood on safe ground. Max never read novels, or at least she had never seen him do so.
Two days later Max, Sophie, Professor Marek and a little court of acolytes set out for London, their trophy safe in straw, guarded in the goods van. Wolfgang saw them off at the Hauptbahnhof, then went home to write a torrent of calculated adulation to the Sibyl. He composed the letter in his odd stilted English. Max, he had to admit, could write a more fluent, graceful hand, but was not so adept at flattery, and Wolfgang counted on Lewes reading the letter first.
My dearest Madam Lewes,
Your extraordinary new book has become the event of the month for me. I had not thought that the elegance and sophistication of Middlemarch could be surpassed, but I am at present devoured by curiosity to see what will become of the unfortunate little Jewess and our noble hero, Deronda. Pray take pity on your most passionate German admirer here in Berlin and allow me to request the forthcoming proofs from Mr. John Blackwood. Our translator, the one you have approved, is already at work, but of course, not a word will reach the public until he has received the benefit of your astute linguistic advice and you have given your imprimatur. This novel is magnificent, dear madam, the opening scenes masterly, your little minx Gwendolen as captivating as she is dangerous. What will
be her fate and how will the two meeting streams of this great work be bound together? As you see, I think of little else.
Mr. Lewes apprised me of the arrangements you have agreed with Tauchnitz, and while I regret that we shall not have the pleasure of promoting the original in the Continental reprint this time, I trust that you will not forget us when the Cabinet edition of the Collected Works is to be considered. Nothing would give me greater pleasure, or be a higher honour, than to publish you here, in both languages.
(There, thought Wolfgang, that should do it. Be a gentleman. No recriminations. Don’t mention figures at this stage. He dipped his pen again into the glass well.)
Max, as you no doubt already know from the Times reports, has carried off a little coup with his discovery of the original statue representing Lucian. I shall never forget your comments on the famous Fragment when you discussed that unsettling work here with Max, in this very office. He has become a more stable and dedicated person. I firmly believe that this is due to your influence, for after his journey to Stuttgart all those years ago, he returned, chastened, transformed, more serious and responsible. Your wisdom, madam, transfigures lives, and raises our sights to the ideals we might achieve, enables us to become better men.
(‘Transfigures’ sounds convincing. She has a religious turn, and likes to see herself as a saviour.)
Max is at present on his way to London in company with his young wife and the great Professor Marek. They are transporting their rare find to the British Museum, and hope to return with the bas-relief of the Erinys, who forms part of the glorious frieze, also discovered at Miletus and at present incomplete. He longs to see you and Mr. Lewes again, and I trust he will bring back word of your good health and steady progress towards the completion of this glorious book.
I remain, madam, your loyal and devoted publisher
Wolfgang Duncker
(There, that should plant the seed for future negotiations. I’ve set out my stall and I’m open for business.)
Wolfgang patted the letter with his blotter, read it over again, checked for the duplication of flattering adjectives and then prepared the evening post, while his clerk made a fair copy. Wolfgang kept track of every obsequious phrase; he liked to think that his delicate insinuations were well judged.
(I haven’t sounded bitter or reproachful; softly, softly, that’s the way. Lewes is bound to read this out to her, as it’s billowing with compliments. Have I laid it on too thick? No, nothing here I can’t honestly repeat. The new book is powerful, no denying it, but why on earth does she have to drag in the Jews?)
Professor Marek’s younger sister had married an Englishman, a man not overeducated in classical languages, but good-natured and rich. The couple maintained a large white house in Regent’s Park, complete with carriages and stables, not half a mile from the Priory. Marian Evans and George Henry Lewes purchased a forty-five-year lease on this house at No. 21 North Bank, for £2,000 in August 1863, and had lived there ever since. The Priory stood on the edge of the canal, embedded in a garden of roses. Sophie and Max had therefore settled on a London perch uncannily close to the Sibyl’s lair.
Sophie, enchanted by the dynamic bustle of the London streets, wrote to her dear Mama and Papa that the multitudes churning up the mud, both in carriages and on foot, made Berlin’s wide boulevards seem comfortable and empty of all urgency. She loved the theatres, luminous in gas light, she watched the prostitutes in the Haymarket, gaudy as tropical birds, working the crowds. She galloped round the park on her host’s horses, enjoying the early white frosts, which gave way to ravishing floods of narcissi and yellow jonquilles. The London spring foamed over garden walls in white brushes of lilac, and thick green buds. But the greatest excitement for the young Countess presented itself in mechanised form: her hostess possessed a small fleet of bicycles.
She had a high-wheeler, later known as the penny-farthing, which she couldn’t ride, and a vélocipède that her husband had purchased in France. This astonishingly heavy machine sported a cranked axle, like the handle of a grindstone, which could be turned by the feet of the rider. Sophie read the accompanying instruction booklet. ‘The rider who wishes to stay upright and in command would be wise to pedal as rapidly as possible or take a spill in consequence.’ Once on board and held straight by two grooms Sophie padded out the saddle with a small cushion. After several inconclusive wobbles round the stable yard the intrepid Countess enrolled for an intensive course of lessons with a well-known bicycling expert. They battled with the oily vélocipède until she could handle corners unaided. Max watched, appalled, as his wife whirled away at speed.
1. Always look where you’re going. (She didn’t.)
2. Always sit straight. (Well, she always did that, especially at table.)
3. Pedal evenly and use both legs. (Her boots vanished in a circular blur.)
4. Pedal straight. (Corners, corners, Countess. Lean.)
5. Keep the foot straight. (Both feet.)
6. Hold the handles naturally. (Of course!)
7. Don’t wobble the shoulders. (Never!)
8. Hold the body still and sit down. (Sophie was anxious to keep her cushion firmly beneath her.)
9. Don’t shake the head. (At this point her hat flew off. Max chased after his wife, who was even now flying over the winter potholes in a torrent of ribbons, cheered on by the footmen and grooms whose democratic spirit had begun to alarm him.)
10. Sophie, Sophie, your hat!
She bicycled away round Regent’s Park alongside Professor Marek’s enthusiastic little sister, delightfully unchaperoned.
‘It’s quite a craze among the ladies, Max,’ grinned the vivid little Professor. ‘But don’t worry. As soon as our young Countess is in anderen Umständen, or as the English put it, an interesting condition, we’ll persuade her to give it all up.’
Max blushed and rubbed his chin.
The statue’s size caused a furore in the Museum, not because of the niche for which it was destined, and into which it fitted perfectly, but because the Director of Antiquities had set his heart on a theatrical coup, in which the veiled figure of Lucian would suddenly be unveiled, emerging from a mass of swirling red drapes to ecstatic exclamations. But the marble form settled so snugly into the designated space that removing any form of veil, let alone the heavy red velvet cape, already lying folded and ready, proved practically impossible. A screen? A curtain? Various solutions were proposed, then rejected. No screen tall enough could be procured at short notice, the curtain would have to go round a corner before the philosopher could be entirely revealed, and the necessary rails with runners needed an Isambard Kingdom Brunel to perfect the contraption. Lucian stared blankly at the gaggle of great minds, none as distinguished as the philosopher they honoured, who stood assembled before his mighty toes, disagreeing with one another, like new pupils seeking enlightenment.
And so it fell to Sophie, Countess von Hahn, addressing her Professor with ringing decisiveness, to slash the Gordian knot.
‘But didn’t Lucian teach in the marketplace at Miletus? So that everyone, even the poorest weavers and farmers, and all the artisans who worked in the port, could hear what he said? Well, why are we trying to hide him now? He taught in the open air. He said that hidden and secret things were dangerous. Aren’t we here to celebrate him and his philosophy? Not to devise some vaudeville trick?’
At this point, the Director of Antiquities, who disapproved strongly of uppity young women speaking out of turn, felt himself criticised and tried to intervene. Professor Marek tapped his elbow. Sophie bounded on.
‘Why don’t I weave a crown of laurels for him? As if he were an athlete or a victor at the games. He was a decathlon champion in his youth, wasn’t he? And we can lay flowers at his feet. Then anyone who comes in early can see him in all his splendour.’
Sophie cherished a possessive interest in the statue. In her imagination Lucian still belonged to her. She had first touched the greening feet of the worshipped saint in the da
rk church and known at once who he was, and while she may have been written out of history in the academic papers she still queened it over all others in the popular magazines and expensive memorial photographs. She gazed up at the curiously naked marble face; the body modestly clad in his toga of office, now immaculately cleaned, the features webbed with emotions and judgements. Professor Marek kissed the Countess’s gloved fingers. Her father’s money gave her the right to speak up whenever she chose.
‘Once more, chère Madame,’ he said in French, ‘you show us the way that leads to glory.’ To the assembled scholars and the Director of Antiquities he announced in English:
‘I find this idea charming. Flowers, of course, we must have flowers. I propose that the Countess’s suggestion be adopted at once.’
Max led his wife aside, capturing her hand, and stared at her, astonished. Her living beauty glowed, fair and luminous, before the cobalt blocks of the Assyrian warriors, pinched from Mesopotamia.
‘I had no idea that you had already read the Letters to Myriam – Lucian’s letter on secrets and the pernicious effect of the anger that is never spoken. I’m reading that section at the ceremony. In English and in Greek.’
‘But I haven’t.’
‘You haven’t? That’s not possible. You just quoted him verbatim. That which is hidden and secret is always dangerous, because it serves an undeclared interest.’
‘I didn’t say exactly that. It’s just a coincidence. And anyway, Max, that’s not a sacred piece of wisdom, it’s just common sense.’
Sophie kissed his cheek and grinned.
‘Come on, let’s go to the market and buy armfuls of bay leaves and red tulips.’ Red spring flowers, she had already decided, would set off the philosopher’s massive marble toes to perfection. And everyone seated before him at the ceremony would be gazing at his feet.
Sophie and the Sibyl Page 22