‘The more fool I. Look where it got me. You never read that book, Max. The one with Herr Klesmer in it. The one about the Jews. I know you didn’t. Only three people in the world knew the story of the necklace: you, me, and Mrs. Lewes.’ Sophie spat out the writer’s former name. Now everything came out. ‘She retells our story in that book. She described me playing at the gaming tables. She made me look stupid. And that’s what I can’t bear. Being portrayed as stupid, egotistical, vain and poor.’
Sophie burst into tears of frustration and rage. Max, utterly baffled, took her in his arms. This time, she did not resist him. Surely Wolfgang would have mentioned the fact that there had been a portrait of Sophie in the novel? He had described Klesmer’s surreptitious courtship of Miss Arrowpoint, but never mentioned anything else transcribed from life. Max poured out a vial of tenderness and reassurance.
‘Beloved girl, no one would ever dream that you were any of those things. And anyway, your father told me that the gambling scene was based on Miss Leigh, Byron’s grandniece. She lost £500 when the Count was playing too. He said it was a painful sight. Besides, you don’t lose, you always win.’
Max could not bring himself to actually sit down and read Daniel Deronda, and now, after all the trouble that the book had caused, he never would.
‘She likes young men,’ hissed Sophie decisively. ‘I know what I saw this morning.’
‘Well, I’ll write to Wolfgang. The situation may not be quite as you suppose.’
But Max suspected she was right. There had been no ambiguity in the register of the Hôtel de l’Europe: Mr. and Mrs. J. W. Cross. Sophie, on the other hand, supposed unimaginable things.
Venice possessed a violent reputation for passions and assassinations. Nevertheless a week of sightseeing and sea bathing passed happily without any sign of the witch-like Sibyl or her red-bearded cavalier servente. And no violent scenes occurred. Professor Marek and his party fell foul of the heat and remained on the Veneto in a Palladian pleasure dome, a palace with fourteen entrances, all caressed by soft winds. Picnics and gallops on fabulous steeds through tall open fields with the misty Alps above her filled Sophie’s days. Leo thrived in the hot climate and seemed quite immune to the mosquitoes. He never gave his parents a moment’s anxiety. The Sibyl receded into a remote corner of Max’s mind. He hoped, fervently, that, whatever her relation with Mr. John Walter Cross, he would not encounter her unsettling presence, or be forced to act. He paddled well away from the Venetian pleasure grounds and clung to the highway of marital virtue. But he did write to Wolfgang in Berlin, explaining the odd situation and asking for information. There was no immediate reply.
On Wednesday 9th June 1880 Max and Sophie set out in two gondolas to visit the Byzantine basilica of Santa Maria Assunta on the island of Torcello. The party also consisted of the indispensable Karl and Leo’s nursemaid. Every eventuality had to be taken into account; the luncheon picnic accessories therefore amounted to several baskets. A cool box, with ice wrapped in sacking to contain the wine, fish pâté, various fruits including apricots, washed several times, game pie, cooked yesterday, only one slice missing, which Max could not resist at breakfast, an entire lobster, packed with long hooks and pincers to extract the meat, plates, glasses, napkins, cutlery, a bottle of freshly squeezed juice for Leo, a canvas screen in case the wind got up, rugs in case the ground proved damp, and two gigantic parasols to ward off sunburn. Sophie rubbed lemons on her arms and hands to prevent them from becoming discoloured. She had been known to wear a Venetian carnival mask to protect her nose, when she walked the terrace in the privacy of their balcony apartments, and had terrified the housekeeper bringing up the flowers. Her sea-bathing outfits covered her from throat to toe; but she had learned to swim in the chill lakes of Brandenburg, and often abandoned the security of the bathing machine to kick out powerfully into the warm sea. All Max could see from the shore was a large brimmed straw hat, fastened with a damp red scarf, rising and dipping in the gentle swell.
‘I won’t swim today,’ she informed Max. ‘Leo would want to come in too, and without the floats and the bathing machine it’s far too risky.’
‘Good.’ Max discarded a large basket of swimming equipment. ‘We might now fit into two boats.’
Even so, as they drifted across the green swell towards the islands both gondolas lurched dangerously low in the water. Sophie’s matching jacket and dress in pale gold and green stripes shimmered against the black. Leo fell asleep, snuggled in her lap. Once again she removed her gloves and let her fingers drift in the dreaming lagoon, keeping her hands carefully in shadow. The long voyage to Torcello in the early day as the distant isles hardened in the mist gave Max the miraculous sensation of approaching Elysium. This is eternity, this endless rolling voyage, gliding through calm waters and a ceaseless rocking green. The great square tower of the Torcello Campanile loomed up as the only marker in the dawn mist. As he gazed at the distant basilica the bells rang out across the marshes, channels and lagoons, over the fishing boats, barges and little leisure yachts, fluttering forwards with barely enough wind to fill the jib.
Sophie raised her eyes from the hypnotic, gentle green and Leo awoke in her embrace.
‘Glocken,’ he murmured sleepily. Bells.
As they approached the narrow jetty Sophie dug out her volume of Ruskin and read the descriptions of the mosaics aloud in English.
‘Listen, Max, the Madonna in the apse is surrounded by gold. We have to see “the two solemn mosaics of the eastern and western extremities, one representing the Last Judgement” – oh dear, I hope it’s not too fearsome, but then Leo always loves the devils – “and at the other the Madonna, her tears falling as her hands are raised to bless”, and “the noble range of pillars which enclose the space between”. He says that the whole is “expressive at once of the deep sorrow and the sacred courage of men, who had no home left them upon earth, but who looked for one to come”.’
Sophie slammed the book shut.
‘I hate all that.’
‘What?’
‘The wretchedness of this life and the bliss stored up for the virtuous in the next. The pastor pours all that down our throats every Sunday. And I think it’s poison. I don’t believe in another life as beautiful as this one. It’s all clearly lies.’
Max smiled. So did their gondolier, who despite the fact that he understood not a word, liked to watch the Countess working herself up into an outburst.
‘I want my happiness here, now, with you and Leo. I don’t want to wait.’
‘The very fact that you can even envisage joy in this world, Sophie, is a measure of your privilege. You already possess wealth, health and general blessedness.’ Max’s fond gaze undercut this piece of sententious superiority. ‘And you are one of my blessings.’
‘Then why can’t everyone be blessed? Each in their own way? The pastor says that God is just. But God is not just.’
‘If it’s any help to your rebellious theology, dearest love, the Greeks never solved the problem of God’s justice either. Professor Marek says that’s why their gods are capricious: to explain the fact that no providential pattern exists in the world. And no justice either.’
‘Did Lucian believe that? Is that why he wouldn’t listen to Myriam when she spoke about her Christian faith?’
But Max, startled by this sudden eruption of the atheist philosopher into their holiday idyll, remained silent. He simply reached out for the looped ropes bound to the jetty and steadied the swaying gondola. Lucian and all his works could wait for another day.
Max, Sophie and Leo set out at once for the basilica, leaving Karl to choose a shady spot and organise the picnic. However, as soon as their employers had gone Karl and the gondoliers set off into the marsh flags and bulrushes to find a peaceful spot to piss and smoke, leaving Leo’s nursemaid staring at the lobster. Max carried Leo on his shoulders as they tramped up the white path. They merely glanced at Santa Fosca and the remains of the baptistery, then pushed past the gat
hering beggars into the main nave of the church. At first, in the powerful gleam of the southern lights, high up, pouring through the ten round arches of the windows, Sophie saw only the luminous mosaic on the pavement beneath her feet. A rich and striking pattern of geometric perfection, all in black, white and red marble wheels, lozenges and arabesques, swirling beneath her white canvas boots. The warm brick and white light suggested not sorrow, but joy, present and to come. There were very few other tourists, for they had arrived at Torcello early in the day. Leo chuckled and gurgled as Max set him down upon the precious, cool floor, then the boy hoisted himself up and set off at speed, each tottering step a triumph of motion over balance. His sun hat fell off. Down he went, then up again and away, leaving Max to salvage the tiny boater with its sailor’s ribbons.
Sophie now looked up, facing the east, her back to the massive and thunderous Last Judgement, which dominated the gigantic west wall above the tiny doorway. Leo toddled straight towards the great gouged vault of the apse, with the single colossal figure of the Virgin, flanked by Greek symbols proclaiming her identity: the Mother of God.
Nothing else challenged her extraordinary presence. There she stands, Queen of Heaven, haloed in gold, showered with gold, standing on a shallow golden podium, her long folded robes fringed with gold. Her right hand points to the golden child, cradled in the crook of her left arm, and in her left hand she holds the white shroud of death.
Sophie deciphered the Latin words unfolding at the Virgin’s feet. Epitome of virtue, star of the seas, doorway to heaven, Mary through her son frees those whom Eve and husband reduced to sin. Sophie gazed at the names, Mary, Eve. They are named. These are not simply decorative women, there to give pleasure. They are the Bible’s heroines, the pivots on the gates, whose actions and decisions changed all our lives for ever. The men are simply generic: husband, son. It’s the women who count. This struggle between women marks the spiritual history of the whole world. Beneath the Virgin’s pointed slippers a bright window lit the golden dome; on either side the twelve apostles, all on a far smaller scale, frisked through fields of poppies, joyfully embracing their symbols of martyrdom. Sophie felt Leo pulling at her skirts, and bent down to touch the tender, upturned face of her only son.
‘Papa!’ cried Leo. He decided to drag his mother back to his father, but she resisted him gently.
‘No, my love, look up. Look up at the beautiful Madonna.’
Leo peered at the gigantic immobile blue figure, then decided that the pitchforked host of scowling devils which claimed his father’s attention presented a more interesting spectacle. He scuttled off in search of Max, who was contemplating damnation on the western façade, and now carried both the tiny hat and a lost shoe. As Leo skipped over the inlaid marble floor, he missed one step, and fell straight into the grey satin folds of another tourist. The lady raised him up, her companion whisked her dangerous parasol with its pretty white flowers out of the way as she set the child upright. Leo beamed up at the ancient lady whom he now took to be his grandmother, turned and pointed his chubby finger in the general direction of his luminous mother, who stood before the altar, drenched in white light, directly beneath the gigantic blue virgin, surrounded with gold. Sophie gazed upwards, transfigured in sunshine and glory.
‘Madonna!’ he yelped, delighted.
His mother turned round, her face outlined in white light, and found herself facing both the unsuspecting Sibyl and Mr. John Walter Cross.
Max recognised the visitors at once, and, tingling with horror, saw what had happened. He sped down the church towards them. But the Sibyl had not recognised Sophie. She was now near-sighted and stood there, vulnerable without her glasses. She addressed the young woman in French. Above her Sophie glittered in a blaze of white light.
‘Voilà, Madame, votre fils. I think nothing’s broken.’
‘Mrs. Lewes! How very extraordinary –’ Max jumped in, appalled, alarm rather than pleasure evident both on his face and in his voice. Everybody stared at one another.
The Sibyl switched to German. ‘Can it really be you, Max?’
She then glanced at the illuminated figure standing at the centre of the apse. Then this young woman must, almost certainly, be that denouncing venomous harpy who forced entry into my household, and prevented me from sleeping for almost a week. She froze, horrified, all the formulas of politeness dying on her lips. But Johnny Cross recognised Max as the sympathetic gentleman of the frozen gardens and began shaking hands vigorously.
‘What a pleasure, sir. A great pleasure to see you again. And in much happier circumstances.’
Sophie murmured an excuse, snatched up Leo and evaporated in two rapid stages, down the nave at full tilt, then out of the door into the brilliant white light and away round the side of the campanile. She flashed past the beggars, vendors and hucksters, who had no chance to regroup in importunate postures, and came to rest in a deserted corner overlooking the mudflats and the far lagoon. Her breath pumped out in thick gasps. She leaned against the warm brick of the campanile and set Leo down beside her on the browning grass. She noticed the missing shoe.
Max, abandoned before the altar, like a jilted bridegroom, was left with the task of being polite and enquiring after everybody’s health. He addressed the Sibyl once more as Mrs. Lewes. She smiled fleetingly, now clearly unsettled and deeply embarrassed.
‘We seem doomed to misunderstand one another, Max. May I formally introduce you to my husband, Mr. John Cross, who was indeed a dear friend to Mr. Lewes?’
‘But we’ve already met, dearest,’ said Johnny Cross, confused and perfectly oblivious of any awkward atmosphere generated by this chance encounter. Max stared at the Sibyl, open-mouthed. Was she telling the truth? She called the last one husband, when he wasn’t. The Sibyl ploughed on.
‘We are in fact visiting Venice on our wedding journey. We are staying at the Hôtel de l’ Europe.’
‘Where we should be delighted to receive you and your wife,’ declared Johnny Cross, hospitable but ill-advised. He misread the rapid squeeze of the Sibyl’s hand upon his wrist, and went on issuing polite invitations. The Sibyl, desperate to escape and terrified that the vanished harpy would reappear and begin screaming further accusations for all the church to hear, now bowed so deeply that her lace mantilla detached itself slightly from her heavy netted hair, and hung askew. Then she fled from the basilica, Johnny Cross trailing in her wake. Max was left standing in front of the Virgin still clutching his son’s hat and shoe. Shunted aside by a guide with a fresh party of tourists, he collapsed in a chair above the crypt, and waited for the storm to pass.
From the far side of the canal that led to the village Sophie watched the odd couple making off in the direction of the jetty. There goes Mrs. Lewes and her cavalier servente! She found herself, if not exactly victor of the field, at least the last to leave.
A letter from Wolfgang waited in reception.
Berlin, 6th June 1880
My Dear Max,
She is indeed married! And in church! All London is simmering with the scandal. There was an announcement in The Times, but I did not see it. I have, however, received a postcard from Herr und Frau Klesmer simply asking, ‘Is it true?’ News travels fast, but, it seems, not so fast as to reach you both in Venice. You must call upon them at once and present our congratulations and good wishes. It will be an unlooked-for honour that Sophie cannot have expected – to meet her idol at last! If they are on their wedding journey they will not wish to discuss business. But it would be very helpful if you could get to know the husband. I gather he is her financial adviser, so we may be dealing with him, rather than Charles Lewes, for the Cabinet edition. I have it on good authority that Theophrastus Such has sold over 6,000 copies. We must secure the contract if we can. It is therefore imperative that you should show Mr. and Mrs. Cross every courtesy. Flowers perhaps, and a formal message first. She seems to generate controversy whatever she does, whether married or unmarried.
Give Sophie and Leo my
love. Keep me informed of everything that happens. This could be a wonderful opportunity for us. And don’t fail me, petit frère.
Liebe Grüße
Dein Wolfgang
Max waited two days, then sent the flowers surreptitiously, so that Sophie’s enduring rage against the Sibyl would not be rekindled. That dreadful business with the necklace in Homburg now lay shrouded in the wastes of past time. Why, that was in the days when he found himself seriously compromised, begging Wolfgang for money! Anyway, the congratulations and good wishes came from Duncker und Duncker, as her German publishers, not from Max himself. He decided that he could keep Sophie circumscribed within the domestic sphere without appearing impolite, or suggesting that the Sibyl still could not figure among the acquaintances of virtuous married women. But he certainly ought to follow up the flowers with a brief visit.
Karl went out spying upon Max’s instructions and returned with the necessary information. He had quizzed their gondoliers and, after parting with a small bribe, discovered that the interrupted visit to Santa Maria Assunta had been followed by a trip to Murano, Santa Maria Formosa and then back to the Accademia. On Thursday they had been to San Zaccaria and spent hours peering at the paintings in bad light. On Friday they pounded off to San Vitale and took tea with someone called Mr. Bunney, whom they met again on the following morning in the Piazza, then all three set off back to Santa Maria Formosa, and then on to the Salute. They listened to the music on Sunday in the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista, then returned to Mr. Bunney. A Mrs. Bunney now entered the picture, a stout lady with a bright green parasol, who escorted them all to the Manfrin Palace and the Palazzo dei Quattro Evangelisti. They took all their meals in their rooms, avoided the dining hall and never loitered in the foyer. Max mopped his damp cheeks and throat in sympathetic horror at this rapid and inexorable process of cultural consumption. He found himself literally sweating with tourism.
Sophie and the Sibyl Page 27