Magic Flutes
Page 17
‘No, no, Savachka!’ said Raisa firmly. She removed the Archduke’s glass and handed him her large, scuffed and overflowing shoe. ‘It is from zis zat you must drink champagne!’
‘Ah, if only Mama could have been here tonight,’ sighed Pino, his arm around the Middle Heidi. ‘How that woman loved me!’
‘It came quite suddenly you see, this terrible twang – and then I fell and all I remember is my silver tail rolling, rolling away over the footlights before everything went black!’ declared the Rhinemaiden, recounting her historic mishap to the sympathetic David Tremayne.
But again and again they returned to the performance, recalling its felicities like people telling their beads so that they would not forget this night.
To the happiness and contentment pervading the party there was a notable exception: Prince Maximilian of Spittau, scrambling frantically over pieces of scenery and looking for his love.
For Tessa, Maxi could not help feeling, had behaved most shabbily. Not only had she rushed backstage during the interval, but as soon as the applause started after curtain down she had shot off again, declaring that she had to help clear up. And since then he had seen no sign of her.
But he was going to find her. He was going to find her and bring this proposing business to a head if it took all night. Enough was enough. Now, his glass clutched in his hand, he stumbled over entwined couples, fell over Raisa’s dachshund and enquired with increasing desperation for the Princess of Pfaffenstein.
No one could help him. Even Boris, who regarded Tessa as his special charge, had no idea where she was and Klasky, when questioned, opened an eye, said vaguely, ‘Dear little thing . . . brought The Button to Sachers . . .’ and passed out at the foot of a cut-out tree.
‘Going to find her,’ said Maxi, draining his glass. ‘Going to find her . . . going to –’ and lurched away in the direction of the dressing-rooms.
At first Tessa had been buoyed up and sustained by the general jubilation that followed the fall of the curtain. But slowly, inexorably, the pain that had been lying in wait for her crept closer, could not be ignored and soon took over her whole self in a way which seemed entirely physical.
As soon as she had tidied up backstage, she slipped away to the West Tower. But before she could be alone, she had to go and say good night to the aunts for she was aware how badly she had neglected them during the past week.
She found them preparing for bed, their grey plaits hanging down their backs and, as always, their faces lit up at the sight of her. But when she had left again to go up to her room they turned to each other, suddenly stricken and helpless.
‘What is it?’ enquired Tante Tilda piteously. ‘What makes her look like that? Her eyes . . .’
Tante Augustine shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Before,’ she said gruffly, ‘one could at least brush her hair for her. But now . . .’
‘She’ll be all right when she’s married to Maxi?’ said Tante Tilda beseechingly. ‘She’ll be all right then, won’t she, Augustine?’
But the Duchess was silent. Tomorrow she would forget again, would continue to press for the marriage that was so suitable, so dynastically right. But tonight she was still caught by the music’s truth and she did not speak.
Tessa had reached her room, but she did not prepare for bed – instead, she climbed the round, stone steps which led up to the tower roof. It was for this view, this freedom, that she had chosen the plain, round room out of all the others in the castle, and now, stepping out, she found herself under a brilliant canopy of stars.
She was alone now and there was no escape. No more than one can ignore what Van Gogh saw in an olive tree or Rembrandt in the lineaments of age, could she forget what had happened to her when Guy had held her in his arms.
Here it was, then. Love. Love as strong, as specific, as if it were some metallurgical process welding her thoughts, her desires, her soul to a man who scarcely knew she existed. All those celestial shriekings in Tristan and Isolde, all those swords plunged by heaving tenors into their own chests, had been nothing more than case histories, describing this thing which was as real, as hard as stone.
Oh, God, thought Tessa; why? The uselessness of it when he loved Nerine and would, in any case, never have stooped to her. To ‘why?’ there was no answer except in the whim of fate. When, then? This was easier to answer. Almost at once, had she known enough to read the signs. That first time when he had taken her home and placed his fingers against her cheek, measuring the line of her hair . . . And again in the Stadtpark when he spoke of his foster-mother and his voice had grown so warm and tender . . . And at Sachers. Yes, she had certainly known at Sachers.
And I wanted to consult Professor Freud, thought Tessa. Well, the joke’s on me. With the appalling clarity of her condition, she saw Guy’s hand as he pushed a lock of hair impatiently from his forehead, saw his mocking smile as he drew the curtains of the alcove at Sachers, the curve of his throat as he bent to take the strawberries from her in the woods.
Do I know everything about him already? she thought, bewildered. And back came the answer: everything. You are branded with this knowledge, you will have it for the rest of time.
But this was too much. She took a deep breath, inhaling the night air scented with hay, with honeysuckle and the rich waters of the lake, listened to the music and laughter coming from the theatre and tilted her head at the stars. She had never seen them so brilliant and clear. Cassiopeia, Orion, the great girdle of the Milky Way – and her own birth sign, Gemini. With such staggering beauty in the world, how could anyone not rejoice?
It seemed, however, that ‘anyone’ could. For at once came the age-old cry of lovers since time began. ‘What are the stars if I am not gazing at them with him? What is beauty except something that we share?’
Alone and appalled, Tessa stared at the meaningless heavens. ‘This,’ said the Princess Theresa-Maria Rodolphe Caroline of Pfaffenstein, lifting her chin, ‘this I will fight.’
‘May I help Your Highness?’ The Littlest Heidi stood before Maxi as he clambered over yet another pile of scenery in his relentless, and so far hopeless, search for his beloved.
‘I’m looking for the Princess of Pfaffenstein. For Tessa,’ he added, for he was endeavouring to embrace democracy.
But his eyes rested, with a pleasure he found it impossible to conceal, on the entrancement that was Heidi Schlumberger dressed as a rabbit. It was thus that she had danced to Tamino’s flute. Now, though she had removed her mask, she was still encased in soft, beige fur with a white fluffy tail. The huge blue eyes, the golden curls tumbling over her pelt, were almost too much for Maxi. He had not sought her out since they met at the film show but the little dancer had seldom been absent from what passed, in Maxi’s mind, for thoughts.
‘I haven’t seen her for quite a while,’ said Heidi. ‘Shall I help you look? She may still be doing something in one of the dressing-rooms. You can’t imagine how hard she works.’
Maxi, who could imagine it all too well, wrinkled the nose which came to him straight from Phillip II of Spain and said he would be grateful. It was necessary, he said, for him to speak to Tessa that very night.
So they searched the dressing-rooms, the wardrobe, the Green Room, but there was no sign of Tessa.
‘Could I perhaps get Your Highness some more champagne?’ suggested the Littlest Heidi when they returned, defeated, to the stage. ‘There are still bottles and bottles in the great hall.’
Like everybody else, she knew that the prince was to marry Tessa and thoroughly approved the match. She was a modest girl and when she gazed as she gazed now – rapt and awed – into his face, it was not marriage that she had in mind.
Maxi indicated his approval. ‘Only you will want some too. We’ll go together.’ Damn it, there were limits to what a fellow could do and there was still tomorrow. ‘I know a short cut,’ he said.
The ‘short cut’ – through the trophy room, the picture gallery and the library – was, perhaps, not
a sensational time-saver but Heidi made no demur. For the library, when they reached it, was quite deserted and splendidly provided with statues, niches and literary nooks. At exactly the right moment, she stumbled over a fluffy Afghan rug and was prevented from falling by the heroic prince. With exactly the right, almost imperceptible wriggle she indicated that his hands, now resting on the indescribable delights of the softly rounded rabbit tail, were not giving offence. And because the prince’s hands were now engaged, she felt emboldened to enquire whether His Highness would not wish her to loosen his collar, knowing how much the military suffered in their uniforms.
‘You can call me . . . Maximilian,’ murmured the Prince, as her plump little hands fluttered up to his throat.
But this the Littlest Heidi, though otherwise so totally obliging, felt unable to do.
Nerine was feeling aggrieved. She had worked ceaselessly and unstintingly all that day on her surprise for Guy. After all, she was not seventeen any longer; it had been no easy task to produce the miracle that was her own appearance en grande tenue. Then, just because she had dozed off for a few minutes at the end of that absolutely interminable opera, Guy was in a mood. She could tell he was although he had said nothing, only escorted her up to the boudoir which adjoined the state bedroom. Naturally, she had not been able to face a party which consisted largely of drunken theatricals, but though Guy had accompanied her upstairs, accepting the excuse that she was tired, he showed no inclination to leave her alone and let her prepare for bed.
‘Are you cross because I dropped off for a minute?’ she asked. ‘Because really I can’t see why. I’ve never pretended to be brainy, you know.’
‘No, I’m not cross. Only . . . Nerine, just how much does music mean to you?’
She shrugged and suppressed a yawn. If she did not get a full eight hours’ sleep she would have rings under her eyes tomorrow, and there was still the farewell banquet on the following night.
‘Well, I like it very much. To dance to, I mean. And when Charles was so ill and I never got about, Mama took me to Chu Chin Chow and I enjoyed that very much. In fact, that was where I met Lord Frith,’ said Nerine, but saw that this was not a point to pursue. ‘Mama went to Chu Chin Chow four times, actually, so you can’t say we’re not a musical family. But after all, dear, I am English.’
‘English?’ echoed Guy.
‘Yes, dear, English,’ said Nerine with quiet pride. ‘And the English have never been fond of opera, have they? It’s foreigners, really, who go in for that. Germans and Italians like opera and Russians like ballet. But in England it’s not like that. You don’t have to go to the opera socially, like you do in Vienna, to be seen. You go to Ascot and Henley and Goodwood. Of course, I’ll come with you while we’re living here – to the Vienna Opera, I mean. I quite see that it’s necessary here. But quite honestly, all those priests droning on and that rather ridiculous birdcatcher . . .’
‘Yes.’ Guy was perfectly aware, at one level, of the absurdity of the art he loved, and saw without rancour what Nerine meant. ‘Idiotic of me not to have asked you. You see, when we met that first time at the opera . . .’ He broke off and stood twisting a candlestick over and over in his hands. ‘I always remembered how you sighed when the curtain went up. Always, I remembered that.’
‘Well, so would you sigh,’ said Nerine, suddenly exasperated, ‘if you faced nearly four hours of boredom. Good heavens, Guy, it never ended at that academy. Concerts where funny little men almost fell off their piano stools, all that interminable trudging through museums in the heat . . . I never pretended,’ cried Nerine, ‘to be intellectual and clever. I never pretended it!’
Guy bowed his head. The truth of what she said was absolute, she had not pretended. The foolishness, the idiocy, had all been his. He had fallen in love not just with her appearance but with a response – wholly imagined, he could see now – to beauty and art. Tessa’s coup de foudre as she overheard the choirboys at Schönbrunn, Jacob’s experience at Carmen, had had its counterpoint when Martha took him to the pantomime in Newcastle for the first time. Just seven years old, Guy had emerged from the dirty, Doric portico of the Theatre Royal in a state of trance and had not come down to earth for several days. But what did his own passion for music and the theatre have to do with Nerine? He had been blind and foolish, and worse than that, for to twist another person into one’s own image is to do them an incalculable injury.
Well, she should not suffer. Never would he reveal his mistake nor tell her what hopes he had had of a future in which his wealth would serve the purposes of art. From now on he would take her as she was: a lovely woman who had promised him nothing and owed him nothing but her own existence.
He put down the candlestick and picked up one of her hands. ‘No, you never pretended and you shall never need to,’ he said, playing with her fingers. ‘As for operas – we’ll have no more of them!’
She smiled, relieved. ‘Well, frankly, dear, I think Mama and Aunt Dorothy would be a bit horrified if they found they had to sit through an opera when they came to the wedding. And really, there’s no harm done, is there? Your guests enjoyed tonight and the company have been well paid – too well paid, I shouldn’t wonder. They will probably boast of their week at Pfaffenstein for the rest of their lives. But since we’re talking about music, dearest,’ said Nerine, pleased to show that she did after all know something about the subject, ‘which would you prefer at our wedding? The Mendelssohn March? Or the one from Lohengrin?’
Guy smiled: a smile that did not quite manage to reach his eyes. ‘I leave that to you, my dear. Either will do perfectly well for me.’
13
On the last day of Guy’s house party, the green and glacial waters of Lake Pfaffenstein saw two momentous though disconnected events.
Not far from the southern shore of the lake lay a wooded island on which the fifth Prince of Pfaffenstein had built a classic temple, following his return from the Grand Tour. Boats to journey to this and other islands, and boatmen to row them, had been provided by Guy for his guests. At an hour when most of them still slept, Klasky, carrying a briefcase full of manuscript paper and wearing his habitual dark suit, silk socks which had belonged to Gustav Mahler and patent leather shoes, was rowed across to this peaceful spot.
Dismissing the boatman, instructing him to return at lunchtime, Klasky repaired to the bench in front of the temple. Nature, always abundant in the month of June, smiled at the Hungarian but she smiled in vain. Cuckoos called, dragonflies shimmered, marguerites, balsam and meadow-sweet scented the grass by the water’s edge, but all to no avail. Klasky’s impassioned eyes were turned on a wholly inward vision as his thin white fingers raced across the lined paper. Sometimes he hummed – a distracted sound as of a deprived and atonal bee – sometimes he whistled. Midges bit him, lavender beetles dashed across his shoe. Caught in a white heat of creative fervour, he saw nothing that did not come from within.
For it was coming! The breakthrough when he had changed the hero from a policeman to a railway porter had been followed by one even more fundamental, when he had discovered that by changing the B flat in his tone row to G the whole musical structure of the work fell into place. Since then, he had lacked only the vision for the chorus that would conclude his opera. The heroine, betrayed by the mill-owner, has hanged herself. Her husband, the railway porter, has gone mad. The mill-owner, wrongly believing that he has consumed his child in a fricassée, has jumped out of the window. The action then is over, but it is left to the plate-layers, engine-greasers and lavatory attendants who represent the simple, uncorrupted spirit of the people, devoid of capitalism and desire, to sum up the inner meaning of the tragedy.
The theme of this last chorus had continued to elude the composer. The lament of the captive Israelites in Nabucco, the paean of the prisoners in Fidelio, were to pale into insignificance beside the yea-saying life-enhancement of these signalmen and engine-greasers assembled on a railway platform somewhere between Vlodz and Kranislav.
The boatman returned and was waved away by the perspiring Hungarian. The shadows lengthened . . .
At five he stabbed a last cluster of quavers on to the paper, closed his brief-case and reeled sightlessly towards the landing stage. The opera was finished.
There was no boat, but that was of no importance. He turned to look at the little temple. Would they transport it as they had transported the summer-house where Mozart had written The Magic Flute? Would there be a Klaskeum like the Mozarteum at Salzburg, or would people merely come to Pfaffenstein in charabancs to see where he had worked? No, where he had lived. There could be no doubt but that Farne, after last night, would install them here.
His mind raced ahead to the production. He would need a much larger bass drum than any they possessed, thought the composer, wondering if even now, in some fertile alm above the castle, there grazed two outsize and expiring cows whose hides would give the necessary sound. Or simply two cows, expiring or not, since it was after all perfectly possible to shoot them.
At this point he perceived, not far away, a rowing-boat containing Tessa, the Prince of Spittau and a quantity of dogs.