Dangerous Obsession

by Natasha Peters

  “I am not with the Taylor Agency. I saw an article about you in the newspapers and decided that if you didn’t want to make a complete fool of yourself you would hire me. I left Europe because I found conducting too taxing. I am not a strong man, but neither am I a rich one. I would say that we needed each other. When is your concert?”

  “Five weeks,” I said faintly. “In mid-September.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t possibly be ready by then. And it will still be much too hot here. The really important people won’t even be back from their summer homes yet. We’ll re-schedule the concert for the first week in October. Now let’s get down to work. I’ll come here five days a week until two weeks before the concert, and then we’ll reduce that to three. I don’t want you to sound tired.”

  “Tired!” I sniffed. “I don’t get tired!”

  “No, but your voice does.” He saw me pouring myself some champagne and he frowned. “And no more of that until after the performance. It places a strain on the larynx.”

  No more champagne! A strain on the larynx! He was impossible. What could I do? I hired him.

  We fell into a routine. I slept until ten or eleven o’clock in the morning and then had a large lunch. David came at precisely one o’clock and we worked for two hours, exercising my voice and preparing songs. Then I received callers or shopped or explored the city. I hired a light curricle and a team of fine chestnut horses and drove myself all around town, alone. Crowds gathered to watch and shout and point and the newspapers had a wonderful time.

  “Bavarian Baroness Bests Beston!” trumpeted one headline about a week before the concert. Alfred Beston was a grandson of the American Revolution, a bored, wealthy bachelor who liked horses. He drove his own team around the city and one day we met and engaged in an impromptu race. I won and he invited me to dine with him.

  “I cannot go out in the evening now until after my concert,” I told him. “My pianist is a tyrant! But afterwards I shall be available for all sorts of jollity. Of course you will buy many tickets!”

  He bought a block of tickets and promised his friends would show loud, enthusiastic support.

  “Oh, I don’t need a hired claque!” I laughed. “When they hear me sing they will willingly leap to their feet, shouting with joy!”

  David Thatcher and I quarrelled every day. “Listen to me,” I said firmly one afternoon, about a week before the concert at the Lyceum, “I want you to write accompaniments for two more Gypsy songs. I will do Liszt’s, of course, but I want these for encores. I shall sing one slow—full of sadness and longing—and the other happy, celebrating the Gypsy way of life.”

  David regarded me solemnly over the tops of his spectacles. “I will not compose drivel for you,” he announced. “I have prepared some very nice songs by Brahms for your encores—”

  “Brahms! You have prepared!” I shouted, banging my fists on the top of the piano. “I am the singer, not you! This is my concert, mine! I prepare, I decide what to sing and then I tell you and you play for me! Give me the settings for these songs tomorrow or I will find someone else to play for me, do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.” He stood up and closed the lid over the piano keys.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I demanded as he walked out of the room. “Have you forgotten that we have a concert in just one week?”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything,” he said mildly. “But I will not betray my standards.”

  “Standards? What do you think this is—a command performance for royalty? These people are paying to see a show! They want to hear songs they can understand, not—Brahms!”

  “You are wrong, Baroness,” David Thatcher said coldly. “If you want to be part of a sideshow then I suggest that you get Mr. Barnum to promote you. He understands the deplorable tastes of the American public. If you want to cheapen yourself, if you want to cheapen your association with Franz Liszt and Signor Loccatelli and King Ludwig, then just continue in your present spectacular vein. But you will simply have to hire another pianist. In the long run, if you keep your performances tasteful and concentrate on the beauty and integrity of the music—”

  “Tasteful is dull!” I cried. “Integrity is boring!”

  “Please let me finish,” David snapped. I subsided and pouted at him. “If you do justice to your music, you will attract more listeners and more followers than you will if you act the seven days’ wonder in beaded gowns and feathered headdresses.”

  “Well!” I sat down heavily. He started to leave. “Come back here!” I shouted. “You are a good-hearted man, David Thatcher, even though I find you stubborn and stiff-necked. Do you think I don’t love music as you do? It’s in my blood, in my veins! I am Gypsy, and for a Gypsy all of life is a song! I tell you, I would sing every day for nothing—only it wouldn’t earn me anything. I have to think of money as well as enjoyment. I sing because I like to sing, and why shouldn’t I sing the songs that make me happy? It makes sense, no?”

  “No. If you want to attract the right kind of people to your concerts—the rich and the well-born—you will have to set a very high standard for yourself. It takes a lot to impress these people. They won’t be fooled by shining dresses and Gypsy folk songs.”

  “Just one?” I said meekly. “The other I will do without piano, the way I would sing it in the Gypsy camp.”

  “No,” he said adamantly.

  “Please! It is really a very tasteful song, David. Liszt himself loved it. Please, let me sing it for you.”

  We compromised. David planned the program and I chose the encore pieces. He wrote settings for my two new Gypsy songs and I decided to include a couple of folk and popular songs in English, like “Barbara Allen” and “Home, Sweet Home.” The audience would love it.

  Our preparations went forward. I put advertisements in the newspapers: “Newly Arrived from the Continent! The Baroness of Ravensfeld will Appear for the First Time on these Shores! Direct from the Court of King Ludwig of Bavaria!”

  The night of the concert arrived. The Lyceum Theater was jammed and crowds blocked the approaches and had to be dispersed by mounted policemen. New York had never seen anything like it. The day before the performance I rode a white stallion up and down Broadway, smiling and waving to everyone I saw, like a one-woman parade. It worked wonders. Every seat in the house was sold and the standing room was filled an hour before curtain.

  My dark blue velvet gown was tasteful enough to win David Thatcher’s approval, although he had some misgivings about my low décolletage.

  “But I need room to breathe, David,” I explained. I inhaled deeply, to demonstrate. My white breasts rose under his nose like twin balloons. His eyes widened behind their little panes. He blushed and fled the dressing room.

  When I swept onstage, followed by my lanky young accompanist, the audience drew a collective breath and burst into spontaneous applause, on the strength of my looks alone! What a country! And they liked my singing, too. The next morning, even the harshest newspaper elites confessed that my voice had power and beauty, and that my performance was dazzling. Headlines hailed the arrival of a new star: “Baroness Brilliant in Two-Hour Concert. Lyceum Shakes with Applause. Poet Longfellow Lavish with Praise.”

  When David appeared at one o’clock that next day for our daily practice session, he found me propped up in bed with maps of the United States spread over my lap. I was sipping the first of my countless daily cups of tea.

  “Hello, David!” I greeted him ecstatically. “Where shall we go next? Philadelphia? Boston? They say that it gets very cold north of here. Let’s go south! And then west. And we’ll perform in the north in the springtime!”

  “You sang beautifully last night,” David said. “Better than I’ve ever heard you.”

  “What did you expect? I don’t waste my energy on rehearsing. Why should I sing to the walls? They don’t pay. But you!” I jumped out of bed and threw my arms around his neck. He looked terrified. “You played so beautifully that I w
anted to weep! I have never heard the Five Gypsy Songs’ played better, not even by Liszt himself!”

  “That’s strange,” David remarked, detaching my arms. “He wrote them.”

  “Pooh. Does that mean he knows how to interpret them? Look, I have something for you.” I handed him a small box. Inside was a gold pocket watch set with diamonds. “Nice, isn’t it? Very tasteful.”

  “It’s beautiful,” David agreed. “Thank you. Baroness.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said modestly. “We Gypsies are generous people. Look under that pillow. There’s a little money there. Take a handful as a gift, please.”

  “There are thousands of dollars here!” David gasped.

  “I do not trust banks,” I told him. “Anna, bring another cup! Our David wants some tea!” Anna was three rooms away but I know she heard me without difficulty. “Now to business, David. If you want to stay with me, well and good. I would like to have you. But if you are nervous about travelling and giving concerts in different cities, or if you think it will make you ill, then you should not come. I will understand. What do you say? We leave for Philadelphia in two days.”

  “I—but this is rather sudden, Baroness,” David said. For the first time I saw him flustered. “I thought you’d be staying here. After all the attention Mr. Beston has paid—”

  “He is too short and his breath is bad,” I said, dismissing the erstwhile millionaire. “Why don’t you want to come? You have a girlfriend, perhaps? You can bring her along.”

  “Certainly not!” David was shocked.

  “What’s so bad about having a girlfriend?” I wanted to know. “You’re not too young or too old. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Is that all? Sometimes I think you are eighty-nine. Philadelphia, I think. Then we’ll go to Baltimore and Washington and there I will sing for the President! Is that a good idea?”

  “Splendid,” David mumbled in a dazed voice. “You are an amazing woman, Baroness.”

  “Not amazing. I’m Gypsy. I’ve been in this city too long and I want to travel. Why shouldn’t I? I am young, I am free, and I want to have fun!”

  Terrible snow and ice storms plagued the eastern coast of the United States during the winter of 1848-49, but they were nothing compared to the storm I caused. I travelled in a huge, custom-made coach, extra-large to accommodate my retinue, which included Anna and David and a mulatto cook named Dora and the driver and his brother, as well as a fat white puppy named Kalinka. My coach was drawn by six perfectly matched white horses, gifts from a disappointed lover, Alfred Beston. In addition to the passengers and drivers, my coach had to hold a half-ton of luggage. David suggested half in jest that I get myself a private railroad car, but unfortunately the country didn’t have tracks that went everywhere I wanted to go.

  I earned a lot of money from my concert appearances, and it disappeared almost as soon as I made it. Six horses and a dog and six people eat a lot, and I needed gowns and coats and shoes—all the paraphernalia that you must have if you’re a Baroness and a public figure. I believe it’s called "keeping up appearances.” I admit that I didn’t spend all the money; I gave away a good bit, too. I was a soft touch for anyone who had a sad story to tell. Half the time I sang for free, giving benefits for crippled children or palsied musicians or widows and orphans.

  Naturally I did not receive anything for singing at the White House in January, 1849.1 was supposed to be grateful for the honor of being invited at all. I wore green velvet that night, with long sleeves and a very modest neckline. Chunks of sparkling diamonds at my ears and throat made up for the plainness of the dress. President and Mrs. Polk seemed delighted with my short recital of songs by Beethoven, Schubert and Liszt, but everyone was most pleased with the songs I sang by Stephen Foster. I like to watch David Thatcher's face while he played those songs; he looked as if he had eaten bile soup.

  A tall, handsome gentleman with a mane of white hair danced with me at the reception afterwards. He introduced himself as Garth McClelland, and I found out later that he was Vice-President.

  “McClelland? Do you have a son named Steven? Tall and good-looking, like yourself?”

  “I do have a son by that name,” he admitted. His eyes were blue and merry, and his smile was devastating “Have you met him?”

  “Oh, yes! He rescued me after the revolution in Munich. He was as fierce as a lion. Very brave!” My partner looked incredulous. “You think I am fooling? I assure you, it really happened. He was a secret agent for King Ludwig.”

  “I don’t disbelieve you. Baroness,” Garth McClelland said, “but it hardly sounds like my son. He’s a little dry and stuffy. A lawyer.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll tell you about it.” And I did. “He didn’t want to be a secret agent. He just did it as a favor for the King. But perhaps I shouldn’t talk about it? Do you find it embarrassing, politically?”

  “I find it delightful!” he said warmly. “I can’t wait to tell my wife.” Our dance ended. “Perhaps we shall meet again, Baroness,” the Vice-President said gallantly. “You should go to New Orleans. That’s a city that knows how to make a beautiful woman feel at home. And my son might even have returned from Europe by then. I know he’d love to see you again,” he twinkled.

  In late spring we arrived in Vicksburg, Mississippi. We found a hotel, and Anna and Dora set about making my rooms comfortable. Dora littered the bedroom floor with colorful pillows and hung yards of gaily printed fabric all around the bed. Anna filled the samovar with water, dropped red hot coals into the cylinder in the center to bring the water to a boil, and then she made strong tea to steep in a little pot that she put on top. They both unpacked my trunks—a three hour job. David found a fairly decent piano in the building and persuaded the management to move it into my sitting room. Kalinka ran in circles and barked and chewed the pillows.

  "Gypsy caravan!” I sighed contentedly, falling onto the bed. “Home!”

  My concert in Vicksburg was a great success, and I gave a benefit for The Blind Widows of Men Drowned at Sea. The newspaper praised my generosity and some women even asked me to sing in church on Sunday. I was becoming almost respectable!

  After the benefit I threw myself down on my bed and moaned, “I am tired. I am irritable. I am sick of the sound of my own voice.”

  Anna moved silently around the room, arranging cushions, hanging up clothes.

  Do you know what I did this morning, Anna? I kicked Kalinka because he was underfoot and I scolded Dora because the coffee was cold and I shouted at David because he came to our practice session five minutes early! I am going mad. I need rest, quiet.”

  Anna gave me a sour look and rubbed the fourth finger of her left hand.

  “A husband? I don’t want a husband. Just one more person underfoot.”

  Anna shook her head and traced a large “S” in the air with her finger.

  “Steven? Yes, he was nice, very nice. I think I miss him. His quiet voice, his sympathy. Those lovely strong arms. Ah.” I rolled over and buried my face in the pillows. “I’m getting as mean as a spinster in my old age, Anna. But what do I do? Most of the men I see just don’t interest me. I have slept with rogues and kings and I have a right to be choosy.”

  I sat up again and accepted a cup of tea. Anna locked her arms together and rocked them back and forth. “Babies,” I said.

  She nodded and mimed an old woman with a bent back and palsied hand.

  “I should have babies before I get too old! You think what I really want is a husband and a family!”

  Anna waved her arms at the ceiling.

  ‘‘And a home! You’re saying that I want to be like every other woman with a husband and a home and lots of babies! Oh, Anna, sit with me.” I put my arms around her. I can’t help touching people I like. “Are you tired of all this travelling and all this fuss?” She nodded. “Are you scolding me because I’m trying to keep busy and I’m not thinking about what I really want out of life?” Anna nodded more vigo
rously. “But I’m having such a wonderful time!” Anna sat immobile. “They love to hear me sing, everywhere I go! And I love to sing for them, Anna. I do! They—they need me.” No reaction. “Bah,” I said impatiently, “sometimes when I talk to you, Anna, it’s like talking to myself. Everybody always thinks they know what’s best for me. David wants me to sing Brahms, Dora wants me to eat cornbread instead of blintzes, Kalinka wants me to walk with him all the time. Oh, God, I’m tired. Where are we supposed to go next? Natchez? We won’t go,” I decided suddenly. “We shall go straight to New Orleans instead! And I’ll buy a house and sing in my own living room for the people I like and rest and grow fat—. And maybe I’ll even find someone to marry down there, eh?”

  Anna hugged me warmly. Then she sat up and frowned. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  She rubbed her ring finger again and drew another “S” in the air.

  “Steven?” I asked. She shook her head, bounced off the bed, and walked across the floor, limping and leaning on an invisible stick. Her imitation of him was so perfect it made me shiver. “Seth? What about him? You think I can’t marry anyone because I’m already married to Seth.”

  We sat quietly for a long time, remembering Vienna, remembering his betrayal. Then I lifted my head.

  But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? He might even be dead. I hope so! And if I married someone here, in America, he would never know. And my husband would lever know about him. Isn’t that so?”

  Anna looked doubtful.

  13

  New Orleans Reverie

  THE TEMPERATURE OUTDOORS was in the nineties. Indoors it was slightly cooler because of the tall live oak trees that shaded the house, but tempers in my music room on the second floor were still frayed and short.

  David had arrived promptly on the dot of eleven for our daily session. We still worked every day even though I was not planning to perform soon. We had found that the intense heat in New Orleans in the summertime made work impossible after noon, and by the time the days cooled off, in the evening, I had other things to occupy my time.