Song of Songs

by Song of Songs (retail) (epub)

  I sat mute, my face aflame.

  ‘Come on, Hellie, don’t be shy - if you don’t tell me I shall ask Conan when I see him.’

  At last I stammered, ‘I - I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Mm - how delicious,’ Alice smiled. ‘Then at least tell me how Mother “Found You Out”.’ Her black eyes mesmerized me.

  Finally I whispered, ‘Sir Ernest brought her to the maze - and - they found my corset.’

  ‘Your corset! She was with Sir Ernest and - oh, just wait till I tell Hugh!’ My sister looked much more cheerful now. I longed for the floor to open and swallow me up. ‘Oh, Helena’ - Alice arranged her face in an expression of outraged modesty - ‘what a naughty boy Conan is to be sure - removing your corset in the maze.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or did you remove your own corset? Surely not!’

  I said desperately, ‘He helped me.’

  Alice fell back on to the sofa and laughed at me until the tears ran down her face. I watched her, my cheeks burning, until she gave one last whoop, dabbed at her eyes with a scrap of lace, and rang for tea.

  Guy arrived at six. I ran across the room to throw myself at him, and burst into tears.

  He patted my shoulder. ‘There, there, Hellie - don’t cry.’

  Alice called out, ‘She’s been playing with fire and now she’s got burnt. Try and calm her down before Hugh comes in, I’ve got to go and feed the wretched brat.’

  Guy exclaimed, ‘I’ll horsewhip young Conan when I get my hands on him - the thoughtless bounder. Never mind, Hellie, I’m sure you’ll enjoy Munich when you get there: Alice had a whale of a time in Dresden, loved every minute of it.’

  My sobs died down to hiccups; I was warmed by Guy’s loyal support.

  I woke next morning doomed but resigned. Guy had promised he would bring the twins out to Munich at Christmas, if he could get leave: ‘I’ll go down on my bended knees before the adjutant, Hellie - I can’t say fairer than that.’ So I had a little oasis of hope to cling to in the desert ahead.

  Alice, coming down late for breakfast, opened another letter from Mother. ‘Sir Ernest has apparently arranged a most strenuous musical programme for you, and assures Mother that Fraulein Washeim is a slave driver of the first order. Poor Hellie, no time for you to make eyes at those handsome German students.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘Oh, I did enjoy Dresden. Still, it’s true I didn’t learn much there, whereas Sir Ernest seems determined that whatever the reason for your banishment, at least you’re going to learn to sing.’

  I said resentfully, ‘I can sing already. When is Guy coming?’

  We were to leave in the afternoon. Before lunch Guy took me out for a walk in the Park. As we strolled under the trees I heard the jingle of harness and saw a troop of Life Guards trotting towards us. Their white plumes were waving in the breeze, their red tunics glowed. I tugged at Guy’s arm, and pulled him nearer. ‘Oh, don’t they look smart - though not as nice as the Grenadiers, of course.’ Guy laughed and patted my hand.

  The officer rode at the head. The sun glinted on his shining spurs and sparkled off his golden breastplate. His silver sword was held upright in one white-gaunt- leted hand; the other lightly clasped the reins. I looked up at the face under the gleaming helmet: his mouth was a steady line below his small golden moustache and proud straight nose. Then, as he drew level with us, for a moment his cool blue eyes looked straight into mine. I held my breath, until with the thud of hooves his troop rode past us.

  I breathed out slowly, and gazing after the tossing white plumes I whispered to Guy, ‘He looked at me, he looked straight at me.’

  Guy laughed. ‘I’ll wager he looked at everybody along the route. You can always tell a man who’s been on active service - he’ll keep his eyes open, even in London.’ I breathed, ‘Do you know him, Guy?’

  ‘Only by sight. It was Prescott - lucky devil was just in time to see the fun in South Africa. Mentioned in dispatches, then got a gong - DSO, I think.’

  The troop had swung round a corner now, but I still gazed at the point where they had disappeared from sight. My heart thumped. He was not only tall and handsome - he was a hero! Guy spoke again: ‘He and his brother went out together, I believe - his brother was wounded; just getting over it when he went down with enteric and died out there.’

  ‘Oh Guy.’ I gazed up at my own brother. ‘How awful to lose his brother like that I just couldn’t bear it.’ Guy pressed my arm close to his chest, and I added, ‘That was like Jem - do you remember Jem, Guy?’ ‘Yes, I remember.’

  We began to walk on, but the clear blue eyes and tall, upright figure danced before me. The sweeper was clearing some horse dung further on; I gazed at it - perhaps it was from his horse. My hero.

  The journey to Munich passed in a daze, but just before I fell asleep in the small cabin of the steamer I remembered Conan’s hand sliding under my skirts, and I blushed with shame. How could I have behaved so? Mother was right to punish me. I was a little slut - I did not deserve even a glance from such a brave strong man as my cavalry officer. But from now on I would try to be worthy of him, oh, how I would try.

  Part II

  AUGUST 1909 to AUGUST 1914

  Chapter One

  I learnt to sing in Munich.

  Guy delivered me to the pension in the Schellingstrasse and a plump middle-aged woman with cheeks like wrinkled apples led me up the dark stuffy staircase to the sitting room where my new governess awaited me. Fraulein Washeim was broad with thick grey plaits wound tightly round her heavy-jowled, expressionless face; from under heavy lids pale blue eyes assessed me.

  Guy had to return at once. I flung myself into his arms in a storm of frantic weeping and he patted my back helplessly until a firm hand on my shoulder prised me away; with a parting kiss my brother was gone. Fraulein led me, gulping and sobbing, into a small bedroom. ‘I will be waiting when you have recovered, Grafin.’ Through tear-blurred eyes I stared at the hideous brown wallpaper and the enormous white porcelain stove that dominated the room; then I flung myself on to the mound of feather eiderdowns heaped on the bed.

  Everything was so strange. I had learnt a little German with Miss Ling, and when Fraulein Washeim spoke slowly and clearly, I could just follow her, but I gaped helplessly whenever Frau Reinmar, my landlady, addressed me. We ate lunch and dinner downstairs with the other guests, and she would rattle off the strange-sounding names: Kalbsbraten, Nudeln, Zwetschgentorte. But on the second day I acquired an ally. I had recognized pea soup – but there was a sausage floating in it! So I picked up my spoon very slowly, and sipped gingerly, skirting the intruder, until the young dark-haired boy opposite leant right over the table, pointed to my plate and said loudly, ‘Sossidge! I am speaking Englischer, Grafin. Now I teach German to you.’ He sat back and beamed at me, showing a row of pearly white teeth under a short, childish upper lip. Then he leant forward again. ‘Wurst – say wurst, Fraulein Grafin.’

  Obediently I repeated the word after him, and he smiled again.

  Franzl set himself up as my tutor. Slowly and patiently he told me he was nine years of age, and he had four sisters, and one brother, Kurt. His brown eyes lit up when he spoke of Kurt. Kurt was twenty-four and an officer – very, very clever, and very, very strong. He had seen the Grafin’s brother – so he also was an officer? ‘Gut, sehr gut.’ We smiled at each other, and I felt slightly less forlorn.

  The next day Fraulein took me to see Frau Elsa Gehring. Fraulein told me I was extremely honoured that Frau Gehring would even hear me sing. She had been a great singer, now she taught, but only the best pupils. I felt sick with nerves.

  The famous Elsa Gehring was still blonde, though the blue eyes were surrounded by a mesh of fine lines. She smiled kindly, but spoke too quickly for me. I caught the name ‘Ernst Webern’, and her blue eyes gleamed; even Fraulein Washeim’s stolid face relaxed into a near smile; the two ladies shook their heads indulgently.

  Frau Gehring turned back to me, and spoke rapidly. I understood I was to sing, so I drew a b
reath and launched into: ‘Where e’er you walk…’ The gentle breezes of the song lulled me, and for a moment I forgot I was in exile.

  Frau Gehring beckoned. She said loudly in English, ‘Hilde’ – as she gestured towards Fraulein Washeim – ‘will teach you German.’ She held up one finger. ‘In one month you will return.’ I nodded and began to turn away. ‘Nein, you must learn the breath. Down.’ She pointed to the square of threadbare carpet, so I knelt on the floor. Frau Gehring exclaimed, and gestured with her hands. ‘Down, down to sleep.’ Totally bewildered, I stretched myself out on the dusty carpet and closed my eyes.

  Corsets creaked as Elsa Gehring bent over me; I lay rigid in this madhouse. My left hand was seized and thrust down on my belly, my right placed firmly on my chest. She began to knead them up and down: ‘In – out, in – out.’ At last I understood that I must breathe out in such a way as to pull in the hand on my chest, whilst lifting the hand on my belly at the same time. I lay on the floor, gazing up at the ornate plaster ceiling, feeling a bitter hatred of Sir Ernest and all his ways – but I did as I was told: I dared not do otherwise.

  For the next month every moment of my day was mapped out. Fraulein Washeim was a formidable organizer. At regular intervals she supervised my breathing exercises, then made me swing my arms in different ways and perform still more movements – ‘to strengthen the belly’. But I must not sing: Frau Gehring had been firm on that point. Each day I was marched to the New Pinakothek or the Old Pinakothek: Fraulein headed unerringly for the most crowded canvases, and instructed me to describe them, in German. Back at the pension she sat down at the piano in my sitting room and played and told me each musical term in German. When I played, she questioned and corrected me.

  At the end of the month we returned to Frau Gehring’s studio.

  ‘Ah, the little Grafin – come, I play you a tiny scale, and you will sing it for me, breathing as you have learnt.’

  Obediently I began to sing – and the notes seemed almost to fly out of my mouth, so easily and fully did they come. Frau Gehring began to laugh. ‘You are amazed, little Grafin. You thought: “What is that silly old woman doing, pumping me like a bellows on the floor?” But now you know. Breath, breath, it is vital, it is the power of the voice. When I have taught you, your voice will dance on your breath, like a leaf in a fountain, it will be so easy. Now do you believe in Elsa Gehring?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes.’

  ‘Now, little Grafin, listen to me – so you know where we are going.’ She crossed to the piano, struck a chord, then sang up the scale. As she glided from note to note her voice was a gleaming silver ribbon. She sang the same scale again, much louder, so that it swelled like a wide shining river, then a third time, very quietly, so now it was only a thin thread of gossamer. She smiled at my expression and sat down, hands folded. ‘You have an ear – your pitch is good – I think you have been well trained. Also, you know where to put your voice.’ I looked at her blankly. She touched her forehead, her mouth, her chest, ‘Here, or here, or here. You look surprised, you think everyone knows that because to you it is natural, but not so, you are fortunate. Now sing a little more for me, I must diagnose.’

  She took me up to the high C, and then down, lower than I normally ever went, so that my voice came from my chest. As she took me up again I heard the break in the sound. As soon as I had finished I said quickly, ‘I would rather sing the high notes.’

  Frau Gehring laughed. ‘But of course – you are a young girl, so you love your top C like a sister! But you will not always be a young girl, and then you will need those lower notes. At present they are weak – we will strengthen them. You are able to sing in the chest, so it is wise to learn to do so.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But now your voice breaks, that is why you are here, with me. Put your hand on my chest, I will show you what can be done.’

  I stood with my fingertips resting lightly on the lace over her bosom, and I felt her sing the notes in her chest – then heard them rise effortlessly into her head. There was no break. She shook off my hand and said briskly, ‘You will learn to do that, also. I think, when I receive Ernst’s letter, this is a grafin who comes to me, she will never go on the stage – not for her the Hof Theatre or the Residenz – but she will need to fill the hall of a castle, or a church, with your English oratorio – so she must be able to sing forte, but also piano, all women must be able to sing piano – softly in a bedchamber,’ she smiled reminiscently; I sensed Fraulein stiffen. Frau Gehring’s mouth widened. ‘Lullabies, of course.’ Her eyelid trembled in the ghost of a wink in my direction. Then she added briskly, ‘Besides, you must never practise full voice – it annoys the neighbours. Fraulein says you play well, you must continue to practise – a Grafin will often need to accompany herself, or even to sing without the piano; that also is necessary for you. You must be able to sing anywhere – in the tiny cell of a monk, or the great Schloss of a king. All men like to hear a woman sing – even monks!’ Frau Gehring lowered her voice. ‘Sir Ernst has sent a little note from your Mama.’ I started guiltily, Elsa smiled conspiratorially. ‘She wishes you to be occupied every minute of the day – or else you will get into mischief, she says.’ She leant forward and whispered, ‘I think you have tried to sing in the bedchamber too soon, little one.’ I felt my face flush at her smile. ‘Never mind, I will draw up a programme, and Fraulein will supervise – we will send you home from Munich a good singer – and a good girl!’

  And they did fill every moment of my day. Twice a week Fraulein escorted me to an opera or a concert, and we analysed it afterwards. Every day I practised at my piano; I had learnt to transpose at sight with Miss Ling but now Fraulein insisted on both speed and precision. I was set to memorize pieces of music and poems: each must be repeated back to her correctly; and I was taken to elderly Herr Hoffmeier for elocution lessons, and learnt to roll the ‘r’ with the tip of my tongue until I could repeat every time perfectly: ‘Roland der Ries’ am Rathaus zu Bremen.’

  I practised my breathing and strengthened my belly muscles, and walked out with Fraulein twice a day whether it were wet or fine, and came home with an appetite for sauerkraut and potato dumplings. I laughed with Franzl and admired the mustachioed Kurt – while sighing secretly for my own handsome cavalry officer. Some nights I would dream that he galloped past me with his sword flashing, leading his men into battle, and when I awoke I would be happy and excited, even though I was in a strange land.

  But, above all, I sang. And slowly I heard my voice gain in fullness and strength as I practised the exercises from Concone and Vaccai each day. I was determined to sing as Elsa Gehring sang and now I had heard her I wished to sing not as a girl sings in idle pleasure, but as a woman in total command. But I knew now it would take time, and ceaseless, careful application before I could sound as effortless as she did. In this ambition Fraulein was my ally; nothing but the best would do.

  But it was Elsa Gehring who inspired me. ‘Your breath must caress the note like a mother’s hand stroking her baby’s head.’

  ‘I will hold a lighted candle before your mouth – if you are wasting breath it will go out. Good, little Grafin, good, it barely flickers. Your voice is your instrument – care for it, and learn to play it perfectly.’

  When she praised me for my legato I thought I would burst with pride – yet the pure exquisite joy I had felt as at last my breath carried my voice smoothly from note to note had been reward enough.

  At Christmas, Guy brought the twins out to Munich; we walked and talked and enjoyed endless coffee and Kuchen in the cafés together. As I sang the Christmas hymns I gazed at my slim dark brothers and overflowed with love and pride.

  Guy took us to the theatre each night, and after Christmas, Franzl escorted us down to the flooded meadows beyond the Englischer Garten, and there we skated. As darkness fell on their last afternoon they whirled me round and round on the ice until I was breathless and dizzy, then we strolled back to the pension through the bustling street
s, together. I walked with each hand safely tucked into a twin’s elbow while Guy ranged like a sheepdog beside us. I gloried in the warm protection of my brothers.

  I wept when they went back, but Franzl brought me his New Year toys for my inspection, and then Elsa Gehring said it was time I learned the messa di voce, so I was happy again.

  I learned to begin my note quietly, swell it up to full voice, and then slowly diminish it until it faded away. When Frau Gehring was satisfied, she set me another exercise - to repeat two neighbouring notes in rapid alternation, until at last I could trill. And all the time I felt my voice becoming more agile, more flexible, and more even throughout the scale, and I longed for the day when I would begin to learn my aria. The aria which must be perfect, Elsa Gehring said, so that years later I could return to it as a model, and know at once if my standard had slipped. By the time Papa came to Munich to bring me home for the summer, Frau Gehring had pronounced me ready to learn my aria on my return. I hugged the thought close to me like a precious gift.

  Papa was to stay several days. He came to the Schellingstrasse and we spoke stiltedly together, then he picked up his hat and gloves and went back to the Regina Palace Hotel on Maximilian Platz, which had sixty bathrooms and a palm house so Franzl told me with bated breath. The next day we had tea with him there, and I knew Franzl would question me eagerly on my return about the famous palm house, but Papa did not offer to take us in and I was too shy to ask. I sat nibbling meringue torte while Fraulein and Papa conversed politely.