‘What’s needed is a gesture of some kind. You know what public opinion is like, swaying with every breeze. Well, the day before your performance is the festival of Brundt’s patron saint. I don’t suppose you know about him.’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m ashamed to tell you how little I know about Lissenberg altogether. I had rather counted on your grandson …’
‘Oh, yes, Franz would tell you all right, if he would take the time, but you might as well count on a wave of the sea, Miss Peabody. I don’t suppose you even know that Brundt is the old capital of Lissenberg. It’s named after St. Brandt who is buried in the cathedral-church here and used to work all kinds of miracles until this age of enlightenment they talk of put him out of commission. Franz could tell you about him, but what you need to know now is that there is always a sung service in his honour on his day. A procession first, of course. They take him through the town and then bring him home with a triumphal mass. If Lady Cristabel would agree to sing in that I think you would find it did the trick.’
‘But, Frau Schmidt …’ Hesitating, ‘I’m only an ignorant Protestant, but I thought women couldn’t sing in your churches.’
‘You really don’t know anything about Lissenberg, do you? Well, why should you? I don’t pretend to know much about your United States. We’re a very independent lot, we Lissenbergers. Women and men have always been treated as equals here. Until Prince Gustav bought us.’ For the first time her tone was bitter. ‘He would have none of that “nonsense”. We women have been back in our “place”, as he calls it, since he took over. It hasn’t made him much loved. But he hasn’t tried to interfere in the Church. We have always had women in our choirs, always will I hope. Just as we have always refused to have castrati. So, if Lady Cristabel will sing at our sacred occasion, I think she can be sure of her audience at the profane one.’
‘I’m sure she would want to anyway, but, Frau Schmidt, Prince Gustav …? Herr Brodski was pointing out to me how totally we are in his power.’
‘Useful to remember. But he has never tampered with the Church. I do not see what objection he could possibly make, though it would doubtless be wise to make a formal request for his permission.’ She rose. ‘Franz told me I would like you, Miss Peabody, and he was right as usual. You smile?’
‘He told me he would like me to meet you. Now I think I understand why. But, Frau Schmidt, I have given you nothing, no wine, no cake …’
‘I told the girl not to interrupt us. You may entertain me another day, Miss Peabody, when there is less to do.’
‘Now you sound like your grandson.’
‘I should be happy to think he resembled me in some ways.’
‘Of course I’ll sing for them,’ Cristabel greeted the suggestion with enthusiasm. ‘And Herr Wengel will be back tomorrow? That’s good. He’ll tell me how to go on. It will make the rehearsal schedule quite tight, mind you, but luckily we had Orpheus as good as ready, and now we are getting some co-operation in the Town Hall it should all go well enough. Frau Schmidt must be a powerful old lady, I long to meet her.’
‘I long to know more about her,’ said Martha.
Her wish was granted when Lodge and Playfair called that afternoon. They had come to Brundt for the opera and had already heard that Cristabel was also to sing in the cathedral-church.
‘News travels fast in Lissenberg,’ said Lodge. ‘I hear you have met the formidable Frau Schmidt, Miss Peabody, the uncrowned queen of Brundt. You did not know she was called that?’
‘No, but I can well believe it. A formidable lady indeed. But “uncrowned queen”, Mr. Lodge?’
‘She belongs to the family that ruled Lissenberg before Prince Gustav bought his way in. It had dwindled into females only, you understand, and a great many of them, so there was no specific claim. Gustav’s first wife was another of them, with no better, and not much worse, a claim than hers. So, with a vast deal of money passed in bribes to the Emperor, and some fine talk of the Salic law, and women not succeeding, Gustav had it. A bad day for Lissenberg, but for God’s sake don’t tell anyone I said so, Miss Peabody.’
8
‘Of course I wrote it.’ Franz Wengel looked older, Martha thought, the mouth showińg firmer than ever under the luxuriant beard, the eyes heavily shadowed. ‘I’ve written the Brandt Oratorio every year since I came home from Heidelberg. I’m glad you like it, Lady Cristabel.’
‘Like it! It’s tremendous. I’m proud to have the chance to sing in it.’ She had been practising in her room when he was announced and had hurried in to greet him like an old friend. ‘And my opera?’ she asked now, ‘am I to see it at last, Herr Wengel?’
‘Not yet, I am afraid. Prince Gustav has decided that he must see the libretti first. Give them his preliminary approval.’
‘But that’s outrageous,’ protested Martha.
He turned to her smiling. ‘Just old-fashioned. He fancies himself as another Sun King. Louis XIV always saw his man Lully’s texts,’ he explained. ‘And changed them too, when he felt like it. And Lully took it like the state servant he was. It may be partly why we don’t find his operas very interesting today.’
‘They do stick to safe subjects,’ agreed Cristabel. ‘But yours, Herr Wengel, will Prince Gustav approve of yours?’
‘I’m doing a little rewriting, just to be on the safe side. But my subject is unexceptionable enough.’
‘What is your subject?’ Cristabel was in tremendous looks today, Martha thought.
‘It’s one of the early adventures of our patron saint, Brandt, whose oratorio you are to sing, Lady Cristabel. There is a whole mythology attached to him, absolutely fascinating. Modern scholars think he probably was an illegitimate son of Charlemagne, as is claimed for him, but he picked up all kinds of other legends on his way to sainthood.’
‘A saint! I’m not to sing him, I do hope.’
‘You do not see yourself as a saint? No, Brandt is a tenor rôle. You are to be his wife, the Princess Algisa, who followed her husband on his crusade, disguised as a page. Unfortunately her disguise was too successful. He never recognised her, so when he got home and found she had been absent, he accused her of unfaithfulness. She went through the ordeal of red-hot ploughshares and triumphantly proved her innocence. It’s all there, carved on their tomb, in the cathedral-church. You’ve not been to see it?’
‘Not yet,’ said Martha. ‘Frankly, the atmosphere here has not been conducive to sightseeing. Not till your splendid grandmother came to our rescue. What did St. Brandt get canonised for, Herr Wengel? Going on the crusade?’
‘Among other things. His wife was canonised too, so I’m afraid you are to be a saint after all, Lady Cristabel. But not a martyr,’ he added, as if in extenuation.
‘That’s something.’ Smiling at him. ‘So the part is half breeches, half petticoat, is it?’
‘Yes. The second act takes place outside the walls of Jerusalem, with the devoted page, Algisa, saving her husband’s life, which she naturally did several times.’
‘Brandt is one of Charlemagne’s twelve peers, is he?’ asked Martha.
‘You know the story?’ He turned to her eagerly. ‘Yes, I thought I’d stretch a point and make him one. He must be a gallant knight as well as a saint, or I doubt Prince Gustav would approve.’
‘Was he?’ she asked.
‘Who knows?’ Shrugging. ‘It’s all myth, really, but he must have done something outstanding, simply to be remembered.’
‘I suppose so.’ Why did she feel he was not quite answering her? ‘How soon will your text be ready for Prince Gustav?’
‘That’s a problem. The friend I had counted on to fair copy it for me is ill and I am at my wits’ end to find a substitute. It must be perfect, or Prince Gustav won’t even look at it, and we aren’t much in the calligraphic line here in Brandt.’
‘I could do it for you,’ said Martha, then laughed at his expression of polite doubt. ‘My father was a stickler for good handwriting,’ she told him. ‘He had me taught by an expert
and watched my progress week by week. No fair copy, no pin-money. There is nothing like the economic argument after all.’
‘I can tell that you haven’t seen Miss Peabody’s handwriting.’ Lady Helen was getting a little anxious about the way Cristabel hung on the young man’s words. ‘If I were you, Herr Wengel, I would accept her offer with the enthusiasm it deserves. Look,’ she delved in her pocket book to produce a sheet of paper, ‘it’s a favourite of mine among Mr. Cowper’s poems. I asked Miss Peabody to copy it for me the other day.’
He took one look, turned eagerly to Martha. ‘I ask you a thousand pardons. But, could you really spare the time? It is no light task, I am afraid, and my own handwriting is nothing to boast about.’
‘I shall enjoy it. Lady Helen is an expert decipherer of crossed letters; she will help me if I am at a stand. To tell you the truth, I am finding that time here in Brundt hangs a little heavy on my hands. Maddening to be without occupation while Lady Cristabel is working so hard.’
‘Lucky for me.’ He rose. ‘I’ll go home and fetch the first act at once. I have not found it necessary to make any changes in it, but unfortunately my friend was waiting to fair copy it as a whole.’
‘Then I had certainly better get started,’ said Martha. ‘There is a date to be met?’
‘Before Christmas. Do you think …’
‘Of course.’
Martha was not surprised to find Franz Wengel and Frau Schmidt in the little group of dignitaries who greeted their party when they arrived at the cathedral for the Brandt Oratorio. If she was disappointed to find herself sitting next to the grandmother, not the grandson, she still found the old lady a lively companion. They were deep in an amicable difference about the works of Madame de Staël when the first notes of the organ hushed the great church.
‘But it’s –’ When it was over, she turned to her companion, hesitated, then said, ‘It’s a work of genius!’
‘I think so,’ Frau Schmidt smiled at her very kindly. ‘If he would only take more trouble, more time. There were imperfections, you must have noticed them; Lady Cristabel most certainly will have. If you can contrive to persuade him to throw his whole heart into this opera of his, you will be doing me a kindness – and him too.’
‘Can one persuade Herr Wengel of anything?’
‘Absolutely not.’ The bright eyes snapped with pleasure. ‘You have seen that so soon, Miss Peabody? I’m glad. Have you been inspired to mention the discovery to your friend?’
‘Lady Cristabel?’ But the congregation had risen and there was no more chance for talk. Passing along the crowded aisle, Martha was aware, as she had been all day, of a total change in the atmosphere. Two days ago, she had felt herself an object almost of hatred, now, following Frau Schmidt, she knew that the wave of affection, the friendly bobs and curtsies, were for Lady Helen and herself, as well as for the splendid old lady.
Cristabel was waiting for them in the great carved porch of the church with Franz at her side. She glowed with pleasure as she received the congratulations that could not be expressed in applause. Wengel, too, looked almost relaxed, almost happy. The first time she had seen him so, Martha thought, and it suited him. The lines that usually made him seem older than he was, had smoothed from his face; he was suddenly human, laughing, shaking hands with friends, presenting them to Cristabel, insisting that all the credit was hers.
‘Just wait till you hear her as Orpheus tomorrow,’ he told his grandmother, who had swept up to kiss him on both cheeks.
‘Herr Gluck’s great music,’ she said. ‘A great man who devoted his life to his work.’
‘A very fortunate man.’ He turned to Martha. ‘We should all be thanking you, Miss Peabody, for recognising our prima donna when you heard her, for making today possible.’
‘Why, thank you.’ How strange to find herself so close to tears.
‘And how does the copying go?’ His next question brought her back to herself with a jerk.
‘Slowly! You told me your writing was not good, Herr Wengel, you did not tell me it was a mad mousetrack! But we are doing our best, Lady Helen and I. You will have your fair copy in time.’ But he had already had to turn away to greet a new wave of enthusiasts.
For Martha, Gluck’s Orpheus came almost as an anti-climax after the passion of the oratorio. Could she really prefer Wengel’s music to Gluck’s? She had wanted to suggest to Frau Schmidt that what she criticised as imperfections in her grandson’s work were, in fact, rather innovations, a little in the style of that fierce, young, modern composer, Ludwig van Beethoven, whose difficult work she had occasionally heard in Venice.
It was Cristabel’s evening. From the moment when the curtain rose to reveal her kneeling by her lost love’s grave, she held her audience spellbound, and at the end she accepted their ovation with the calm dignity of one who knew she had earned it. Afterwards, moving among the dignitaries of Brundt, she had exactly the right touch with everyone.
‘She will go far,’ Playfair told Martha, watching her.
‘A pity there is no one here from the outside world but us,’ said Lodge. ‘Do you realise, Miss Peabody, that no one will even hear about her amazing début until the roads are open again in the spring?’
‘Good gracious! I never thought. There is absolutely no communication?’
‘Nothing. I believe that when Prince Gustav first took over, he tried to install some simple kind of telegraph system: signals from hill to hill; you must have something of the kind in England?’
‘Yes. But we don’t have such mountains.’
‘Exactly. It was no good. You had best write a full description of this brilliant evening in your diary, Miss Peabody, for use in the spring.’
‘It would be more to the point if you were to do so, Mr. Lodge. As an independent witness, what you say will carry much more weight.’
‘But I don’t keep a diary, and if you do, Miss Peabody, I hope you are a little careful about what you write in it.’
Here was another disconcerting thought, made more so by her suspicion that he had deliberately led the conversation to where he could deliver the casual-seeming warning. ‘I’m too busy with Herr Wengel’s libretto to write anything else at the moment,’ she told him.
‘The Gest of Saint Brandt? A very clever choice, they are backing him heavily in the town.’
‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they,’ said Playfair. ‘Besides, where’s the competition, now the roads are closed?’
* * *
Martha was less confident about Wengel’s opera. He had brought her the revised second half that afternoon and she had read it through as quickly as the appalling handwriting had allowed, so as to ask him about any sticking-points before she left. Reaching the end, she was aware of a feeling of disappointment. Something was lacking; hard to tell what. Algisa’s part struck her as immensely promising but Brandt himself remained a shadowy figure, with not quite enough to do aside from being unreasonably jealous of his wife, an unendearing trait in a future saint, who should, she felt, have known better. But, of course, it was absurd to criticise words without music. And, besides, she knew she had been put off by the laudatory prologue which drew a parallel between St. Brandt, saviour of his country, and Prince Gustav. ‘You won’t like it,’ Wengel had told her, ‘but believe me, it’s essential.’
‘Do you think Prince Max will manage one?’ She was talking to Lady Helen and Cristabel later.
‘I imagine he will have to,’ said Lady Helen.
‘I doubt it will carry conviction.’
‘Then he won’t win the contest.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Martha. ‘Didn’t it strike you the other night, Cristabel, that Herr Wengel’s music was quite daring? Quite innovative? Do we know who the judges are to be?’
‘Prince Gustav for one,’ Cristabel made a wry face, ‘and Paisiello and Salieri are his favourite composers.’
It was raining when they left Brundt next morning and only a few well-wishers turned out to see t
hem go. Franz Wengel was not among them and Martha, concealing her own disappointment, could only sympathise with Cristabel’s.
‘Uncivil,’ said Lady Helen forthrightly. ‘I would have thought his grandmother would have taught him better manners.’
It rained steadily all the way, casting a further gloom on the rather quiet little party, and when the road began to rise towards Lissenberg town, Lodge, who was riding beside the coach tapped on the window. ‘It looks like snow ahead. A fortunate thing we made an early start.’
Princess Amelia came to see them the day after they got back. ‘The last time I’ll be able to come in the carriage, I’m afraid.’ She had shed snow-dappled furs in the ante-room. ‘To tell the truth, I never much liked the tunnel, though goodness knows how we’d manage without it! Not so bad when it’s illuminated for the Prince’s formal progress to the theatre, but I don’t much like it on my own with only a torch-bearer. Will you be very kind, Lady Helen, and come to me when the road is blocked?’
‘Of course I shall.’ Lady Helen had grown very fond of the quiet, badgered Princess. ‘You should have sent for me today.’
‘Oh, no. I enjoy the drive! It’s quite a treat for me, to get away from the Palace.’ And then, hurriedly, aware of having said too much. ‘Where are your charming young ladies today?’
‘Lady Cristabel is rehearsing next week’s opera, and I believe Miss Peabody went to advise her about something.’
‘That’s a formidable young lady.’
‘She should have been a man. I worry about her sometimes …’ She too felt she had said more than she intended and changed the subject. ‘I was sorry not to see you in Brundt.’
‘Oh, we never go to Brundt. The castle there has been let fall to ruins – not a castle, really, just a big house. The Prince has always disliked the place.’ She always called her husband ‘the Prince’. ‘I did try to persuade him that it’s time the people there saw little Gustav. Now he is stronger, he should be going about more, but the Prince won’t have it. I’m afraid he still thinks he is backward because he does not take easily to riding and sport. Time enough to go to Brundt, the Prince said, when he could ride there on his own pony. And I did so long to hear your niece sing in the Brandt Oratorio. I hear it was quite outstanding this year, and long to meet that young Franz Wengel. He sounds a most unusual young man. He is putting in an entry for the opera competition, I understand.’
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