Dare to Love (31 page)

“I'm sure you did.”

“I broke a bottle over his head. He roared like a wounded bull, and that's when I told him I didn't come cheap. He's got two other mistresses that I know of, probably has half a dozen more stashed away here and there, but this one's going to be kept in style, with steady security going into that bank each month. A girl never knows when she's going to need a little cash.”

“You're very practical,” I teased.

“David Rogers never gave me a bloody cent, and I wound up in Paris flat broke. Your precious Anthony neglected to pay me my salary for the past four months. I never mentioned it because I didn't want to upset you. You had enough to contend with.”

“I'm sorry about that, Millie. If only I had known, perhaps—”

“Things work out for the best,” she interrupted. “Look at us. I've got a swashbuckling writer eating out of my hand, and you've beguiled the most famous pianist in the world. We've certainly come a long way from Mrs. Fernwood's!”

“Haven't we, though?”

“I'm having the time of my life. It's time you enjoyed yourself a bit, too, luv. I only hope—” she hesitated.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Just be careful,” she said firmly.

“I intend to be.”

Millie gave me a tight hug and then scurried out in a flurry of satin and lace. I wished that she hadn't mentioned Anthony's name. It had unsettled me more than I cared to admit. I was still uncertain what I was going to tell Franz when he asked for my answer. Going to Germany with him would be exciting and stimulating, but there would be conflict, too, quite a lot of it. George had told me very little about Franz that I hadn't discovered already.

As I reached the lobby, Franz came through the door, incredibly striking in dark formal suit and white satin waistcoat, a long black velvet opera cloak sweeping from his shoulders, black silk top hat in his hand. Two women who were coming down the stairs behind me froze, awestruck by his imposing figure. I could hear them whispering as Franz stopped in front of me and looked me over with those dark, hypnotic eyes, approving of what he saw. I felt a familiar weakness sweep over me, but I was determined to be cool and objective. Nodding to Franz, I put my hand on his arm and turned to raise an eyebrow to the flustered ladies behind me.

His carriage was waiting in front of the hotel, and we went to a lovely, elegant restaurant filled with lovely, elegant people, where we had a superb meal. It was a quiet dinner. I had grown accustomed to his moodiness and the long silences, for Franz detested small talk and idle chatter. He seemed preoccupied much of the time, and I had the feeling that he was often listening to inner music, hearing notes and harmonies that would eventually be given to the world. If the man who created the music seemed cool and aloof, if he wasn't a social charmer, that could be excused, for his music was magnificent.

When we left the restaurant, the night was lovely, the sky a deep blue-gray frosted with stars. Franz told his driver to wait for us. He took my hand in his, and we began to stroll, eventually crossing the street and wandering through a park. The lawns were brushed with silver and spread with blue-black shadows from the trees. Here and there a light glowed, creating a soft, golden haze. Pausing before a white marble statue, Franz gathered me into his arms and kissed me for a long time, tenderly, thoroughly.

He released me, and I shivered, and he sighed and stepped behind me and, removing the black velvet cloak, placed it over the light cape on my shoulders, as he had done the night we met. He held me against him, his arms around my waist.

“I'm writing a new piece of music,” he told me. “It's been going through my mind ever since I met you. It's very controlled to begin with, like you.”

“Like me?”

“Like you. The control gradually melts into a subtle melody, swelling, lovely, graceful, vibrant, like you. The melody grows, building to a crescendo, rich, sensual, alive with passion, again like you. I shall call it ‘Elena's Song.'”

I was moved, too moved to speak. The feeling inside was so fragile I was afraid words would destroy it.

“I'm a very difficult man, Elena. I'm not easy to live with. I make no compromises and very few commitments.”

Facing me, he placed his hands on my shoulders and looked at me with eyes that seemed to smoulder.

“I want you to come to Germany with me, Elena. There'll be strife, I make no bones about that, but there'll be splendor, too. There'll be moments of such splendor—”

I remembered George's last words to me. Life is very short, she had said. We must be cautious, but we must also have the courage to take chances. As Franz looked into my eyes, as his hands tightened their grip on my shoulders, I thought about those words.

“I want you to come with me,” he said. “Will you?”

I hesitated only a moment before giving him my answer.

GERMANY 1847–1848

XXIV

They stared, but it was with adoration, with pride, as though our being in their city was a special honor. Franz' concert the night before had been an astounding success. The beautiful old theater with its glittering rococo decor had been packed to the rafters with aristocracy, with students, with stout burghers and their wives. Afterwards, we had held court in the Green Room and Franz had been in a particularly testy mood. He was testy still today as we strolled back to the hotel after a superb lunch at the sunny beer garden on the river.

The city of Bonn, dominated by the majestic old cathedral and the massive electoral palace that had been turned into the famous university favored by royalty, was glorious in the afternoon sunlight, aglow with a mellow, old-world beauty, green and gold, brown and gray. The Rhine moved placidly in its course, gray-green, spangled with sunbursts, and the sun bathed stolid stone walls and leafy treetops that spread cool blue-gray shadows over the ground. Franz and I moved past shops and stalls; he was stern and silent while I smiled at the shopkeepers and paused now and then to examine various wares. Everyone beamed, pleased to have us in their midst.

“Don't tarry!” Franz snapped.

“I was just looking at that intricate embroidery work and those clever leather vests. Why is your stride so brisk, Franz? We've the whole afternoon to ourselves.”

“I've got work to do. You can idle about all you please, charming the good citizens with your beauty and wit, but I have a sonata to finish.”

“An afternoon off would do you good,” I told him. “You've been working much too hard.”

“Please don't tell me how to spend my time, Elena,” he said coldly. “You might be able to exist on a diet of frivolity, but I have certain responsibilities.”

I did not bother to reply. I knew all too well the reason for his testiness. It was as surprising as it was childish, as petty as it was unworthy of a man of his stature. Franz was jealous. He was jealous of me, of the attention I had been receiving. The Germans had always treated him like a golden being, a radiant young deity, and he loved every minute of it. He reveled in the glory, the rapt adoration, and he didn't care to share it with anyone. But I had received almost as much attention as he ever since we first arrived in Germany two months ago. He had performed “Elena's Song” at his first concert and it caused a furor. Unfortunately, the papers had devoted as much or more space to the woman who inspired it than to the composition itself, and that had not set at all well with Franz.

Put out, he had at first adamantly refused to play the piece again, but the audiences demanded it, shouting, stamping, insisting, and, against his will, he'd had to include it in his repertoire ever since. People packed the theaters and concert halls to hear Franz Liszt play, but they also came to see Elena Lopez, sumptuously gowned, sitting in a prominent box, on display as it were, and if I did not attend people felt cheated. I had deliberately stayed away once or twice, and the audiences had been so disappointed and restless that Franz himself had grimly informed me that I must be present at every concert. I had no desire to steal the limelight from him, would have been glad to remain in the background, but that was impossible. We moved in a constant glare of publicity, and I was expected to be at his side.

And then last night, when “Elena's Song” inspired a standing ovation. Franz had to take bow after bow, but that didn't satisfy the audience. They turned en masse toward the box where I was sitting, and I had to bow, too, while Franz stood on stage with nostrils flaring and eyes ablaze. University students tossed flowers to me, and afterwards, at the reception in the Green Room, I was surrounded by an adoring mob of young men who paid no attention to Franz. The newspapers this morning carried a full account of the evening, devoting an inordinate amount of space to my appearance, my gown, my gracious acknowledgment of the crowd's applause. Franz hurled the papers into the fire.

I was particularly sorry that there was such a fuss right now, for I had a favor to ask Franz, and in his present mood it would be a touchy matter indeed. As we strolled down the narrow cobblestone street through the arcade of shops, the impressive cathedral looming up ahead, I wondered how best I might approach him with my request. I would have to wait until he cooled down, of course, but time was of the essence, since we would be leaving Bonn for Dresden in eight days. As we passed one stall, Franz halted abruptly, glaring at a rack of cards.

“Damn!” he exclaimed.

“What's wrong?”

“That!” he thundered, pointing at the cards.

Colored reproductions of my portrait had been on sale in England ever since my first success in London, and I had no idea that they had reached Germany. But there they were. The rack was filled with cards depicting an unusually seductive Elena wearing a low-cut black velvet gown and a black lace mantilla, a crimson rose behind her ear. Franz' cheeks were ashen as he stared at the offending cards, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. The stout, smiling vendor hurried to greet us, enthralled that his humble stall had attracted our attention. Franz dug into his pocket, took out a bill and handed it to the man in icy silence, then seized the cards, all of them, almost knocking over the rack in his fury.

The stall keeper beamed, nodding his head vigorously. “Is Elena,” he said thickly. “Is lovely. No?”

“Lovely!” Franz said through his teeth.

As the bewildered man watched, Franz ripped the cards apart one by one, scattering the brightly colored pieces over the cobblestones. Finished with his destruction, Franz asked the trembling vendor if there were more cards inside. The man shook his head, backing away slowly as though he feared personal assault.

“There's a tobacconist across the way,” I said, trying not to give in to the anger I felt.

“And?”

“He sells cigars. Perhaps you'd better buy all the cigar boxes and tear them up, too. My picture is featured on the inside lid of the most popular brand.”

“I suppose you're proud of that!”

“Pleased,” I replied. “You may be a sensitive artist, my dear Franz, above such things, but I happen to be a performer who makes her living from the sale of tickets. Those reproductions stimulate interest, make people want to see me dance.”

“It isn't your
dancing
they're interested in,” he said savagely.

“No?”

“You're a freak, a nine day's wonder. They don't come to see a dancer. They come to see a brazen creature who's supposedly slept her way through every royal court in Europe.”

“Of course,” I agreed.

Franz hated it when I refused to argue with him, but I had learned in the beginning that a calm facade was my best weapon when he was in one of his moods. I lifted my skirts slightly for emphasis, stepped over the scattered bits of cards and continued on down the arcade. A sullen Franz followed me, not chastened but fully aware that he had made a childish spectacle of himself. He wouldn't apologize. He never did. His pride wouldn't permit it, but later on he would make amends in his own special way, with a small gift casually bestowed, an intimate evening of music played especially for me, a tender caress.

Leaving the arcade, we passed the cathedral and walked on toward the hotel, reaching it a few minutes later. The hotel was immense and imposing, built of stone, ornately carved, and it had wide verandahs crowded with potted plants. Without speaking, we moved up the steps, into the vast lobby that reminded me of a railroad terminal, and on up the grand staircase. A flustered chambermaid bowed to us as we walked down the hall.

Our suite was large, five spacious rooms occupying a choice corner, and lavish in the German sense with gloomy wallpaper, dark engravings in heavily ornate gold frames, ponderous fumed oak furniture and an abundance of dusty green and brown velvet hangings. A large, dull gold piano dominated the sitting room. The sheets of foolscap scattered atop the piano were covered with musical notations in black ink. Franz had been working on the new composition for the past month and was determined to finish it before we left for Dresden. He wanted it to be ready for his friend Richard Wagner to hear.

I had promised Madame Schroeder, our official “hostess” in Bonn, that I would let her show me the university that afternoon, and we arranged to meet in the lobby at three. I had a couple of hours and thought I would write letters to Millie and George. Franz looked at the piano and frowned. Then he looked at me and, still frowning, pulled me into his arms. I stiffened, resisting him, but he sighed and tightened his arms around me.

“I need to work,” he said.

“Work then,” I retorted. “I'm not stopping you.”

“You're much too beautiful.”

“Let go of me, Franz. I'm not in the mood.”

“We'll have to do something about that.”

“I have letters to write, and I'm going out at three.”

“You can write your letters some other time.”