Dare to Love (35 page)

“I disagree,” I told him.

Wagner curled his lips in a deprecatory smirk, shaking his head as though amused at my temerity in expressing an opinion.

“I'm afraid I do, too, Richard,” Franz said. “Frederic has his own kind of genius.”

“He's let that woman ruin him.”

“On the contrary,” I said. “Everyone says that George has devoted herself to him, nursing him like a baby, indulging his every whim, giving him the financial security and peace of mind he desperately needed. Had it not been for her, he would probably have succumbed to consumption years ago. He'd certainly have given up composing.”

“I can see you admire her,” Wagner observed. “I'm not surprised.”

“What Elena says is true, Richard. George has sacrificed a great deal for Frederic. I fear he's never fully appreciated just how much.”

“Sometimes, Franz, I wonder about your taste in friends.”

“Sometimes I do, too,” I said sweetly, looking directly at Wagner.

He glared at me with fierce eyes. I smiled. Franz' eyes danced with amusement. Wagner maintained a stony silence throughout the rest of the meal while Franz and I made small talk. But after the waiter had cleared away the dishes and set a bowl of fruit on the table, Franz brought up the subject of music—
Lohengrin
, of course.

“I still maintain that it's going to be almost impossible to produce, Richard,” he remarked. “All those scenes, all that spectacle. It'll cost a fortune to mount. No opera house in Europe could afford it without a wealthy patron.”

“I'm well aware of that,” Wagner replied. “I just might be able to arrange that.”

“Oh?”

“Karl of Barivna is a great patron of the arts. He came to Dresden to attend the first performance of
Tannhäuser
two years ago, and I understand he was quite impressed, both with the opera and with my conducting.”

Bored by Wagner's egotism, bored by his talk, I had been less than attentive, but at the mention of King Karl my interest was aroused immediately. I remembered that gentle face and those sad eyes and the curious compassion I had felt for the man who sat half-hidden in his box as I danced for him.

Wagner continued: “He's a notoriously easy mark when it comes to any kind of artistic endeavor. Half the painters and sculptors and composers in Germany would be starving were it not for good King Karl. He rarely refuses a request for aid.”

There was disdain in his voice, as though the King were a pitiful weakling to be used by superior men like Wagner who might condescend to accept his largess. Wagner took a sip of wine, thin lips smiling as he contemplated a huge donation.

“I understand that's one of the reasons Barivna's in such a turmoil,” Franz said. “The recipients are delighted with Karl's generosity, but Sturnburg is extremely displeased and wants to curtail his spending.”

“Sturnburg?” I said. “Who's he?”

“Sturnburg is a state, not a person,” Wagner informed me.

“I thought Barivna was an independent kingdom. Why should Sturnburg be concerned with his expenditures?”

“It's an extremely complex political situation,” Franz said, “but perhaps I can explain it.”

He reached into the bowl of fruit and, taking out a small red plum, set it on the table.

“Barivna is a plum,” he explained, “very rich, very juicy, highly appetizing. Unfortunately, it's also very small and, as you can see, completely unprotected.”

Reaching into the bowl once more, he removed two large apples, one red, one green. He set the green apple on the left side of the plum, the red on the right. The plum looked small and extremely vulnerable, overpowered by the apples.

“This,” he said, pointing to the green apple, “is Sachendorf, which borders Barivna on the left. Sachendorf is an aggressive, war-like state which would like nothing better than to snatch up Barivna and annex it. It would undoubtedly have happened a long time ago had it not been for Sturnburg—” He indicated the red apple on the other side of the plum.

“For years Sturnburg has provided ‘protection' for Barivna. Karl has devoted his life to building palaces and parks, art museums and theaters and to making the university he established one of the finest in Germany.”

Madame Schroeder had used similar words when telling me about Karl and Barivna. Franz poured more wine into his glass and sipped it before continuing.

“He has no army, no police force of his own. The leaders of Sturnburg have supplied them, gradually increasing their numbers over the years. The population of Barivna is primarily made up of students and artists who have migrated to Karl's Mecca of culture. At the moment there is an almost equal number of Sturnburgian soldiers in residence. The barracks will soon outnumber the dormitories.”

“That must cause a great deal of tension.”

“The students idolize Karl and are wildly loyal to him. They resent the presence of ‘foreign' soldiers in Barivna, and the militia, in turn, despise the students. There've been frequent clashes, some of them quite fierce.”

“The King can do nothing about them?”

“Karl rules Barivna, yes, but everything he does is closely ‘supervised' by Sturnburg. The Sturnburgian leaders act as if every cent Karl spends is coming directly from their own treasury. In protecting Karl from Sachendorf, Sturnburg has become an even greater menace.”

“Have they threatened him?”

“Not yet, but any day now they're likely to lose patience, annex Barivna and send Karl packing.”

Franz paused, gazing at the plum and the apples.

“It's more complex than that, of course. There are international ramifications much too complicated to explain. All Europe is in a state of political turmoil, and any move against Barivna would be apt to set off a chain of explosions that would rock the whole continent.”

“Sturnburg must know that.”

“Their fear of repercussions is Karl's greatest protection, but, as I said, they're likely to lose patience. The situation is growing tenser by the month.”

“Karl's a fool,” Wagner said. “He's a weakling who's brought all these problems down on his own head. I've no sympathy for him.”

“Yet you'd let him finance your opera,” I remarked.

“Gladly,” he replied. “I only hope I can get to him before he's pushed off his throne.”

“I find your attitude despicable.”

Wagner gave me a condescending smile. “My dear Elena, the end justifies the means. People will be applauding
Lohengrin
long after Karl of Barivna has become an obscure footnote in history books.”

“It must be wonderful to have such confidence.”

“Those of us who are genuinely gifted have reason to be confident,” he retorted. “We rely on our gifts, not shabby journalism.”

I was finding it more and more difficult to maintain my poise, but I managed to ignore the remark. I toyed with the stem of my wine glass for a moment and then stood up, smoothing the folds of my skirt.

“It's such a lovely evening, I think I'll stroll in the gardens for a while. Care to join me, Franz?”

“Later on perhaps.”

Both men watched me as I left the room. I was pleased with the way things had gone. Franz had sided with me about George and Chopin, and he had ignored Wagner long enough to explain the political situation in Barivna. He had also complimented me on my appearance. Herr Wagner had definitely come in a poor second that night.

The gardens at the side of the inn were bathed in moonlight, everything dark blue-black and ashy gray and silver. I moved slowly down the path, enjoying the loveliness of the night, the fragrance of flowers. I could hear the horses moving about restlessly in the stable behind the inn, and a bird was warbling sleepily in one of the trees. Would Franz join me? I remained in the gardens twenty minutes or so, and I was beginning to despair when I saw him coming down the verandah steps.

“It's a gorgeous evening,” I said as he joined me. “I've never seen such moonlight.”

“What a romantic you are, my dear.”

“I can't help it.”

“You were rather hard on Richard tonight.”

“I find him unbearable.”

“He tells me I should get rid of you.”

“Does he indeed?”

“He claims you're a bad influence, claims you're keeping me from doing important work.”

“And?”

“I'm inclined to agree with him.”

He smiled a crooked smile, his eyes dark with amusement. He was in a peculiar mood, teasing, ironic, unusually sardonic. I turned to gaze at the valley below, a patchwork of moonlight and shadow. I could feel him watching me.

“You're so damnably beautiful, my dear. Particularly tonight. I suspect it was no accident.”

“It wasn't. I chose this dress with care.”

“You had something in mind?”

“Perhaps.”

The bird warbled again, and a gentle breeze caused leaves to rustle. I sighed and turned. The smile still played on his lips, and I had a feeling he was planning some kind of mischief.

“The dress, the subtle manner, that sigh—one would think you were in an amorous mood.”

“Last night was nice, Franz.”

“You
are
in an amorous mood. Perhaps I should do something about it.”

“Perhaps you should,” I replied.

I gazed at him for a moment with challenge in my eyes, and then I left, moving toward the verandah. Franz didn't follow me, but I felt confident he would come to my room later on.

Out of politeness, he would have to spend a little more time with Wagner, talking, having a final brandy, and it would probably be after midnight before he came up. I decided to write a letter to George, thanking her for the book and telling her how much I had enjoyed it. I heard loud, hearty laughter coming from below as I sealed the envelope. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was already well past midnight.

I turned the lamps out, and moonlight spread across the balcony and into the room through the opened French windows. I undressed and my nightgown rustled silkily as I stretched out on the brocaded chaise to wait for Franz. There was another burst of laughter, louder, heartier than before. The clock ticked. One. One thirty. Silver shimmered. Shadows grew hazier. I closed my eyes.

Footsteps in the hall awakened me. I sat up, and in the moonlight I checked the clock and saw that it was after four. The door opened. As he came into the room and closed the door, I smiled, moving across the room to meet him.

“I hear you're in an amorous mood,” he said.

It wasn't Franz. It was Wagner.

XXVI

For a moment I was absolutely paralyzed. Finally I managed to stumble over and light one of the lamps, and when I turned around to face him my heart was pounding. Still elegantly attired in his maroon suit and satin waistcoat, he stood there smiling smugly. I was angry, so angry I couldn't speak, and I was frightened, too. His eyes glittered, and there could be no doubt about his intentions.

“Everything they say about your beauty is quite true,” he remarked. “I'll grant that. You're gorgeous. A whore, of course, but a gorgeous whore. I can see why Franz has been so bewitched.”

“Get out of my room,” I said.

“You seem upset, Elena. Why should you be upset? Isn't this what you wanted?”

“Get out.”

“Franz assured me you were in an amorous mood. He said you required attention and that he was a bit tired himself. He went on up to his room to get a little sleep. I told him I'd be glad to fill in.”

“I don't believe—”

“He sent me to you. Franz and I are very close, you see, like brothers. We share everything.”

“Leave my room this minute!”

Wagner laughed a dry laugh and moved closer. I backed against the dressing table, my hand closing around the silver handle of my hair brush. His eyes were dark, gleaming with malicious intent. His bronze hair was burnished by the lamp light, a rich red-brown, and his face was all sharp planes.

“You should be flattered,” he said. “One day you'll boast about this. You'll brag about the night you slept with Richard Wagner.” He moved closer.

Gripping the hair brush tightly, I swung it out, intending to slam it across his temple. His hand flew up and his fingers closed about my wrist, squeezing, twisting. I winced and dropped the hair brush. Bringing my wrist down, he gave it an extra twist. Pain shot through my arm. He smiled, and his eyes were filled with satisfaction. He enjoyed giving pain.

“Franz—Franz will kill you,” I whispered.

“I told you, he sent me. He didn't want you to pine.”

“I don't believe you!”

“Ask him yourself—in the morning. You'll have to do it promptly, though. We're leaving at ten, Franz and I, going back to Dresden for a day or so, and then we're taking a walking tour together.”

“You're lying.”

“Afraid not, Elena. Franz has finally decided to leave you, something he should have done weeks ago.”

“Let go of my wrist!”

“Frightened?” he inquired. “I should think you'd be elated. I'm much better in bed than Franz could ever hope to be.”

He was tall and lean and lithe, with the wiry strength of most slender men. The fingers tightened around my wrist were like steel. There was no way I could pull free. I knew I had to keep calm, but the anger and panic continued to mount, and I began to tremble inside.

“I'm going to enjoy this,” he informed me. “That first night I saw you, I wanted you. I wanted to drag you out of the opera box and take you on the floor, use you the way I'd use any other whore.”

“You're despicable!”

“And you would have loved it. You would have left Franz in a minute if I'd crooked my little finger. I told him so, but he laughed. If I had wanted to take you away from him—”

I kicked his shin viciously. He cried out then, releasing my wrist. I tried to dart past him, but he was too quick, too agile. He seized me and pulled me into his arms. I struggled violently, but it only encouraged him. His arm tightened about my waist as he tilted me back and pressed his lips to mine. Pounding on his back with my fists, I turned and writhed, but his arms only tightened. He forced my mouth open and thrust his tongue inside. I shuddered, fighting still.