Sophie and the Sibyl (22 page)

‘Dearest, we must go home immediately,’ cried the Sibyl.

‘Bravo! Bravo!’ yelled the ascendant Wagnerians.

Max batted the smoke, using the Sibyl’s shawl like a bullfighter’s cape, and peered into the surrounding fog, desperately seeking the exit.

They rattled back to the cottage in a cab, squashed against one another, handing clean handkerchiefs to Lewes whose wound still dripped. The Sibyl, now a little blood-spattered and ruffled with maternal concern, pressed each one to his head, then passed the bloodied improvised bandages to Max. Lewes never stopped talking. He praised Klesmer’s courage, but thought the staging full of self-indulgent pantomime trickery, designed to amuse infantile minds. Carus raced away in search of the doctor, who arrived in full evening dress, also replete with opinions about the night’s operatic events. By the following morning the incident was being reported as a full-blown riot, with opposing factions fighting it out, first in the theatre, and then in the streets. Lewes ceased to bleed and the doctor galloped away into the night to conduct an emergency surgery for the embattled contestants.

Max disliked the stifling anxiety flooding forth from the Sibyl. After all, Lewes wasn’t badly hurt. Give him a cordial and a chance to sleep it off and all he’ll have to deal with is a headache in the morning. Max strolled in the night garden; the air, perfectly still and warm, even at that late hour, stirred as he passed and then settled around him. He lit a cigarette and wandered down the little gravelled paths, crushing the weeds and brushing against the overgrown lines of box. Small squares of light illuminated the house behind him.

At first he did not hear her coming. The Sibyl, wrapped in her Indian shawl over her astrakhan short jacket, floated towards him on a cushion of warm air. He felt her gloved hand on his sleeve.

‘Thank you, Max,’ she murmured softly, ‘for all your kindness. George is lying down quietly now. Carus is with him. I came to say goodnight.’

She took his arm and Max placed his hand upon her own. They set off round the long walk, talking quietly, like old and confidential friends. The emotions of the night brimmed over into their conversation: Wagner’s endless passion for the love that braves death itself, Klesmer’s miraculous triumph, and the jubilant Wagnerians, ransacking the town, Lewes’s unfortunate accident, a supporter caught in the line of fire.

‘He is so full of energy, my dear Max, that you would not think him frail in health, but I often fear, when I am not laid low by toothache or by bilious attacks, that his constitution is yet more fragile than my own. I must seem excessive in my concern for him. Indeed, I know I do. And I am sorry for it. But, Max’ – and here she paused by the dead fountain – ‘your friendship is too precious for me to be less than honest with you. I have been blessed with nearly twenty years of unchanging happiness, and I dread, dread with all my being, that final parting, when we are separated for ever. Wagner dreams of an eternal union, but we know that cannot be.’

Max shivered slightly. He saw Senta and the Dutchman, transfigured, ascending to the heavens.

‘And yet, we need to grasp the meaning of that last farewell, for it gives the utmost sanctity of tenderness to our relations with each other. For even our own deaths are as intimate and natural as the approach of autumn or winter.’

Death, and an eternity of being dead, had never before figured in Max’s calculations. And the Sibyl, enraptured by the depth and conviction of her own teachings, had quite forgotten the thirty years that lay between them. Max had yet to live his life. She stood, gazing at the end of her own journey, leaning against his youth and strength, and yet her gentle and inspiring tones, speaking of the four last things, her soft voice filled with certainties, offered a vast consolation, tender, passionate, infinite in its mild calm. They paused in the summer house, still warm, dark and dry. The Sibyl spoke of sympathy, friendship and the unbreakable power of human bonds. She convinced Max that nothing mattered more to her than that moment in the dying gardens. He was her knight errant. And his lady’s grace and beauty, luminous in that strange twilight gloom, had never seemed more eloquent and necessary. But into this momentary calm the Sibyl flung down one sentence like a spear that poisoned all the earth.

‘As soon as George has recovered we will return to England.’ Panic engulfed him as she spoke. His compass and guide threatened to absent herself, possibly for ever. They stood inside the little summer house, surrounded by faint odours of damp and rotting vegetation. The Sibyl ceased to speak and gazed beseechingly at Max, who began to gibber.

‘I can remain silent no longer, Madame. I must speak. If I seem impertinent it is because you have overthrown all barriers between us. I no longer see my way forward with any certainty or conviction. I believed myself a man of faith and now I doubt. I have always pleased myself, rather than seeking out a mission or a purpose in my life. There seemed to be no urgency in my decisions. Now my very identity is in question – and I cannot continue as I am – washed ashore with every tide. I tell you that I must speak.’

Max circled on the spot, his voice low, violent and agitated, stubbing the toes of his boots. He plucked at the fading leaves trailing from the wisteria, which mounted above them. The trunk spiralled upwards, coiling the trellis like a serpent, more massive than his forearm. Max braced himself against the uncomfortable helix and stared down at her shadowed face. The Sibyl settled her skirts and raised her massive chin, complacent, attentive, and utterly tranquil. She awaited the outcome of his impassioned incoherence. She had no premonition whatever of the declarations that were hurtling towards her. She made herself comfortable during the terrible pause in which Max found himself quite unable to voice the emotions bubbling in his chest. He suddenly settled for Shakespeare.

‘“You have bereft me of all words.”’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ smiled the Sibyl. He saw her white face, leprous in darkness, the voice amused and detached. ‘Our intimacy is based entirely upon words, for the most part judiciously chosen.’

Max suffered a curious implosion. He had reached the brink of rational discourse and a vast dark staircase stretched away before him, following the Sibyl’s vanishing cape as she ascended into the realms of eternal light. He could not – would not – let her go. He flung himself upon the tomb-cold stone before her and gabbled like a madman.

‘Madame Lewes – Marian – you cannot be unaware of how deeply our friendship has touched me – how unqualified my admiration – in short how much I love you. I beg you – do not cast me adrift.’ He seized her gloved hand. With astonishing strength she took hold of his wrist and hauled him back on to the wooden seat beside her.

‘Max. Take a deep breath. Sit still. And stop talking.’

But alas, Max, now quite beside himself, could not stop. Fixed in his brain was the idea that he had to propose to someone. And the woman in front of him had shaken him to the core. He raced to the edge of his own operatic precipice.

‘Madame! I adore you. I tell you I must speak. Make me the happiest man that ever lived. Marry me. I beg you to marry me.’

The fatal words quivered in the air between them like a descending flight of arrows. Sincerity rather than sanity clamped Max firmly in her jaws. He meant every word of it. The Sibyl drew herself up like a tower under siege; her white lace shimmered with the unintended insult, and she rose, shaking.

‘Sir, you appear to forget that I am already a married woman.’

But the fact that she was just as free to marry whom she chose as the ardent young man before her incinerated her flesh, draining all remaining colour from her face. The abyss yawned between them.

‘Forgive me.’

Max plunged into the waters of abjection. The Sibyl clutched the twisted wisteria for support, ignoring his outstretched arm.

‘Can you ever forgive me?’ The wheel of fire to which he was now bound churned onwards, desperate and unhinged. ‘My feeling for you cannot and will not ever change.’ And in the unspeakable pause that followed both the old woman and the young man poised above her knew that this would remain true for ever. The Sibyl lowered her veil. Her recovered self-possession tolled his doom.

‘I bid you goodnight.’

She rustled away down the paths between the renegade box hedges, the dark triangle of her moving form becoming one with the deeper darkness of the autumn garden. Max stood, truly speechless at last, gasping in the sudden night cold, his white breath booming in the damp air. The pain of her departure hung round him like a shroud. He stared at the muted shapes of greening statues, withered roses and clever blocks of yew, subdued into twilight animals with raised heads. The fountain, now mute, lay damp and fetid, blackened with dead leaves. The distant door banged shut as she entered the house, and he beheld his heaven, empty of a god.

END OF CHAPTER TWELVE

END OF PART ONE

PART TWO

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

in which the Reader bears witness to various irrevocable steps taken by Characters we already know. Herr Klesmer and Miss Arrowpoint accompany the Singer.

Meanwhile, Wolfgang and the Count von Hahn remained blissfully oblivious of the Stuttgart catastrophe, or even of the company’s presence at the victorious performance of
The Flying Dutchman.
But news of that event reached Berlin, where the evening, now described as ‘a riot’ from start to finish, made the headlines. Wagner and his music were blamed for everything. His dissolute tonalities spurred on his equally unbalanced followers to initiate skirmishes in the theatre, which spilled into the streets and led to drunken running battles far into the night. George Henry Lewes, the famous English scientist and distinguished biographer of Goethe, we are amazed to learn, took the side of Herr Klesmer, who directed the orchestra. Mr. Lewes was seen bleeding from the temple and wielding his shoe as a weapon in the battle for Wagner. But who could resist Herr Süßmann’s affecting performance as the doomed sailor, etc. etc. Wolfgang fired off an anxious letter to the Leweses, enquiring after their injuries, and hoping that Max had acquitted himself well in the fray that ensued. Should he send a telegram? The Count advised against this. After all, nobody was actually killed in the riot. And if any of our people were seriously hurt we would have heard from Max by now.

And so those undaunted romantic conspirators, the Count and his Publisher, bent on engineering a satisfactory reconciliation between the estranged young lovers, and convinced that a discreet and gentle push would overcome all opposition, plunged into a campaign of unfortunate arrangements. The Count took the lead. Everything is decided! We’ll hold a smashing mid-season ball on New Year’s Eve. Sophie will come thundering back from the country, well before Christmas, and desperate to dance. Lots of handsome young fellows and some of the old guard to give us a bit of ballast. All our set from the Journal and any elderly female relatives we can winkle out from behind the ovens. Then the intelligence services can’t accuse us of organising a radical gathering. It’s a family celebration! What do you think, Wolfgang? Clever, eh?

But the whole thing had to be scaled down to the size of the large drawing room in Wilhelmplatz. An early bout of cold, snowy weather and blizzard winds destroyed a tree and part of the roof on the garden side of the ballroom. The repairs, costly and slow, forced the Count to draw in his horns. A New Year’s party, intimate sort of thing, just fifty guests, lots of singing and music – Klesmer on the piano, of course – have you heard that he’s engaged to an English heiress, money not blood, I gather, and that the family won’t have it because he’s a Jew? Well, he may be very famous, but he’s still a Jew, and you can’t change that. Actually, I think he’s already married her. She was one of his pupils and a very gifted pianist. My dear, can you find out what her name was? We must invite the entire family. Then after supper and the midnight fireworks, that’s all in hand, I’ve got an expert Chinaman who knows how to put on a bit of a show, without setting fire to the summer house, we can roll back the carpets and pound these fine old boards. Now what do you say to that, Wolfgang old chap? The Count insisted on paying for everything, including Klesmer’s fee. After all, she’s our little girl, and we want the misunderstanding between her and Max cleared up as soon as we can. No point being young, in love, and miserable.

Wolfgang, who had apparently never suffered from any of these things, agreed.

Max slunk back to Berlin and rendered himself invisible in archaeological museums, archives and consultations with Professor Marek in the nether bowels of the university. He took no strong drink, deserted Hettie’s Keller and his old army comrades, rarely joined Wolfgang for dinner, and slept little. His steps could be heard, circling his father’s library like a caged vampire. This kind of behaviour tallied perfectly with that of a man who has been disappointed in love.

But what has Sophie been doing all this time? She has taken up hunting and archery. She is even learning how to shoot and cuts a very fine figure before her elderly uncle, the retired colonel, and her father, the Count. Here she is, clad in Lincoln green, with a ruffled white shirt, the sleeves folded back, poised, turned sideways towards her target, her loaded pistol raised. Aim, relax, don’t tug at the trigger, squeeze, balance, Sophie, balance, even out your weight, don’t lean, steady now, – FIRE! Good heavens, the girl’s sliced his head off. The target was a paper pheasant taking off, coloured in by her younger sisters, stuck to a broomstick, lodged on top of a plinth. Admittedly the thing wasn’t actually moving, but Sophie’s accuracy unsettled both gentlemen. The shredded pheasant’s head could not be found.