Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  Standing in the wings, smelling the familiar musty smells, brought memories I could have done without. How many times had I stood in the shadows waiting to go on, while Anthony stood beside me, jaunty, possessive, mentally tallying up the box office receipts? Where was he now? Why couldn’t I hate him as I had every right to do? The little girls from the ballet school went on, dancing to a piece by Chopin, and that caused even more memories. I hardened myself against them, forced them out of my mind. Edgy, nervous, impatient, I endured the rest of the local performers, and then an expectant hush fell over the audience and I realized it was time for me to go on.

  “This is what they’ve all been waiting for,” Madame Schroeder whispered excitedly. “You’re going to be marvelous!”

  I had my usual moment of panic, but as the Spanish music began, filling the theater with the sultry, scorching evocation of the Spanish plains, swelling and ringing, I fastened on my castanets and closed my eyes … letting the music become part of me, letting it carry me onstage. Panic vanished, as it always did with my movements. Castanets clicking, heels stamping, I ignored the audience, the lights, keeping time to the music as it grew torrid and tempestuous, my spangled red skirt whirling as I whirled, swaying as I swayed.… The music grew louder, rising to a passionate crescendo that vibrated with violent emotion, commanding me to obey each urgent beat until finally, climatically, the music came to an abrupt end and I stood still, arms outstretched, head thrown back.

  The cheers and applause lasted for several minutes, and I had to step to the footlights and bow and smile as the cheers continued, the applause thundered on. Looking up toward the Royal Box, I saw the man sitting far back, his face a pale blur in the shadows, and I could feel his eyes on me. King Karl nodded, and I acknowledged the nod with one of my own. The musicians began to play the second piece, as slow and sinuous as the first had been fierce, a seductive love song that lifted and lilted in swirls of melody.

  I danced for the King, and I knew that I had never danced so well. Every movement sent a message, graceful, fluid, filled with meaning. The dance was seductive, sensual, but as I danced it now it took on a new color, conveyed a new message. I did not lure a lover into the warm moonlit night, I led him gently into the dawn and showed him the beauty unfolding. I did not beguile and implore, but comforted and soothed. I gathered the music to me and gave it to him as a shimmering gift. Even though the audience wasn’t aware of anything unusual, he understood because I willed it, and when the last note melted into silence and the dance was done, he nodded once more.

  When the curtain fell, the audience went wild. I walked into the wings, depleted physically and emotionally, wanting only to rest, but they wouldn’t let me. I had to take curtain call after curtain call, twelve in all. The curtain fell for the last time and the lights came on backstage. Before I could escape to my dressing room I was surrounded by people, all of them congratulating me, thanking me, Madame Schroeder beside me, hugging me, and then the crowd parted and Franz strolled casually across the stage toward me. Resplendent in formal black suit and white satin waistcoat, his tawny mane gleaming, his expression inscrutable, he took my hand.

  Silently, he led me away from the people and down the hall to the dressing room. There, he gathered up my things and gave them to his driver and then took me out the back exit to the carriage that stood waiting. Allowing him to assist me, I climbed into the carriage, arranged my spangled red skirt and adjusted one of the red ostrich feather sleeves. He climbed in beside me and closed the door—still silent, his face still inscrutable. As we drove away he pulled me into his arms and kissed me savagely, furiously, hurting me, and there was no need for words.

  XXV

  A glorious day dawned, with dazzling sunlight, and a delicious silence that was broken only by the sound of distant cowbells. Climbing out of bed, I slipped on my dressing gown and stepped out onto the balcony to look at the spectacular view. Viridian trees covered the hills, and light green slopes leading into the small valley were slashed with patches of blood-red wildflowers. A stream wound through the valley like a sparkling silver-blue ribbon, while the pale tan road curled around the hills upward to end in a circular drive in front of the inn.

  Franz and I had driven up that road late the previous afternoon to this charming inn, perched on the side of a hill. A gigantic Swiss chalet of yellow and tan and white, it had all sloping roofs, spacious verandahs and gingerbread woodwork. I had been enchanted with it immediately, but was even more enchanted when I discovered that we had the inn all to ourselves, not even one other guest was in residence. It was going to be a peaceful, idyllic week, a week of rest, relaxation and intimacy. I visualized long walks over the hills, picnics by the stream and cozy dinners in front of the fire in the sitting room downstairs, where we would be served by the silent, efficient staff.

  Leaning over the bannister, I breathed in the marvelous air and let the sunlight bathe my cheeks. I was in an optimistic mood. Franz had been thoughtful and attentive the night before. Although we had taken separate suites, he had spent most of the night in mine, making love to me with the same passion and excitement he had shown the first time we were together. My greatest hope was that this week of seclusion would enable us to mend the rift that had grown between us.

  Dresden had been a disaster from first to last, and I still fumed when I thought about the man who had spoiled it for us. I was ready to concede that Herr Richard Wagner might well be the greatest composer of the century, as Franz claimed, but he was one of the most detestable men I had ever encountered.

  On our first night in Dresden, Franz and I had attended a performance of Rienzi in the gorgeous Court Theater. We had watched the opera from the private box of Joseph Tichatschek, the Bohemian tenor who had created the title role when the opera had had its premiere five years before. I was overwhelmed by the dramatic sweep of the story, the powerful melodies, even though six full hours of political protest set to music was difficult to take at one sitting. Wagner had come to our box during the entr’acte. He was a striking figure with his sharp features and fierce hazel brown eyes flecked with gray and green. When Franz introduced us, Wagner stared at me with open hostility. After giving me a curt nod he ignored me completely.

  I sensed immediately that he despised women, considered them inferior creatures to be used when necessary and then brutally dismissed. His marriage to the actress Minna Platte had been tempestuous, to say the least—that much was public knowledge. She had run away from him on two or three occasions, and he had instituted divorce proceedings only a few months after their marriage, later withdrawing them. Finally subdued, Minna Wagner was kept so securely in the background that most people were surprised to discover that Wagner actually had a wife.

  Wagner monopolized Franz during the midnight supper party that followed the opera and throughout the following week as well. The two men spent all their time together, immersed in deep conversation about music, Wagner’s music. They ate together, drank together, and I had the feeling that had it suited Wagner’s purposes, they would have slept together as well.

  I knew that Franz had first met Wagner in 1840. He had immediately taken the German composer under his wing, using his power and influence on Wagner’s behalf, helping him in every way possible. Franz was a towering giant in the musical world, Wagner still relatively unknown, but Wagner was the one man to whom Franz was willing to take second place. It was almost as though their positions were reversed. Franz wanted to please Wagner, wanted to impress him and win his approval, while Wagner treated Franz with a patronizing superiority that was infuriating to behold.

  Wagner exploited their friendship even to the point of imitating Franz. He wore his bronze hair brushed back in a lion’s mane like Franz. He dressed like him. He imitated Franz’ detached, sardonic manner, but where Franz was ready to help his fellow composers with unstinting generosity, Wagner considered them all his rivals and deeply resented their successes. I saw that he resented Franz, too, although he was careful n
ot to show it openly. Franz was much too useful to him. Wagner was exceedingly vain, exceedingly arrogant, thoroughly convinced of his own superiority. A number of women evidently found him irresistible, but I was not one of them. I found him cold, hard, callous, totally unscrupulous.

  Wagner disliked me as much as I disliked him. He had known Franz much longer than I, of course, and he considered me an intruder, a threat to his friendship with Franz. Each time he looked at me I had the feeling he would happily have strangled me. He called Franz a fool for traveling with a whore in tow, and he had informed all their friends in Dresden that I was wrecking Franz’ career.

  Sighing, I brushed a lock of hair from my cheek and left the balcony to return to my bedroom. That week in Dresden had almost destroyed our relationship. On more than one occasion I had been tempted to pack my bags and return to Paris, leaving the two of them to continue their chummy talks without the irritant of my presence, but Wagner would have loved that. I was glad now that I hadn’t let my anger and frustration get the better of me. A week in this lovely inn, surrounded by the magnificent countryside, would be just the tonic we needed.

  As I stepped back inside, a plump, rose-cheeked maid with thick blonde braids came into the room carrying my breakfast. There was a silver pot of coffee, a blue cup and saucer, a plate of rolls, butter, honey, and a vase of red wildflowers on the tray. Setting the tray down, the maid gave me a broad smile and then hurried out in a fit of giggles. The coffee tasted rich and tangy, and the rolls were flaky and delicious. When I finished eating, I selected a dress to wear—a dark pink cotton with a snug waist and a very full skirt—and went about completing my toilette. I hummed as I brushed my hair.

  Feeling marvelous, my hair spilling in loose waves over my shoulders, I floated downstairs to find Franz. He was in the sitting room, at the grand piano, a sheaf of music in front of him. He looked up as I entered, a preoccupied look in his eyes.

  “Working already?” I inquired.

  “I hope to make some headway on a new arrangement this week.”

  “It’s a glorious morning, Franz, much too glorious for you to be at the piano. We’re on a holiday.”

  “I need to work.”

  “You can work this afternoon,” I protested, “all afternoon long. I promise not to bother you. Let’s take a walk this morning. The fresh air will do you good, and so will the exercise.”

  He scowled and straightened the sheets of music and then, sighing heavily, stood up.

  “You really are a distraction, my dear.”

  “Am I?”

  “A damnable distraction. I should have thrown you out a long time ago. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve longed to be done with you, to send you packing.”

  I smiled. “But you haven’t.”

  “I shall eventually,” he promised.

  “Perhaps not,” I teased. “Perhaps I’ll leave you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You’re insufferable, Franz. I don’t know why I put up with you, but I refuse to let your grumpiness spoil our holiday.” I took his hand and gave it a tug. “Come, we’ll have our walk, and then you can sulk for the rest of the day.”

  Franz lifted his thin lips at one corner, but he followed me docilely enough. We left the inn and climbed down one of the gentle slopes. I paused to gather some of the wildflowers as Franz watched wearily. The air was scented with pine, and the sky was a pale, pure blue-white, cloudless. We continued on our way, and Franz maintained his disgruntled expression, obviously bored by the beauty of the countryside, the fresh air, the serenity.

  “Isn’t this marvelous?” I said.

  “Marvelous.”

  “I feel so free, so lighthearted.”

  “That, my dear, is obvious.”

  “You’re such a grump, Franz.”

  “I’ve never pretended to be otherwise. If you wanted a charming, attentive companion, you should have taken up with someone else. I’m quite fond of you, Elena, in my way, but I’ve never been gallant, nor am I likely to be.”

  Though his manner was cool and matter-of-fact, I was finding it more and more difficult to maintain my own good mood. Franz was a splendid creature, handsome, magnetic, exuding fierce sexual allure. Just to be with him was exciting and stimulating, and he was unquestionably a magnificent lover, but I was beginning to realize that I really didn’t like him at all.

  I fell silent, pensive as we continued our stroll, moving under the trees now. Dry pine needles crunched underfoot. The sky was almost obliterated by heavy boughs that cast soft purple-blue shadows on the ground. How much longer did we have together? How much longer before it dissolved into active hostility? I thought of Marie d’Agoult, the countess who had shared so many years of her life with Franz, bearing him three children. Marie had endured much grief, much heartbreak, suffering terribly before she was finally free of her Demon Lover. I was not as patient as the stoic countess, nor was I in love with Franz. Thank God for that, I told myself.

  We started up another slope back toward the inn, which appeared an ornate doll’s house in the distance. The bright optimism I had felt earlier in the morning had vanished, a wry resignation taking its place. Perhaps we would have another month, perhaps six weeks, perhaps less, but I knew separation was inevitable. Franz needed a meek, worshipful woman who would sit silently at his feet, speak only when spoken to and cater to his every whim. He would despise her, of course, but then I was beginning to suspect that, like Wagner, he secretly despised all women.

  Just as we were crossing the drive in front of the inn, a dashing open carriage wheeled around a curve in the road. The driver sat on his high perch, urging the pair of grays on, and a single passenger lolled in the plushly upholstered seat, his bags beside him. As the carriage came nearer, I recognized the bronze mane, the sharp features, and I felt myself turn white. Richard Wagner raised his arm in salute, and Franz raised his in return, totally unsurprised to see his friend.

  “You—you knew he was coming,” I accused.

  “But of course,” he replied.

  “You invited him.”

  “How perceptive of you.”

  “This was to be our week, our holiday, and you—you asked that man to join us, knowing how I feel about him. I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe you could be so—so—”

  I cut myself short, striving to control my anger. Franz lifted his lips in a wry smile, amused by my outrage.

  “Jealousy becomes you, my dear,” he remarked, “but do try to keep it under control. Richard’s sensitive about such things.”

  “Richard can go straight to hell,” I snapped.

  Franz chuckled to himself and then stepped forward as the carriage drew up in front of the inn. Wagner alighted briskly, and the two men fell upon each other, embracing heartily, pounding each other on the back. Franz’ face was aglow with pleasure, and I realized bitterly that I had never evoked such a look of elation in his eyes. Disengaging himself from Franz’ embrace, Wagner ordered the driver to carry his bags inside, and then he looked at me. I returned his look with pure loathing. He smiled and turned back to Franz, dismissing me.

  “I’ve finished it,” he announced. “I finished it last night.”

  “Finished what?” Franz asked.

  “The wedding march, of course, the wedding march. I have finally worked it out to my satisfaction. Remember that passage I played for you in Dresden? I threw out everything but the basic melody, and I’ve strengthened that, given it a new power. It’s nothing short of majestic.”

  “You must play it for me.”

  “I’ve every intention of doing just that.”

  Wagner was undeniably attractive with those eyes glowing dramatically beneath low, stern brows. His nose was too large, his lips too thin, but these flaws somehow only enhanced his ruthless good looks. He wore tall brown boots and a dark tan suit, the breeches snug, the jacket with long tails. His satin waistcoat was brown and white striped, his neckcloth a vivid green that picked up the green in his
eyes. Arrogant, cold, seething with ambition, he tossed his long bronze mane and followed Franz up the steps and into the inn.

  I stood there in the sunlight, fuming, as angry as I had ever been in my life. The driver came back out to take the carriage around to the carriage house in back of the inn. It was several minutes before I felt composed enough to join the men in the sitting room. Wagner stood in front of the mantle, a glass of red wine in his hand, and Franz was examining a musical score. Wagner had been working on Lohengrin for months. They had talked of nothing else in Dresden.

  “Magnificent,” Franz remarked.

  “A masterpiece, no question about it,” Wagner told him. “Verdi and Bellini will be pronounced passé.”

  Neither man so much as glanced at me. I might have been invisible.

  “Shall I order lunch?” I inquired.

  Wagner looked at me as though I were carrying the plague. Franz lifted his eyes from the score.

  “We’re busy, Elena.”

  “Too busy to eat?”

  “We’ll eat if we get hungry. I’m sure you can find something to occupy yourself with this afternoon.”

  “I feel sure I can,” I retorted.

  “Good,” he said, dismissing me.

  I left without a word, my cheeks flaming. When I reached my room, my first impulse was to pack my bags, but I managed to restrain myself. I wasn’t going to give up so easily. Oh no, I wasn’t going to let Herr Richard Wagner drive me away. I had never run from a fight before, and I didn’t intend to start now. The anger boiled inside for several more minutes, and then a determined calm came over me. We’d just see who left first.

  After a while I heard Wagner at the piano, playing his march. It was stately and solemn and quite lovely, and I hated it. He played it repeatedly as the afternoon wore on. Not once did Franz play his own new composition. It was that bloody march over and over again until I wanted to scream. It was nearly seven before I heard them come upstairs, laughing heartily at some private joke, like two noisy schoolboys. A few minutes later Franz strolled into my room.