Nightingale

by Juliet Waldron

  The friseur had twisted Klara's hair into a coil and settled the wig. Klara had been especially fond of the hairpiece which had been drenched after the opera (that is, if she had to choose among them) but this new one, with long silver trailing side locks, suited her heart-shaped face perfectly. The other wig was still not fit to be seen, at least according to the servant who had carefully washed it and begun the restyling.

  She sat uneasily facing Max, smoothing her skirts and studiously trying not to engage his eyes, to look out the window instead. He had been polite and pleasant, yet she knew very well something was up. The carriage rattled musically over cobbles as they made their way along the Grosse Schulerstrasse, one of the more elegant addresses, inhabited by not only by the nobility but by the rich and famous. The common denominator here was money. Max suggested, for about the hundredth time, that she move to this neighborhood, away from her old-fashioned building.

  "I would rather not, sir. You know how dear everything is. I don't need to pay a fortune for an address. Besides, if ever a plain musician feels uneasy entering my house, I'll know that I've truly gotten above myself."

  "In some ways, you do have an admirable streak of common sense. Nevertheless, consider. The neighbors you'd have on Grosse Schulerstrasse might be useful to your career."

  "But money in the bank has nothing of the might about it."

  The Count shook his head and laughed. Her hard-headedness always amused him.

  Klara thought again of what she had saved with Herr Weinmann, the last total near eight hundred ducats. It was a fortune for a woman of her age and social class, and it would buy valuable time while she and Akos got established elsewhere.

  "How did Madame Wranitzsky just march into town and get an apartment on Grosse Schulerstrasse?"

  "She is leasing Kapellmeister Kozeluch's apartment while he concertizes in Italy. I understand that's where she's going after Easter, down to Milan."

  "Good. I certainly don't need a living legend in Vienna this year."

  "The old Empress is nearly deaf, bless her. But Madame Wranitzsky is a fine actress and our great Maria Theresa understands to the depths of her calculating soul the value of a good performance."

  "You don't really suppose Wranitzsky might decide to return here?"

  "Actually," he began, pleased to have finally captured her attention, "she is first attending the Court of the Archduchess Maria Josepha. If she likes what is offered there, she may remain in Italy. If not, she will return to Bratislava, to her villa. I understand that it's only three days from there to Vehnsky's. The Prince said that for the last few years he has often had the delight of Wranitzsky's voice."

  "If Empress asks her to stay in Vienna, surely she would."

  "Fretting, are you? And about the future in Vienna! I thought that you had grown far too grand to fret about Vienna, or anyone in it."

  "Herr Count…."

  "Oh, now my Klara is formal! You must be very anxious indeed." Max leaned back, enjoying her discomfort, but when she didn't reply, he added, "Have no fear. Even if Wranitzsky stayed, she wouldn't be aiming for the same roles. Her voice is now far deeper than yours. Also, although I haven't told you, for you have been so ungovernable since I've been back that you haven't deserved to hear good news from me, you have conquered the heart of the Crown Prince. He kept bringing you up the other night when we were supposed to be discussing Silesia. I think after the old Empress passes, you shall find every door open."

  "Ah, but Prince Josef is usually so besotted by all things Italian. Surely Amelli will take precedence?"

  "You shall have a long and glorious career in Vienna."

  Last autumn that might have been happy news, but today it tasted bitter-sweet. Klara understood that love of her career was the greatest obstacle to true happiness. After marrying Akos, she'd certainly leave Vienna, and only sing in the provinces. Of course, the biggest city in Bohemia, Prague, was said to be a wonderfully musical place, but it was not Vienna, not by any stretch of the imagination.

  And why had Akos, with his musical ear, never mentioned Madame Wranitzsky? He must have heard her if she'd sung at Vehnsky's. In fact, Klara realized, he might have been her accompanist!

  "Klara, dear, I want you to have a private meeting with this lady before you meet again in public. She is not only beautiful and talented, but vain, jealous and outspoken. She has no scruples about saying exactly what comes into her head the moment it gets there. Frankly, I had quite a time with her the other night at Cobenzl's. I want her to get whatever thoughts she has about you out of her system before you meet at Prince Vehnsky's or at the opera where she's likely to put on a performance in the parterre to woo the crowd. Her tongue, I warn you, is far sharper than yours."

  The carriage came to a halt, in front of a building with a magnificently carved face. Stone lions guarded the stairs as well as a pair of footmen in livery.

  "Max! How dare you drag me into a lion's den? And before noon, sir!"

  "I told you to put on your prettiest dress and I brought along the friseur." Max chucked her under the chin. "With that and your beautiful young skin, you shouldn’t have so much to fear."

  "Maximilian, she was your mistress. You were very cross after she went away."

  "Yes, but that was her choice. When you next meet, at Vehnsky's or in front of Crown Prince Joseph, you will thank me that you've already got this over. I'm still licking the wounds she gave me at Cobenzl's. Fortunately, some delightful little ballet girls were posturing on the table in the billiard room and no one was really paying much attention to her tirade."

  "Wounds?" Klara decided to disregard the remark about the posture girls.

  "She said something about my supreme perversity in throwing over a woman of experience and genius in order to debauch a virgin with no more gift than a canary."

  "Damn you, Herr Marshall! Why are you bringing me here?"

  "Well, you haven't been very nice since I got back, going to the opera with that good looking Hungarian and keeping him overnight for me to find in the morning. I deem this visit educational. You need a little taste of the trials that a prima donna without a protector has to suffer. Perhaps you'll discover more to appreciate about me."

  "You have a black heart, sir."

  In the seat across, the Count incompletely covered a smile with one hand. "Oh, don't be a coward, Klara. It will be like a play, and, as you know, I do love a good play. As always, I'll be there to take care of my dear little girl."

  The coachman had lowered the step and opened the door during their conversation, so Max went down. With a crisp turn, he faced the carriage and extended his hand to help Klara down. She was glad to see that last night's ice had been neatly chipped up and swept away. After mounting the stoop, they were out of the cold and within a chilly entrance. Here another servant, bowing low, first welcomed them and then trotted off to announce them.

  Once, this apartment would have overawed Klara. The broad floor boards gleamed as if an army had buffed them. Here and there across the shining expanse lay bright Turkish carpets. Gleaming highboys sat grandly beneath twelve foot ceilings. A magnificent black harpsichord with a double keyboard occupied a place of honor near a long, frost-traced window. Klara felt diminutive as she viewed her reflection in the gilded mirrors which dominated the room.

  They waited for a few minutes while the valet passed through another door. Klara had turned to study her reflection, when the man reappeared.

  "Herr Marshall Count, Singerin Silber, Madame Singerin Wranitzsky bids you welcome."

  The Count took Klara's arm and they passed the bowing valet. Passing through the door he’d opened, they entered a somewhat smaller, but much warmer room. It was swirling with the morning business of the prima donna's household. As they entered, a threadbare woman with a couple of children in tow was at the end of a grateful departure through an opposing door. She looked grateful, and Klara presumed that she had just received some bounty from the lady of the house.

  At a
corner table, sat a graying secretary, quill in hand. A slender hairdresser wearing a hairpiece of a delicate shade of pink and shoes with very high, red French heels minced around a setting stand. He brandished a smoking curling iron at the dummy head upon which an elaborate wig sat. The room was heavy with the odor of heavy perfume and hot, nearly burnt, hair.

  In a corner, a plump girl was stooping, scraping some leftovers onto a dish on the floor where an English spaniel, two fat pugs and a swaybacked dachshund jumped, snapped and jostled. Imperfectly hidden by an oriental screen, seated before a mirrored dressing table, sat a tall and perfectly erect woman. She was slipping in a pearl earring, obviously going through a morning of dressing and visitation as hectic as that of any great lady.

  "Don't feed the dogs any more greasy stuff, Mariandel! They'll puke, the greedy little pigs.”

  Madame Wranitzsky turned to face her guests. She was statuesque, with shocking, almost violet eyes and white skin. Klara knew the lady was thirty seven, but there was nothing in her perfect carriage or flawless flesh that would betray that much age to an unknowing eye.

  During her first years in Vienna, Klara had heard Madame Wranitzsky sing many times. Upon each of these occasions, the lady had been wearing a wig of a different hue, leaving Klara with no clear impression of what color her hair actually was. Today she saw that the actual color was black, and that it made contrast with her brilliant eyes and white skin. Inside of a morning gown of a peculiarly unrelenting shade of red, her movements were resolute and unconstrained. She turned slightly on the bench and beckoned to them.

  As they moved around the screen, those impossible lavender eyes surveyed them. First, she stretched out a jewel-covered hand to Max. After he'd kissed that, he kissed her French fashion, on both cheeks and then upon the lips. The final salute lingered.

  Klara could feel the powerful presence of the woman, like a visible glow in the room. Her sexuality manifested frankly in the way her bold eyes swept over them, as though she were imagining her guests out of their clothes. A knot tightened in her stomach, as she sensed there was still much power in this old alliance.

  What were these once upon a time lovers up to?

  "La bella Singerin Iveta Wranitzsky, allow me to present Singerin Maria Klara Silber."

  Klara, too, kissed Madame Wranitzsky's cheeks, where she was engulfed in a wave of exotic perfume. Through a gap in the woman's loosely closed gown, a bluish tracery of veins was visible beneath the fine skin of the lady's abundant bosom, a white swell above the stays.

  "How thoughtful of you, my dear Count, to bring this lovely creature to visit."

  To the gracious greeting, Klara replied simply, "It is an honor to be presented to you again, Madame."

  "I have heard your praises from every aficionado, Fraulein Silber," Madame Wranitzsky replied. Long cool fingers loitered upon Klara's cheek, as if she were testing a peach for ripeness, before she suddenly turned away.

  "Why, she’s far too young for you, Max. Damned lecherous Aristocrat!" She angled back toward Klara. "They think they can buy everything, don't they, my dear? And, of course, the brutes can!" She laughed, a melodious mezzo waterfall. She seized Klara's hand. "Ah, Fraulein Silber, I think I am jealous.” She had a faint accent which seemed to rebound uneasily between Polish and Hungarian.

  "Are we also in the presence of one of your fair daughters?" The Count turned, indicating the girl standing awkwardly on the other side of the table.

  "Ah, you are too kind, Herr Count, but I have been remiss. Fraulein Silber, Count von Oettingen, this is my oldest daughter, Mariandel." The girl, who was freckled, dark skinned and plump, had not much to recommend her except a pair of enormous dark eyes. She made a nervous, awkward curtsy in their direction.

  "She's with me as far as Milan. Dear Signor Pallavicini assures me he has a respectable gentleman around his palace who will take her off my hands."

  "Marriage, Madame?" The Count gazed at the girl in that stock breeder's way noblemen had. “Does she not partake of her mother’s talent?"

  "I blush to admit it, Herr Count, only one of my children seems to have any musical talent worth mentioning. That is my oldest son, Rudolph, who is already a god of tenor. As for this one! Well, frankly, marriage is the only thing I can do with her. And once I've made up my mind about a thing," she said fixing those remarkable eyes upon Klara, "I never hesitate, as Max will certainly tell you. Mariandel is far too lazy to make a good musician. She's sadly mediocre at keyboard and violin, for practice she will not. Her voice is nothing much beyond ordinary."

  In the meantime, the plump subject of the discourse stood stock still, miserably studying the table.

  "Just thank your stars I can dower you, lazy one! Just think! She's almost fourteen and her fingers still stumble over Scarlatti!"

  Abruptly, snarling, snapping and a loud ki-yi drowned out whatever else might have been said.

  "Do take them out!" Madame cried, waving at her daughter. "Especially that choleric dachshund! And you get out, too, Herr Schultz," she added, suddenly turning her attention to the secretary. "Finish those invitations in the front parlor. I'll look them over later. And Monsieur Boutmy! Sur, sur, rapidement!"

  The secretary patiently got to his feet and packed paper, quills, ink and sand up in a small secretarial box and departed without a word. The hairdresser, however, was less docile.

  "But, Madame! Oh, Madame! You cannot be thinking of simply leaving this glorious piece in such disarray. It is not quite as it should be." He rushed up to her, hands extended.

  "Oh you've been fussing all morning. It's as right as it's ever going to be. Do go away, sir!"

  "As Madame wishes," the friseur replied, suddenly stiff. He bowed in a way which indicated his extreme displeasure at being dismissed in the midst of what was obviously a labor of love.

  "None of your tiresome sulking, mon ami! I promise I won't wear it until you say it's perfect. Return this afternoon, mind you do, at 3:00. I shall need your undivided attention, for I'm to be at von Sweiten's for an English tea."

  "Very good, Madame Singerin." He appeared mollified, both by her words and the coins she dropped into his hand. After another flourish, he made a swaying, high-heeled retreat.

  "And Mariandel," Madame Wranitzsky called to her daughter, now slipping away with the growling dachshund tucked under her arm, "Tell Kajetan to bring us chocolate and tell Jiri that I am seeing not another person this morning. Unless they have a greater title than the Marshall here, of course."

  "Yes, Madame Mama.” The girl continued on her way, herding the protesting dogs with a series of not-too-gentle kicks.

  "Which means she'll forget," said Madame Wranitzsky, sighing. "But at least, my dear Count, my dear Singerin Silber, we shall have a few moments of peace and quiet. Shall we sit?"

  With a gracious gesture, she waved them toward the far side of the room, where there was a sofa and several wing chairs in proximity to a fat, gilded corner stove. Beside the sofa on the floor was a stack of music. To Klara, there was comfort in such a familiar sight.

  "Here we may converse in a more relaxed manner." Madame Wranitzsky followed them.

  There was a small break in which coffee and cakes were carried in by a handsome young servant.

  "Thank you, Kajatan," the lady said politely. "You are astonishingly prompt, as always. Did Mariandel come to you?"

  "Well, she did, m'lady, but when I heard of the arrival of Herr Count Oettingen and Fraulein Silber, I set to work at once."

  "Ah, Kajatan! You are a jewel! What would I do without you?"

  As the servant withdrew, Madame Wranitzsky poured coffee. "He is quite wonderful."

  "In all sorts of ways, I am tempted to imagine," the Count murmured.

  "What? Oh, Oettingen!" To Klara's surprise, Madame Wranitzsky began to laugh at the insinuation, the same exuberant, deep laugh she'd heard earlier. "You, sir, are quite shameless. Honestly, if this were any other man in the world, Fraulein Silber, I should box his ears and driv
e him hence. Such liberties he takes, but you know that, don't you, my dear?"

  Klara, who had been thinking that this visit was rather routine, abruptly came to attention.

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, he does." She flashed a furious look at Max. If this woman began to insult her, she would walk straight out, with or without him.

  "Oh, come now, Fraulein Silber. Do let's have a real talk. No French fencing, no silly games." The surreal eyes fixed themselves upon her. "Anything less is such a dreadful waste of time. Of course, I know Max has told you about us."

  "Nothing much, nor in particular, except praise of your talent."

  "Madame Wranitzsky," Max said, "I may be a rogue, but I assure you, I am always discreet."

  "I must say, Max darling, I do miss you sometimes, but what had you left for me to do but fly to the welcoming arms of the worthy Elector?"

  When Max bowed his handsome silver head, gallantly accepting her interpretation of events, she turned to Klara. "As for you, Fraulein Silber, I am told you are a real artist. If you are, truly, then you know quite well what ladies of talent must do for the sake of their art."

  Wranitzsky, tossing back her shining black locks and darted a piercing, humorous look at Max. "All great singers – and I hear from Max, whose opinion I implicitly trust – that you are already among their number – all great singers are nothing less than the slaves of their talent. Yet, while we obey the commands of our Muse, even a mighty military man like our dear Count finds that he must bend a proud knee to us."

  "Yveta, dear, please don’t patronize Fraulein Silber. I've come to see you for the sake of our old friendship and have brought along my protégé, just as I promised."

  "And I shall be nice, you wicked heart-breaker, yes, I shall, but only, Fraulein Silber, because Max has promised that you shall sing for me. Oh, I know it's early, that you haven't practiced today, but we can easily remedy that."

  "Madame…." Klara set the cup down, alarmed.

  "Oh, this will be more fun than going to Manzoli this afternoon, won't it?" Max winked. "After all, Madame will speak candidly and privately. Her opinion is not one any singer, even a gifted one, should spurn."