Then, just as she had at the end of her lessons, Klara dropped Signor Manzoli a deep curtsy. She allowed him to take her hand in his soft grasp, raise it to his lips and kiss it. She saw his face again as she rose, the puffy whiteness, the wobbling turkey chin.
He was terrified at the idea of losing her! He was terrified for another reason, too. He’d been hand in glove with Max, and he knew that she would not forgive him for it. Well, let both the monsters dangle! Let them both imagine that she that she might decide to stay.
She had been in dreadful apprehension of the night they would perform the opera, the moment when she would publicly ask to marry Almassy. Now, after this, all that fear had burned away and pure rage took its place. The idea of shriveling the guts of her perfidious teacher and his diabolical Master at the same time seemed worth any danger that might follow. Truly, oh truly was it said that revenge was a dish best eaten cold.
Chapter 20
Klara had just spent a fearful hour waiting to meet the Count, for, after a day’s silence, he had sent a letter saying nothing more than he wanted her to attend the opera with him. As soon as he arrived, he’d said, without any other explanation, that he had been “called away”. She could not understand why he had bothered to come to tell her this in person. In fact, she heartily wished he had not.
And why he had not simply sent her another message? Klara knew something was up, but decided to try to bluff her way out of it, to pretend that she had been looking forward to his company.
"What do you mean, sir? That you have put me to the trouble of dressing to accompany you to hear Bernasconi wobble her way through some dreary old piece, and now you will not be going?"
"Exactly," said Max.
"Well, I shall stay here, then. I didn't want to go anyway."
"I think you should hear the piece. Alcina is a bit stiff, but, even sung by Signora Bernasconi, it is of musical interest." He paused and then added, "You shall go with your Concertmaster."
"Herr Almassy is not my anything," Klara said firmly. "And when the Prince does not go out, I imagine that he must wait attendance upon his lord."
"Not tonight," said Max. He wore an inscrutable smile. "In fact, he will soon be here. I took the liberty of – borrowing – him from Vehnsky, in order that you should have – ah – agreeable company this evening."
Klara's heart leapt at the idea of spending the evening with Akos, but at the same time she was afraid. Taking anything from Max was always some kind of devil's bargain; she ought to know that by now.
***
All the way in the coach, they speculated upon what it was all about. Clearly, they were being drawn into one of Max’s games.
"Max, I assure you, never does anything except by design."
"And as that is certainly the case, especially after what you have just told me about Signor Manzoli," Akos said, turning toward her, "we had better not dare much."
Klara put her arms around him and despite what had just been said, they shared a long, sweet, lingering kiss there in the winter darkness.
"A subtle torturer, this man," Akos said as their lips at last parted. "To be so close all evening and yet not dare to even hold your hand."
"But before we arrive…." Klara slipped her arms passionately around his neck.
***
They were shown to the Count's box. Here, they found, already seated, Signor Manzoli, sipping madeira, the bottle set upon a small round table. After uncomfortably saluting each other, they settled in to watch ‘Alcina’. Despite the waning talent of Signora Bernasconi, Klara was interested to see a fair number of connoisseurs in the audience, mostly lovers of ‘old’ music, like the Baron von Swieten.
"If the Baron is here, the piece must be worth hearing, just as Max said." Klara could see Von Swieten sitting with friends somewhat farther around the upper circle.
"The Baron,” Manzoli said, “favors Handel above all other composers. And I assure you, my dear Klara, the piece is a little jewel, even if it is old."
Alcina was, just as the Count had promised, beautiful. They found it easier than they had imagined to simply listen, despite the underlying thread of anxiety. Great music, after all, was a shared passion.
The story was rather stiff, about a sorceress, Alcina, and her craving for the love of a young Prince, who already has a fiancé. His fiancé is dispossessed by a spell, but not being the kind of lady to take this sitting down, she revenges herself upon Alcina by stealing her magic staff. Then she commands first Alcina's spirits, and, next, her runaway Prince, to attend her.
At the end, the Prince himself breaks the spell and returns to Alcina, bringing the magic staff along with him. When that happened, Klara knew that if Max were there, he'd be nodding approval. She also began to wonder if Max had already anticipated their operatic grand gesture with one of his own.
She soon gave up trying to unravel it, however, for the music was simply too glorious! Just as Max had said, Alcina had been worth hearing.
The problem was Signora Bernasconi. They all agreed that the best they could do was to imagine what the notes should be, and what the music would sound like if sung by a competent singer. Every note wobbled grotesquely and the tone at the tops and bottoms was forced and harsh.
"The only thing we may thank god for," Akos sighed, "is that by next winter, even she will have raised the white flag. By then, surely, her voice will be gone. How does she still claim roles?"
"General von Gotz, of the Court Theater Committee, will have it so," Manzoli said.
"She is a handsome woman, certainly, but the gentleman must be deaf."
"He is."
Their attention was distracted when a mysteriously empty box beside theirs was entered, somewhere in the middle of the first act, by a tall masked couple, accompanied by servants in black dominos. They were lavishly dressed in clothes of beaded, glittering black.
Something about them was uneasily familiar. As they settled, Klara realized that the woman's dress was an eerie echo of the stage costume of Signora Bernasconi, complete with twisting beaded and embroidered serpents winding up the front.
At the end of the first ballet – Alcina's spirits and the prince’s attendants – and just as Bernasconi began to shriek her aria of rage, a man in close fitting black suit, wearing a death's head mask, leapt from the wings onto the stage.
The singers recoiled. This was not part of the opera!
The mask approached Bernasconi. From beneath his cloak, he drew forth a bouquet of dead flowers and offered it to her. She shrank away, stumbled backwards. The gift was flung at her feet and then Death made another, astonishingly acrobatic leap which carried him across the orchestra and into an aisle. As he went bounding away, cloak streaming, as quick as a cat, a few male members of the audience went in shouting pursuit.
But the damage had been done. Signora Bernasconi collapsed. Servants came to her aid, but the other singers and the ballet of spirits quietly withdrew into the wings.
Every hair on the back of Klara's neck stood up as she took in the scene, the awful bouquet beside the prone figure of a once great Diva.
Dead flowers! The terrible gift presented to any singer who dared to perform past their prime.
"Strega!" a servant cried, pointing up in Klara’s direction. "Murderess! Assassin!
"No! Gott! I would never do such a thing!" Klara grasped her lover’s hand. "My time, too, will come."
"Fraulein Silber would never be party to such…!" Manzoli rose to his feet and shouted, but before he had finished, Almassy caught him by the back of his gown.
"Signor! They do not accuse Fraulein Silber."
Klara and Manzoli stared down at the stage, at the protective servant, then their gaze turned to the box beside them with the mysterious couple in black.
The gentleman was in the act of handing his lady a walking stick, an unusual one, with a large and ornately carved serpent. A moment later, they unmasked, and gazed down at the bedlam below, with a regal serenity. Klara gasped as
she recognized Max and Iveta Wranitzsky.
Wranitzsky, gone from Vienna these five years, and now, back again! With staff in hand, it was clear that she was intended to complete the role of Alcina.
The impresario came onto the stage. As servants carried the limp form of the Bernasconi away, he stepped up to the footlights and called out, "Madame Wranitzsky has returned to us tonight."
The groundlings at once set up a roar, chanting her name.
What would happen next was obvious. Wranitzsky inclined her sable wig to the audience and then turned and passed through the curtains of the box.
“Will you not stay to hear justice done to the music?” Manzoli turned to Klara. “You really should stay to hear the lady sing, Klara. She has returned to Vienna in the most astonishing voice. She will soon be your chief rival….”
***
"Grosse Gott! I feel as if horses have run over me!" Klara clutched her lover’s arm. They had immediately left the box and gone down into the parterre. "Poor Signora Bernasconi! She is only forty-five and her voice is gone! She was shrieking the tops, and chest voice was all that was left. Oh, my dearest Akos! I’m only twenty years younger … what shall I do when it comes to me, the night of the dead flowers? How shall I live after?"
"In time, it comes to all singers." Akos pressed her fingers gently. "But you will have one at your side who will always adore you." His dark head, the long black hair falling forward, bent over her hand, but Klara couldn’t stop trembling.
Her sweetheart had an ear like an angel's. He had fallen in love with other voices! Could she, oh, could she believe in his eternal love?
How often the nuns had spoken of the vanity of this world, of the sin of pride! Pride in beauty, pride in talent! Vanity, all of it, when everything was destined to decay into old age, ruin and the grave!
Sin inevitably led to punishment, and had she not sinned? Sinned with pride, sinned with lust and with vanity? Sinned greatly? Punishment would surely come from the very earthly things in which she now took so much delight.
And now, Max had taken Wranitzsky for his lover again and proclaimed it to the whole city of Vienna! Was she jealous? Afraid, now that the break had come at last? What did she feel? A torrent of warring emotions surged. One thing was certain. In two days, Lent would begin. She would perform the evening before at Prince Vehnsky’s. There, the choice would be made, the choice which would decide the rest of her life.
Chapter 21
Klara, wrapped in an embroidered robe sewn with crystals, sat in her cage and sang the first aria, one of mourning. In it she told of her capture by a great magician who had turned her into a woman. He had fallen in love with her song, and now he held her prisoner.
Herr Adamberger, imposing in a black magician's robe embroidered with stars and crescents, entered, first to listen, and then to sing a basso duet with her. In it, he complained that although he'd given her "clothes more beautiful than the drab feathers she used to wear, wonderful food and the best of care," every luxury his magic could command, she still refused to sing the song he wished above all to hear. Although her songs of mourning were very beautiful, he'd fallen in love with the song which she’d sung in the woods.
She, in reply, said that in the form of a woman she could only grieve. Although his power was great, he could not compel her to sing the song which had enticed him to cage her. That could only be sung to the mate of her soul. Like the swan, she said, she gave her love for life, and no other but her own true mate could draw out that special song.
The listeners applauded loudly for both arias, for emotion they contained remained behind, like a mesmerizing perfume. Music carried them away, out of their silver court clothes, into another world. Not only the connoisseurs, but everyone, from the servants who tended the lamps and stood by the doors, to the Princes of the Blood, were entranced. Young Mozart had out done himself.
The Nightingale wrapped her shining cloak around her, and the magician threw a cover over her cage. Next, he sang a song explaining that he would force the special song from her when his studies at last reveal the correct spell. A chorus of spirits sprang from the wings to dance a ballet, while at the rear, upon the magician’s table, small fireworks popped and shot sparks.
Eventually, the magician left with his spirits to search for the single herb required to finish his potion. A young man entered, singing of his life in the woods, where he was a forester. He was sent by his master, a Prince, to collect a healing potion from the Magician. He restlessly moved about in the confinement of the room until weeping from the covered cage caused him to uncover it and find the Nightingale.
They burst into song at the sight of one another. Even inside the woman's body, her true love knows her. They sing a duet about the forest and how they have longed for each other. Pledging eternal love, the forester opens the door. Just as they are ready to leave, the magician returns with his spirits.
In a jealous fury, he commands the spirits to bind the forester, while the bird woman sings another aria, pleading for his life, and offering in return to stay forever with the Magician. When the magician refuses, she embraces the forester and sings the song, the one that she has been unable to sing for so long, the one that she sang when they both were free in the forest.
This was the show stopper, an aria which drenched the room with the essence of beauty and longing. The refrain, based upon the trills of a nightingale, made a charming musical device. As the song ended, the young man’s bounds fell away. At the same time, the captive sheds her finery and stands in plain Nightingale gray once again.
The Magician is astonished by this destruction of one of his ‘unbreakable’ spell. He can do nothing but wonder (and sing the bass line) while the lovers embraced and their rejoicing music soared. Love holds sway over all other powers and bowing to this mighty love, he allows the bird woman and the forester to leave. The principals were joined by a spirit chorus and the music swelled from trio into grand finale.
Klara had never been so nervous in her life, except perhaps for the first solo arias she'd sung before the Empress. Still, tonight she was surrounded by supporters. There was her dear friend Adamberger, and his tall daughter, Adele, who played the forester. There was the little composer, Wolfgang Mozart, seated at the harpsichord. Her adored Almassy stood first among the violins. Even dour Prince Vehnsky, she thought, was on their side.
Enemies were present too. Max was there with Madame Yvetta on his arm, an event that sent fans on every side to fluttering, although much of their ‘secret’, and Klara’s too, was now the subject of a storm of gossip. It was all too clear to everyone who was to be installed in her place.
***
The applause, Klara thought, would never end. These aristocrats came to their feet, all of them, applauding wildly. Women wept. Shaking with the effort of singing, shaking with anticipation, she went forward to curtsy before the Crown Prince.
"Bravo, Fraulein Silber! A tour de force! Celestial!"
"I am honored, Your Excellency. I am, however, only the instrument. The composer….” Gracefully, she extended to her hand to Mozart. Together they saluted the imperial presence.
"Ah, Herr Mozart." Pale cold eyes, so like Max’s, studied the diminutive figure. "Astonishing, young man. I must confess – my ear is ravished."
Everyone bowed low again at this royal expression of pleasure.
"With your permission, Your Royal Highness." Klara spoke as clearly as she was able. Mozart was right beside her, squeezing her hand, trying with every ounce of pressure to communicate brotherly encouragement. "I would like to beg your indulgence, sir."
One thin blond eyebrow lifted questioningly, but the Crown Prince nodded.
Not daring to meet Max's eyes, which, even from across the room, Klara could feel burning, she extended a hand. Herr Almassy came from the orchestra. His violin and bow had already, in anticipation of the moment, been passed to his friend, Ferenc. As soon as he reached Klara, they joined hands and to their knees.
"Sire, I, Concertmaster Almassy of the Household of Prince Vehnsky, beg for Your Highness’ protection and permission to speak freely."
The Crown Prince cleared his throat, knowing immediately what this meant. Count Oettingen did not move a muscle, but his face was a study in ice.
"For what do you need my protection, Concertmaster?" Prince Joseph asked, gazing ingenuously around the room. "Have you not the permission of your Master?"
"He has my permission to speak, sire." Prince Vehnsky’s deep voice sounded.
"Well, Concertmaster?"
"Your Highness, here in your presence, I wish to address Count Oettingen."
The slightest smile curved Max's thin lips. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, graciously signaling his permission.
"Herr Count, I wish to take your protégé, Fraulein Silber, to wife. As this lady is an ornament of the Viennese stage and owes her life and her fame to your generosity, permission must be granted by you."
Count Oettingen glanced around the room, sizing up the situation. He seemed calm, but his eyes glittered.
"So, Fraulein Silber, tonight is meant to be your swan song upon the Viennese stage?" His words were pointedly not addressed to Akos.
"Yes, my lord Count. 'Tis a woman's duty to follow her husband."
Oettingen grinned like a death's head into the absolute silence which now filled the room.
"A mere woman, perhaps, but only very rarely, a prima donna."
Titters sounded, and tears popped into Klara's eyes, for his mockery resounded like a slap. From here and there came muffled whispering. The eyes around them rolled with the delight of schadenfreude. Fans fluttered.
This unfolding drama, far more exciting even than the delightful and unexpectedly beautiful opera, would supply gossip for weeks!
Nightingale Page 24
