“Oh, how can you joke!" I said impatiently. “The Baron hates me and he wants to destroy me. I can understand that. But why must he drag you down, too? Everything evil he says about me reflects on you: I am your whore, therefore you are my whoremaster. I accept precious gifts, but you are foolish enough to give them to me. I am exploiting you and ruining the economy, but you are the king who permits a woman to wreck his life. You see how awful it is, how insidious? He is turning your own people against you. Does he hate you, too?"
“Oh, no," the King sighed. He tossed the newspapers away from him with an impatient snort. “Don’t you see, my dear, he wants to force me to abdicate to Maximillian. Then he’ll have what he wants: the power to rule. Maximillian is not really weak, but he is certainly in Wolfgang’s power. He’ll be a puppet while Wolfgang pulls the strings. Quite simple. If you were a real threat to him, he would have killed you long ago."
“Yes," I said. “He said I was more valuable to him alive than dead."
“Yes, because he can use you to discredit me in the eyes of the populace. Don’t feel bad. If you hadn’t been here he would have found someone or something else to use against me. The winds of revolution and change are blowing across Europe this year, Rhawnie. What Wolfgang wants is inevitable. But I will not keep you here if you don’t want to stay. There may be some danger, after all. When these ruffians get excited they sometimes lose their senses and become violent. Perhaps I should send you away—"
“I won’t go!” I knelt by the side of his chair and hugged his arm. “I will stay with you always, until they send us both away. Is there really nothing we can do to stop the Baron? Nothing? Do we have to sit and wait until he forces you to abdicate and takes the power for himself? It’s so unfair! So—wrong!”
“It’s been happening in royal circles for thousands of years,” the King shrugged. “Treachery, assassination, scandal. The whole continent is in an upheaval—France, Greece, Italy—why should Bavaria be spared? We are only pawns in the greater game of history, my dear Venus. And I have never been one to stand in the way of history. Now,” he shifted in his chair and put the subject out of his mind. “Sing to me, Rhawnie,” he said wearily. “Sing something soothing.”
He closed his eyes and leaned back. I sang softly to him, Gypsy songs about love and life and longing death. Out in the street in front of my house, the forces of change gathered for yet another demonstration.
11
Revolutionary Gypsy
“ARE YOU FRIGHTENED, Baroness?” Franz Liszt asked me. We stood backstage at King Ludwig’s new opera house, a magnificent neoclassical structure located on the Max Joseph Platz, right near the Royal Residence.
“Is it possible to die of nervousness. Monsieur Liszt?”
He laughed. “I have never heard of it happening, but I suppose it’s possible.”
“Aren’t you nervous?” I demanded.
“Not at all. I am merely an accompanist tonight. You are the main attraction.”
“But the world will be hearing your ‘Five Gypsy Songs’ for the first time, as well as your settings of Petrarch’s sonnets,” I reminded him. “We’re in this together. I wish the floor would open up and swallow me.”
We waited for the audience to settle down. The air in the hall was electric with excitement and a kind of expectant nervousness. Through a peep-hole in the curtain, I had seen the usual assortment of buxom matrons and uniformed gallants, stout bankers and bejeweled duchesses. But here and there, sprinkled throughout the house, I saw a different type, men who took no interest in the new building or in their printed programs. They looked aloof, isolated by their purpose: to create a disturbance and ruin the performance.
The newspapers that morning had a field day: “We need new railway lines, and the King gives us an Opera House! We need improved Sewage, and the King gives us Art. We need strong Leadership, a sturdy Ship of State to weather the storm of Change that is buffeting the entire continent, and the King gives us his ‘dear friend’ in yet another vulgar, tasteless display of Immorality!” As a final fillip that writer had trilled: “Let us not forget the lesson of the Bastille!”
It was enough to make even a brave Gypsy nervous.
At exactly eight o’clock the enormous gas chandeliers were dimmed and cranked up towards the ceiling, so that the view of the stage from the uppermost tiers would not be obstructed. Ludwig loved gadgets, and his new opera house was full of them. The audience rose as the King entered his box alone, then everyone was seated. They shifted and jabbered. The din sounded terrible, even behind the heavy curtains.
Liszt held my hands and kissed me on both cheeks. “I will not wish you luck tonight,” he said kindly. “You will have that. Instead I wish you peace of mind and of heart. Sing beautifully, and show them what you really are.”
The curtains rose on a stage empty except for an enormous grand piano. I took a breath, threw back my shoulders, and walked out. Liszt followed a few steps behind. We were greeted by polite applause—Liszt’s star in Munich had been dimmed by his association with me. I gave them a few minutes to exclaim to each other over my height and shape, and to take in the diamonds that glittered on my wrists and throat. I wore a simple gown of pale blue velvet with wide skirts and a fairly modest neckline. My hair was braided and wrapped around my head. Liszt said it looked elegant.
The noise subsided just a little. Then in the lull came loud boos and catcalls from all parts of the auditorium.
I stepped down to the footlights. “I will not sing unless these people are removed,” I said firmly. “And I will not sing unless there is absolute silence. I am prepared to wait until midnight.”
“Whore!” shouted one of the troublemakers. Taking his cue the others joined in the cry.
“The King’s doxie should not be allowed on our stages! Get off the stage, harlot! Get out of our country, Russian spy!”
A squad of uniformed policemen swept into the hall and descended upon the rabble-rousers. A few of the elegantly-dressed fat women in the audience screamed as the Baron’s men were wrenched from their seats and dragged out of the hall. I stood composed and quiet, waiting for it to be over. The police seemed to know exactly who the troublemakers were and where they were sitting. I suspected that King Ludwig had insured that the performance would go on.
In five minutes they were gone, police and prisoners both. The disconcerted members of the audience, who had been jostled by the intrusion, pulled themselves together and resumed their seats. Not one of them left the house. They were all too eager to see the King’s mistress make a fool of herself.
I waited until I could not hear a cough or a shuffle. Then I counted one hundred to myself, waiting until the tension in that place was nearly unbearable. Finally I gave Liszt a nod and he played the introduction to “Casta Diva,” that glorious aria from Bellini’s Norma.
My voice floated over the hall, entwining them in the threads of its Gypsy magic, holding them in thrall. I know I sang well for them. Each note was perfectly sweet and clear, and my high trills and runs were flawless.
When it was over the audience burst into tumultous applause. There was even some loud cheering and footstamping from that staid crowd. I looked at Liszt, who beamed at me. And I smiled and bowed modestly to my public. I had not made a fool of myself at all, but of all of them. And strangely enough, they loved me for it.
The rest of the performance went beautifully. They seemed to like Liszt’s settings of Petrarch, but they were especially thrilled by the “Five Gypsy Songs” he had written for me. Those songs evoked a special feeling, a certain joy and pathos, that could not fail to touch them. At the end of one of the sadder ones, I saw some women dabbing their eyes. I love those songs, and I always included them in my concerts after that. They were mine, and they spoke my soul.
When Liszt and I were taking bows about halfway through the program, I happened to look to my left, at the lowest box nearest the stage. A man was seated there, alone. Our eyes met ever so briefly, and I got
a strange feeling, as though a spark had been struck between us. I didn’t notice more, except that he was fair-haired. When Liszt and I came back onstage after a brief rest, he was gone. But when I looked up at the royal box I saw a fair head next to King Ludwig’s greying one, and I thought it was he. He came back to his box for the last songs and the encore numbers, one of which was a Liszt solo, “Variations on Five Gypsy Songs." That piece became part of his standard repertory, too, until he retired from the stage.
I stood on that stage, listening to the audience’s applause, feeling their love, and I had to remind myself who I was: Rhawnie, a Gypsy. Beggar. Thief. Deserted wife of a rogue and a gambler. I knew the people in that opera house didn’t really love me, but it was nice while it lasted. And, I told myself as I smiled and bowed to them, it is better than begging for bread in the streets of Odessa.
Liszt was such a showman. He bowed to me and kissed my hand a dozen times, and murmured to me about how wonderful and beautiful I was. The audience called us back a dozen times, and Liszt told me he doubted that he could have gotten such an ovation on his own.
I saw the fair-haired man once more that evening, as I was leaving the opera house on Franz Liszt’s arm. He was standing at the edge of the crowd that clogged the square in front of the house, waiting for us to emerge. He towered over most of the stubby Bavarians. Our eyes met, and once again I felt that flutter, that spark.
We went to the Residence for a late supper with the King. Then Liszt, seeing that the King wanted to be alone with me, pleaded fatigue and said he would go to his rooms."
“You know how brilliant you were,” Ludwig said to me. “You handled yourself so well when troubles came. And then to sing that punishing aria! And so perfectly! I shall never forget that moment. I was very proud of you.”
“Perhaps we could win your people over!” I said excitedly. “I could sing for them in the parks and in the beer halls! What do you think?”
The King shook his head. “No, I think the Baron’s plans are too far advanced at this point. He would never allow you to redeem yourself in their eyes, particularly if he thought you had any chance of succeeding.”
We were silent. Neither of us had much to say, although there was so much that needed to be said.
“Who was the man I saw in your box this evening?” I asked off-handedly.
“Who?” The King looked puzzled. “Oh, him. No one in particular. The son of an old friend who just dropped in to say hello. An American. Good-looking fellow, isn’t he?”
“Yes, very.” I saw that he didn’t want to discuss it further.
“And now,” said the King, rising, “I want to give you something.”
“You know I don’t want anything more from you,” I protested. “I am so grateful for the chance you gave me to sing tonight. That is all I needed to make me happy.”
“Ah, but I want to give you something special. A token.” He went to a cupboard and brought out a small gilded casket. He set it down on an inlaid table in front of me and flipped back the lid. Fistfuls of jewels winked up at me, necklaces heavy with rubies and diamonds, emerald earrings, diamond pendants. Pieces of jewelry, not one or two but a dozen.
I wondered for a moment if he had lost his senses. He said they were mine, all of them. “I can’t take them!” I said.
“They are not so valuable as they look,” the King said. “I have given you other things, much nicer. But these are not to be worn, really. Rather they are to be sold when you need money. They are mine, some Wittelsbach heirlooms that don’t belong to the state but to me, personally. I have a right to dispose of them as I please, and I want you to take them.”
“Oh, Ludwig,” I said sadly.
“It’s been fun, hasn’t it?” he said. “I have enjoyed it tremendously, having you here. You’ve been good for me in so many ways. Anyway, you have a career now, and I like to think that I have given it to you. And you have something to fall back on when times get hard—and I hope they don’t. Soon you might even have a man to love you and to care for you.”
I felt a lump riding in my throat. “You’re talking as if we’ll never see each other again.”
“That may be true,” the King said softly. “The situation here is getting worse by the hour, and the outcome is inevitable, I’m afraid. We’re not blind fools, to think we can go on as we have. It’s dangerous for you here, and soon it will be dangerous for me. I’m not a particularly brave man. I won’t go down with my ship and fight to the death to keep my crown. I have already made plans to go to England when the revolution comes.”
“But I will go with you! I will stay with you! I owe you so much—”
I thought of the little man in the park in Vienna, who had appeared when I was sad and lonely and desperate. He had taken over my life, taught me, guided me. I stared at the floor and brushed away a tear.
He patted my shoulder. “There, there. I’m not sending you away because I don’t love you any more. I do love you, Rhawnie. You are young, and I am getting old. My life is plodding towards its finish, and yours is just beginning. I have taught you all I can. Up to now your whole life has been an education, hasn’t it? The Gypsies taught you what they knew, then you went to your grandfather. Then to the Parisian woman, Madame Odette. And your husband. Finally you came to me. All of us taught you and formed you and made you what you are now. But the period of your education is over, Rhawnie. You are a woman with beauty and brains and a skill you can use to make a good living. It would be a grave mistake for you to tie yourself to me out of gratitude. You want a younger, more vigorous man.”
“That’s not true!” I cried, putting my arms around his neck. “You are wonderful, just wonderful!”
“You are very kind,” he smiled, “but it’s a wise man who knows his limitations. You gave me back something which I had lost forever. And you restored my self esteem, which is even more important. But I don’t want to hold you back. I couldn’t marry you, and you need to be married, to have children. I’m throwing you out of the nest, my dear. And when you go, you can take with you the knowledge that there is in the world one man who loves you and respects and believes in you.”
We held each other close. “I shall miss you!” I said. “And I’ll make you proud of me, I promise!”
“You’re a good, brave girl,” the King said approvingly. “I’ll come and hear you sing in London, when you get there. But don’t hurry. There’s a world waiting for you. Go forth and conquer it.” He held me away from him and smiled kindly. His eyes were brimming, like mine. We had been good friends. “One more thing,” he said in a business-like voice. “You will be receiving a message, very soon. You are to obey any instructions you are given if they are signed with the initial‘S.’” He sighed. “I wish I could send Pegasus to bear you away to safety. Nowadays methods of escape have to be rather prosaic, I'm afraid. Farewell, my dearest.”
“Goodbye, your Majesty.” I hugged him tightly, and kissed his cheeks. Then I picked up my weighty casket and left the room.
I stood in the corridor outside his chambers for a minute or two. A chapter of my life was finished. The King was right, it had been fun. Everyone had gained, except, perhaps, the people of Bavaria. And they were about to lose their ruler. I walked slowly down the hall, past the doors to my old rooms, which had been reassigned to the Baron, I understood.
There was no one in the darkened hallway, not a footman, not a guard. I couldn’t help myself. I tried the door to the sitting room. It was locked, but a quick turn of a hairpin gained me admittance.
Gaslights were burning but turned very low. My colorful clutter of pillows and music and objets d'art was gone and the room looked bare and spartan. An enormous desk took up a third of the floor space. Not a scrap of paper littered its polished surface. The Baron was certainly a neat, precise fellow. As neat and precise in his life as he was in executing his evil deeds.
That desk looked very tempting. The repository of a thousand secrets, and perhaps a hoard of money. I tried
the drawers; they were locked. Baron von Zander was even more distrusting than my uncle Alexei had been. Because he had more to hide, no doubt.
The locks on the drawers were rather complicated, and it took five minutes of twisting and picking with my hairpin before even one yielded. The only thing inside was a large leather case, square and flattish, like an envelope. I felt the contents through the case. Papers, I thought disgustedly. How boring. I decided to have a look anyway. After all, money is paper, too,
I found a wad of photographs, acid-stained, quaintly lit, and stiffly posed in the old style. But the subject matter was anything but quaint, and the poses, while stiff, were positively mind-boggling.
The Baron von Zander was the featured artist in a dazzling display of fashion and gymnastics. In a few of the pictures he was joined by a young boy, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. They were naked, although in one or two the Baron wore boots and an ingenious harness-like affair that combined the features of suspenders and belt. In one he was wearing an executioner’s mask and nothing else, and impaling the boy on—but never mind the details. Needless to say, those pictures were a revelation to me. I remembered Ludwig’s little speech about my education, and I perceived that one’s education is never finished. That Baron was certainly ingenious, I thought. The permutations and combinations of love really were infinite.
I heard a step and some low voices in the hall outside the door. I swept everything back into the leather case, grabbed my casket, which I had placed on the desk before I burgled it, and dove into the kneehole of the desk just as the Baron and his guest came in.
“—delighted you could come tonight,” the Baron whispered. "You’re sure you weren’t seen? Our Max is such a prude. I’m afraid.”
“Oh, no,” his guest replied in a bored voice. “I wasn’t seen. I know how to be careful, Wolfgang.”
“Splendid. Let’s go into the bedroom, shall we?”
Dangerous Obsession Page 27
