takes place in the Sibyl’s lodgings. Max encounters the Extraordinary Herr Klesmer.
Be there by five. Max pummelled his way from his brother’s apartments in the Jägerstraße, through the afternoon crowds, to the Sibyl’s lodgings in the Dorotheenstraße, near the Neues Museum. Unter den Linden shimmered yellow and orange in the warm autumn sun. Babel towers of midges dithered in the milky air. The cobbles had blown dry, generating little puffs of dust beneath his boots. Did he look too funereal? Dark cravat, starched white shirt, coat brushed this morning before the early service, now becoming dusty. He paused at the corner to flick himself over with his new suede gloves. Elegance, sobriety and serious scholarship, this was the intended effect. He began to wonder if he did indeed look like an undertaker. Max harboured a satanic vision of the Sibyl’s salon, a Last Judgement overflowing with fiery radicals and lady poets. He saw himself reflected in the café windows, pressed, trimmed, inappropriate, and fairly menaced with social disaster. Could he avoid the occasion altogether? But his brother, haring off to be seen again at church, where he was conducting one or two business deals, had descended upon him. Be there by five.
The double windows of the first-floor apartment, thrown wide open to greet the sunshine, swung gently back against the shutters. He could hear an animated roar of voices, expectant and ferocious, billowing to and fro within. The street door also stood open; a nervous young man, the appointed porter, bobbed his head, clutching the heavy right wing of the main doors, and pointed helplessly up the staircase. Max bowed slightly as he stepped over the threshold and removed his hat. A small hairy creature, with an eager, buoyant step, that had been heading up the stairs, turned back and bounded down to shake his hand.
‘You must be Max! The Duncker brothers clearly duplicate each other right down to the moustache! You are most welcome, sir! Polly has been asking for you and your brother is already here.’
A huge bellow of shared laughter shook the building. This energetic ageing monkey must be the man himself, George Henry Lewes, the biographer of Goethe.
‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, sir,’ said Max in English. Lewes burst out laughing, and with the brio of a much younger man, dragged him up the stairs.
Max feared the worst, murmured a little politeness and began planning his escape. Bow to the great lady, press her hand, drink one cup of tea or whatever is on offer, avoid all conversations with sculptors, musicians, actors and poets, and do a bunk as rapidly as decently possible. Don’t, don’t, don’t get drawn into political discussions or religious debates. Avoid bluestockings. Pray that, apart from Wolfgang, you don’t meet anyone you know.
The room bristled with joyous argument and knowing chuckles. Very few ladies, and two that he spotted, who announced that they were going on to a prestigious lecture followed by a concert, were of an age where their bare shoulders looked bulbous, wizened and unsuitable. The stove was lit; he could smell the coals beneath the mixed perfumes and heated bodies. Someone had pushed all the furniture back against the pale green-and-yellow-painted walls. A piano dominated the rug in the centre of the salon, and through the double doors, now folded back like an accordion, he saw yet another high-ceilinged space, and an untidy bookshelf, eight storeys high, packed with volumes, boxes and papers.
‘Dr. Puhlmann offered us the apartment,’ shouted Lewes, tugging Max’s sleeve as if they had known one another for years, and making himself heard above the excited surrounding discussions. The little man sank immediately into the midst of a disputatious circle where he was called upon to adjudicate on a point of philology. Max felt someone helping him off with his coat, snatching his hat, and then found himself besieged by a booming pair of genial grey whiskers.
‘Well, young man, here you are at last! Your brother’s already here, you know, deep in talk with the great lady. She has not yet finished that marvellous book my girls have been reading in English. She intends to retire to the country to write the Finale. It’s marvellous, quite marvellous. Haven’t read it myself yet. I’m waiting for you Dunckers to bring out a decent translation.’
Max bowed, weakening at the knees, for here, full of jovial good humour, stood Graf August Wilhelm von Hahn, now something of a minor celebrity in Berlin and one of their authors. His military memoir, incorporating his own father’s heroic participation in the Battle of Jena, caused something of a sensation when published by their house earlier in the year. The Count’s critical stance towards the Prussian state apparatus transformed the gossip and general bravado into a distinctly chilly frisson when his publishers were visited by the intelligence services, who descended upon them, in plain clothes, unannounced, to inspect their autumn catalogue and boxes of stock. The Count, sanguine, optimistic and utterly fearless, pounded up the stairs to reassure them that he had visited everyone who matters, absolutely everyone, and there is no question of reprisals. We can contemplate a second edition with perfect equanimity. Wolfgang kept his nerve and Erinnerungen und Erlebnisse: Lebensweg eines Liberalen, 2 vols. (Berlin: Duncker und Duncker, 1872) went straight into a second, sell-out edition. According to Wolfgang, even the Sibyl – formidably well read in history, my dear, and remember the lady has met Mommsen himself, over dinner with the American Ambassador – well, she perused the work with astonishment.
The Count rattled on.
‘You must pop round to see the girls, you know. Remember little Sophie, who chased you round the garden? We haven’t seen you since the early summer and she was out at our old Jagdschloss then, bolstering herself up with fresh air and taking dreadful risks with those horses. Ready to jump anything! Goes straight at it! I think you’ll find her quite grown-up. Herr Klesmer is going to play for us later on. I must finish my quiz. There’s a good chap –’
The Count had invented a political quiz, which caused the most raucous laughter. There were no right answers. The wittiest or sharpest political response gained the most points. Max now realised that he had walked straight into a salon that actually flaunted its liberal inclusiveness. Here was the Count, encouraging subversion – ‘Everything, yes, everything, my dear, can be discussed.’ And Klesmer, a concert pianist and famous modern composer, acclaimed by Liszt and Wagner, made no secret whatever of his Jewishness. He actually declared himself a Jew! The very curtains of the salon shimmered with sedition. Max fingered his handkerchief.
Lewes danced up again, beckoning him to advance, and now he entered the inner sanctum. Behold the Sibyl, enthroned in elegance, a small table mountained with books at her side, her feet upon a cushioned stool. As he bowed, his smile becoming fixed, Max studied her velvet slippers. Were they too shedding mud? He caught the same whiff of spice and alcohol on her clothes. Was it linseed oil? The smell recalled his brother, aged twelve or thereabouts, lovingly polishing his violin. The Sibyl, flanked by young courtiers, who now withdrew to a safe distance, lifted her giant head, and gazed at him expectantly. Max blushed, feeling a faint, embarrassed tingle behind his ears.
‘Thank you for coming to see us, Max. I hope I may call you Max. Wolfgang speaks of you so often. And with such affection. You must stay to hear Herr Klesmer play one of his own compositions. Let me introduce you to him.’
For there he was, like the catastrophe in an old comedy, conjured up by the ubiquitous Lewes who appeared to follow every conversation in the room, and anticipate every wish, like a successful circus impresario. Klesmer inclined slightly, a man smaller than Max with a mass of white hair, full lips, an unlined face and arresting grey eyes. He surveyed Max with sceptical contempt as they were introduced, then addressed himself entirely to the great lady, whose magnificent eyes held the two men in the same frame, an ominous image of Ugolino and his remaining son. Klesmer certainly took no prisoners. The discussion turned on the several merits of two different sculptures depicting the same subject: the abandoned Ariadne. One of the two had been misnamed Cleopatra and lurked in the Vatican Galleries in Rome, but the other, created by Johann Heinrich Dannecker, representing the unfortunate Ariadne stark naked, life-size, and seated on a panther, proved famous enough to have been viewed by both Duncker brothers, whilst in Frankfurt to attend the trade fair. They had visited both the Goethehaus in Großer Hirschgraben, draped with garlands on the poet’s birthday, and the famous statue. Max simply acknowledged that he had set eyes upon the thing. He remembered prettier girls, just as naked, but with larger breasts and a good deal more friendly, in the closed rooms at Hettie’s Keller, and had some difficulty comprehending this ecstatic appreciation of cold marble when warm flesh was to be had at the right price. The Sibyl and Klesmer, however, debated Nature and Art as if the two were in conflict, but closely related.
‘Sculpture, like poetry,’ the Sibyl declared, ‘must generate the elements that engage its audience – tension and emotion. I maintain that Dannecker’s Ariadne possesses both. Her head is lifted towards the horizon; she is gazing after her lost love. But she has been surprised while resting. The moment is clear. She has been unexpectedly awoken, one leg is so casually placed beneath the other, perhaps this is the very moment of her awakening consciousness? He is gone, and she finds herself alone. She knows that she is no longer loved. She has been abandoned.’
Max wondered how anybody managed to snooze on the back of a panther, but was too discreet to voice his literal-mindedness.
‘Madame,’ Herr Klesmer leaned towards the Sibyl and dared to contradict her. ‘You spin a narrative from a gesture and a name. Now, the Ariadne to be found in the Vatican at Rome was originally known as the Cleopatra. Would your interpretation still be valid if the statue were simply to be renamed?’
‘But it is not then the same statue. The name alone transforms the meanings of every fold in the marble!’ The Sibyl demonstrated a pedantic streak. ‘Cleopatra was the victim of her own folly. She was a queen who could love whom she chose. And she appears to have invested all her passion in the losing side. She is valued for her Oriental eroticism and her sexual power, not for the pathos of her fidelity to the man who betrayed her trust. Dannecker created his Ariadne in full knowledge of her identity and her fate. She represents the woman abandoned. He is interpreting her story.’
‘Yet you loved the Roman Ariadne best, did you not?’ Herr Klesmer raised one beautiful hand. His fingers were clean and tapered, the nails unbroken, as if he had never worked. He recited an English text unknown to Max. ‘“The hall where the reclining Ariadne, then called the Cleopatra, lies in the marble voluptuousness of her beauty, the drapery folding around her with a petal-like ease and tenderness.”’
The Sibyl’s eyes widened and glowed as if he had handed her a vast bouquet of roses. Max gazed at the illuminated lady, baffled. Klesmer suddenly poked him with one of his gorgeous fingers. Max lurched on his heels, a marionette whose strings vibrated into motion.
‘And will you be publishing the English version in Berlin, sir? Or merely the translation?’
The unknown text clearly sprang from the Great Work, which the Count’s wife and daughters were even then wolfing down in English. Max had no idea how far negotiations had progressed with the frisky husband. He hastily straightened his back and flattered the Sibyl, praying that the Ariadne – or was it the Cleopatra? – played a minor role in the Great Work.
‘We are honoured and proud to publish any work by Mrs. Lewes, whether in English or in German,’ declared Max. ‘She is admired throughout Europe.’
Klesmer snorted. The lady smiled slightly, then put her unfortunate publisher on the spot.
‘But, Max, you have not yet given us your opinion of the Ariadne. And we have been discussing her without reference to your views. Do tell us what you think about the two sculptures. Do you have a preference?’
This time, Max, no longer mesmerised by the peculiar company and the noise around him, let fly with his opinion. The girls at Hettie’s Keller were the better sort of prostitute, not overeducated, but anxious to please and to enjoy themselves. When other men sneered at them, he often rose to their defence. And now, oddly enough, he felt moved to defend each and every Ariadne.
‘The woman abandoned is traditionally regarded as the fallen woman, is she not? I have never understood what justice is to be found in that line of reasoning which serves only the desires and prejudices of men. She deserves our compassion. She is not to be blamed. Theseus is the villain of the piece.’
‘Bravo, sir! Well said!’ thundered the Graf von Hahn, appearing behind him. ‘Klesmer old chap, aren’t you going to play for us? I must get home to my girls and I don’t want to miss a minute of you torturing that piano.’
The circle around the Sibyl parted. Max held out his arm to her and she accompanied him into the great salon where the piano loomed, menacing the roaring discussions, still orchestrated by the assiduous Lewes who buzzed from group to group. Max felt her small firm grasp and caught the rising scent of mixed spices from the appalling lace cap which covered her hair. This thick, heavy mane, now streaked with grey, emerged around the edges of her unsuitable headdress. He looked down upon her great forehead and the protruding nose and wondered if she could ever have been beautiful. But the hypnotic grey-blue eyes turned gratefully towards him as he arranged the cushions at her back in an upright chair. She became the centrepiece of the salon, with a clear view of Klesmer at the piano.
Was she beautiful or not beautiful? He never decided the question, for then he had his answer. The musician twirled the stool upwards, thus becoming master of the keys, and faced the Sibyl before settling himself to play. His gesture was clear. He intended to play for one person alone. The rest of the company merely counted as incidental spectators. And now she gave the composer her entire attention. It was not just the generous freedom in her manners, nor her lack of affectation and the clarity of her gestures that formed the basis of her charisma, it was the passion of her attention that made her beautiful still. No man is impervious to the flattering power of a woman’s concentration upon him, however ugly she might be, and Max felt the drama of her listening, as if he could hear her soul breathe. He stood behind her like a soldier on duty, taking first watch.
Klesmer leaned over the keys. The rooms rustled, fluttered, then grew silent. Everybody waited.
Max rarely listened to a concert or an opera all the way through. Even famous singers in drawing rooms paused to water their vocal cords and adjust their robes. Max took advantage of the intervals. He slipped outside on to balconies, into gardens, or took a turn around the lily pads decorating fishponds, where he always found a quiet place to loiter, smoke and scratch his testicles. But now, pinned behind the Sibyl’s luminous presence, he quailed within, displayed like a collected specimen, his wings skewered with pins to the green velvet of her open curtains. The expectant hush, prolonged by Klesmer’s predatory pause over the black and white keys, pressed down upon Max’s spirit. The only door to the salon, far away on the long side of the room, with two unknown young men leaning against it, remained firmly closed and out of reach. There was no escape.
Then Klesmer began to play.
Surely music should soothe, reassure, inspire, entrance, or at the very least uplift the weary spirit from its bed of pain? Music should not be experienced as a personal, visceral attack on the stomach and the genitals. No piano, in Max’s hearing, had ever released such an unpleasant onslaught of violent sound. The power of Klesmer’s passionate surge across the keys stunned and hypnotised the assembled company. An imperious magic in his fingers seemed to send a nerve-thrill through ivory key and wooden hammer, and compel the strings to make a quivering, lingering speech for him. Melodies strutted forth like maidens in stiff new dresses, only to be crushed and shunted away before the iron march of more subversive masculine themes. A scherzo of such tearful, ripening tenderness, surely, did not deserve to be followed by such outbursts of brash rage? Max could not hear the structure. Yet he still felt the power of Klesmer’s playing. For long moments he was lifted into a desperate indifference about his own doings, or at least a determination to laugh at them, as if they belonged to somebody else. He gazed at the Sibyl’s pendulous, protracted jaw, which loomed beneath him in profile. She sat with her head raised, her vast concentration fixed upon the shuddering form of Herr Klesmer. Her eyes had become brighter, her cheeks slightly flushed. Max sensed that he had been utterly forgotten.
Irritated and eclipsed, he retreated to a safe place in his own mind where scepticism and good manners provided him with an impenetrable cocoon. The explosion of applause as Klesmer flung back his white head and hurled his beautiful hands into the air, high above the piano, took Max entirely by surprise. Could anyone have derived any pleasure at all from this extraordinary performance? The Sibyl passed a handkerchief across her moist eyes. Max gazed intently at the door. Klesmer rose up, mobbed at once by enthusiasts clustering round him, and acknowledged the cheering acclamations, his forehead curtained with a sheen of sweat. The full lips trembled.
‘Thank you, thank you. Gnädige Frau Lewes?’ He pushed his way to the Sibyl’s feet. ‘Madame, I beg to be released. You alone will understand me. You alone.’
He bowed to the great lady, garlanded with deafening shouts of ‘Bravo’ and ‘Encore’. The Sibyl returned his bow from her throne, her emotion undisguised, and away swept the extraordinary Herr Klesmer, cutting a path to the door, as if armed with a scythe. The uproar in the salon continued undiminished as he stormed down the stairs, through the hallway and out into the street. The Graf von Hahn pounded in pursuit, braying his praises, jubilant. As the musician’s powerful strides carried him away down the Dorotheenstraße he collected an improvised following, young men from the salon, who could not bear to quit his presence, and a Bacchic train of street children, shouting in excitement. One of them pranced beside him, blowing a tin whistle. And so, magical as the Pied Piper of Hamelin, the pianist completed his fabulous departure.
Max leaned against the wallpaper, uncomfortable, obscurely upstaged and tingling with alarm. His brother appeared beside him.
‘Remarkable, most remarkable,’ breathed Wolfgang, as if they had just witnessed a convincing miracle. He paused, allowing a moment for intense reverence. Then his business persona returned in force.
‘Max, listen to me carefully. I have had some conversation this evening with the Graf von Hahn, and we are contemplating an extended third edition. He has invited you to visit them this week. They are still at their summer house by the lake. I will organise a carriage for you. You are to complete the negotiations, but don’t give too much away. Insist upon the political risks that we are taking, but remain positive and convinced. I am sending you because he has also mentioned his eldest daughter as a possible match. Now consider this seriously, Max. It would be a most advantageous connection. I must be father and mother to you now in these matters. No obligations on either side of course, not at this stage, but bear it in mind.’
A new vista opened up before the unfortunate Max, now obliged to take in too many ideas at once. He saw a long line of clipped yews, pointed at the top and filling out towards the base, neat as chessmen on either side of a weeded gravel path. He smelled the odour of hot green in the shadowless summer heat, and at the end of this avenue, a child dressed in white and blue, her fair curls shining in the spray, danced in the fountains.
END OF CHAPTER TWO