Dare to Love (33 page)

Madame Schroeder would be waiting for me in the lobby at six thirty, ready to whisk me off to the theater, and I knew I should try to get some rest, but I was much too tense. Finally, I sat down at the gilt rosewood secretary and wrote the long overdue letters to Millie and George Sand, and when I finished it was time to dress. Franz was still in the study at six fifteen, sitting at the piano and staring gloomily at the sheets of music on the music rack in front of him. He looked up as I entered, raising his eyebrows as he noted my formal gown.

“Going out?” he inquired.

I nodded. “I won't be in until—quite late.”

“I see,” he said.

He knew. I could tell that.

“It's just as well, Franz. You'll probably spend the evening at the piano, as you've done every evening this past week.”

“As a matter of fact, I won't. I've just finished the sonata. I thought I'd play it for you tonight, after we'd gone out to dine. I thought we might celebrate.”

“I'm sorry, Franz.”

My voice was cool. I knew he was playing a game with me, but I refused to be put on the defensive. There was absolutely no reason for me to feel guilty. I was going to dance, and if he was unhappy about it, that was just too bad.

“I've missed you, my love,” he said tenderly. “Now that this piece is finished, I promise to be more attentive. Starting tonight,” he added.

“I have other plans tonight,” I told him.

He watched me, one brow arched caustically, as I pulled on a glove, flexed my fingers to get a proper fit, and calmly told him goodbye, pulling on the other glove as I left. He could sulk and brood all he liked, I told myself. At least there hadn't been an angry scene. That might well come later, but I intended to waste no more time thinking about it. I had to devote all my energy and concentration to my performance.

Madame Schroeder was wearing a pale blue satin gown and a glittering diamond necklace. She was a bundle of nerves as we drove to the theater. There were thousands of things to do before the curtain went up at eight, literally thousands, she informed me. A solo violinist had taken ill, at the last moment, of course, it always happened that way, and she would have to put someone in his place—who, she had no earthly idea—and the programs had already been printed up and the audience would be confused and thank God the dressmaker had delivered my costume that afternoon and she only hoped it would fit properly. No woman in her right mind would take on all this responsibility, she declared. This was her last benefit, positively the last, and it would take her a good two months in bed to recuperate.

Backstage was in chaos, everyone rushing to and fro, it seemed, and nothing going the way it should. There was trouble with the lamp, trouble with the pulleys, and an overweight soprano was threatening to walk out because she was scheduled to appear
after
the choir when it had been firmly understood that she would appear
before
. Little girls from the ballet school, prancing about in their tutus, giggled noisily, having the time of their lives. The programs hadn't been delivered yet. One of the ushers had sprained an ankle. Three of the men in the choir, having spent the afternoon in a beer garden, were decidedly tipsy. Madame Schroeder shouted for attention and turned into a harsh drill sergeant, barking orders left and right. If anyone could make order out of this wild confusion, it was she.

I retired to my dressing room, the same one Franz had used the week before, when he gave his concert. Located in the rear of the building, it was removed from all the noise and confusion. I closed the door and tried to compose myself. I was tense and nervous, worried about my performance. I hadn't been on stage since Bath, where I ended my English tour. Three months without dancing was a long time, and there hadn't been sufficient rehearsals. Could I still achieve that fluid movement and sinuous grace? Madame Schroeder's benefit might be a “local” affair, but every seat in the theater had been sold, and I owed it to the audience and to myself to do my very best.

I undressed and slipped into a thin silk robe, tying the sash at my waist. I had well over an hour to get ready, but as I had to make up and do my own hair, that was none too long. At the dressing table, I sat reveling in the smells of grease paint and dust and damp that seemed to permeate every dressing room. Although nervous, I was pleased to be back in a theater, excited at the prospect of performing again. I opened various pots and jars, took out brushes and hair pins, feeling peculiarly at home. I spent almost half an hour doing my hair, trying to perfect the curls that curved over each temple. How I missed Millie! I applied my makeup next, darkening brows and lashes, shadowing lids a smoky blue-gray, painting my lips the desired shade of scarlet, creating the exotic, seductive Elena the public paid to see.

I felt anything but exotic and seductive until I slipped into my costume. A bright red silk, it was entirely covered with glittering red spangles that shimmered like crimson fire as I moved. The low bodice was trimmed with red ostrich feather, which also adorned the off-the-shoulder sleeves. It was a bit snug at the waist, but I was pleased with the way the skirt fell over the underskirts of ruffled red gauze. The costume was bold and dramatic, certain to dazzle the eye. If my dancing wasn't all it should be, at least they could enjoy the dress, I thought ruefully, turning around and looking over my shoulder to check the back in the mirror. As I did, there was a knock on the door.

Madame Schroeder entered breathlessly. Her satin gown was slightly rumpled, her blonde ringlets askew, but she wore a look of radiant triumph.

“At last, it's all under control!” she informed me. “Everything's running smoothly. The theater is packed to the rafters, my dear, and people are standing in back! You couldn't squeeze another soul inside if your life depended on it, and they all paid a fortune to come tonight!”

“I'm so pleased.”

“My dear, you haven't heard the most exciting part yet. He's here!”

“Who?”

“King Karl! He slipped into the Royal Box just as the lights began to dim. He doesn't like fuss and didn't want anyone to know. He's sitting well back, half concealed by the curtains. Just think, tonight you'll be dancing for a king!”

Madame Schroeder paused to catch her breath, hand clutched to her bosom. Fastening a curl of red ostrich feather over my right temple, I thought about the man in the painting, remembering those sad, expressive eyes. Knowing he would be out front was strangely disconcerting. Suddenly, I wished that I had had more time to rehearse.

“Are you ready?” Madame Schroeder asked. “The show's already begun, of course, but you're scheduled to appear last. Who could follow Elena Lopez? Nedda's singing her aria right now. The audience is being
most
patient. I thought you'd like to watch from the wings until it's time for you to go on.”

I was not terribly enthusiastic about the idea, but I smiled nevertheless and followed her out of the dressing room and down the long, dimly lit hall. Nedda, whose voice was less than lilting, was indeed singing. She hit her last note as Madame Schroeder and I found a place to stand in the shadows. The audience applauded tepidly, and then the choir marched onstage in gold and green uniforms, three of its members sadly out of step. Nedda stalked past us in a fury as the choir began to sing a rousing number which, mercifully, I was able to tune out.

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.