Dare to Love (34 page)

Wagner monopolized Franz during the midnight supper party that followed the opera and throughout the following week as well. The two men spent all their time together, immersed in deep conversation about music, Wagner's music. They ate together, drank together, and I had the feeling that had it suited Wagner's purposes, they would have slept together as well.

I knew that Franz had first met Wagner in 1840. He had immediately taken the German composer under his wing, using his power and influence on Wagner's behalf, helping him in every way possible. Franz was a towering giant in the musical world, Wagner still relatively unknown, but Wagner was the one man to whom Franz was willing to take second place. It was almost as though their positions were reversed. Franz wanted to please Wagner, wanted to impress him and win his approval, while Wagner treated Franz with a patronizing superiority that was infuriating to behold.

Wagner exploited their friendship even to the point of imitating Franz. He wore his bronze hair brushed back in a lion's mane like Franz. He dressed like him. He imitated Franz' detached, sardonic manner, but where Franz was ready to help his fellow composers with unstinting generosity, Wagner considered them all his rivals and deeply resented their successes. I saw that he resented Franz, too, although he was careful not to show it openly. Franz was much too useful to him. Wagner was exceedingly vain, exceedingly arrogant, thoroughly convinced of his own superiority. A number of women evidently found him irresistible, but I was not one of them. I found him cold, hard, callous, totally unscrupulous.

Wagner disliked me as much as I disliked him. He had known Franz much longer than I, of course, and he considered me an intruder, a threat to his friendship with Franz. Each time he looked at me I had the feeling he would happily have strangled me. He called Franz a fool for traveling with a whore in tow, and he had informed all their friends in Dresden that I was wrecking Franz' career.

Sighing, I brushed a lock of hair from my cheek and left the balcony to return to my bedroom. That week in Dresden had almost destroyed our relationship. On more than one occasion I had been tempted to pack my bags and return to Paris, leaving the two of them to continue their chummy talks without the irritant of my presence, but Wagner would have loved that. I was glad now that I hadn't let my anger and frustration get the better of me. A week in this lovely inn, surrounded by the magnificent countryside, would be just the tonic we needed.

As I stepped back inside, a plump, rose-cheeked maid with thick blonde braids came into the room carrying my breakfast. There was a silver pot of coffee, a blue cup and saucer, a plate of rolls, butter, honey, and a vase of red wildflowers on the tray. Setting the tray down, the maid gave me a broad smile and then hurried out in a fit of giggles. The coffee tasted rich and tangy, and the rolls were flaky and delicious. When I finished eating, I selected a dress to wear—a dark pink cotton with a snug waist and a very full skirt—and went about completing my toilette. I hummed as I brushed my hair.

Feeling marvelous, my hair spilling in loose waves over my shoulders, I floated downstairs to find Franz. He was in the sitting room, at the grand piano, a sheaf of music in front of him. He looked up as I entered, a preoccupied look in his eyes.

“Working already?” I inquired.

“I hope to make some headway on a new arrangement this week.”

“It's a glorious morning, Franz, much too glorious for you to be at the piano. We're on a holiday.”

“I need to work.”

“You can work this afternoon,” I protested, “all afternoon long. I promise not to bother you. Let's take a walk this morning. The fresh air will do you good, and so will the exercise.”

He scowled and straightened the sheets of music and then, sighing heavily, stood up.

“You really are a distraction, my dear.”

“Am I?”

“A damnable distraction. I should have thrown you out a long time ago. You've no idea how many times I've longed to be done with you, to send you packing.”

I smiled. “But you haven't.”

“I shall eventually,” he promised.

“Perhaps not,” I teased. “Perhaps I'll leave you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You're insufferable, Franz. I don't know why
I
put up with
you
, but I refuse to let your grumpiness spoil our holiday.” I took his hand and gave it a tug. “Come, we'll have our walk, and then you can sulk for the rest of the day.”

Franz lifted his thin lips at one corner, but he followed me docilely enough. We left the inn and climbed down one of the gentle slopes. I paused to gather some of the wildflowers as Franz watched wearily. The air was scented with pine, and the sky was a pale, pure blue-white, cloudless. We continued on our way, and Franz maintained his disgruntled expression, obviously bored by the beauty of the countryside, the fresh air, the serenity.

“Isn't this marvelous?” I said.

“Marvelous.”

“I feel so free, so lighthearted.”

“That, my dear, is obvious.”

“You're such a grump, Franz.”

“I've never pretended to be otherwise. If you wanted a charming, attentive companion, you should have taken up with someone else. I'm quite fond of you, Elena, in my way, but I've never been gallant, nor am I likely to be.”

Though his manner was cool and matter-of-fact, I was finding it more and more difficult to maintain my own good mood. Franz was a splendid creature, handsome, magnetic, exuding fierce sexual allure. Just to be with him was exciting and stimulating, and he was unquestionably a magnificent lover, but I was beginning to realize that I really didn't like him at all.

I fell silent, pensive as we continued our stroll, moving under the trees now. Dry pine needles crunched underfoot. The sky was almost obliterated by heavy boughs that cast soft purple-blue shadows on the ground. How much longer did we have together? How much longer before it dissolved into active hostility? I thought of Marie d'Agoult, the countess who had shared so many years of her life with Franz, bearing him three children. Marie had endured much grief, much heartbreak, suffering terribly before she was finally free of her Demon Lover. I was not as patient as the stoic countess, nor was I in love with Franz. Thank God for that, I told myself.

We started up another slope back toward the inn, which appeared an ornate doll's house in the distance. The bright optimism I had felt earlier in the morning had vanished, a wry resignation taking its place. Perhaps we would have another month, perhaps six weeks, perhaps less, but I knew separation was inevitable. Franz needed a meek, worshipful woman who would sit silently at his feet, speak only when spoken to and cater to his every whim. He would despise her, of course, but then I was beginning to suspect that, like Wagner, he secretly despised all women.

Just as we were crossing the drive in front of the inn, a dashing open carriage wheeled around a curve in the road. The driver sat on his high perch, urging the pair of grays on, and a single passenger lolled in the plushly upholstered seat, his bags beside him. As the carriage came nearer, I recognized the bronze mane, the sharp features, and I felt myself turn white. Richard Wagner raised his arm in salute, and Franz raised his in return, totally unsurprised to see his friend.

“You—you knew he was coming,” I accused.

“But of course,” he replied.

“You
invited
him.”

“How perceptive of you.”

“This was to be our week, our holiday, and you—you asked that man to join us, knowing how I feel about him. I can't believe it. I simply can't believe you could be so—so—”

I cut myself short, striving to control my anger. Franz lifted his lips in a wry smile, amused by my outrage.

“Jealousy becomes you, my dear,” he remarked, “but do try to keep it under control. Richard's sensitive about such things.”

“Richard can go straight to hell,” I snapped.

Franz chuckled to himself and then stepped forward as the carriage drew up in front of the inn. Wagner alighted briskly, and the two men fell upon each other, embracing heartily, pounding each other on the back. Franz' face was aglow with pleasure, and I realized bitterly that I had never evoked such a look of elation in his eyes. Disengaging himself from Franz' embrace, Wagner ordered the driver to carry his bags inside, and then he looked at me. I returned his look with pure loathing. He smiled and turned back to Franz, dismissing me.

“I've finished it,” he announced. “I finished it last night.”

“Finished what?” Franz asked.

“The wedding march, of course, the wedding march. I have finally worked it out to my satisfaction. Remember that passage I played for you in Dresden? I threw out everything but the basic melody, and I've strengthened that, given it a new power. It's nothing short of majestic.”

“You must play it for me.”

“I've every intention of doing just that.”

Wagner was undeniably attractive with those eyes glowing dramatically beneath low, stern brows. His nose was too large, his lips too thin, but these flaws somehow only enhanced his ruthless good looks. He wore tall brown boots and a dark tan suit, the breeches snug, the jacket with long tails. His satin waistcoat was brown and white striped, his neckcloth a vivid green that picked up the green in his eyes. Arrogant, cold, seething with ambition, he tossed his long bronze mane and followed Franz up the steps and into the inn.

I stood there in the sunlight, fuming, as angry as I had ever been in my life. The driver came back out to take the carriage around to the carriage house in back of the inn. It was several minutes before I felt composed enough to join the men in the sitting room. Wagner stood in front of the mantle, a glass of red wine in his hand, and Franz was examining a musical score. Wagner had been working on
Lohengrin
for months. They had talked of nothing else in Dresden.

“Magnificent,” Franz remarked.

“A masterpiece, no question about it,” Wagner told him. “Verdi and Bellini will be pronounced passé.”

Neither man so much as glanced at me. I might have been invisible.

“Shall I order lunch?” I inquired.

Wagner looked at me as though I were carrying the plague. Franz lifted his eyes from the score.

“We're busy, Elena.”

“Too busy to eat?”

“We'll eat if we get hungry. I'm sure you can find something to occupy yourself with this afternoon.”

“I feel sure I can,” I retorted.

“Good,” he said, dismissing me.

I left without a word, my cheeks flaming. When I reached my room, my first impulse was to pack my bags, but I managed to restrain myself. I wasn't going to give up so easily. Oh no, I wasn't going to let Herr Richard Wagner drive me away. I had never run from a fight before, and I didn't intend to start now. The anger boiled inside for several more minutes, and then a determined calm came over me. We'd just see who left first.

After a while I heard Wagner at the piano, playing his march. It was stately and solemn and quite lovely, and I hated it. He played it repeatedly as the afternoon wore on. Not once did Franz play his own new composition. It was that bloody march over and over again until I wanted to scream. It was nearly seven before I heard them come upstairs, laughing heartily at some private joke, like two noisy schoolboys. A few minutes later Franz strolled into my room.

“Still sulking?” he inquired.

“Whatever gave you the idea I've been sulking?”

He ignored the question. “We'll be dining at eight thirty. I thought I'd let you know.”

“How very considerate.”

“I'll see you downstairs, my dear.”

It was five minutes after nine when I entered the sitting room. Both men were waiting. They had been waiting for some time. I smiled graciously and apologized for being late, explaining that it had taken me longer to dress than I had expected.

“I hope the result is satisfactory,” I added.

Wagner scowled, but Franz' look was one of considerable appreciation. My gown of deep, rich, royal blue satin was a gorgeous garment, basically simple and exceedingly provocative. My ebony hair was pulled back sleekly and worn in a French roll on the back of my head, and my lids were brushed with soft blue-gray shadow, the natural pink of my lips heightened with deep pink lip rouge.

“You look lovely, my dear,” Franz remarked.

“Thank you, Franz.”

He had changed into a black suit with white-on-white waistcoat and white silk neckcloth. Wagner wore a dark maroon suit, his white satin waistcoat embroidered with black floral patterns, his neckcloth maroon silk. Both men looked handsome and distinguished. Wagner's imitation of Franz' manner, his similar style of dress and the identical hair style made the resemblance between them remarkable. They might have been taken for brothers.

“Shall we adjourn to the dining room?” I said.

A table had been set for three. Everywhere tall candles burned. The tablecloth was snowy white. China, crystal and silver gleamed. Franz helped me into my seat. I smiled and thanked him. Wagner scowled again, not at all happy with the way things were going. A waiter brought our first course, a thick, creamy turtle soup. Franz' dark eyes were filled with amusement as his friend grew more and more sullen.

“Did you have an interesting afternoon, my dear?” Franz inquired.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” I replied. “I've been reading George's new novel,
Lucrezia Floriana
. It's just been published and she forwarded a copy to our hotel in Dresden. It's all about an actress approaching middle age and her twenty-four-year-old lover, a frail, clinging, self-centered intellectual who arouses her maternal instincts. I can easily see why she was so concerned about Chopin's reaction to it. It's their story, thinly disguised. Very thinly.”

“Chopin,” Wagner said. “A minor talent. All sweet melody, no power. He'll be forgotten in a decade or so.”