Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

If Hitler’s hand of friendship to Austria became a takeover, might it be wise to consider alternatives?

“Why don’t you get Altenburg to write an opera for you? You’d be welcome anywhere in the world then,” Feldmann had said, as he was leaving. He was half joking. Men like Altenburg did not write operas for people-they wrote them or not.

But Brigitta had leapt at the idea. Altenburg understood her as no one had ever done. He had a devilish temper and had never quite lost his air of emerging from a forest in a bearskin, but the time she had spent with him had been like no other. It was he who had persuaded her to take on the role that had become her most famous one: that of the Marschallin in Rosenkavalier-the lovely, worldly aristocrat who gives up her young lover to an ingenue of his own age.

“I’m too young,” she’d said-and so she had been then: thirty-two to his twenty.

“But that’s the point don’t you see, to make the sacrifice while you are at the height of your beauty-Strauss wrote it like that. It’s not about some middle-aged woman making the best of a bad job; it’s a supreme act of wisdom and renunciation.”

The boy had been right. She had been sensational in the role; her performance in what Richard Strauss called his “Mozart Opera” had become legendary. It was because of Marcus that she was singing in four weeks’ time before the President and the crowned heads of several European states.

And that was the trouble-that was why she was so desperate to find him now. The opera could wait, but not the gala. It was three years since she had sung the Marschallin: her fortieth birthday was behind her-rather more behind her than she admitted-and she felt suddenly terrified and stale. There were things badly wrong with the production, and Feuerbach, who was conducting, lacked the authority and presence to impose his will on the orchestra. Some of his tempi were absurd; she couldn’t take the Act One monologue at that speed, and the girl who was singing Sophie lost no opportunity to put herself forward.

It had all been so different when she was with Marcus. He had been an amazing répétiteur and coach, and the orchestra listened to him. Even when he was twenty they had listened, and now… Marcus could make Feuerbach see sense, she was sure of it. There would be people at the gala longing to find fault with her-rival divas from Berlin and Paris; officials from the Met.

“Here he is!” said Staub as Benny came towards them, his black eyes lively in spite of the long journey.

Brigitta could only just give him time to sit down before she began: “Well, what’s the news? Did you find him?”’

Benny shook his head. “No I didn’t.

No one in Philadelphia had any idea where he was. The Director of the Sinfonia’s been trying to get hold of him but he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. They thought he was in that place of his in the forest but letters haven’t been answered.”

“But that’s absurd. He must be somewhere.”

Staub cleared his throat. His libretto was without doubt the best thing he had written. Seen from the point of view of a Greek soldier disgorged from the wooden horse who encounters the fabled Helen, huddled in a doorway of the burning city, it should interest Altenburg with his well-known concern for the common man. And Marcus might persuade Brigitta to huddle-a thing that he himself did not feel equal to.

Now he said: “I think perhaps he may be here. In Austria, I mean. Brenner said he saw him down in Carinthia, driving with Professor Steiner. He didn’t see him clearly but he’s pretty sure it was Altenburg.”

“Steiner? That old folk song collector?”’

“Yes. I thought he must be mistaken because Marcus was in America but now I wonder. He and Steiner were friends, if you remember; Marcus stayed with him in Berlin.”

Brigitta frowned. The professor belonged to that group of musicians-Meierwitz was another one-who had allowed themselves to become entangled in politics.

“But what could he possibly be doing down there? And why hasn’t he been in touch?”’

Staub shrugged. “Brenner may be wrong but he was quite close to him; the van stopped at a level crossing and he tried to wave but Altenburg just stared him down.”

What could it mean? thought Brigitta. Was he hiding himself away to work? And if so… if he was writing music for someone else? A rival? Oh, why did I send him away? she thought. I must have been mad. He’d said he wouldn’t come back, and he hadn’t, except as an acquaintance when their paths happened to cross. She’d only wanted a few months to sort out her affairs and really it was his fault, refusing to sell his wretched trees to pay for the sables she’d set her heart on.

“Where in Carinthia? Where did Brenner see him?”’

“Hallendorf. They were driving away from the lake.”

“Hallendorf?”’ she repeated. “Of course, that’s the place with that dreadful school.” The headmaster had had the nerve to write to her asking her to attend some musical performance of the children’s a couple of years ago. She hadn’t even answered… but might it do as an excuse to make enquiries?

“Is there anywhere decent to stay down there?”’ she asked. “Why don’t we go and look for him?”’

Staub agreed at once but Benny hesitated. He had not yet told Brigitta, but he had decided to emigrate and was going to transfer his business to New York. If Brigitta did choose to follow him, there was little he could do for her: America was flooded with Lieder singers escaping Hitler, and the Met had their own stable of sopranos.

But Altenburg was a different matter; Benny had been surprised at the high value the Americans put on him. If Brigitta could really get Altenburg to write an opera with a part for her, the combination could be sensational. The old “affaire” might be over, but a little carefully placed gossip could add savour, and where better to put that about-if Marcus could be persuaded to attend-than at the gala?

“Why don’t you all come?”’ repeated Brigitta.

Benny made up his mind. “All right,” he said, nodding. He hated the country but he could manage a few days.

“And you, Liebchen?”’ asked Brigitta, a shade anxiously, turning to the count.

Stallenbach patted her hand. “I think not,” he said, smiling. His role as Brigitta’s “protector” was a conventional one; his family for generations had supported singers or dancers, enjoying their favours and their company. But Stallenbach was in his sixties and had, moreover, a secret in the form of an abiding and deep enthusiasm for the company of his wife. A few quiet weeks without Brigitta were very welcome: nor was he worried about being usurped by Altenburg. The count knew rather better than Brigitta just how many women had thrown themselves at the composer.

“Actually,” he said, “I have a cousin who has a villa near there. It’s empty, I believe; I’m sure she’d lend it to you.” He was rewarded by Brigitta’s famous, but genuinely lovely, smile.

“Of course he goes off suddenly like that. Of course he doesn’t even bother to say goodbye. I could tell at once that he was no good,” said Tamara pettishly.

Bennet was silent. Marek had in fact said goodbye and told him why he was going and what had been his reason for coming to Hallendorf. He had explained that since Leon and Ellen now knew who he was, he could not risk any further involvement by anyone in the school. “Knowing things can be dangerous business nowadays,” he said.

Bennet had agreed. Ellen could make her own decisions, but Leon was a child for whom he was responsible.

“We shall miss you,” he said-and indeed it was extraordinary how much he minded losing this man whom he had trusted instinctively from the start.