Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

“Look-it’s in this little street here-we take the first left and then the first right—”’

“Kendrick, you go and see the house where Hugo Wolf wrote the M`orike Lieder, but I’m going to Demels to have a large coffee and eat Indiancrkrapftn and study their patisserie.”

A terrible conflict raged in Kendrick’s breast. To leave Ellen whom he loved so much even for half an hour was hard-but to miss Hugo Wolf’s house which the guide book particularly recommended was hard too.

“Remember you’ve got a whole day after I’ve gone. I have to go back tomorrow.”

“Very well, I’ll come with you,” said Kendrick and limped with her towards Demels, where he was rewarded by Ellen’s face as she gazed at the counter, her eyes moving from the intricate lattice of the Linzertorte, to the baroque magnificence of the layered chocolate cakes, and back to the Schaumrollen, fat and soft as puppies. And even Kendrick took pleasure in seeing the eclairs they had chosen wheeled away by attendents, as if to a select nursing home, to be injected with fresh whipped cream.

It was as she poured a second cup of the marvellous coffee that Ellen said: “Don’t you think we ought to call at a chemist’s and see if we can get a proper dressing for your foot? It’s going to be really painful for you trying to dance with that blister.”

She was looking forward to the ball-the orchestra was sure to be good and even if she and Kendrick danced very little she would enjoy watching the other people.

But to her surprise, Kendrick coloured up and put down his cup. He had not meant to reveal his delightful surprise till they were back in the hotel, but this was as good a moment as any.

“Ellen, we’re not going to a ball,” he said, leaning across to her. “We’re going somewhere much more exciting. Somewhere absolutely special.”

“And where is that?”’ A slight foreboding touched Ellen.

“The opera!” said Kendrick happily.

“The Vienna State Opera! We’re going to see Rosenkavalier-and guess who is singing the leading role.”

“Who?”’ asked Ellen obediently-but the foreboding had, so to speak, settled in.

“Brigitta Seefeld! Her interpretation is absolutely legendary. She’s marvellous; remember I wrote to you about her, about the songs Altenburg wrote for her. I can’t tell you what a miracle it was getting the tickets. Everyone in Vienna will be there.” And suddenly seeing something in her face: “You’re pleased, aren’t you? You wouldn’t rather have gone to a ball?”’

She lifted her head. “No, no, Kendrick. Of course I’m pleased. It’ll be lovely.” There was no point in spoiling his pleasure, and if she wanted to watch that overweight cow sing about as much as she wanted to spend the night in a sewage farm, she would keep it to herself. With Marek on the ocean and Isaac safely out of the country, Seefeld posed no threat. All the same she felt entitled to some consolation, and: “I’m going to have another Indianerkrapfrn,” she said.

“Another one?”’ asked Kendrick, shocked.

“Yes.” I need cheering up, she could have said, but didn’t because of the wet house and the camel and the fact that Kendrick looked so very pleased.

“Oh Ellen!” said Kendrick as she floated down the stairs dressed for the opera. “You look—”’

But what did she look like? The Primavera certainly-that Botticelli-like floating as if she was weightless-though the way her lustrous hair curved and coiled around her brow was more like Venus rising from the waves… except that Venus wasn’t wearing anything at all, whereas Ellen was dressed in a marvellous white concoction that frothed and foamed and swirled like sea spray, like gossamer, like flakes of snow. Stumbling from painter to painter, from woodland nymphs and enchanted swans and back again, Kendrick tried to bring his erudition to bear on Ellen, en grande tenue, and failed.

But if he was confounded he had a right to be, for Ellen and the Gorgon needlework professor at the Lucy Hatton College of Household Management had wrought a masterpiece.

“You can’t use tulle, like that,” Miss Ellis had said sniffily. “Not if you want the finest denier. You’ll be up all night setting the ruffles.”

“Then I’ll be up all night,” Ellen had said, and almost was for several nights, by which time Miss Ellis had caught the infection. The dress had won first prize at the graduation ceremony, but it had done considerably more than that.

As the taxi dropped them on the steps of the opera house and Ellen got out, a little girl held aloft on her father’s shoulder said, “Is she a princess?”’ and was as instantly put right by someone in the watching crowd who said dismissively, “Not her-she’s far too pretty.”

For they knew all about the aristocracy, the bystanders that had come to watch, and they thirsted for them. Having deposed the last Hapsburg some twenty years ago, they had become specialists in those kings and queens who had hung on to their thrones. The Austrian President was greeted by the smallest of cheers, but King Carol of Rumania, with his dubious personal life, got an ovation.

Inside the foyer, the excitement of a gala seemed to Ellen to be augmented by something else. The dowagers in ropes of pearls, the men with their decorations, the clusters of beautiful women, appeared to be buzzing with news of some kind of scandal or calamity. Their faces as they repeated, “Are you sure?”’ or “I can’t believe it,” reflected the kind of salacious glee, masking as concern, that is devoted to disasters which do not affect one personally.

From the general hum of words, Ellen repeatedly caught one name.

“Who’s Feuerbach?”’ she asked Kendrick as they made their way up the magnificent staircase.

“The conductor.” He had noticed nothing; his German was poor and he was busy bringing out his pocket score, his magnifying glass, and the notes on the opera he had copied in the London Library.

“Kendrick, what marvellous seats!” “They are, aren’t they,” said Kendrick and couldn’t resist telling her what they cost.

In the box on their right, two men were talking, their voices perfectly audible to Ellen.

“It’s all right!” said a small dark man who had just joined his friend. “They’ve talked him round, but it was a struggle. He chased Feuerbach all over town trying to get him to change his mind, but it was no good.”

“What did he do to make Feuerbach walk out-defenestrate him or something?”’

“Not a bit of it. He kept his temper all the way through. It was the orchestra. They made life impossible for Feuerbach. But this is it, Staub-there can’t be any doubt about it now-she’s got him back and Stallenbach’s away. Your opera’s in the bag.”

Staub nodded. “I showed him the libretto and he was definitely interested.”

The last of the Kings and Queens had arrived; tired-looking persons weighed down by their jewels — and then a lone elderly man who attracted rather more attention as he appeared in the stage box. Richard Strauss, the opera’s composer, the most famous musician in the world, who had travelled up from Garmisch.

The lights were going down now, but the whispers of rumour and speculation had not yet died away.

Then the curtains parted and the manager appeared. “Your Majesties, your Royal Highnesses, Herr President, Ladies and Gentlemen-I have an announcement to make. Owing to the indisposition of Herr Feuerbach, tonight’s performance of Rosenkavalier will be conducted by Marcus Altenburg.”

The audience behaved badly. They clapped, they cheered, they hugged each other. The gossip had been known for days-that Brigitta Seefeld’s lover had returned to coach her, that their famous affaire had been resumed, that the unpopular Feuerbach had made scene after scene…