A Song for Summer

The last act now. Comedy, bustle, misunderstandings ... Baron Ochs discredited ... And the entrance of the Marschallin, perhaps the most heart-stopping moment in opera. She stands in the doorway of the inn, knowing that her young lover has deserted her: not "someday", not "soon", but now. Yet Octavian is no knave, the girl he has fallen for no scheming minx. The lovers are caught by the one thing she cannot ever again reach out for--their youth. Bewildered, ashamed yet ecstatic, they look to her ...

And she puts it right. The trio that follows is of a beauty that stills all turmoil. The Marschallin sings--not grandly, not histrionically --of the need for self-sacrifice. She sings, in fact, of something unbelievably simple and unbelievably difficult: the need to behave well. And the lovers reproach themselves, tremble and--blessed by her understanding--claim each other.

But when she leaves them, though they sing on, the opera is over. Not one person in the audience, or any audience anywhere, but weeps for the Marschallin. Everyone is on her side.

The curtain fell. Kendrick, looking at Ellen, was proud to see that she was crying. After the incident of the Sorrel Soup, he sometimes wondered how deeply she felt music.

Did she feel it almost too much? She was a girl who always had a handkerchief, but now he gave her his, for she was not doing anything to stem her tears.

Renunciation. Letting go. Brigitta who had nothing to renounce had sung of it. But I, who do not sing, I have to do it, thought Ellen. Only I wish I had something to renounce. I do so very much wish that.

The endless clapping, the cries of "Bravo" and "Bis", the flowers raining down, passed before her like a dream. But when at last Marek allowed himself to be dragged on to the stage, and brought his orchestra to their feet, when Brigitta came towards him with outstretched arms and he kissed her, to the delight and noisy approval of the Viennese, she saw that. She saw that quite clearly.

"Well, we shall have something to tell our grandchildren after tonight," said Benny triumphantly. He was not married and had no intention of becoming so, but tonight he felt dynastic. Mahler's Fidelio

... Karajan's Tristan ... and now

Seefeld's Rosenkavalier. Or would it go down as Altenburg's Rosenkavalier? But what did it matter? It was the combination that had made this evening into an operatic legend.

Everyone knew it; they came past their table at Sacher's--acerbic critics, carping musicologists--and gushed like schoolchildren. The management had presented two bottles of champagne, Brigitta glowed and sparkled, and every so often she put a hand with loving ownership on Marek's arm.

He's mine again, she thought exultantly. I've got him back. Her mind went forward to the end of the meal

... to the moment when they reached her apartment. Ufra would have done everything: the candles would be lit, the bed sprayed with Nuit d'Etè --but only a little, for Marcus had never liked strong scents--and the little dog safely shut up, for

nothing could shatter the mood more than the boisterous welcome the creature would give him. And afterwards she would make the first of the many sacrifices she was going to make to inspire him for his art.

Marek was only partly aware of the babble around him and her coy possessiveness. He was still with the orchestra as they followed him through the extraordinary richness and intricacy of the score. The performance had not been perfect: the pi@u tranquillo before the Presentation of the Rose had been too drawn out--Feuerbach's sentimentality could not be eradicated in an instant--but they had played like ...

well, like the Vienna Philharmonic.

But I'll make my Americans just as good, he swore to himself, they can do it. He had missed the boat from Genoa but there was a faster one leaving from Marseilles; he would hardly be late.

Brigitta leant even closer against him; she had decided to make her sacrifice now, rather than in the privacy of her rooms, knowing how much it would please Staub who was sitting on her other side.

Hitherto she had been firm in her refusal to portray Helen of Troy crouching in a state of terror in a doorway, but now ...

"Darling," she said confidingly to Marek. "I've decided. If you set the opera I'm prepared to do it. I'm prepared to huddle."

Marek looked at her, trying to focus on her words. Benny had refilled his glass and he had not resisted, needing to unwind. The last time he had drunk champagne had been in the dining room at Kalun.

And at that moment, as if conjured up from that sulphurous place, he saw a girl in a white dress standing under a street lamp and staring at him through the glass.

"Excuse me," he said and got to his feet. But when he reached the street she was nowhere. He must have been drunker than he realised.

"I'm sorry, Brigitta," he said, sitting down again. "I thought I saw someone I knew." And making an effort:

"What was it you were telling me?"'