A Song for Summer

But when Andromeda was returned, with icing sugar on her cheeks, she smiled and cooed and slept the night through for the first time since she was born.

Problems arose continuously. How would the followers get from the house to the church? Not everyone could go in the flotilla of boats. No one expected the tight-fisted Captain Harrar to offer his paddle steamer, but he did; it would follow at a distance and there would be room for everyone.

When it became clear that even with all the village women sewing, the dresses would not be done, six nuns appeared from the convent, asked for Ellen, and were led to the hall which had been taken over as a workshop. One of these, Sister Felicity, turned out to be an expert botanist and supervised the making of Alpenrosen petals for Aniella to strew over the lake, and headdresses of saxifrage and gentians and cornflowers for the guests. But it was Ellen who made Aniella's wedding gown, fighting Bruno for the last of the muslin and creating a dream dress which had Lieselotte in tears.

Only Ursula still stood aside.

"I wish you'd be one of the bridesmaids like us," said Sophie. "We'll be sailing over the lake with Aniella; it'll be fun. Ellen's got a dirndl for you, she told me."

"Don't be silly," said Ursula.

"No one wore braces on their teeth in those days. People would jeer at me."

"No they wouldn't," began

Sophie--but Ursula had already marched off with her red exercise book.

There was to be as little "acting" as possible, everyone agreed on that. Enacting yes, acting no, but it had been decided that there should be a brief commentary to link the scenes together and to his utter amazement, Bennet himself had agreed to write it.

What am I doing? he asked himself. I'm an atheist; I've been one all my life. Yet now he wrote words for an Austrian saint who lived by God, for an angel lit from behind (if the generator worked) by a Marxist teacher of mathematics. He wrote words to proclaim the treachery of the greengrocer, who had been cast as Count Alexei--and told himself he was an idiot and did not stop.

By now no one remembered any more who belonged to the village and who to the school. Bennet cancelled all afternoon lessons, did not even open the letter from his stockbroker and told Margaret to abandon all correspondence with Toscanini Aunts. Convinced that he faced ruin and derision from such parents as would make their way to Hallendorf, Bennet found he did not greatly care. If this was the end of his beloved school, it was a good one.

Into this creative chaos, there now burst Marek's music.

On the morning of the fourth day he showered, shaved, and went to find Ellen.

"I want Leon--tell him to copy these parts; I need three copies at least. And find me Flix and those Italian twins and the red-haired boy with a scar behind his ear."

"Oliver?"' she said. "You want him?"' "Yes; he can sing. I heard him when he was carving. And Sophie; she can hold a tune. I'll teach them first and they can help the others. Three o'clock this afternoon in the music room."

He then commandeered Bennet's car and drove to the village where he asked to see the leader of the Hallendorf Brass Band and said he expected him and his players next morning at the castle.

"But we're competing in the finals at Klagenfurt in a month," said the leader. "We--"'

Marek said this was a pity, but he expected them at ten, and disappeared into the kitchens of the Goldene Krone, summoned the assistant

chef and told him to fetch his brother and his accordion. Two hours later he was in Klagenfurt, in the school of music, and said he needed a fiddler, a cellist and a viola player for the coming week.

"But that is out of the question. No one will come for a country pageant. They have exams."

"Ask them," said Marek briefly--and handed over his card.

The principal backed away. They were true, then, the rumours he had heard.

"Yes, sir; of course. I'll send the best players I've got."

"They'll need strong shoes," said Marek. "Ten o'clock at the castle."

In the days that followed, Bennet, watching Marek's rehearsals, saw every one of his educational beliefs thrown over.

"I can't sing;" said Sophie, "my mother says I have a voice like a corncrake,"--and was treated to a blistering attack on people who at the age of twelve were still under their mother's thumb. "If you were an Arab you'd be married by now," said Marek. "I decide who can't, and no one else. Now open your mouth and sing."

Leon, after three hours of copying music, said he was tired and was treated to a stare of such contempt that he changed his mind, and reached for another pile of manuscript paper.

"You're late," said Marek to the students of the Klagenfurt Academy, emerging from their car.

"I'm sorry, Herr Altenburg. We had a puncture."

"Don't let it happen again. Here's your music. I want it by heart tonight. You represent continuity; you'll go from venue to venue accompanying the narrator. In the last scene you'll be playing in the tower of the church."