Death And The Maiden

38

Director Mahler had provided Liebermann with two tickets to see Cosi fan Tutte, a comic opera by Mozart. There was never any doubt about who Liebermann would take as his guest. Once again, the pretext of Amelia Lydgate’s continuing musical education served his ulterior purpose. Within hours of issuing the invitation he was holding her reply in his hands. She had found the prospect of a night at the opera most agreeable.

The box they occupied was well positioned and exclusive.

‘Do you know Cosi fan Tutte?’ Amelia asked.

‘I am familiar with some of the arias,’ said Liebermann, ‘but have never attended a complete performance. It isn’t produced very often.’

‘Why is that?’

‘One must assume that previous directors have not been persuaded of its merits. Director Mahler, however, is a great champion of Mozart’s operas, particularly those that are less well known. Last year he programmed the first-ever performance of Zaide on the emperor’s name day.’

‘First-ever?’

‘Yes. It was never performed in Mozart’s lifetime.’

‘Remarkable, that an opera by Mozart should be neglected until the early years of the twentieth century.’

‘Indeed. There are still some who question his genius. They find him too … light. But they miss the point. That is his gift. Only Mozart can make sadness so sweet. Even when a libretto demands that he represent something horrible, he does so with charm and natural grace.’

Amelia craned over the edge of the box in order to study the audience. She was wearing a skirted decollete green velvet gown. Liebermann had seen her wearing it on a previous occasion, at a ball, and he was reminded of the time they had danced together — the warmth of her body, accidental brushes, her pale shoulders exposed and unbearably close. The hem of her gown rose up, revealing a pair of black boots. Her feet were slim and the soft leather emphasised the contours of her shapely ankles. Liebermann recalled what Frau Zollinger had said about Brahms, and wondered if he too was now exhibiting that ‘greedy boy’ look. Embarrassed, he lowered his head and flicked through the programme. He noticed that Arianne Amsel was singing the part of Fiordiligi.

Arpeggios and fragments of melody signalled the arrival of musicians in the pit. In due course, the leader of the orchestra played an ‘A’ and all the instruments converged on this single note. The house lights dimmed and Director Mahler appeared. He marched to the podium, barely acknowledging the applause, and raised his baton. The chords that he summoned from his players were congenial, sympathetic, winsome and irresistible. Eight stately bars preceded the arrival of a playful tune that chased across the orchestra. The scurrying motif evoked the tropes of comedy with miraculous precision: characters donning disguises, confused identities, secret assignations and hasty concealments. Mozart had deftly informed the audience that they were about to be amused and a wave of infectious anticipation swept through the stalls.

The curtain rose on a cafe scene where two young men, Ferrando and Guglielmo, were praising their fiancees, Dorabella and Fiordiligi; however, their companion, an older man, Don Alfonso, was scornful. He accused them of naivety and was soon proposing a wager of one hundred guineas. He would prove that Dorabella and Fiordiligi — like all women — were inconstant. The conventions of farce were assiduously observed, yet, as the drama progressed, the music expressed much more than wit and humour. It exposed a poignant fragility at the heart of human affairs and, beyond that, the hopeless absurdity of life itself. Liebermann was forced to consider the sad comedy of his own predicament, his desire for the woman seated next to him and his mounting frustration.

Undulating strings introduced a trio for two sopranos and bass. It was absolutely exquisite, a prayer for the safety of departed friends and lovers crossing a distant sea. The female voices floated in celestial suspension over the gentle lapping of the orchestral accompaniment. Liebermann did not believe in heaven. But if there was such a thing, then it was easy to imagine such music welcoming weary souls as they passed through its gates.

When the trio came to its sublime conclusion the audience burst into spontaneous applause. Amelia turned and looked directly at Liebermann. He struggled to understand the meaning of her expression, which was unusually open. She looked helpless and a little bemused, as if the music had been the cause of her undoing. He leaned forward and said: ‘Is something the matter?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘It was just …’ she hesitated and her chest rose and fell. ‘Beautiful.’

Later in the first act, Ferrando sang an aria about love. Once again, Mozart transcended the limits of opera buffa, producing music of great poignancy. Ferrando’s tenor was full of tenderness: ‘The heart that is nourished by hope and by love has no need of better food.’ Love was essential, and a life without love could only ever be a pale imitation of what life is supposed to be. Liebermann found himself thinking of Mozart’s grave. He remembered the truncated marble column and the stricken cherub. Life was so woefully short. Emotion tightened his throat.

In the second act, Arianne Amsel performed the famous rondo aria, ‘Have pity, my love, forgive.’ It was something of a showpiece, consisting of several sections in different tempi and clearly composed to display technique. The melody was full of large intervals, requiring the voice to drop suddenly from high soprano to contralto. Liebermann enjoyed the aria as a piece of theatre but the music did not move him. When Amsel stopped singing, a solitary clap could be heard over the orchestral coda. It continued into the silence that preceded the next recitativo, provoking only a smattering of restrained applause. Evidently the house shared Liebermann’s opinion.

At the end of the opera, when the lovers were reunited, the cast came together to sing a strange valedictory. It was as though they were stepping out of the drama and into the real world. ‘Happy is the man,’ they sang, ‘who always looks on the bright side of everything and through life’s ups and downs lets himself be guided by reason.’ Liebermann considered himself a natural optimist and someone who venerated Enlightenment values; yet he couldn’t say that these things had brought him happiness. He knew that true fulfilment depended on something quite different.

They collected their coats from the cloakroom and walked the short distance to the Cafe Schwarzenberg where they ordered coffee and pastries. Sitting by a window through which they could see the Karlskirche, they talked about the opera and Liebermann spoke of his recent visit to the Mozartgrab. He spoke about the symbolic meaning of the truncated column and Amelia listened intently. When he had finished, she said, very seriously, ‘None of us can know the number of days we are allocated on this Earth. Time passes and death comes suddenly. Therefore one must seize all the opportunities that life offers. It is dreadful to contemplate how it must be to spend one’s final hours regretting what might or could have been.’

* * *

Liebermann hailed a cab.

For much of the journey they were uncharacteristically silent. It was a silence that they had reached not merely because the evening’s conversation had run its course. It was a silence that they had earned after the labour of all their previous conversations. A boundless silence, tolerated without discomfort and against which their intimacy might be tested. They had had so many conversations, and about so many things: diseases of the blood, Nietzsche’s theory of eternal recurrence, automata, literature, reform fashion houses, therapeutic nihilism, secessionist art and design, Renaissance architecture, women’s rights, literature and, of course, the nature of love.

Liebermann recalled Ferrando’s aria, with its simply worded statement of love’s necessity, and realised that the very same sentiment had been expressed by Goethe in Elective Affinities: ‘A life without love, without the presence of the beloved, is only a comedie a tiroir.’ And that was precisely how Liebermann had experienced his life since his first encounter with Amelia Lydgate, a series of unconnected episodes, superficial and unsatisfying.

Liebermann’s thoughts were racing.

Outside, a thin rain had begun to fall.

In matters of the heart women could not express themselves freely. It was not permitted. They relied on more subtle means of communication. When Amelia had handed him her copy of Elective Affinities she must have done so knowingly.

They arrived in the ninth district and the carriage stopped outside Amelia’s house. Liebermann offered her his hand and helped her to alight onto the pavement, before paying and dismissing the driver. The street was empty and the atmosphere was hazed with a fine mizzle.

‘Will you not need a cab to get home?’ asked Amelia.

‘No,’ Liebermann replied. ‘I think I’d prefer to walk. My head is still full of music. I must walk, otherwise I shan’t sleep.’

It was so easy to hide behind words, make excuses and mislead. He yearned again for the restoration of silence, the honest silence that had enfolded them in the carriage.

They walked to the door and Amelia turned to face him. The water vapour diffused the gaslight, making her face appear soft-edged and ghostly. Liebermann felt inebriated, as if he’d been imbibing too much absinthe.

‘Once again,’ said Amelia, ‘I must thank you for a wonderful evening.’

Liebermann did not reply. He stood very still, returning her intense gaze. He was aware of the distant clatter of hooves and the muted hum of the city, but the world seemed to be receding. Amelia’s eyes had always held a peculiar fascination for him. They were such an unusual colour, neither blue nor grey but some indeterminate hue in between. Their preternatural luminosity was contained by a dark rim which circulated each iris. For a moment he thought that he might be falling, but soon realised he was mistaken. Amelia’s eyes were becoming larger because she was moving closer. She had taken a step towards him. Her head fell backwards and her lips formed a tentative, experimental pout. Quite suddenly — as if a moment of intervening time had been excised — her mouth was opening beneath his and they were kissing.