Sophie and the Sibyl Read Free

whiskers.
    ‘Well, young man, here you are at last! Your brother’s already here, you know, deep in talk with the great lady. She has not yet finished that marvellous book my girls have been reading in English. She intends to retire to the country to write the Finale. It’s marvellous, quite marvellous. Haven’t read it myself yet. I’m waiting for you Dunckers to bring out a decent translation.’
    Max bowed, weakening at the knees, for here, full of jovial good humour, stood Graf August Wilhelm von Hahn, now something of a minor celebrity in Berlin and one of their authors. His military memoir, incorporating his own father’s heroic participation in the Battle of Jena, caused something of a sensation when published by their house earlier in the year. The Count’s critical stance towards the Prussian state apparatus transformed the gossip and general bravado into a distinctly chilly frisson when his publishers were visited by the intelligence services, who descended upon them, in plain clothes, unannounced, to inspect their autumn catalogue and boxes of stock. The Count, sanguine, optimistic and utterly fearless, pounded up the stairs to reassure them that he had visited everyone who matters, absolutely everyone, and there is no question of reprisals. We can contemplate a second edition with perfect equanimity. Wolfgang kept his nerve and Erinnerungen und Erlebnisse: Lebensweg eines Liberalen , 2 vols. (Berlin: Duncker und Duncker, 1872) went straight into a second, sell-out edition. According to Wolfgang, even the Sibyl – formidably well read in history, my dear, and remember the lady has met Mommsen himself, over dinner with the American Ambassador – well, she perused the work with astonishment.
    The Count rattled on.
    ‘You must pop round to see the girls, you know. Remember little Sophie, who chased you round the garden? We haven’t seen you since the early summer and she was out at our old Jagdschloss then, bolstering herself up with fresh air and taking dreadful risks with those horses. Ready to jump anything! Goes straight at it! I think you’ll find her quite grown-up. Herr Klesmer is going to play for us later on. I must finish my quiz. There’s a good chap –’
    The Count had invented a political quiz, which caused the most raucous laughter. There were no right answers. The wittiest or sharpest political response gained the most points. Max now realised that he had walked straight into a salon that actually flaunted its liberal inclusiveness. Here was the Count, encouraging subversion – ‘Everything, yes, everything, my dear, can be discussed.’ And Klesmer, a concert pianist and famous modern composer, acclaimed by Liszt and Wagner, made no secret whatever of his Jewishness. He actually declared himself a Jew! The very curtains of the salon shimmered with sedition. Max fingered his handkerchief.
    Lewes danced up again, beckoning him to advance, and now he entered the inner sanctum. Behold the Sibyl, enthroned in elegance, a small table mountained with books at her side, her feet upon a cushioned stool. As he bowed, his smile becoming fixed, Max studied her velvet slippers. Were they too shedding mud? He caught the same whiff of spice and alcohol on her clothes. Was it linseed oil? The smell recalled his brother, aged twelve or thereabouts, lovingly polishing his violin. The Sibyl, flanked by young courtiers, who now withdrew to a safe distance, lifted her giant head, and gazed at him expectantly. Max blushed, feeling a faint, embarrassed tingle behind his ears.
    ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Max. I hope I may call you Max. Wolfgang speaks of you so often. And with such affection. You must stay to hear Herr Klesmer play one of his own compositions. Let me introduce you to him.’
    For there he was, like the catastrophe in an old comedy, conjured up by the ubiquitous Lewes who appeared to follow every conversation in the room, and anticipate every wish, like a successful circus impresario.