Sophie and the Sibyl Read Free Page B

progressed with the frisky husband. He hastily straightened his back and flattered the Sibyl, praying that the Ariadne – or was it the Cleopatra? – played a minor role in the Great Work.
    ‘We are honoured and proud to publish any work by Mrs. Lewes, whether in English or in German,’ declared Max. ‘She is admired throughout Europe.’
    Klesmer snorted. The lady smiled slightly, then put her unfortunate publisher on the spot.
    ‘But, Max, you have not yet given us your opinion of the Ariadne. And we have been discussing her without reference to your views. Do tell us what you think about the two sculptures. Do you have a preference?’
    This time, Max, no longer mesmerised by the peculiar company and the noise around him, let fly with his opinion. The girls at Hettie’s Keller were the better sort of prostitute, not overeducated, but anxious to please and to enjoy themselves. When other men sneered at them, he often rose to their defence. And now, oddly enough, he felt moved to defend each and every Ariadne.
    ‘The woman abandoned is traditionally regarded as the fallen woman, is she not? I have never understood what justice is to be found in that line of reasoning which serves only the desires and prejudices of men. She deserves our compassion. She is not to be blamed. Theseus is the villain of the piece.’
    ‘Bravo, sir! Well said!’ thundered the Graf von Hahn, appearing behind him. ‘Klesmer old chap, aren’t you going to play for us? I must get home to my girls and I don’t want to miss a minute of you torturing that piano.’
    The circle around the Sibyl parted. Max held out his arm to her and she accompanied him into the great salon where the piano loomed, menacing the roaring discussions, still orchestrated by the assiduous Lewes who buzzed from group to group. Max felt her small firm grasp and caught the rising scent of mixed spices from the appalling lace cap which covered her hair. This thick, heavy mane, now streaked with grey, emerged around the edges of her unsuitable headdress. He looked down upon her great forehead and the protruding nose and wondered if she could ever have been beautiful. But the hypnotic grey-blue eyes turned gratefully towards him as he arranged the cushions at her back in an upright chair. She became the centrepiece of the salon, with a clear view of Klesmer at the piano.
    Was she beautiful or not beautiful? He never decided the question, for then he had his answer. The musician twirled the stool upwards, thus becoming master of the keys, and faced the Sibyl before settling himself to play. His gesture was clear. He intended to play for one person alone. The rest of the company merely counted as incidental spectators. And now she gave the composer her entire attention. It was not just the generous freedom in her manners, nor her lack of affectation and the clarity of her gestures that formed the basis of her charisma, it was the passion of her attention that made her beautiful still. No man is impervious to the flattering power of a woman’s concentration upon him, however ugly she might be, and Max felt the drama of her listening, as if he could hear her soul breathe. He stood behind her like a soldier on duty, taking first watch.
    Klesmer leaned over the keys. The rooms rustled, fluttered, then grew silent. Everybody waited.
    Max rarely listened to a concert or an opera all the way through. Even famous singers in drawing rooms paused to water their vocal cords and adjust their robes. Max took advantage of the intervals. He slipped outside on to balconies, into gardens, or took a turn around the lily pads decorating fishponds, where he always found a quiet place to loiter, smoke and scratch his testicles. But now, pinned behind the Sibyl’s luminous presence, he quailed within, displayed like a collected specimen, his wings skewered with pins to the green velvet of her open curtains. The expectant hush, prolonged by Klesmer’s predatory pause over the black and white