Poland: A Novel Part 25

At the first cras.h.i.+ng chords of the Scherzo in B minor, Opus 20, several Poles in the audience began to applaud, but Bukowski could ascertain nothing unusual in the music; it seemed more chaotic and disorganized than the mazurkas, but as it progressed he began to hear chords of great distinction, as if they knew they were presaging something of importance, and he noticed that Lubonski tensed whenever these particular chords were struck. But then the music degenerated into mere frenzy and he lost its thread.

Then, however, after the most careful preparation the chords reappeared, very gently, very softly, transposing to a new key, after which came a long pause, and then the beginning of a theme even more ravis.h.i.+ng than that used earlier by Mozart. It was perfection, and several Poles began humming in accompaniment, for it was a Christmas cradle song dating back a thousand years, an authentic voice of people to whom the coming of winter had been a time of starvation and terror and hope. At the start of the second statement of the theme, Bukowski heard the count and countess whispering softly: 'Lulaj-e, Jezuniu, moja pereko ...'

(Rockabye, little Jesus, my little pearl ...) Bukowski, whose grandmother had sung this to him, sat with hands clenched, tears forming in his eyes, and he was actually relieved when Mlle. Szprot began pounding the piano in a recapitulation of the earlier frenzied wandering, but even as she did so, he began to hear those premonitory chords which a.s.sured him that the cradle song would appear one last time. It came, but in a much distorted form, as if to say that even Christmas pa.s.ses.

Drained of emotion, Bukowski did not applaud at the conclusion of the scherzo. On this festive night he had frolicked with Beethoven, rejoiced with one of the best things Mozart ever wrote, sung of love with Brahms, and wandered over dark plains with Mahler. He had also peered into the soul of Poland, and he was much disturbed. He therefore looked with detachment when Mlle. Szprot came forward to announce her last segment: 'Some people consider Frederic Chopin not too manly. I'll conclude with some of his more vigorous etudes.'

She marched back to her piano like a little soldier, stopped, reflected, then said: 'I am playing tonight on a Pleyel piano. One that Chopin once used in this city.' And with that she slammed herself down on the stool, stamped her right foot on the pedal, and launched into seven of the strongest etudes, those strange pieces of music lacking in melody or poetic form but filled with the inherent power of the piano. But when one had accepted them as merely the exercises of a brilliant keyboard artist, they unexpectedly erupted into pa.s.sages of extremely moving music, and when played by a contentious little Polish woman eager to display the full range of her favorite composer, they could be explosive.

She had arranged her selection with care. First a pair of quiet, intricate exercises that contributed only virtuosity, then two much appreciated by other musicians, the 'Aeolian Harp' in A flat major, Opus 25, No. 1, and the 'b.u.t.terfly' in G flat major, Opus 25, No. 9.

Bukowski did not know enough about the piano to appreciate the first four etudes, and since they featured no memorable melody, he listened quietly and without feeling obligated to respond, even though both composer and artist were fellow Poles. But when the pianist leaped into the 'Revolutionary etude' in C minor, Opus 10, No. 9, he could visualize his ancestor das.h.i.+ng into battle with Tadeusz Kosciuszko a hundred years earlier, for this was music right from the heart of Polish history, a fiery challenge, a call to patriotism-and he responded.

He was therefore in an unsettled frame of mind when she paused after the conclusion of the 'Revolutionary,' took a deep breath, and crashed out the eight powerful notes which const.i.tuted the structure of 'Winter Wind' in A minor, Opus 25, No. 11. Still, he was not impressed, for it seemed too repet.i.tive, the eight minor notes being first offered in a very loud version, then in a whisper, then in a host of variations, and he had about concluded that this very long concert had effectively ended with the earlier Chopin, when Mlle. Szprot began to play the last etude Chopin had written.

At first it signified little, some agitated arpeggios serving as a capstone to the evening, but then, to his amazement, he heard another set of deep chords beginning to evolve, once more predicting something of majesty. Then it came, a sequence of thirteen of the most wonderful chords he had ever heard. Perhaps no one else in that large hall even noticed them, and certainly none could interpret them as he did, but across the years of desolation and despair, the exile Chopin spoke to the exile Bukowski, and the world was turned upside down.

This last etude was not long, only two and a half minutes, but when the great chords appeared again, amid the wild fireworks, Bukowski could only sit limp in his seat. He did not applaud. He did not cheer when the pianist reappeared to bow and accept bouquets, nor did he rise when the Lubonskis did. He had been overwhelmed by a night which had struck him with fury, but the more significant episodes were only beginning.

When he left the theater, still bedazed, he found Count Lubonski's four carriages, each with its Lippizaners handsomely combed, and he remembered that it was his a.s.signment to fetch the Munich singers to the reception being held at 22 Annaga.s.se, so he told the driver of his carriage to pull aside and wait while he sought the musicians, and when he had them together, he bundled them into bear rugs for the journey through the cold Viennese night. To reach the count's residence they had to cross the city, and as the carriage swayed through the streets lightly covered with snow, Wiktor had an opportunity to talk with the Germans, and when he told them how much he had enjoyed the two duets 'O die Frauen' and 'A bird will fly afar' the singers were pleased with his knowledge of their work, and the two men began to sing their apostrophe to women, with Wiktor and the two women joining in, so that the carriage was filled with music. Then the women began their song about the necessity of finding a good man before happiness could be attained, and at the conclusion Bukowski asked: 'Do you think that's true? That every woman must seek till she finds her man?' and the soprano said with disgust: 'All men are donkeys,' to which the contralto agreed heartily.

'Now wait!' the tenor protested, whereupon the soprano snapped: 'And you in particular.' The tenor tried to defend himself, but the contralto attacked him savagely, whereupon the soprano began to weep, drawing off into her corner, and Bukowski was perplexed. Onstage the four singers had appeared so handsome, so intertwined in their responsibilities that to think of them now engaged in some quarrel not explained was deflating. He judged that all of the singers were older than himself, in their thirties at least, and he supposed that they were married, in pairings he would never know about, and in his already disturbed mood he felt profoundly sorry for them.

'Was it pleasing?' he asked in German. 'To sing the Mahler in four voices?'

'Frankly, it was disgraceful,' the baritone said, and now he withdrew into his corner and conversation ended.

But Bukowski wanted to discuss this exciting concert: 'Did you happen to notice those great chords in the last etude?'

'The what?' the tenor asked.

'Chopin's last etude.'

'We weren't listening,' the tenor said.

When the carriage pulled into the Lubonski courtyard and the singers saw the beautiful pyracantha, lit by six lanterns, they chattered noisily about the orange berries, the snow and the joy of being in Vienna. However, when they preceded Bukowski up the stairs to the main floor where the reception was to be held, a Viennese newspaperman said to Bukowski: 'Four second-cla.s.s voices. You'd never get the first-cla.s.s to leave Munich at Christmas.' Wiktor then learned that they were sailing next day to Budapest, and for a moment as they disappeared ahead of him he saw them as Mahler's wanderers, lost like himself on the plains of Europe.

The large room in which the Lubonskis entertained opened onto three others, so that 22 Annaga.s.se provided an almost regal reception area and was decorated accordingly, with marble statues from Greece, red-and-gold curtains, small boughs fresh-cut from woodlands and many gilded chairs. In the center of the main wall stood a grand piano, for with the Polish n.o.bility no evening was complete without music, and when the guests were a.s.sembled an important-looking, heavy man went to the piano, but not to play.

He was Herr Dr. Henzzler, leading music critic with a Berlin newspaper, and he said: 'Count and Countess, ladies and gentlemen, artists of the evening, the city of Vienna has been a most gracious hostess, and all of us from Berlin thank you. We thank you for a most German Christmas.'

Bukowski thought this an inappropriate and even ungracious statement, as if Germans held a monopoly on the holiday, but before he could develop this line of thinking his attention was diverted from Herr Dr. Henzzler to Krystyna Szprot, who appeared in a different dress, one which made her look even more elfin and delightful. A group of men quickly surrounded her, but he elbowed his way through and was paying his respects when Henzzler announced: 'To complete our evening, Herr Limbrecht, one of Berlin's greatest, whom you heard interpret the Mozart so magnificently, will perform for us Beethoven's immortal Appa.s.sionata, after which Fraulein Szprot will play something by Chopin.'

Bukowski winced at the comparison: The immortal Appa.s.sionata and something by Chopin,' and he watched Henzzler with distaste as the self-important critic showed pianist Limbrecht to the stool, as if he, Henzzler, were the host and in charge of this gala evening. In fact, Bukowski was so irritated by everything that had happened in the salon since his arrival that he scarcely heard the very good rendition of the Beethoven.

During the playing he moved close to Mlle. Szprot, who at one point whispered in French: 'Are you Polish?' and he replied in that language: 'I certainly am,' and a fellows.h.i.+p manifested itself not only in her approving smile but in the fact that she reached out and grasped his hand momentarily, sending wild s.h.i.+vers up his spine. But when he attempted to hold her hand, she pushed him off and indicated with a toss of her pretty head that he must listen to the Appa.s.sionata, which was now moving into the slow and profoundly disturbing middle segment. Seeing Bukowski's disappointment at her rejection, she said in Polish: 'He plays very well,' and he whispered back: 'But not as good as you.'

When the Beethoven ended, to an enthusiastic applause led by Count Lubonski, Herr Dr. Henzzler returned to the piano to announce: 'And now we shall have a divertiss.e.m.e.nt by Frulein Szprot and her fellow countryman Chopin.'

Moving like a grand d.u.c.h.ess to the piano, Krystyna Szprot stuck her jaw forward and announced in German: 'I shall be playing the greatest sonata of recent history, B flat minor, Opus 35.' She glared at the Berlin critic and plunged directly, and with a certain heaviness, into the Chopin masterpiece, but after the preliminary flights of tentative music were pa.s.sed, she reached the wonderfully inventive pa.s.sages in which the piano was made to sing in unaccustomed rhythms and exult in broken harmonies.

The audience separated itself into two halves: those Germans and Austrians who longed for the heavy, unbroken beat of the Mozart-Beethoven style, in which all parts were under control, with the music moving forward in orderly progression, as it should; and the Poles and French and some of the empire's minorities who responded to the more Slavic-Gallic improvisations of Chopin. No one was indifferent or perched in the middle. In Vienna you liked either Beethoven or Chopin and you defended your preference.

Lubonski and Bukowski, men from the Vistula, adopted Chopin and thrilled as the pianist gave him a majestic reading, subduing any effeminate tendency that some critics noted and making his music march with grandeur within a great tradition. With Beethoven, Lubonski thought during the energetic second movement, the piano was a kind of orchestra on four legs; with Chopin, it was an eagle soaring free.

But now Mlle. Szprot came to the third movement, that extraordinary funeral march which tore the human soul apart, reminding it of things dark and gravelike, and everyone in the salon paid close attention, for this was music just beyond the perimeter of what music could accomplish. The pianist seemed incredibly pet.i.te and wispily human as her deft hands played this heroic composition, but the effect was spoiled when she darted into the curious final movement, a brief minute and a third of confused chords that seemed to have no relations.h.i.+p whatever to the sonata as a whole, and certainly no contact at all with the stately funeral march.

She had played this strange pa.s.sage defiantly, hammering out the ugly chords with great pa.s.sion, then leaping to her feet as if to challenge the world to say anything against Chopin or his music.

Herr Dr. Henzzler was ready: 'It ill.u.s.trates what I've always said. Your Chopin is admirably fitted for rather delicate drawing-room fantasies. But in a big hall like tonight, or with the traditional sonata form ... nothing.'

'I beg your pardon,' came a voice in stern German. It was Wiktor Bukowski, not known as a music critic. 'Are you saying that Frederic Chopin cannot compose?'

'Not at all!' Henzzler said with heavy emphasis. 'A little waltz, yes. What you call a mazurka, yes. But I think you will agree He turned and reached for Krystyna Szprot's hand, drawing her back to the piano. 'Please, Frulein, play the last movement of your little sonata again.'

Abashed by this sudden command, she sat down and ripped off almost angrily the series which lasted for eighty seconds, of mixed chords and broken rhythms, after which Henzzler threw up his hands and asked: 'Now, who can make anything of that?'

'I can,' she cried in French. 'Some great man has lived a fine life, as in the first two movements. He's buried with the admiration of the world, as in the third. And in the fourth, the mourners hurry away from the grave, talking and drinking and belching and laughing lest their hearts break.'

There was silence in the huge room, broken when Count Lubonski started to say: 'Ladies-' He was interrupted by Herr Dr. Henzzler, whose professional dignity had been offended by this snippet of a Polish refugee from Paris. Striding to the piano, he commanded Herr Limbrecht to take the stool and play themes as he directed: 'Now listen to what a proper sonata is. The opening, please,' and Limbrecht dutifully played the first theme of the Appa.s.sionata, after which Henzzler stated: 'Everything must march in order. First theme, development. Second theme, development. Contrast, coda and a nice conclusion.' He nodded approvingly as Limbrecht banged out the ill.u.s.trations.

'The second movement? Slow, dignified, not too much development, or it grows tedious. Show them, Limbrecht,' and the visiting pianist complied. 'Now the third movement, and there can be only three, the law of the sonata says that. We want a strong theme but not elaboration, or we overshadow the first movement, which is the important one.'

He explained how in the cla.s.sical sonata all things were kept in balance, all things in order, arriving on time as they had always done, with nothing helter-skelter. That was the way Beethoven and Mozart had done it, as Herr Limbrecht so ably demonstrated.

'But your Chopin,' he said, almost with contempt. 'What does he do?' He beckoned to Krystyna Szprot, drew her to the piano again, and directed her to give him the broken, scattered themes of the first movement: 'Who can grasp anything of such chaos?' He held an equally low opinion of the second movement, but as she played the somber theme of the funeral march he said sternly: 'It's the middle movement that should be slow. Not the third. Never the third. And listen, the theme is too important for a last movement. And listen to the second theme. Much too powerful.'

He then directed his pianist to play a few bars of the final movement, after which he gave his p.r.o.nouncement: 'n.o.body in this world could make anything of that jumble. Our pretty pianist attempted an explanation, but that was literature, not music. No,' he said, dismissing her, 'I think we must agree that Chopin knew nothing about the sonata.'

From the rear of the big room came a loud voice, quivering with rage: 'And I think we can agree that you, Herr Dr. Henzzler, are a pig's a.s.s.'

It was Wiktor Bukowski, unable to bear the humiliation visited upon his countrywoman and her Polish composer. Breaking through the crowd, he ran from one woman to another, crying: 'Have you a glove?' and when he was offered none, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a large napkin from one of the tables on which the supper would be served, and with this waving in his right hand, he rushed at Herr Dr. Henzzler and slapped him across the face with it: 'Beckmesser, I challenge you to a duel!'

Henzzler brushed the napkin away and started to ask: 'What have I-' but the enraged Bukowski shouted: 'You've insulted this lady. You've insulted the memory of a great musician. And you've insulted Poland. Name your seconds.'

Henzzler, who was accustomed to conducting his vendettas in the columns of his newspaper, had not the slightest intention of accepting or even acknowledging this young fellow's preposterous challenge. 'Come,' he said to his German musicians, 'we're not wanted here,' and he stalked toward the door, followed by the two pianists and the man who had conducted the orchestra. But the four singers, having seen the food that was about to be served, did not wish to leave without something solid to eat; they could not dine heavily before a concert lest their diaphragms constrict, and now they were extremely hungry.

'Come!' Henzzler commanded, and the two men obeyed, lest he castigate them in the Berlin press, and they prevailed upon the contralto to follow, but the soprano, the one who had wept after telling Bukowski that all men were donkeys, refused to leave before being fed, and when Bukowski saw her defiance he broke away from the men who were restraining him and ran to her, clasping her hands and bringing them to his lips. 'Madame, you are heroic.'

Henzzler had seen enough disgraceful behavior this night, so he grasped the soprano's arm and pulled her out into the hall, where he turned to the crowded room and delivered his final judgment: 'You Poles have Chopin, a manufacturer of confections. We Germans have real musicians, Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert ...' He hesitated, then added with great contempt: 'Not to mention Johann Sebastian Bach.' And he was gone.

Count Lubonski, standing apart and watching the offended Germans leave, was worried. A fracas like this must be reported to the emperor, who was doing his futile best to placate the hot-headed young Kaiser Wilhelm, who had ascended to the German throne before his character had formed, and there could be repercussions, except that one lucky aspect of the affair might clothe it in humor rather than tragedy. Very clearly, at the climax of the fray, young Bukowski had chosen a most fortunate name: Beckmesser. By equating the insufferable Herr Dr. Henzzler with the comic villain of Wagner's Die Meistersinger von Nmberg, Bukowski had given the brawl a broadly humorous coloration, and Lubonski was relieved to see that his guests were already laughing at the young Pole and repeating: 'Beckmesser, I challenge you!' By tomorrow afternoon all Vienna, the city being the gossip center it was, would be chuckling over the discomfiture of the pompous Herr Dr. Henzzler, and perhaps even the emperor himself would laugh when Frau Schratt explained Beckmesser during their early-morning breakfast at which she cooked sausages for him.

Now waiters appeared with huge trays of food-French, German, Austrian, Hungarian, Polish-with wines from the first three countries. In his das.h.i.+ng Hungarian uniform the count moved from table to table, greeting his guests and apologizing for the disturbance, about which they continued to laugh.

When the feast ended he rose at his table and said: 'No one could have performed better this night than our guest from Paris, Krystyna Szprot. But I wonder if she would grace us with a repeat of that wonderful scherzo, so that we might sing with her and announce Christmas properly?'

The guests applauded, and Bukowski, aflame with emotion, leaped to his feet and escorted the beautiful artist to the big piano, where she said in French: ' It is an honor to bring the country fields of Poland into the heart of this magnificent city.' And when she played the magic chords presaging the coming of the lullaby, everyone rose and all the Poles sang: 'Lulaj-e, Jezuniu, moja pereko,

Lulaj-e, Jezuniu, me piecideko ...'

(Rockabye, little Jesus, my little pearl,

Rockabye, little Jesus, my sweet little one ...)

But when the scherzo ended, with no applause and many tears, Bukowski, who had remained close to the piano, said almost pleadingly: 'Mademoiselle Szprot, I was deeply moved by your playing of the last etude.' And she looked up with melting eyes and said: 'If you liked that, you're a true musician.'

Following Krystyna Szprot's little additional concert, a professional Viennese pianist was brought forward to play for those guests who wished to dance, and a series of local waltzes filled the salon while men in gala uniform whirled about with women in silvery dress. It was quite beautiful, but toward two in the morning Lubonski announced that still another pianist, a Pole this time, would play mazurkas for dancing and that he and the countess and their Polish friends would remind the other guests how to perform this delightful dance, popular in much of Europe.

So the room was cleared even more than for the waltzes, and the mazurka began: bold country music from the piano; a 1-2-3 beat with a marked rubato on the second note; men on one side, women on the other; graceful patterns; swift exchange of partners; lively steps; much masculine posturing; much feminine coquetry.

Because she no longer had to play for the guests, Krystyna was free to dance, and on several occasions Wiktor Bukowski maneuvered to be her partner, so that she had to know that he was captivated by her, and she in turn liked him for his Polish manliness and the bold manner in which he had sprung to her defense. It was a heady mazurka they danced that night, the gold-and-silver brocades of the room quivering with the excitement.

At one point in the dancing, when Countess Lubonska was instructing a visitor from Moravia in how he must manage his feet to do the mazurka properly, the lines became entangled and Bukowski found to his embarra.s.sment that he was at the center of a trio of beautiful women, unable to decide who his proper partner should be: there was the countess, a member of the Zamoyski family powerful in Polish history; there was a charming unmarried Viennese girl, daughter of a banker; and there was Panna Krystyna Szprot, the exile from Paris; and they each moved toward him as their partner.

'I have ruined the dance!' he moaned, not knowing which way to turn.

'The mazurka can do that sometimes,' the countess said, laughing. And as the snow fell on the espaliered pyracantha and dawn approached over the Danube, the Polish exiles danced.

In the western part of Vienna, well beyond the Ringstra.s.se and not far from where the new railway station was to be built, there was a flat, s.p.a.cious open area known by the curious name of Die Schmelz. For decades it had been used as a parade ground for military maneuvers and equestrian displays, and during recent years had been the site of festive gatherings between Christmas and New Year's. In 1895, when a springlike sun had dispersed the snow clouds, the army decided upon a gala to honor some event or other in the life of their perdurable emperor. The empress, of course, would not be present; she was in Greece, trying to sell the enormous palace she had built on Corfu only a few years before at a cost of millions.

Those who frequented the cafes looked forward eagerly to the event because it was rumored that the young Polish n.o.bleman who had challenged the insufferable Herr Dr. Henzzler over his love for a lady pianist would be riding, and it was said that since he was an excellent horseman, the affair might be exciting.

Wiktor Bukowski had been invited to ride in the formal exhibition and to partic.i.p.ate as well in the informal races, and there was a good chance that he would do well. When he reported to the ministry in Vienna, he had brought down from his establishment at Bukowo three of his best horses, Arabians strengthened by Polish stock, and they were regarded as the equal of any of the Austrian steeds.

Bukowski lived about as far north of St. Stephen's Cathedral as Count Lubonski lived south, but in a much more modest fas.h.i.+on. Concordiaplatz was a stolid paved square rimmed with handsome, conservative five-story buildings whose character was invariable. On the ground floor, small and expensive shops. On the first floor, known as the n.o.beletage, the owner's family. On the second floor, the occupant who paid the most rent. On the third floor, some once-rich widow with her sister from the country. And on the top floor, reached by four flights of tiring stone steps, a large, almost impoverished family or collection of families. In the bas.e.m.e.nt, of course, dark and often damp, lived the servants.

Bukowski rented the second floor, two of the rooms being a.s.signed to his Polish servant Buk, who had come with him from the Vistula. The other six were sparely decorated and rather gloomy in their general effect. On the nights when he entertained, he instructed Buk to fill the big main room with flowers, polish the piano, which came with the apartment, and to use many lights in an effort to achieve a sense of gaiety and even grandeur, both of which escaped him.

His three horses lived rather better than he. They were stabled on the north side of the Danube Ca.n.a.l, only a few blocks from where he lived, and were exercised by an Austrian who loved horses and recognized these as exemplars. Bukowski did not use his horses in the city, reserving them for times when either he or his friends wanted to take a canter through the parks or in the Prater, which lay not far away. Slight of build, erect posture, he made a good figure upon his favorite mount, Mustafa, named after the famous Turkish general who had conducted the siege of Vienna in 1683 and from whom an earlier Bukowski had acquired the horses that had formed the basis for the Bukowo line.

In the city, Wiktor utilized a public fiacre, but he did it with such consistency, riding in it to work every morning, then relying upon it to carry him to Landtmann's coffeehouse in the afternoon, and to whatever affair he might be engaged in at night, that what was normally a public conveyance became in effect his private carriage. The driver was a dour Serbian who viewed his employer impersonally, disliking him because he was a Pole, respecting him because he paid promptly.

Wiktor Bukowski was not a wealthy man, but he did have a small, steady income from his Vistula estate, plus a gratifying salary from his ministry, so he lived well. Had he been willing to dispense with his horses, he could have converted his bleak and mournful rooms into one of the finer bachelor quarters in the city, but this he refused to do: 'A Polish n.o.bleman without horses? Intolerable.'

He continued in his rather depressing quarters because at age twenty-seven he supposed that some day he would encounter the young woman who would change his life, and he would leave to her the furnis.h.i.+ng of his rooms. Also, there was the reasonable chance that the woman who entered his life might be wealthy, with a house of her own, a palace perhaps, in which case he would abandon Concordiaplatz-just walk out and leave it, but of course he would take his three horses to her stable, to be cared for by her footmen.

His great pleasure, which he indulged almost every day, was visiting Landtmann's, sitting in a brocaded booth, talking with friends, reading either the Paris or London papers, holding them conspicuously so that others could see that he had mastered languages, and having the cafe's famous hot chocolate. He did not like coffee, finding it too acrid, and since he exercised rather vigorously with his horses, he did not have to worry about gaining weight from the chocolate and the small sandwiches which Landtmann's provided. Prudently, he did not indulge in sweet cakes or pastries. Nor did he read books.

Into a life like this a public gala at Die Schmelz came like a burst of winter suns.h.i.+ne, and on the day after Christmas he directed Buk to have the horses in top condition for the exhibition. Twice he went to the stables to apply saddle soap to his leather fittings and polish the silver chains. The horses were curried, their hoofs blackened and their nails trimmed. They and their master would be ready.

But when he reached the coffeehouse this afternoon he found a young Austrian awaiting him with a message that Krystyna Szprot was playing that afternoon for a few friends and would be pleased if Pan Bukowski would attend. As soon as he heard these magical words, the chords of the Christmas scherzo began to resound in his head, and with great antic.i.p.ation he called for his fiacre and invited the young Austrian to join him on the ride to the house at which Panna Szprot would be playing. And as he left the coffeehouse he could hear that whispering so sweet to a young man unsure of himself: That's Bukowski. The Polish n.o.bleman who challenged the German. Over love for a lady pianist. Gallant devil.'

Krystyna had been staying with the other artists in a small and dismal hotel, but with the departure of the German singers, she was free to find her own quarters and had moved in with some young Polish students, at whose apartment she was going to play. It lay well beyond the Ring in the vicinity of the university, Alserstra.s.se, where students sought inexpensive quarters.

The apartment, shared by two couples, did have a piano, and when Wiktor arrived Krystyna was seated at it, running through some Chopin waltzes for which she apparently had little regard. After listening for some minutes, Wiktor went to her and said in English: 'I am he who spoke for you ... other night.'

'I know,' she replied in French. 'My champion.'

'Would you be so very kind,' he asked in his good German so that the others could hear, 'to explain for me how the chords progress in the first part of the scherzo? So that we know the lullaby is coming?'

'That would be interesting!' one of the students cried, and several gathered about the piano, but Krystyna gave her attention only to Wiktor, as if she had already formed an interest in him which she would explain at some later time.

Although Wiktor could not understand fully the words she used, he certainly grasped the musical meaning of her ill.u.s.tration, and was enchanted by the tricks Chopin had used to lead listeners like him into the exact trap intended: 'He uses a chromatic progression, inserting chords of great importance which alert you to the coming of a significant pa.s.sage. Listen, dominant to dominant by three simple stages. How beautiful! And now a seventh, half a tone higher. C sharp, this is E, G, an added seventh, then this aching half-tone higher, now back to B major. And now ...'

With the subtlest artistry she drifted like a delicate cloud into the heavenly notes of the Christmas carol. But she played only a few notes, then crashed the keys in a dissonance and said sternly: 'Let's go over it again. What you must know is that Chopin uses not a single note by accident. He is leading us along by the nose, as if we were children.' And she repeated her instruction, but at the crucial point in the progression Wiktor cried: 'Stop! There's the magic. How does he do it?'

Pleased that a fellow Pole had penetrated to the heart of the scherzo, Krystyna went back to the beginning, repeating her a.n.a.lysis.

'Does he use the same ...' Wiktor hesitated for the right word in German, and Krystyna helped him in Polish: 'The same strategy?'

'Yes. Does he do the same in the last etude?'

'The one you liked so much?'

Wiktor smiled with pleasure. 'You remember?'

'About music I remember everything. No, Pan Wiktor, the process is not similar. The last etude is sheer power.' She turned toward the students: 'That d.a.m.n-fool German said that Chopin was good for salon divertiss.e.m.e.nts. Soft. Vague. Till Bukowski here slapped him in the face with a glove. It was a napkin, really. But listen to this, which I played that night on purpose to stifle such rumors.'

She launched into a t.i.tanic rendition of the final etude, striking the great chords with such force that the room trembled, running the blizzard of arpeggios until it seemed as if they must engulf all Vienna. When the brief, tempestuous piece ended she turned to Wiktor and said gently: 'I will explain it, but I'm not sure you would understand. It's very technical, you know.' Then she smiled at him as if the sun were reappearing after a storm. 'Chopin tricks us all the time, the little magician.'

Playing the etude very softly, she spoke along with the notes: 'He adds a sixth, a seventh and an eighth to produce the new chord you like so much. And from it emerge the thirteen great ba.s.s chords. It's a harmonic variation, really. C minor to C major, then subtly back to C minor and here an A flat major. And the great chords appear first in the right hand, not the left. Then they thunder over to left, with everything becoming C major.'

As Wiktor stood silent she asked for some paper and a pencil, and with exquisite script she wrote out the thirteen notes which made the etude so powerful. 'You can play them on your own piano. C to set the stage. Then C, B, E flat, C. Then C, B flat, A flat, B flat. And the last chain B flat, A flat, F, A flat. And there you are.' She showed him how to pick out the single notes, and on the third repet.i.tion he had them mastered.

'Now you can play Chopin,' she said with impish delight, leaving the piano and going to where beer and sausages were being served.

Wiktor followed her and said, with quivering emotion, while she stuffed a very large sausage into her mouth: 'Panna Krystyna, will you do me the honor of occupying my carriage at the gala tomorrow?' Before she could answer, he added: 'It's not my carriage, really. It's a fiacre, but I hire it all the time.'

'I would be delighted,' she said between bites. 'But what is the gala?'

He explained that he would be riding against the best Austrian officers at Die Schmelz, and she said quickly: 'But if you're off riding, I'll be alone. May I bring Karl and Steffi to keep me company?' With her mug of beer she indicated two students, who stepped slightly forward to introduce themselves. They did not look quite like the kind of people he would have invited, but Krystyna Szprot was so delectable that if he could acquire her only with them, he must agree: 'Please join us.'