appearance. He had not realized they had a private dimension as well. Sophie and Aunt Ludovica began to take up more and more of his day. And though he longed for company, it was not for any particular company he longed, but for an ideal. He began to look at Sophie speculatively. For somewhere under all those clothes there was a woman. No congress of statues wouldgive them the child the family and the public alike would soon be clamouring for.
Applause was pleasant, but it had a drawback. Like a fire, it had to be fed, otherwise it guttered out. He tired of the public occasions at which they both had to appear, and when he could, he fled away from them. It was enough that Sophie had what she wanted. Now she was certain of her ambition, she could be left to herself.
But even when he was alone, he could not avoid the preparations for the wedding. It was as though they were building a scaffold around him.
He had had to approve the drawings for the state wedding coach. It was being built now. It cost more than would have ten operas by Wagner, but nobody grudged the money. There was a lesson, also, in that. A golden burst of angels held the royal crown above the roof. It was like the specimen cage in which some rare bird was carried sorrowing away from its native element into captivity . He did not like the look of it.
Below him, morning and night, he could hear the carpenters fitting up a suite of rooms for Sophie. They were carving them out of the apartments in which his father had died. Dynasties are inexorable. Now the carpenters were installing a staircase from his own rooms down to hers, a narrow corkscrew stair. The idea filled him with panic. He thought that if she ever came up those stairs, something would die in him. He heartily wished that stairs might be built to twist only one way. Twist them the other way, and she would suck the soul out of him like a cork from a bottle. Let her be Queen and nothing else. Women demanded too much. She could never share his dreams, and if she learned that, she would destroy them. Soon she would leave no part of his life untouched, and his existence would silt up with marriage as would ariver, until his spirit could no longer find a passage to the sea.
He had written Wagner all about it, and Wagner seemed to approve. He took some comfort from that. She must meet Wagner. Only if they got along together, could he be sure that she would play her appointed role successfully. She was a woman and Cosima von Bülow was a woman. Perhaps the two of them, having each other, would leave Wagner to him.
From below him came the sound of the carpenters. They had finished the risers. Now they were laying the treads, standing on the finished stairs, as they worked on the unfinished ones. If he had cared to do so, he could have looked down that hole between the walls to see the stairs mounting up towards him. He did not care to do so.
He thought suddenly of Aunt Ludovica. It made him shudder. After the marriage she would ask Sophie questions about what they did together. Women always did. He could already hear what they would say.
At that point a footman brought in a package and laid it on the table before him. Hastily he opened it. Inside were three photographs, mounted on stiff grey board, heavy and gilt, with rounded corners, and a small box of cartes-de-visite copies. He put the top photograph on the table and stared at it, as though studying his future.
It was their engagement photograph. He looked not at Sophie, but at himself, trying to trap in the features of that stranger something he could recognize. We cannot possibly be what other people see in us. It is something we refuse, and rightly, to believe. The camera photographs something that has nothing to do with our real nature at all.
In this photograph his head seemed to float above hisbody. He was detached. Sophie seemed as little interested in him as she was in the moon. She held on to his body and gazed directly into the camera.
Applause was pleasant, but it had a drawback. Like a fire, it had to be fed, otherwise it guttered out. He tired of the public occasions at which they both had to appear, and when he could, he fled away from them. It was enough that Sophie had what she wanted. Now she was certain of her ambition, she could be left to herself.
But even when he was alone, he could not avoid the preparations for the wedding. It was as though they were building a scaffold around him.
He had had to approve the drawings for the state wedding coach. It was being built now. It cost more than would have ten operas by Wagner, but nobody grudged the money. There was a lesson, also, in that. A golden burst of angels held the royal crown above the roof. It was like the specimen cage in which some rare bird was carried sorrowing away from its native element into captivity . He did not like the look of it.
Below him, morning and night, he could hear the carpenters fitting up a suite of rooms for Sophie. They were carving them out of the apartments in which his father had died. Dynasties are inexorable. Now the carpenters were installing a staircase from his own rooms down to hers, a narrow corkscrew stair. The idea filled him with panic. He thought that if she ever came up those stairs, something would die in him. He heartily wished that stairs might be built to twist only one way. Twist them the other way, and she would suck the soul out of him like a cork from a bottle. Let her be Queen and nothing else. Women demanded too much. She could never share his dreams, and if she learned that, she would destroy them. Soon she would leave no part of his life untouched, and his existence would silt up with marriage as would ariver, until his spirit could no longer find a passage to the sea.
He had written Wagner all about it, and Wagner seemed to approve. He took some comfort from that. She must meet Wagner. Only if they got along together, could he be sure that she would play her appointed role successfully. She was a woman and Cosima von Bülow was a woman. Perhaps the two of them, having each other, would leave Wagner to him.
From below him came the sound of the carpenters. They had finished the risers. Now they were laying the treads, standing on the finished stairs, as they worked on the unfinished ones. If he had cared to do so, he could have looked down that hole between the walls to see the stairs mounting up towards him. He did not care to do so.
He thought suddenly of Aunt Ludovica. It made him shudder. After the marriage she would ask Sophie questions about what they did together. Women always did. He could already hear what they would say.
At that point a footman brought in a package and laid it on the table before him. Hastily he opened it. Inside were three photographs, mounted on stiff grey board, heavy and gilt, with rounded corners, and a small box of cartes-de-visite copies. He put the top photograph on the table and stared at it, as though studying his future.
It was their engagement photograph. He looked not at Sophie, but at himself, trying to trap in the features of that stranger something he could recognize. We cannot possibly be what other people see in us. It is something we refuse, and rightly, to believe. The camera photographs something that has nothing to do with our real nature at all.
In this photograph his head seemed to float above hisbody. He was detached. Sophie seemed as little interested in him as she was in the moon. She held on to his body and gazed directly into the camera.
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