Читать книгу The Emperor Waltz - Philip Hensher - Страница 21

Around Weimar, the Masters of the Bauhaus took their leisure.

Kandinsky sat in a deep armchair, an ashtray precariously balanced on its arm, and sucked on a cigar. His dinner was finished, and a fug of smoke hung heavily over his head. His wife was opposite him, darning a pair of his socks and listening to him talk.

‘I saw Klee this afternoon,’ Kandinsky said. ‘He made such a fuss, oh, such a fuss, about the price of a cup of coffee. You would have thought it was the end of the world.’

‘How much was the sum, Vassily Vassilyevich?’ Nina said.

‘It was two thousand marks. Or three thousand. Yes, first it was two thousand and then it was three thousand. The price of the coffee went up between us ordering the first cup and us ordering the second cup. What would have happened if we had not had the extra thousand marks on us. But we did, so all was well. People fuss so about small things. No – what am I saying. I said two thousand marks, I meant two hundred thousand. You could not buy a cup of anything for a thousand marks.’

‘But a thousand marks is a thousand marks,’ Nina said sensibly. ‘Before the war, you could have bought a sofa, a table, one of my Vassily Vassilyevich’s paintings for a thousand marks. And now it is nothing times a hundredfold, the difference between a cup of coffee one moment and the next.’

‘That is so,’ Kandinsky said, ruminating over a puff of smoke. ‘Klee could not restrain himself. On the subject of money, he becomes a Swiss businessman – not a very good Swiss businessman. His one idea is not to spend any of it. He was telling me that his new idea is to paint his pictures on newspaper – he said the day was approaching when he could not afford to paint on paper or canvas. I told him that there was no need to make such savings – he should simply spend what he had on materials now, and in a year’s time he would be glad of it.’

‘And what did Klee respond?’ Nina asked.

‘Klee?’ Kandinsky said. ‘He cannot bear any outlay. Of course, he paints a painting every day, and none of them can be sold, so the blame lies with him, truly. Nina Nikolayevna, where is the bronze of the horse that used to stand there, on the table?’

‘And there I am – finished,’ Nina said, laying the socks and the needle and thread down with relief. ‘What did you say?’

Kandinsky repeated himself.

‘It must be travelling slowly from Russia with the other things,’ Nina said. ‘If it has not been robbed and destroyed. One day they will all arrive, all your things, and we will be at home here.’

‘The Constructivists have taken it,’ Kandinsky said. ‘And melted it down for one of their towers. We will never see my little horse again.’

‘Soon there will be a revolution in Germany,’ Nina said. ‘And we will all be shot. So nothing will matter very much any more.’

‘Yes, that’s so,’ Kandinsky said. He sucked meditatively on his cigar.

Two streets away, Klee lifted his violin from its case. They had eaten well. On Saturday night, Klee liked to choose the dinner, and to cook it himself. He liked the inner organs of beasts, bitter, rubbery, softly textureless, perfumed with bodily waste in a way only the practised would enjoy, and Felix had grown up finding these things ordinary and even pleasant; Lily had got used to them, and now took the Saturday dinner as part of how Paul was. Klee divided food into blond and brunette; he could cook sweetbreads in either way, dark or light. Tonight the food had been the heart of an ox, a monstrous thing. Klee had cleaned and stuffed it with meat, turnip, carrot and potato, and a herb of his own discovery, which had given the whole thing an odd flavour of liquorice. It had been a little heavy. Lily sat at the piano, ready to play, but evidently slightly uncomfortable: she burped gently from time to time. Felix sat on the sofa, the sole member of the audience. Paul took the violin from its case, unhooked the bow and, without hurry, gave the bow a good coating of rosin.

This evening it was to be the Kreutzer sonata. Klee was feeling ambitious. When he felt bold, incapable of restraint, on the verge of great and exciting things, he cooked the heart of an ox for dinner and he played the Kreutzer sonata afterwards. He often played it as something to live up to, before embarking on great enterprises. Lily often concluded that a great change was in the offing when she heard, from the studio, the sound of the first chords of the Kreutzer sonata being played once, twice, a third time; meditatively, trying it out, softly, then with dramatic force. That first chord, four notes at once on the violin, would be heard again and again, as Klee tried to get the sound exactly right; then a pause on one of the middle notes, a doodle, a trill, a thoughtful and slow attempt at the tune in the slow movement, as if Klee were taking it apart from the inside. This morning, the chord was sounded in some kind of announcement: he took the top note towards quite a different place; a dotted rhythm, a gay and yet monumental tune it took Lily a few moments to place, though she knew it as well as she knew her own face. Klee was enjoying himself by playing the little prelude to the Emperor Waltz. A few notes of it, only. And then silence: he had returned to work. For a week now, the Kreutzer sonata had been sounding from the studio at unexpected times, and Lily had taken the hint, and practised the piano part while her husband had gone out for his daily walks or to meet with Kandinsky. Was the larger endeavour a change in Klee’s art, or was it just to announce the beginning of a new term at the art school? But for days he had been practising in his own systematic way, and tonight they were going to attempt the Kreutzer. The outbreak of gaiety in those few notes of the waltz was a sign of it: he felt liberated today.

Klee raised the violin to his face. He looked, sober, at Lily, who beamed and raised her hands to the keyboard. Klee’s eyes shone intently, like those of the villain in a melodrama. He hung the bow above the strings; with a single gesture, he brought it down. The chord sang out; a cloud of rosin puffed from the bow, its dust glittering in the light from the lamp. Felix sat forward on the sofa, his loose, comfortable brown plus-fours bunching up and his green stockings falling down to his ankles. He clasped his hands in his lap. The beginning of the Kreutzer sonata was the most inexpressibly exciting thing he ever heard. It was like drawing back the curtains at seven thirty in the morning and seeing the lake on the first day of holiday, like the colour of the middle of the yolk of a fried egg in the country, that exact yellow of A major. It was almost better than those other things, because it would soon turn to fury and thunder and blackness, before it went all the way round and found its way back. It was a joy to hear Papa play it and call up a summer morning here, in this dull curtained room filled with things, smelling a little bit of the ox’s heart from dinner.

‘Klee is really too much,’ Kandinsky said in his own room, leaning backwards. ‘I am fond of the dear fellow, but …’

‘He is a Swiss businessman, a quite unsuccessful one,’ Nina said. ‘Too concerned with money, just enough to make him frightened about it, not enough to paint to earn it. The Swiss …’

‘Is he Swiss?’ Kandinsky said. ‘I am fond of him. But I sometimes wonder – can he be a Jew? He has all that race’s enthusiasm for pelf, for lucre, for the pile of gold. How his eyes light up!’

Nina laughed heartily, waving the comment away. ‘Vassily Vassilyevich,’ she said affectionately, as she always did when he said something to her that he would not say to everybody.

In another room, a large, empty one, the disciples of Mazdaznan gathered. The hall was at the back of a church, loaned to political groups, societies, choirs and amateur gatherings of a centrist-to-left disposition. One of the two Weimar Wagner societies, the one with an anti-monarchist bent, met here on Tuesdays, and on Fridays the town’s Communist watercolour society. Itten’s Mazdaznan group met in classrooms at the Bauhaus, but on Saturday nights the building was closed, and it was good to have a weekly meeting to which everyone came.

There were forty people in the room. Most had had their heads shaved, and some were in their formal purple robes, made by themselves, or by adept clothes designers and makers. Elsa Winteregger was talking. ‘And then there’s new people. Oh, there’s always new people. New ideas, new images, new thinking. Do you know? I saw a man, a boy, a new one today, and I took him up, and he was so full of new life, I don’t know where he came from or what he was doing, but he said he wanted to find the Bauhaus, and I helped him, and then I don’t know what happened to him. It was so exciting. And tomorrow there’s going to be so many of them, not tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and there’s going to be so many wise new young heads, all of them full of new ideas, and they’ll put us to shame, we’ve been trodden over and made conventional in life, but them, not them, it’s for us to learn from them, us and the Masters, too …’

She went on gabbling. People about her came and went, listening and not interrupting and then going away again. Sometimes they turned to each other and began to talk, and drifted off. Her speech had started somewhere else and it was going to be finished somewhere else. And now she was talking about her sister, who was staying with her.

‘. . . only for a few days, only until Sunday, not tomorrow, a week tomorrow, she came yesterday and was so exhausted, she lay in bed until lunchtime, afterwards, easily, and she said, Elsa, what has happened to your hair, so we laughed about that, and I think she is quite used to it, quite used now, she lives where we grew up, in Breitenberg, so she is used to almost anything now. She is so dear, I could not live without her, I promised her to bring her to the Bauhaus on Monday morning, to see us all, all us oddities, but she says that only I am enough, only I am oddity enough for her …’

The room fell silent, and Elsa too, last of all. Itten had come in, with his head slightly downwards, as if ducking a hit from a low lintel. He was wearing his purple silk robe with a red ruff about his neck. There was a gathering and a shuffling. Itten stood there. His presence commanded attention. He raised his arms to either side and closed his eyes. His chest swelled as he took a great breath in, and held it. The forty people in the room did the same, moving at an angle, not to get in a confusion of arms; they closed their eyes and breathed in, and held it in. For a second there was silence; outside in the street, the shout of two boys, something about the money one owed the other. It was the racket of two voices with no control over their breathing and no sense of the intimate and huge connection between the lungs and the world. Outside, a can of some sort was kicked against a wall, and a shout of complaint; the Mazdaznan breathed out, humming as they did so, expelling the world and its violence; a warm note filled the room, rose, fell, subsided into a satisfied breath in. Itten opened his huge wise eyes; his arms fell limply to his sides. ‘The word is spreading,’ he said. ‘Today we are three dozen. Next week we are fifty. We spread, like breath.’

And in the room of their house, Klee slowed, and his face rose a little, and the sad reflective little tune that came just before the end seemed to fill his features. There was an expression on Papa’s face you never saw at other times. The tune went its way; Mamma and Papa seemed separated by the music, diversely thinking their way through. And then they came together again; there was a little rush and a clatter of fury; and the first movement of the sonata was done. Felix sat on his hands. He knew not to applaud until the whole sonata was finished. Papa would set down his violin and smile in a brief way. But before that there was the slow movement and the joy of the tarantella. Felix could hardly bear the prospect of it.

‘I am so happy to have you here,’ Frau Scherbatsky said to Christian, as he was going upstairs. Her face was warm and beaming; underneath her blonde helmet of hair, she shone. ‘It is so good to have a young person in the house again. I do hope you will be happy here.’

‘I think I shall be, Frau Scherbatsky,’ Christian said. ‘I am very comfortable in my room – I feel very grateful.’

‘Oh, I am so pleased,’ Frau Scherbatsky said. In the drawing room, the men were discussing affairs of state; a conversation that had been an energetic exchange of views was turning into a manly argument. ‘You mustn’t –’ she said, lowering her voice and placing her hand on the forearm of Christian’s Norfolk jacket ‘– you mustn’t mind Herr Wolff too much. I know he seems very serious and angry about things.’

‘He seems …’ Christian thought. He prided himself on finding the right word, when it was required. ‘He seems very – decided.’

‘Very decided,’ Frau Scherbatsky said. ‘Yes, indeed. He is. But, please, I do hope you will find some patience with him. It has been so hard for so many people of our generation. You must have seen it in Berlin, but I know that young people can find it difficult to understand, to be patient. You see, Herr Vogt, it has been so difficult to realize what, all this time, has been working to destroy our lives. We were so naïve, all of us, and we only understood now that it is only other Germans whom we can really trust. You see, Herr Vogt,’ she went on confidingly, ‘we let the Jews go on living among us. We had no idea. They destroyed us, and humiliated us, and are now destroying our money. And Herr Wolff understands this. Does he not have a right to be angry? I would just ask you, please, Herr Vogt, you are an understanding, a kind person, I can see, just to be patient and to listen to Herr Wolff, even when he grows – how can I put it? – loud.’

Christian bowed; he had not expected Frau Scherbatsky to say any of this. The voices in the drawing room were, indeed, growing loud. He flushed, and turned, and with brisk steps went upstairs. There were Jews living underneath his father in Charlottenburg; every day his father greeted Frau Rosenthal with a raise of his hat and a smile; Arnold Rosenthal, the elder of the two boys, had been three years older than Christian, had served bravely in the war, had returned unscathed. He was not working against anyone. He had fought for the Kaiser. Christian bowed at the turn of the stairs again, as Frau Scherbatsky beamed, her eyes following him upstairs sentimentally, as she perhaps thought of one of her dead sons. Tomorrow, Christian thought, he would take steps to find somewhere else to live. The arrangements were that he would live here for three months. However, he would move tomorrow. He said this to himself, but he already knew he would not, not because he disagreed with something his landlady had said. He already despised himself for his own cowardice. He already knew that that was the easiest path for the mind to take.