In the end, he was able to prevail upon Gwendolyn to sing an aria he had written for her part in the projected opera. No sooner had she agreed than Madame Kutumoff was bustling about rounding up a pack of musicians from various nooks and crannies of the huge mansion. It wasn’t but ten minutes later that the first bars of the music started, and Gwendolyn began to sing.
I was stunned. All the deep strength of her voice, put to that marvelous music, was like the soaring of a great heart. A heart with the power of the universe, unleashed, triumphant, filled with hope and glory. The Big Banjo had not been wrong. I could think of no other voice which could possibly have conveyed that music.
When she finished, there was no applause. Applause would have been—trivial. After a moment’s silence, Gwendolyn said: “It is wonderful. Where does this aria come? In the first act?”
“No, Gwendolyn. It’s the finale.”
“The finale? But—this is a song of—of joy, and victory. It’s not at all tragic.”
The Big Banjo shrugged. “I am becoming weary of tragedy. Our people have had enough of it. I thought I would compose something different. And besides, I wrote it for you, and you’re just not the tragic type.”
Gwendolyn grinned. “How can you say that? Haven’t you been telling me for years that I’m doomed to an early grave?”
The Big Banjo dismissed her words with a gesture. “Not the same thing, at all. Tragedy’s when the young heroine dies on stage from a dainty stiletto, moaning, at the last, of her broken heart. Stage left, in good view. Whereas you will die in an alley from a hundred great saber wounds. Howling defiance, like a wolf. And nobody will be able to see your body, because it will be buried under a dozen corpses of your foes.”
These grim words brought silence to the salon. Gwendolyn and the Big Banjo stared at each other. A contest of wills, I thought at first, until I recognized the respect. And the regret.
The moment passed. The Big Banjo smiled ruefully, and said, “At least promise me this much. After the revolution, sing in the opera. I will have it ready by then.”
“I will.” She laughed. “Who knows? I may sing before then—if the occasion is right.”
Actually, she sang quite a bit the rest of that day. Mostly compositions by Hildegard, who, I discovered, was a great composer in her own right. As I might have expected, the Abbess’ music was not at all dramatic. But it conveyed an immense serenity, a calm acceptance of life which evoked not so much resignation as understanding.
In the course of the afternoon, the Big Banjo told me some parts of Gwendolyn’s life which I had not known.
“I first met Gwendolyn at Hildegard’s Abbey,” he explained. “Just a girl she was then, hiding out from the police. Hildegard had started her singing, as a way to relax the child. But when the Abbess discovered that voice! She wrote to me, and I came right away. I was astonished. No, more!—I was consumed by the desire to set Gwendolyn’s voice to music.”
He chuckled. “Still am consumed by the desire. But Gwendolyn wouldn’t agree. ‘After the revolution,’ she said—hard as iron, even then. And she’s never budged since.”
* * *
Late that afternoon, after tea, Madame Kutumoff took me on a tour of the mansion. Quite an extraordinary place. As you can imagine, having grown up in Ozar apprenticed to my uncles, I had been inside many of the palatial homes of the idle rich. Grand salons, innumerable rooms, lavish gilding, elaborate bronze and marblework, paintings, sculpture—I had seen it all, and had found most of it tasteless and ostentatious, jumbled displays of sumptuous opulence intended more to impress and stupefy than to delight and uplift the soul. The Kutumoff mansion, however, was altogether different.
When I made comment to that effect, Madame Kutumoff said: “Well, yes, I should think it would be different. It’s because of the traditions of the Mutt, and the Kutumoffs. Do you know about that?”
“Somewhat,” I replied. “I know the General is the latest of a long line of Kutumoffs who have achieved world renown as military leaders, and have repelled all attempts by others to dominate the Mutt. As for the Mutt, all I know is that people here take a great aversion to money and all its wicked ways.”