Alexander thrust open the doors, and they emerged onto a cobbled street of high, elegant townhouses, some in white, some in fading yellow, some in blue and others in brick red. Candles and lamps hung from every windowpane, and the first person Sophia saw was a workman in a smock and cap, lighting a streetlamp with a long taper. He saw them approach and tugged his cap. “Mein Herr, meine Dame.”
“Guten tag, arbeiter,” said Alexander.
Of course he speaks German, thought Sophia, staring wide-eyed at the sights of the city. She heard the rumbling of wheels behind her and the two of them stepped out of the way of a sturdy black coach pulled by a team of plumed horses, its doors emblazoned with a dense coat of arms. The driver tugged his hat also, holding the reins with one hand.
“It is the October the twenty-ninth, 1787,” said Alexander as they walked. “The American Revolution ended four years ago, and the French Revolution will commence in two. These are the last days of the ancien regime, and European high culture is at what some would say is its most sophisticated, and others its most decadent point.”
“And what do you say?” asked Sophia. She could smell rich, earthy cooking, smoke, dirt and perfume all at once.
“I do not cast moral judgements,” said Alexander. “If it is beautiful, it is beautiful. And tonight will be astoundingly beautiful. And a little raucous, I should think. Look! Here we are.”
They emerged in a large square, surrounded by extraordinary architecture. Above one flank of buildings rose the dark gothic spires of a cathedral; above another, the light white dome of a second huge church, this time in the baroque style; on another side, a high tower with a huge astronomical clock face, half-hidden by the dark of the night. Firelight danced in every window and songs spilled out of nearby taverns. The square was milling with people in high fashionable dress, bejewelled and bewigged, all heading in the same direction and chattering incessantly as coaches drove between them. Sophia put a white-gloved hand to her mouth, trying to maintain her calm, but her eyes roved over every surface, every brick and thread and inch of skin, taking in every conversation, every smile, every burst of laughter from the crowd. They were real people. They were all real people!
“This is the Old Town Square of Prague, capital of Bohemia, second city of the Habsburg monarchs,” said Alexander, leading her through the crowd. “It is prosperous and wealthy, but also the most musically literate city in Europe. We are journeying to the National Theatre, opened only four years ago, to see the premiere of a new opera.”
“Opera?” Sophia couldn’t keep her eyes off the crowd. “I’ve never been.”
“This may be the one to experience. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, whose Marriage of Figaro went down so well here last year, has decided to premiere his new piece in Prague. Tonight, Don Giovanni gets its first outing, and Herr Mozart himself is conducting.” He smiled devilishly at her. “It’s a little more exciting than your local am-drams, don’t you think?”
“Now, don’t show off,” said Sophia, leaning on his arm.
“I don’t mean to sound gauche,” said Alexander, “But you’re two hundred years out of your own time, wearing clothes that a Duchess will gaze on with envy, and you’re about to see the most celebrated musician of all time conduct one of his most celebrated works. At this point, I’m not sure if I can stop showing off.”
“You know, just this once, Mr. Hartigan, I think I’ll let you carry on.”
Ahead was the theatre, all neo-classical pillars and pediments, and lit by a thousand lamps. Every type of carriage, open-topped, closed, long and luxurious, stocky and sealed, coupés, sedans and phaetons, pulled by teams of one, two and four, were arriving at the bottom of the stairs, disgorging their passengers on the pavement. There were gentlemen in a rainbow of coloured coats, grand older ladies with towering hair, young women in gathered gowns who mocked their elders, and many of those in less lavish dress also, the shopkeepers and goodwives of the city come to chase the delights of the high life.
“You appear to be drawing glances,” said Alexander.
He was right. Sophia thought that she had been the one staring, but those stares were increasingly being pre-empted. A small gap had appeared in the crowd to accommodate their passage to the grand doors of the theatre, and groups of theatregoers retreated into whispering clusters as they passed by.
“We’d better come up with a suitable story,” said Alexander as they passed into the theatre lobby. “The nobility of Bohemia may not look kindly on the concept of a ‘date’.”
“Nope. I suppose it won't.” Sophia stared around the golden space, full of flowers, mirrors, attendants in smart waistcoats and the smell of orange, vanilla, amber and rosewater. “What’s the story, then?”
“Your choice. Do you want to be my wife or my mistress?”
Sophia very nearly let go of his arm. “Your what?”
But Alexander was laughing.
Sophia glared at him, feeling the blood rushing to her cheeks. “Is there a more Georgian way for me to call you a bastard?”
“Neither wife nor mistress, then! By all means. You are the daughter of my good friend the Comte de Volisse, and I am introducing you to Prague society. Does that suit?”
“Okay. I can live with that. I am Miss Deveaux of Volisse, how do you do, pleased to meet you, etcetera, etcetera.” Sophia put her smile back on, noticing the stares coming toward her again. “What do we do if anyone speaks to me? I have a bit of French, but no German.”
“You’ll hear English should you so wish. They will hear German from you. Another of my little miracles.”
“Still showing off, Alex.”
“Alex?”
“Oh.” Sophia coughed. “Would you prefer Alexander? I can do either.”
“No, no. I could become used to Alex. Though for tonight, I think, Alexander sounds more suitable. But yes. Still showing off.” He winked. “And for my next trick...”
They had arrived at a long, curved corridor, grandly decorated and thronged with theatregoers. On the right, Sophia caught glimpses of a curtain and the stage through the doors to the boxes, each manned by an attendant. The further the two of them progressed down the corridor, the more glances they took, until they arrived at the very end. The curtains barring entry to this last box were more lavish than those that had come before, and the attendant’s uniform was that little bit more decorative. As Alexander approached, the attendant bowed.
“Guten Abend, Mein Herr.”
“Guten Abend,” replied Alexander. “Wer ist heute Abend hier?”
“Der Herzog von Mähren sendet seine...”
As she began to listen, Sophia was astounded to hear the words change; the sound, somehow, was the same, but they made perfect sense.
“...but he hopes to meet with you as soon as the opportunity arises. The Countess of Piacosa is in attendance and looks forward to your company, sir, as are each of the Grand Burghers of the city and their wives.”
“And the usual crowd are also in, I take it?” said Alexander.
“Yes, sir,” smiled the attendant. He held open the curtain of the box, and Sophia let Alexander sweep her inside.
They were in the first, lowest box on the left of the theatre, hardly a metre from the stage. Four further tiers rose up to the domed ceiling, from which a huge crystalline chandelier hung, festooned with tall candles. Hundreds of people were taking their seats and wandering the stalls, searching for their friends and acquaintances. In the orchestra pit, the string section, identically dressed in black jackets and powdered wigs, were warming up, filling the room with chords and arpeggios. It was darker than Sophia had expected, but everything was more romantic in candlelight.
“How did you get this box?” she whispered, taking off her hat as she gazed out into the auditorium. “This must be the royal box, right?”
“Alas, no,” said Alexander. He held her hand lightly and the two of them sat down on high-backed, cushioned chairs. “When Emperor Joseph II makes an appearance, he sits in the box directly opposite. We must settle for second best.”
“You mentioned that we were drawing stares,” said Sophia. “Yep. We’re definitely drawing stares.”
All across the theatre, people were looking up at their box, catching Sophia’s eye, and whispering.
“So we are,” said Alexander. “It comes with the territory, I’m afraid. You are a complete social unknown, sat in the most expensive box in the theatre, outdoing them all in dress and taste. They’re wondering who on earth you are.”
Sophia thought of Julie sat in their poky house, two hundred and twenty-six years away; she remembered dinner at Mario’s; she remembered her essay. She looked down at her fingers, the rings on them worth more than everything she owned.
“And who am I?” she said.
“You are anyone you wish to be. You can act any part. You can be Hero or Beatrice.”
He turned to her. He didn’t smile, but Sophia didn't think he needed to.
“So,” he said, “Who do you want to be?”
Sophia thought for a moment. Her heart beat insistently beneath her skin, beneath the lace, beneath the silk, beneath the satin. From her sleeve she produced a fan made of vellum and mother-of-pearl inlaid with gold. She opened it and hid half her face from Alexander, only showing her eyes.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.
A few people began applauding; a tremendous cheer went up. Sophia wrenched her eyes from Alexander’s and looked as the audience of the packed theatre rose to their feet. A small, slight man in an extraordinary crimson coat, gold-laced, and with a cocked hat on his head, had entered the orchestra pit, and waved merrily to the crowd. He looked like a boy playing at being a hussar.
“Is that...?”
“Yes,” said Alexander, his face creased with laughter. “That could only be Mozart. And you thought I was a show-off.”
A great, grim chord shook the theatre, and the opera began.
*
So here they are, back in the past! Sophia seems to be coping fairly well with that. How do you think she'll find the opera? She might enjoy performing Shakespearean plays in her own time, but opera is still an acquired taste. Or will the romance of it blow her away? Please comment and vote if you enjoyed the chapter.
The music here is the overture from Don Giovanni (that opening chord is just fantastic) and the photo is of the Old Town Square in Prague as it is today. Wipe out the modern tourists and lights, put in a million candles and torches and imagine the square full of coaches and horses clattering between the theatregoers.