Chapter Text
Of course the Cloister Bells produce the most foreboding sound I can think of, not because they are loud or intrinsically irritating, but because of their message: “Warning! The TARDIS is in great danger!” So if you ask me what the most frightening sound is, it may just be the Cloister Bells. But if you ask me what sound was the most irritating, barely tolerable, ear-splitting, composure-shattering, possibly glass-breaking and certainly attention-getting, I’d have to say Wagner’s scream.
I am sure the one I endured was not the only scream he ever emitted, but fortunately it was the only one of his that ever reached my ears.
On March 10, 1864 the King of Bavaria, Maximilian II, died. I had known him slightly, visiting him along with my friend Hans Christian Andersen a decade earlier, staying with him at Starnberg Castle and being treated quite royally (Hans called him “King Max” and I suspect, once in a while, “Uncle Max,” although they were not related and indeed Max was a handful of years younger than Hans). Hans had a bit of a crush on me but that’s another story. At any rate I found Max charming and thought it might be a nice gesture to attend his sending-off, and at his funeral I became acquainted with his son, Ludwig, who had just ascended to the throne. Ludwig was crushing too, but not on me; the object of his devotion was the composer, Richard Wagner, of whose music I am not especially fond, but in whose sights I eventually found myself.
It was at the funeral that I was invited, not by Ludwig himself but by one of his friends, Prince Paul Maximilian Lamoral of Thurn and Taxis (a lovely singer, but Thurn and Taxis was a noble house, not a musical duo), to a party at Ludwig’s main castle, Schloss Neuschwanstein, two weeks later. I was looking forward to this. The King knew how to party! Although for formal events he hired professional musicians as every other nobleman did, for his really good parties he invited only trusted friends; he tended to befriend artists who then performed for him, and for each other.
I feared I had nothing to offer, and stewed about it for a short while, but then I got caught up in the excitement of the gathering, and enjoyed the tableaux, the lieder, and gave no second thought to the absence of women on the premises.
Offered my choice of beverage, I was about to ask for some lemonade, but upon learning that there was a lime tree on the grounds, I hesitated, wondering if I should try something new, and then I saw, or rather smelled, ginger brew being carried past me, and just reached for it. I know, naughty me! I don’t do this often; the TARDIS is tricky enough to navigate sober. But I wasn’t in the TARDIS. I wasn’t driving that evening, under the influence or otherwise. I drank the ginger brew and found it so delightful that I asked for, and received, and downed, another.
That’s when it struck me that that I should entertain my host with some pertinent impressions. It is a minor talent of mine. Beethoven had been gone for a few decades but my impression of him conducting his Ninth Symphony was still recognizable. My Queen Victoria had everyone in stitches. They had no idea who I was trying to portray, attempting to write Oliver Twist by acting out the parts, until I stroked my imaginary beard, and that was the clue they needed. Then I gave them my impression of a drunken cyberman lost in a maze. I am sure they had no idea who or what I was trying to be, but my antics got wilder and wilder so they laughed anyway, just to see me acting so silly, and it was quite gratifying. (I think there is a bit of a ham sandwich hidden within me somewhere.)
My performance was a smash hit but it was interrupted – pierced, actually – by that most irritating shriek: Wagner never could tolerate being ignored for long. He did not address me, didn’t even look at me, but let his glare burn everyone in the room as he declared, post-scream, that he was now going to read a book aloud from cover to cover. He didn’t add “… and woe befall anyone who dares to escape from that!” but he may as well have done. Everyone, including me, sat obediently down to listen to him read, from front to back, in its entirety, all 1,900 pages, in French, of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables.
It was a long party.
It took Wagner more than two days to read the book aloud. He had mercy on us and read it in quarters. He took no bathroom breaks but he seemed not to notice if anyone else did. More than once, servants discreetly brought a Brotzeitplatte around, full of sausages, Kochkäse, bread, little kuchen and lots of pickles.
Well, I was in no especial hurry, and as little as I like his music, I have to say I was impressed and delighted by Wagner’s performance, and performance it was. Every wave of his hand, every twitch of his eyebrow, every vocal dynamic, was, quite frankly, thrilling. All of us, and I certainly include myself, were entranced. Those of us who stayed to the end were also exhausted, but I don’t think anyone had regrets. I know I didn’t… not yet….