1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (63 page)

The second song segued directly from the first, as Guinevere entered the court from stage right, asking one and all what was occurring. That was Nimue’s cue to sing yet another aria, exulting, telling Guinevere in no uncertain terms exactly what Arthur had done the night before. The sylph exited, up stage left, still exulting.

Friedrich decided that he could really come to hate Nimue, woman or no. But his eyes now fixed on Guinevere, standing alone, betrayed and scorned.

And thus began the third song of the scene, what was called “The Betrayal of Passion Duet” in the score.

Arthur began the duet by trying to apologize, but Guinevere rounded on him. The resulting duet was tempestuous and wracking, as Guinevere castigated him—no other term could express the depth of hurt and anger and even rancor that poured from her lips. Arthur had trouble singing a single sentence against the chastisement and reproach thrown at him like storm-waves from the sea.

He finally broke through long enough to sing one declamatory line,
“But I love you, I need you!”

The music paused for a brief moment when the chord sustaining the last word finally ended. Friedrich noted in the corner of his mind that Schütz’s use of these breaks was inspired, but his attention still hung on Marla, waiting to see what she would do next.

What resumed was an echo of the ominous motif from Nimue and the Morrigan’s duet. It sounded, and sounded, and sounded, until Friedrich was ready to scream “Get on with it!”

The kettle drums started a muted roll, rumbling underneath the building of a dissonant chord by the horns and the clarinets. Guinevere finally entered on yet another dissonant note, softly, sadly.

“You…

“You never loved me.”

The voice paused while the chord and the drums sustained their tones. Then it resumed, like a scalpel of ice.

“I was never more to you

“Than a prop for your throne!”

As soon as Guinevere bit off the final syllable, the strings entered, and the orchestra played a swirl of sound that cascaded upwards and ended like a shriek. There was a moment of pure silence. No one breathed, in th

e audience, the orchestra, or the stage. Then without another word, she turned and exited stage right, steps sounding loud in the silence.

Arthur stood alone in the spotlight after that excoriation. He dropped his outstretched arms; his head bowed. Slowly the spotlight narrowed, narrowed, narrowed, until it only lit his face. Then it cut to black, and the applause began.

Chapter 69

After Dr. Schlegel hauled Schardius’ corpse off, Gotthilf stared at Byron. Byron stared back at him. They both turned to look at Simon, sitting against a wall with his knees drawn up and his arm wrapped around them.

“We need to get back to the opera hall, but someone needs to get him back to your house,” Byron said.

“What time is it?” Gotthilf asked.

Byron looked at his watch by the light of the moon. “Not quite eight p.m.”

“You’re sure Honister said the performance had begun?”

“Yep. He backtracked to make sure that Schardius didn’t drop or throw anything away, and he said he could hear the orchestra from outside.”

“Well, then based on the program, the opera won’t be over for a while yet,” Gotthilf said. “I’ll run Simon home in the duty carriage, then meet you back at the opera house.”

“Right.”

Gotthilf walked over to the boy, bent down and held out his hand. “Come on, Simon, up with you. You need to tell Ursula what’s happened.”

Simon stirred, grasped the offered hand and let Gotthilf pull him up. He followed Gotthilf to where the police department carriage waited for them. Once inside, he leaned against the side. He said nothing.

“So,” Gotthilf said after a few minutes of slow progress, “does it help any knowing that Schardius is gone?”

Simon stirred. “Some,” he said.

Gotthilf didn’t push the issue. He suspected, though, that Pastor Gruber might be talking to the boy about this soon.

* * *

Amber felt Heinrich squeeze her hand again. He leaned closer.

“This shall be your triumph, tonight.”

Amber shook her head.

“No, this is your work, yours and Johann Gronow’s.”

“My dear,” Heinrich murmured as the applause and cheers continued to sound from all around them, “what we did was nothing more than preparing the canvas and mixing the paint. You have painted the masterpiece, you and your singers.”

* * *

Friedrich sat back in his chair, half-exhausted. God above, there was still one more act to go!

He looked over at Gronow, and muttered, “You are not going to give me a hint as to how this ends, are you?

Gronow grinned. “Did you give us advance warning of what you had crafted for Frau Linder two months ago? No. As Saint Matthew recorded in his gospel, ‘Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.’ And you, being a good Lutheran, would desire to be obedient to the Holy Writ. I am merely observing that because of your prior actions, you want to be treated in the same way.
Ipso facto,
and
quod erat demonstrandum
for good measure
.
”

“Never trust an editor,” Friedrich muttered with a scowl, settling back and crossing his arms.

* * *

Princess Kristina’s face split in a huge yawn. She sank down in her chair. Ulrik wasn’t sure she would last out the evening, as much as she professed to enjoy the show. Even now her eyes were drifting shut.

Ulrik looked over to Gustav. The emperor was holding his chin, and tapping his foot. He apparently caught Ulrik’s gaze out of the corner of his eye, for he turned his head and winked at the prince.

“What do you think of it?” Ulrik asked. He was a bit surprised to discover a moment later that he really wanted to know the emperor’s opinion on what they were hearing.

“A bit heathenish, perhaps,” Gustav conceded, “but compared to the tales my Finns tell around the campfires at night, this is actually somewhat mild.” He chuckled. “The music is quite good, I think. I’m rather glad I plucked
Kappellmeister
Schütz from your brother’s court.” That was said with a wicked grin.

“And the singing?”

“Oh, very fine, I would say. The baritone is as good as any I have ever heard, and he has the stature to play a proper king.” Gustav patted his ample midriff as if to exemplify the concept. “And the castrato—Abati, is that his name?—he is excellent. Although I still shiver at the thought of what was done to him.”

Gustav twitched his shoulders as he said that last. Ulrik nodded in complete agreement.

“And Frau Linder,” he prompted after a few seconds.

“Yes…Frau Linder,” Gustav responded. “We have heard even in Stockholm of
La Cecchina
, the ornament of the court in Florence. Perhaps in Frau Linder we have her equal.”

Or even her superior,
Ulrik thought to himself as Gustav held his wine cup out for a refill.

* * *

Franz pushed his hair back and looked around the orchestra. There were smiles everywhere. They all knew they were doing well; the opera as a whole was going well. And despite all the murmurs about egotistical and arrogant singers, they all knew that the soloists were nothing short of superb tonight. Excitement was in the air in the orchestra so thick you could almost drink it.

The applause finally started to die down. Franz looked to the stage curtain, knowing that it would rise shortly. When the performance began he had been concerned about Marla. The things that had happened tonight would have been enough to put almost anyone in a funk. But she’d said she was mad, and apparently that gave her extra spirit, for tonight she
was
Guinevere, more so than she had ever been.

One more act, he thought as the lights blinked in the signal to begin. One more act.

He raised his baton.

* * *

Despite his determination to remember everything that happened in the last act, Friedrich was really only able to remember bits and pieces of it from that first performance, except for three great songs. By some odd coincidence, they all involved Marla Linder.

The first was the duet in the first scene where Guinevere sat alone under the Dragon Tree and poured out her heart to it; her anger, her pain, her dejection, her wounded pride, and finally her bereftness. That was a wonderful poignant moment, which was answered brilliantly when the voice of Merlin responded to her from the tree.

Merlin revealed what had truly happened to Arthur. Guinevere was slow to understand, but once she did grasp the events, and the parts played by all involved, she burned with wrath against Nimue.

Merlin cautioned her:

Beware the sylph’s strength!

Take warning from my fallen state.

No man may confound the creature’s might.

To which Guinevere responded:

No man, you say?

But I am not a man, nor have I ever been.

With Saint George and Saint Michael to strengthen my hand,

I will be this creature’s bane.

Merlin made no reply as the music echoed motifs from the overture march, and the drums rumbled beneath.

The second bright remembrance for Friedrich was in the second scene of the third act, where Guinevere tracked down Nimue and made good on her promise. The duet was strenuous and musically challenging, as one would expect between two sopranos of such power and skill. But the presentation was also strenuous as Guinevere appeared, in armor, sword in hand, and proceeded to lay into the sylph, who managed to produce a sword just in the nick of time to avoid being skewered by the queen’s first thrust.

Back and forth they went, declaiming lines of the duet as they did. Friedrich had to chuckle. Neither of the singers would have lasted long as bravos on the streets or as soldiers on the battlefields. But for stage fencing, it wasn’t bad, and it was certainly exciting.

As the duet began moving toward its conclusion, Nimue was obviously getting the worst of it. At that point, she sang:

Morrigan!

I, your ally, abettor, and adjunct

Do pray your aid

Against this fell foe!

The Morrigan, once again in the branches of the Dragon Tree, raised her wings and sang:

No friend of thine am I!

I live for strife,

And your foe brings strife home to you.

At that point, Nimue seemed to lose heart, and it was not long before Guinevere thrust her blade home to the sylph’s heart.

The loudest applause of the evening so far broke out, and the final cadences of the accompaniment went unheard by most. It was several minutes before it died down enough that the opera could continue. From the way that Guinevere’s chest was heaving, Friedrich suspected that was a benefit to her.

The final pearl of the evening was the final scene of Act Three. The planned-for rebellion had broken out, and there was no help for it but Arthur and his knights had to meet the forces of Medraut in battle. Most of it occurred off-stage, of course, but the sound effects of the battle were loud and alarming. On-stage, Arthur bitterly regretted that Guinevere and her captains had not followed him to the battle. His men were holding, but at a high price. And then the fateful breakthrough happened—Arthur’s front line broke, and Medraut and his champions came through.

It was almost a dance, Friedrich thought. The scene of Arthur battling one warrior after another, singing his rage against his half-brother, while Medraut waited, spilling his hate verbally, was powerful. Friedrich forgot to even criticize the fencing as the force of the scene gripped him.

The inevitable end came: the audience groaned and cried out when Arthur’s sword was trapped in the body of his last opponent, and Medraut seized his opportunity to lunge in and transfix the king. Arthur fell to his knees, bent over the sword thrust through him.

Medraut turned away from the stricken king, and launched into a victory aria, but seemingly halfway through it, the orchestra trumpets began to sound fanfare figures. Medraut looked around, but continued singing. A few measures later, the fanfares sounded again, and this time a flood of actors entered the stage, Guinevere at their head. She had brought her troops at last. As they put paid to the bedraggled remnants of Medraut’s army, she took in the scene before her, and even from his seat in the audience Friedrich could sense her drawing up, swelling, beginning to loom over the battlefield and the hapless Medraut.

Too late,

Alas, too late to save!

Then I will avenge!

And true to her word, Guinevere soon battered Medraut to defeat. He fell to his hands and knees facing upstage. Her sword rose, held in both hands, then fell swiftly. There was a
chunk
sound. The queen bent over, and when she straightened she was holding the head of Medraut.

Thus the traitor

Is paid his due!

Many in the audience flinched at the head, men and women alike. It was rather lifelike, complete with glassy eyes and ragged skin at the neck. But after a moment to feel properly horrified, they broke out in wild cheers and applause, including at least one roar of approval from the imperial box.

When the applause died down, Merlin appeared, singing an explanation that the defeat of Nimue had opened the Dragon Tree and released him, but that he had not been able to catch up with Guinevere and her captains.