The Devil in Music (2 page)

"Here."
Lodovico handed Ernesto the letters. "Send these by courier.
They're too urgent to entrust to the post."

"Gian
Galeazzo, Gian Galeazzo." Lodovico shook his head in amused
exasperation. "Do you think a handful of badly armed Carbonari
would be any match for Austrian troops?"

"Austrian
troops can't fight an enemy they can't find," argued Raversi.
"The Carbonari are a deadly danger because no one knows who or
where they are. They belong to secret lodges, communicate in cipher,
swear not to reveal each other's names on pain of death "

"They'll
have to come out into the open in order to attack us," Lodovico
said reasonably. "And they'll be shot down like dogs, and that
will be an end of it. I'm late, Gian Galeazzo, so if you'd be good
enough to let me pass "

"But
I thought you'd be especially worried about the revolt in Turin. I
know Beatrice is there."

"Yes,
she is," said Lodovico, rather sharply. "And if I thought
she was in any danger I would go to her. I'm well able to look after
my wife."

"Of
course. But "

"There
are no buts. You know Beatrice: she's clever and clear sighted the
one woman in a thousand who can be trusted not to panic in a crisis.
She'll know whether to leave Turin before the rebels arrive or lie
low and not draw attention to herself until the revolt's been
quelled. I wish she hadn't chosen this particular time to visit
Turin, but there's no help for it now."

"Why
is she there?"

Lodovico
shrugged. He was proud of his ignorance of his wife's activities.
Not many men could marry a woman so much younger, and so beautiful,
and yet resist the temptation to keep a jealous eye on her. So many
husbands turned their houses into prisons, their servants into spies.
Beatrice and he were above that sort of thing. She was not wanton,
and he was not weak. He had the luxury of trusting her.

"Now
I really must go," he said, digging his heels resolutely into
his horse's sides.

"One
more thing," Raversi said quickly. "I'm having a meeting
at my villa today at one o'clock. Von Krauss will be there."
Von Krauss was the commander of the Austrian garrison headquartered
in the nearby village of Solaggio. "I want to talk about how we
might defend the neighbourhood in the event of an insurrection. Will
you come?"

"Yes,
yes. Now, good day to you, Gian Galeazzo."

Lodovico
spurred his horse to a canter, determined to get away at last.
Raversi's heart was in the right place, but he was an alarmist. He
thought Carbonari were lurking around every bush and under every bed.
Lodovico had no doubt that the trouble in Piedmont, like the recent
revolution in Naples, would be put down. Demanding a constitution!
Any idiot ought to be able to see that a ruler could not apply the
same laws to everyone nobles and peasants, enemies and friends. Yet
every political idealist and disgruntled bourgeois thought a
constitution the answer to all their problems!

Lodovico
rounded the southwest corner of the garden wall. On his right, the
whitewashed, red-roofed houses of Solaggio began to appear, linked
together by daisy-chains of washing hung out to dry. The lake lay
ahead, slender fishing boats skimming its polished surface. The road
ended just short of the lake, the garden wall giving way to an
elegant wrought-iron gate. Lodovico jumped down from his horse and
flung its reins over a gate post. He was not afraid to leave it
unattended: the whole neighbourhood knew it was his, and no one would
dare to steal it. For longer visits, he stabled it at the
Nightingale, Solaggio's only inn.

He
went through the gate and strode along the lakeside path, which was
the quickest way to the villa. It was paved with flagstones and
raised some fifteen feet above the lake by an embankment. Halfway to
the villa, a dainty little Moorish pavilion jutted out over the water
to serve as a belvedere.

Lodovico
looked at his watch, swore, and quickened his pace. In the distance,
he glimpsed the elegant arc of the villa terrace, with its marble
balustrade over the lake. Then the villa itself appeared: a white
rectangle, simple and almost severe, with grey-shuttered windows and
marble balconies. He was almost running by the time he crossed the
terrace and ascended the majestic double stairway to the entrance.
As he reached the top, a girl came out through the door.

She
was about sixteen, dressed in a white blouse with the sleeves rolled
up to her elbows, a blue bodice and start, and a red shawl. Her dark
brown hair was sleekly drawn up into a knot and secured by a coronet
of gleaming hairpins. She curtsied, keeping her lustrous dark eyes
lowered. "Good morning, Excellency."

"Good
morning, Lucia! Do you know how it gladdens a man's heart to see
your blooming face on a spring morning?"

"No,
Excellency," she said, without looking up.

"Where
are you off to in such a hurry?"

"To
speak to my father, Excellency." Her father was the gardener.
"About provisions we need from the castle."

"Take
care you speak to no one else," he teased. "Those eyes of
yours could drive poor farmers and fishermen mad with love. And
better men than they," he added meaningfully.

"I
wouldn't know about that, Excellency."

"Wouldn't
you, Lucia? You will soon enough."

"May
I go now, Excellency?"

Lodovico's
eyes ran over her. She was more of a woman every day: her breasts
deliciously full, her arms strong but shapely, her ankles trim. Her
skin was the colour of honey, and no doubt as sweet to the taste. Ah,
he would like to have her, especially if he could be the first. To
conquer her maiden shyness, feel her soft skin hot with blushes under
his exploring hands

Enough
of these thoughts, he told himself. He had a better use for Lucia.
Besides, it was almost blasphemy to lust for a peasant girl, when he
was so near the object of his adoration. He waved Lucia on her way
and went into the villa.

They
had started without him. The sound met his ears as he entered the
Hall of Marbles, the large square entrance salon. They were working
on "See, the lovely dawn is breaking," the air sung by the
enamoured young Count Almaviva beneath his sweetheart's balcony in
The Barber of Seville. Lodovico's heart leaped in his breast as he
heard the clear, brilliant strain. He did not go into the music room
yet, but stood just outside the door, where he could be alone with
his beloved. Light-headed with exultation, he closed his eyes and let
the skeins of melody enfold him. What did flesh and blood matter?
Lodovico was in love with a voice.

Lodovico
had been in love with voices before. When he was younger, he had had
a new musical passion every few months. Nowadays, he was a little
more jaded. That was inevitable in Milan, where people of his class
went to La Scala six nights a week, three seasons a year, and every
fruit vendor or cafe waiter was a discerning opera critic. Yet now
and then there would come a voice that penetrated Lodovico to the
heart consumed him with a desire all the sharper and more rapturous
because it could never be satisfied.

The
bodies his voices inhabited were unimportant. They might be male or
female, young or old, comely or hideous. This one happened to live
in the chest and throat of a twenty-one-year-old Englishman. He was
a tenor, with a warm, alluring chest voice and an upper register that
rivalled any soprano's for limpid beauty and sweetness. Lodovico
called him Orfeo, after Orpheus, the Greek singer whose music charmed
wild beasts and moved rocks to tears.

Orfeo
had reached the bravura climax of his song. His voice darted agilely
from note to note, with a fire and intelligence that turned pure
acrobatics into art. He finished; the piano played the concluding
notes, then a pair of hands was heard applauding. A man's voice
spoke: "Bravo, my son! That's coming along very well! the high
notes firm and assured, the cadenzas accurate to a semitone. Of
course you know where you breathed in the wrong place?"

"Yes,
Maestro," the young man said ruefully. "And when I tried
to put it right, I fell out of time."

"Let's
try that passage again."

They
went over and over it, till it was as close to perfect as Lodovico
could imagine possible. He still concealed his presence, finding it
sweet to listen unseen. While Orfeo rested his voice, Donati
discussed the technique of famous tenors he had heard or trained:
Crivelli, Gar-cia, the elder and younger Davide. At length he said,
"All right, now let's hear you in the cantabile style. Sing "My
dear love," and ornament the reprise. But keep your
improvisations few and simple nothing ruins a sentimental air like
loading it down with trills." The piano played the
introduction. Orfeo began:

"My
dear love, at least believe me, Without you, my heart languishes."

Lodovico
listened transported, his eyes filling with tears. Of all Orfeo's
styles, the tender cantabile was his best.

Lodovico
stole a glance into the room. Donati was at the piano, listening to
his pupil with the complete concentration he could bring to bear on
sound, now that he could no longer see. He was a thin, elderly man,
with skin like fine parchment and a bald crown ringed by wispy white
hair. Orfeo stood with his back to Lodovico, observing his posture
and facial expression in a full-length mirror as he sang. This was
one of Donati's exercises, and no doubt it helped the vulgar run of
singers learn to look distinguished on the stage, but in Orfeo's case
it was hardly necessary. He stood and moved like the gentleman he
was. Breeding would always tell.

When
the song was over, Donati applauded enthusiastically. "My son,
that was lovely! Your diminuendo is exquisite. Use it sparingly it
will astonish all the more."

Lodovico
agreed. Orfeo had thoroughly mastered the art of holding a note and
making it ever softer, till it faded away like a dream. Moreover, he
could do it without revealing, by either a gasp or a grimace, the
iron control it required.

Donati
went on, "Once or twice I caught you forcing your chest voice up
into your head. That won't do at all. The greatest vulgarity a
singer can fall into is to sing a high note indeed, any note at the
top of his voice. A tenor is not an Alpine goatherd, or a drunken
gondolier. Anyone with a healthy pair of lungs can be merely loud.
But to sing with refinement, accuracy, delicacy of feeling that is
the mark of an artist."

"I'll
try to remember, Maestro."

Lodovico
could restrain himself no longer. "Bravo!" he cried,
coming into the room and applauding vigorously. "You're in rare
voice, my songbird!"

Orfeo's
head came up. The mirror caught the look in his eyes: startled,
constrained, as if he had suddenly been jerked by a rope. But when
he turned toward Lodovico, he had regained command of his face.
"Signer Marchese. I didn't see you."

"You
weren't meant to." Lodovico spoke easily, but there was an
imperious gleam in his eye. This was his house. He was under no
obligation to have himself announced.

"Signor
Marchese." Donati rose and bowed in the direction of Lodovico's
voice. "We feared you wouldn't be with us this morning."

Lodovico
felt the chill of formality in the air, and resented it. Must they
make it so obvious that his presence disrupted their rapport? Of
course they owed him respect, but they ought to make him feel
welcome, too. They would never have met if it had not been for him.
Orfeo would not have had a singing teacher at all, let alone one of
the finest in Italy.

"You
might have known I would come," he said testily. "I never
miss Orfeo's lessons."

"I
hope there was nothing amiss at the castle to detain you," Orfeo
interposed in his usual quiet, courteous tone.

"No
just some family business I had to attend to." Lodovico
softened toward him, remembering how sublimely he had just sung.
"You're making splendid progress! How long do you think it will
be, Maestro, before our songbird is ready to try his wings?"

"Perform
in public, you mean, Signor Marchese? I need at least a few more
months with him. You know how raw he was when he came to me."

"No
hurry." Lodovico nodded approvingly. He was looking forward to
launching his protege on the operatic stage, but not just yet not
till he had drunk his fill of the pleasure of having him all to
himself. "By the time he's ready to make his debut, all Milan
will be consumed with curiosity about him. And then and then, my
songbird, you will have such a triumph as Milan has never seen!
Poets will write sonnets about you, impresarios will contend for you,
women will throw themselves into your arms! What's this? You look
dubious."