The Devil in Music (3 page)

"I
don't doubt your judgement, Signor Marchese only my ability to live
up to it."

"Tut!
no false modesty. Save that for your public appearances. You are a
marvel, and soon all Italy will know it. In the meantime, be
patient, and continue to be Guidod by me."

Donati
looked troubled. "Do you mean he isn't to show his face outside
the villa for several more months?"

"You
needn't make it sound as if I've forbidden him even a breath of air,"
Lodovico said impatiently. "He can go into the garden, as long
as he stays inside the walls and away from the lake. I don't want to
make him a prisoner only to prevent his being seen. You have been
keeping out of sight, my Orfeo?"

"I've
complied with your wishes in everything, Signer Marchese."

Lodovico
ordinarily took it for granted that his dependents would obey his
orders. But with Orfeo, he never knew quite what to expect. The
young man had been bred a gentleman and had a mind of his own. He
was not awed by Lcdovico's rank, as most singers would be. He was
respectful toward Lodovico and showed himself grateful for all
Lodovico had done for him. But there was much he kept hidden from
Lodovico. He had not always been so reticent. When they first met
in Milan, he had talked of his family, his home in England, his
feelings about pursuing a career in music. Now he seemed to have
withdrawn behind a veil. His reserve puzzled Lodovico sometimes
angered him. Bodies might be immaterial, but the soul of a singer
was inextricably bound up in his art. While the man remained so
elusive, how could Lodovico wholly possess the voice?

"The
course I've set for you may seem hard," Lodovico told him.
"You're young naturally you chafe against confinement. But
believe me, nothing will serve you better in the future than to make
a mystery of you now. The public is mad for novelty. Why do you
think singers constantly travel, performing now in one Italian state,
now in another? So that people everywhere will hear something new.
Now, you, my songbird, have never sung in public anywhere! You are a
complete unknown, and we must keep you that way."

"But,
Signer Marchese," protested Donati timidly, "why should he
have to hide his face and name as well as his voice? Isn't it enough
if he appears in public but doesn't sing?"

"Body
of Bacchus, Maestro! you quite fail to understand my strategy. By
now all Milan knows I've taken an English tenor under my wing and
brought him here to be trained by you. They'll be wondering about
him: what he looks like, where he comes from, if it's true he's of
good birth. So we tell them nothing! Soon they'll start weaving
stories about him. They'll say he was captured from a British ship
by pirates, that he's the King of England's bastard son, that he had
to leave his country for killing a man. By the time he makes his
debut, people will come just to see him never mind how he sings!
There now, Maestro: are you content?"

"If
Orfeo is," said Donati.

"He'd
be a fool if he weren't," Lodovico declared.

Orfeo
looked at him opaquely. Lodovico supposed he had been a little rude.
He set out to smooth the young man's ruffled feathers, in order to
put him in the right frame of mind to sing again. "All I meant,
my Orfeo, was that, being the sensible young man you are, you would
understand how my plan will further your career. Now then: sing me
something else. Sing something by Cimarosa."

Orfeo
complied. But all too soon Donati put an end to his lesson, saying
he had sung long enough and must not strain his voice. Lodovico
acceded with a sigh. In matters of technique and training, Donati's
word was law.

Orfeo
went to the window and looked out, screening himself with the curtain
so that he could not be seen from outside. Donati felt for the
little bell he always kept by him, and rang it. His servant, Tonio
Farese, a thickset young man with a ruddy face and big, ungainly
hands, came in to pour them all some wine. Lodovico observed
distastefully that he spilled a little on the carpet. "Fetch a
cloth," he ordered. Tonio sidled out like a whipped dog.

"That
servant of yours isn't good for much," Lodovico told Donati.

"No,"
said the maestro regretfully. "I only engaged him because his
parents were favourite pupils of mine, and after they died, I felt I
should do something for him. I happened to be in want of Eyes, and
he could read music, so I offered him the post." Eyes was
Donati's term for a young man who served him as both valet and
secretary.

Lodovico
regretted that Donati should have to keep a servant at all. The fewer
people who saw Orfeo, the better. But a blind man, and a
distinguished teacher at that, could not be expected to look after
himself. At least the list of people who knew Orfeo was not long:
just Lodovico, Donati, Tonio, Lucia, and her father, Matteo. Lucia
cooked Donati's and Orfeo's meals and took care of the few rooms in
the villa that Lodovico had opened for their use. Matteo kept the
grounds in order as well as one man reasonably could, and fetched
food and candles from the castle or the village. Orfeo, Donati,
Tonio, and Matteo lived at the villa, but Lucia spent her nights at
the castle. No doubt Matteo did not want her sleeping under the same
roof as Orfeo and Tonio.

Lodovico
himself lived at the castle and only came to the villa for Orfeo's
lessons at ten in the morning and six in the evening. He could not
do without a retinue of servants at his beck and call. He had little
practical need for them, since his domestic wants were simple, but
they were part of the indispensable panoply of his rank. Then, too,
although he was proud to have secured the villa, he did not like it
much. His brother Carlo had polluted it with statues and friezes
glorifying Athenian democracy and Roman republicanism.

Thinking
of politics reminded him of his conversation with Raversi. "The
devil! I must go. I promised Conte Raversi I would go to a meeting
at his villa to talk about defending the neighbourhood in case of a
revolt."

Orfeo
looked around. "Is that likely?"

"I
shouldn't think so. But of course Conte Raversi is wise to take
precautions." Lodovico might think Raversi an alarmist, but he
would not criticize a fellow nobleman to outsiders.

"Is
there any news from Piedmont?" Orfeo asked.

"The
rebellion has spread to the capital. But that's no matter it will be
put down. And our own Carbonari are too disorganized and cowardly to
revolt. Most radicals are nothing but talk. They play childish
games, but they'd never risk their lives in a real rebellion."

Orfeo
seemed interested. "What sort of childish games do you mean,
Signer Marchese?"

"Never
mind, my songbird." Lodovico smiled enigmatically. "One
of these days perhaps I'll tell you all about it, but the time isn't
ripe."

Tonio
came in with a cloth to mop up the wine. Lodovico retrieved his hat
and riding whip. Donati began dreamily playing an air he himself had
composed long ago. Orfeo looked out of the window and, as always,
kept his thoughts to himself.

Vaversi's
meeting made Lodovico take the threat of rebellion a little more
seriously. Von Krauss, the level-headed garrison commander, was
worried, and so were other men of standing in the neighbourhood.
They all resolved to keep close track of events and report any
ominous incidents to Von Krauss immediately. At Raversi's urging,
Von Krauss agreed to dispatch a contingent of soldiers to guard the
approaches from Piedmont, and from Lugano just over the Swiss border,
where many exiled Italian radicals gathered to plot against the
Austrians.

On
his way back to Castello Malvezzi for dinner, Lodovico pondered
whether he ought to go to Turin and bring Beatrice home. He did not
want to leave the Lake of Como he was too enthralled by Orfeo's
lessons, and besides, he had a project he wanted to accomplish first.
He wished he could send Rinaldo to fetch his stepmother, but he did
not trust him not to make a muddle of the task, or worse. For the
thousandth time, he asked Heaven why he was cursed with such a son.

By
the time he reached home, he had decided on a compromise. He wrote
to Beatrice adjuring her to send him frequent word of her safety, and
to leave Turin at the first outbreak of violence. He knew she was
well supplied with male servants to guard her on the roads. He still
thought this much-vaunted rebellion would prove to be a damp squib,
but at least Beatrice would know he was thinking of her, and the
letter bearing his seal would warn all who saw it that, even from
afar, Marchese Malvezzi was watching over his wife.

After
dinner, he went to the villa for Orfeo's evening lesson. Night was
falling when he returned to the castle. The wooded mountains were
mere slate-blue shapes against the sky. On the lake, lanterns
glimmered in the prows of boats, casting gold reflections on the
water. A chill breeze carried snatches of boatmen's songs to Lodovico
as he rode up into the hills. Church bells chimed mournfully from
distant belfries; Lodovico dutifully bent his head to offer up a
prayer.

He
gave his horse to a groom at the castle gate, crossed the courtyard,
and entered the vast, cold entrance hall. There he encountered Bruno
Monti, one of the footmen. Bruno was booted and spurred, his dark
curls lacquered to his forehead with sweat. He reported that he had
just returned from delivering Lodovico's letters: one to Marchesina
Francesca at her villa across the lake, and the other to Marchesino
Rinaldo in Milan.

Lodovico
commended him for his speed and sent him off to find some supper. He
himself took a single candle and ascended his tower. The faint light
flickered over the uneven stone stairs and damp brick walls with
their slots for shooting arrows. At the top, Lodovico entered his
study, which was square and took up an entire floor. It was dark and
cold; Lodovico did not permit fires in March. The furnishings
consisted of a large, heavy writing-table, a narrow wooden chest
standing on claw feet, and two high-backed chairs upholstered in
frayed and fading tapestry. The walls were covered with discoloured,
peeling white plaster and hung with dark, solemn portraits of dead
Malvezzis.

Lodovico
placed the candle in a tall iron stand, which he drew up to the
writing-table. At last he had leisure to work on his secret project
one he felt sure would bring new glory to his name, if only he could
complete it. Taking a key from his watch-chain, he unlocked the
chest and drew out a notebook bound in russet leather. He brought
the notebook to his desk, took out some loose sheets from under the
front cover, and set them before him. Then he opened the notebook.
Its pages were ruled with bass and treble staffs, filled in with
musical notes in a quick, elegant hand. Dipping pen in ink, he began
writing furiously on the loose papers, pausing only to turn pages of
the notebook and stare hard at their contents.

The
work absorbed him for two or three hours. When his concentration
failed him, and the musical notes became meaningless black specks
before his eyes, he went to the window that looked out on the lake,
and opened the lattice to let the chill breeze cool his face. It was
frustrating, how long this task was taking. He had thought it would
be so easy when he began.

There
were no more boats on the lake, and few lights glimmering on the
shores. The mountains were all but invisible against the sky. Stars
twinkled here and there through rents in the veil of mist. A mere
mile away across the lake, his daughter-in-law was sleeping or, more
likely, lying awake beside her preposterous lover, eating her heart
out over Lodovico's letter. He hoped they would quarrel and come to
hate each other. They deserved no less, because each of them had
betrayed him. Francesca had made his family name a byword for the
most grotesque cuckoldry imaginable. And Valeriano had inflicted a
pang that was, if anything, worse.

Lodovico
remembered the first time he had heard Valeriano sing. That
haunting, brilliant soprano had thrilled him he had set about wooing
the singer at once. Valeriano had had little need for his patronage:
he was already famous and successful, despite increasing public
distaste for the castrate voice. But he was not well known in Milan,
so Lodovico had introduced him everywhere, helped him to secure the
best engagements, even made him welcome under his own roof. That was
how Valeriano had come to know Francesca and he had repaid all
Lodovico's kindness by running away with her!

Lodovico
shut the lattice with a crack that resounded like a gunshot in the
silence. Returning to his desk, he gathered up the notebook and
papers and locked them away in the chest. Then he snuffed the
candle, shrouding the room in darkness. He did not need a light to
get to his bedchamber, which was just beneath this room. But as he
was passing the window that faced away from the lake, to his surprise
he glimpsed a light in the courtyard below. None of his servants
ought to be up at this hour, wasting lamp oil and making themselves
too tired to work the next day. He went to the window to
investigate, but when he got there, the light was gone.