Masks and Shadows (6 page)

He chose to take it as a sign, though, that it was time to fulfill one of his more pleasant obligations.

It was time to seek out the musicians.

The opera house stood behind the main body of the palace, facing the marionette theater and the military barracks across the wide expanse of green that led to the elaborate gardens, labyrinth and—no doubt—carefully designed “wilderness” beyond. Outer stairs led up to a curving balcony in the center of the opera house's ornate façade, where a man might stand, looking out across the grounds, between acts. Attached to the great three-story building was a smaller, rounded structure—the right size for a ballroom, perhaps? Its rounded shape was smooth and externally plain, unlike the opera house itself, which was so gilded with external decoration, it looked to Carlo like an elaborate, tiered cake.

Prince Nikolaus's pride and joy, indeed, and no more tasteful than its founder. Still, Carlo had sung in worse.

As Carlo walked along the shell-lined path toward it, enjoying the afternoon sunshine, a hatless, white-haired old gentleman burst outside, clutching a note in his hand. With a muttered, “Ha!” the old man sprinted past Carlo, not even bothering to nod his head in courtesy.

Carlo's lips twitched. An actor, obviously. Ah, but they were a relief after the arduously refined airs of the aristocracy.

He found the opera house empty, but raised voices led him through to the door to the ballroom.

An argument composed of some six or eight people broke off as he stepped into the grand room. Carlo smiled blandly and glanced around, looking for the man described by many as the greatest composer living, and the prime jewel in Prince Nikolaus Esterházy's collection.

“Ah, Signor Morelli!” The man who'd been mediating at the center of the argument burst through the ring of discontented faces and flung out his arms in welcome. “It must be you! Joseph Haydn at your humble service, signor.”

“And I at yours, Kapellmeister.” Carlo took the hands held out to him with real warmth. Haydn's pockmarked skin and great hook nose might be enough to keep him off any operatic stage; but Carlo found the sparkling intelligence and good humor in the composer's face deeply appealing. “I am indeed honored to meet you at last. I've brought you greetings from many of your friends across Europe.”

“I—” The kapellmeister broke off to look around the circle of watching faces, all changed from chagrin to open curiosity. “Signor, I must introduce to you our distinguished singing troupe, or part of it, at any rate. Madame Zelinowsky, who plays all maternal roles—”

“—and who is most honored to meet you, signor,” Madame Zelinowsky murmured. She sank into a curtsey and shot him a glance up through her eyelashes that looked far more seductive than maternal.

“—Frau Kettner, who plays the second ladies in comedies and tragedies; Herr Schwarzwald, the pedants and sober servants; Fräulein Schwarzwald, the young, sentimental
ingénues
; Herr Partl, the first tender fathers and sedate parts; Herr Pichler, the second sentimental lovers and young servants.”

Carlo tipped his hat to the company. “Impressive indeed. But—are you not missing a few important roles, Kapellmeister?”

Madame Zelinowsky let out a low chuckle. “Indeed, signor. How could we function without our grand old men in tragedies? Our impulsive or funny, disgruntled old men in comedies? Our lazy servants, our comic peasants . . .” She paused and looked sidelong at young Herr Pichler. “. . . Our leading lovers, in all pieces?”

“I saw an impulsive older gentleman darting out as I walked in,” Carlo said. “Does he play that role in your troupe?”

The singers stiffened and exchanged glances in a moment of awkward silence. Carlo thought young Herr Pichler had changed color; even more intriguingly, Madame Zelinowsky kept her own eyes fixed on the young man's face, while a slight smile played across her full lips.

The kapellmeister coughed. “Impulsive indeed. The description you give, signor, matches that of the theatrical director of the company, Monsieur Delacroix, who does indeed play the roles of old men in both comedies and tragedies.”

“And in real life . . . ?” Madame Zelinowsky murmured.

“We are all rather disordered at the moment, I fear,” the kapellmeister said. His smile looked strained. “It will all come out well in the end, though, I am certain. Come, let me show you around our opera house. It's only through this door.”

Once they had exited the ballroom, Haydn slumped and came to a halt, taking out a large handkerchief to mop his brow. “My apologies, signor. We have had a rather . . . unfortunate incident this morning.”

“I believe I heard something of it mentioned at dinner. An elopement among the singers?”

“Indeed. Our leading lady, Madame Delacroix, is perhaps eighteen years old against her husband's white-haired age and his”—he paused—“not inconsiderable temper. Meantime, she and our leading tenor, Herr Antonicek, have of course been much thrown together . . .”

“Not entirely incomprehensible, then,” Carlo said drily.

Haydn sighed. “Not at all, but disastrous nonetheless. His Serene Highness is . . . most strict, in his views upon the behavior of his servants. Had they only waited a year, until their contract had run out . . .” He shrugged his shoulders unhappily. “I would have certainly advised His Highness not to renew it—Monsieur Delacroix's management is atrocious, if I may confide that to you, signor—but then, I suppose they could not have known that they'd be free so soon.”

“I see. And the punishment they'll receive?”

“Heaven knows. For Herr Antonicek—a severe whipping with the bastinado and imprisonment, I am certain. Beyond that, I would anticipate his banishment from all Esterházy lands while Madame Delacroix remains in residence.”

“And for the lady?”

Herr Haydn's expression was bleak. “Her apology to the Prince, I expect, and forced return to her husband. Which, considering the public humiliation he has felt, and the extent of his current thirst for blood, will be more than punishment enough, I am quite certain.” He sighed and replaced the handkerchief in the embroidered outer pocket of his frock coat. “Ah, it makes my head hurt. And all of it so needless . . .” He began to walk forward, shaking his head.

Carlo paced beside him thoughtfully. “And you, sir? Do you wish your own contract renewed?”

Haydn blinked. “I? Why, my contract was only recently renegotiated, signor, and under far more favorable terms than ever before. If you can believe it, I may even offer my own works for publication at last, to share them with the world in the form that I choose—and to make a pretty penny from them, too!” He gave Carlo a mischievous grin. “I cannot tell you, signor, how it once burned to save all my copies for my prince's sole use while scoundrels sold unauthorized versions abroad—but now that that's finally sorted, I've been approached by a publisher in Vienna, who has promised to design beautiful editions of my music to sell throughout the empire. What more joy could a humble kapellmeister ask for?”

Carlo reached into the inner pocket of his own coat and drew out the collection of letters he'd couriered. “Along with affectionate greetings to you, sir, I've also brought commissions from the empress of all Russia, among others. The tsarina is most eager for a new opera from your pen.”

“In St. Petersburg?” Haydn sagged back on his heels. “Ah, signor, I am truly honored, but I could not possibly accept. My contract states explicitly that I may only compose new works for the honor of the Prince, and he is most concerned that I keep to that promise.”

“But your publications—”

“Will be graciously allowed by His Highness after first performances here—and I fear the older operas I have written for this court would not do in another setting. I know my prince's taste too well, and it influences all that I write.” He twisted his lips into a rueful grin. “I do not think that the tsarina would appreciate such a string of tedious long arias as Prince Nikolaus dotes upon.”

“Long, perhaps, but beautiful, too. I have seen those unauthorized editions, remember.” Carlo frowned. “You do understand, sir, how your reputation has spread? Even in distant England, I heard talk of you and your talents. Were you ever to leave the Prince's service—”

“Aye, and for what?” The kapellmeister laughed. “You must have been speaking to my young friend Mozart. If we ever met in person, perhaps I might shake more sense into him. The last missive he sent me from Salzburg fairly scorched my hands, it was so full of fiery ambitions for an independent life, wild and free of his archbishop's service . . . and with no promise of salary or security whatsoever. I hope my reply cooled his head somewhat.” Still smiling, he shook his head. “No, no, signor. It is well and good for a great artist such as yourself to stand on your own talents and travel the world, but I do very well here as I am. I have a fine employer with a true ear for music, who genuinely appreciates my work. And my own salary is . . . not inconsiderable for an honored servant, shall we say?” He lowered one eyelid in a roguish wink.

And yet you will remain only a servant here, forevermore
. But Carlo did not speak his thoughts. Instead, he handed over the collection of letters. “Your mail, sir. One of the letters is indeed from young Mozart.”

“Ah, he is a good lad. ‘Papa Haydn,' he calls me, you know. A tribute to my poor graying hairs.” Haydn grinned and slipped the collection into his pocket. “I'll enjoy these later, at my leisure. A fine reward for haggling with these temperamental singers all day! By now I should have led a full rehearsal of my orchestra and had an hour for my own composition, too.”

“A pity indeed.”

“Well, never mind, eh? Come, signor, you shall not escape a view of the opera house, for it is a joy to me.”

Carlo followed the kapellmeister in his tour, and roused himself to comment appreciatively on the sound qualities of the auditorium, the unusual depth of the angled stage, the fine detail of the carvings around it, and the positioning of the orchestra's benches. He even felt a mild amusement as he noted the correlation between the red and green of Haydn's uniform and the deep red and apple-green shades that dominated all the opera house's decorations, from the great velvet hangings to the plush seats in the auditorium. Someone—perhaps even the Prince himself—had an innate sense of order, or at least efficiency.

All the while, though, he felt himself abstracted, and hoped the man beside him could not see it. It was well indeed to enjoy one's position in life, and to feel that one's talents were appreciated. Yet for such a mind and talent to be confined to this petty princedom, far from the lights of cosmopolitan culture . . .

“Do you never miss Vienna?” he asked at last, after admiring the scenery and the mechanical effects that had been designed for the latest operatic performance.

Haydn's eyes widened. “Oh, Vienna . . . my dear sir, how could I not? The hours I have spent in conversation there, enjoying the finest musical salons and listening to the most exquisite performances—but no, sir, you shall not catch me out! I'm quite happy where I am, more particularly as I hie off to the capital with my Prince every year for a glorious four months.” He laughed, wagging a monitory finger up at Carlo. “Not everyone is a virtuoso, signor. Someday you, too, may come to appreciate the joys of a settled and comfortable life.”

“Perhaps.” Carlo smiled ruefully and tipped his head in submission. It had been foolish indeed to imagine that one of the finest musical minds in Europe might be too slow to catch his far-from-subtle direction. “Perhaps I shall try it myself one day after all, and report to you upon my success.”

“I hope you may. Indeed—”

A crash sounded in the ballroom. Voices rose in shock and dismay. Haydn broke off, paling.

“I beg your pardon, signor!”

He flew across the stage toward the door, the skirts of his red frock coat sailing out behind him. Carlo followed quickly.

Three soldiers had entered the ballroom, wearing full Esterházy regalia. The first raised a warrant marked with the Prince's seal and started toward the frozen cluster of singers.

“Franz Pichler, second tenor of His Highness's company?”

“I am Herr Haydn, the kapellmeister.” The little man seemed to rise in height as he advanced upon the soldiers. “May I help you, sirs?”

The theatrical director burst inside, following after the soldiers. “There! There he is!” His knobbled finger shook as he pointed across the room at Herr Pichler.

The young man's face looked pale but composed as he stepped forward. “Of what am I accused, sirs? I've done no wrong.”

“Witnessed! You were witnessed in the act!” Spittle flew from Monsieur Delacroix's lips. “You aided their escape, you worm! You probably designed it yourself. You—you blackguard! You devil! You—”