by Ted Riccardi
“Indeed, Signore, I spend much of my time at Piazza del Popolo, where one learns much by slowly sipping one’s caffè latte. One of you might describe your problem once again for the benefit of my colleague, the good Dr. Watson.”
“Let me then begin,” said Leoncavallo with a nod from Puccini. Taller than Puccini and more handsome, Leoncavallo carried some of the signs of his native southern Italy. His speech, though impeccable grammatically, bore the telltale sounds of his native Naples.
“Briefly, Signor Holmes, the story begins in this way, perhaps in one of the hobbies that Giacomo and I share,” he began, “which is a love of old books and old musical scores.”
“Davvero,” said Puccini quietly.
“I am afraid that I share the vice with you both,” said Holmes.
“It was no more than a few months ago,” continued Leoncavallo, “that I was standing in Largo Borghese, only a few minutes’ walk from here, wondering where I would find a suitable libretto for my next opera. My Pagliacci had been a great success, and I was under great public pressure to produce a sequel. I could think of nothing that produced even the slightest enthusiasm on my part. I stood as if glued to the street when it occurred to me that the stalls of old books and prints staring at me might contain some hitherto unknown jewel that would serve me. And so I began to look through the stalls. In an instant, my eyes fell on something called Scènes de la vie de bohème, a book that took as its theme the life of poets and artists in Montmartre. I took it home with me and read it through. Divided into scenes as it was, it looked like an ideal text out of which a series of operatic tableaux could be easily constructed. I was so happy with my find that the melodies for the new opera began running through my head. I rushed to the house of my librettist and told him of my good luck. Perusing the book, he thought it most suitable, and suggested that we make an immediate announcement of our intention to write an opera entitled La Bohème. I then wrote immediately to the author Murger’s publisher but received no reply. They appeared to have closed. And I had no way of finding Murger.”
“Perhaps I may inject my account here,” said Puccini. “I was in Paris when Ruggiero was here in Rome. Almost to the day on which he found the book here in Italy I found it in Paris along the Seine. I then tried to find Murger, but it was difficult to trace him, and I did not succeed. The book had been written almost fifty years before, and his fate was unknown. I sent a letter to his publisher but I too received no reply. I assumed that he was dead. Upon my return to Italy, I showed the book to Giacosa and Illica, my two chief librettists, and they both thought it would be an excellent vehicle for a new opera. Unaware of Ruggiero’s announcement—I was at my home in Lucca—we announced our intention to write an opera based on Murger’s text. It was then that the argument began. When I heard through a journalist friend that Ruggiero intended to use the same text, I replied good-naturedly, ‘Good, now there will be two.’ I meant nothing mean or critical, but always ready to report a quarrel, the press twisted my remark and Ruggiero responded strongly.”
“Word of Giacomo’s intention,” said Leoncavallo, “and what was twisted by the press into a highly provocative remark, turned our plans into a public argument. In the end, Giacomo and I, who had always been on the best of terms, met secretly at the home of a friend and tried to resolve the argument privately. We agreed that the first thing that should be done would be to maintain a salutary silence for a time, and then to see if Murger were still alive, and perhaps write an opera together. Could we do it? In any case, we agreed that neither of us would begin our work on La Bohème until all problems, both legal and ethical, had suitable solutions and our mutual agreement.”
“It was at this very moment, my dear Signor Holmes,” said Puccini, “that something extraordinary began to happen that has brought us to you. I was here in Rome at the Albergo Panteone, about to leave for Lucca, when Leoncavallo came to see me at the hotel. He was in a considerable state of excitement and accused me of abusing our friendship and of abrogating our agreement. Why? Because he had just received a package by courier containing the initial pages of a manuscript of La Bohème, purporting to be written by me. I looked at the manuscript and could scarcely believe what was in front of me: in what seemed to be my own hand were the first ten pages of La Bohème almost exactly as I might have written it. I of course had written nothing.
“Just at that moment,” continued Puccini, “a courier arrived at the hotel and presented me with a package in which there was a manuscript labeled La Bohème da Ruggiero Leoncavallo. I handed it to Ruggiero and he gasped. His handwriting, his melodies, his plot—all was there in front of us. And then, as if to mock us, a note addressed to both of us was delivered by the hotel maid: dated a week ago, it said simply: Davvero, ce ne saranno due . . . o tre . . . o quattro!”
“Indeed, there will be two or three or four La Bohèmes, if I interpret the note accurately,” said Holmes. “And presumably you have continued to receive, each of you, further portions of the other’s opera?’
“Yes, we are almost halfway through each version. All of our attempts to find the strange genius who began this have led to nought. He obviously has managed to obtain access to our ateliers, how and through whom we have no idea. And why has he chosen to do this? What is the motive?”
“But most importantly, cari signori,” I interjected, “it is not that this scoundrel gained access to your ateliers. Indeed, neither of you has begun to write, so that if your agreement holds, there is nothing in your ateliers for him to use. The physical accoutrements, the paper and ink and other things, are easily available, but the musical insights—they are another matter. If he is working on his own, then we must admit that we are dealing with an incredible musical genius, one who can read your future musical thoughts from what you have already published.”
“Brilliantly put, Watson. I must say that I am impressed by your logic. Because of its great achievements in painting and sculpture, Italy is no stranger to artistic forgery. It is not surprising therefore that fraud has finally moved to the field of music,” said Holmes.
“We come to you, Signor Holmes, not only because of your international reputation, but also on the recommendation of two people who know you well: Grimaldi, of the Roman police, and Lombroso, who speaks in the most glowing terms of your abilities. Signor Holmes, you must find Murger, to see if he agrees to having his book transformed into opera. If he does not agree, or is dead, then we will abandon our projects. And who is writing these versions of La Bohème. And why?”
“I accept, dear amici, with pleasure. Please leave the two Bohèmes with me and I shall examine them closely for any clews they might provide about the identity of the author. In the meantime, keep strangers away from your notes and manuscripts. Remember that a good musician can easily mimic the work of another, but this appears to go far beyond mere mimicry. As soon as I have some results, I shall notify you.”
“Many thanks, and arrivederla, Signor Holmes.”
“Well, Watson, we have our work cut out for us. Where is Murger?”
“He is drinking his morning tea,” said I.
Holmes followed me into the sitting room. There sat Henri Murger, much refreshed and in rather good spirits, considering his ordeal. He smiled and thanked us profusely for our help the night before.
“Messieurs, merci de nouveau. I assume you are Mr. Holmes and you Dr. Watson.”
Holmes nodded and assured our guest that we were happy to have saved him from the cold and that he should feel free to stay with us as long as he was in Rome. “Monsieur Murger, right now I need some information from you.”
“Tell me and I shall answer as best I can.”
“M. Murger, what I have to ask concerns your novel Scènes de la vie de bohème, a book that you published many years ago, in 1848. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Monsieur. The book was a failure and I forgot about it until recently when two Italian composers of opera, Leoncavallo and Puccini, wrote me asking if I would acquies
ce in their writing an opera based on my work. The letters were mi Unfortunately, someone else preceded them and offered me a large sum for the rights, which I have accepted.”
“And who is that, may I ask?”
“Monsieur Holmes, that is the difficult part. I do not know who he is, or where he is, except that he lives here in Rome, but not permanently. His home is in Foggia, nearer to Naples. He asked me to meet him tomorrow outside the Rome Opera house. And so, I shall.”
“Good, Monsieur Murger. One other question. Who indeed was the young woman who helped you?”
“De nouveau, I cannot say exactly. Yesterday, I left my hotel early hoping that I would find you—I have your address from Louis Frobin of the Sûreté de Paris—but the snow was so high that I barely managed to reach your quarters. I saw the young woman you mention selling paper flowers in the snow. It was the first time that I had seen her. When I fell in the snow she tried to lift me. I must have fainted. I still heard her say that she knew was my daughter, but my only daughter lives in Paris and so the young woman is at best confused.”
“And why were you searching for me, Monsieur Murger?”
“I am an old man, Monsieur Holmes, with many needs. I learned that you were in Rome and I thought that you could accompany me to the meeting with the composers of La Bohème. But perhaps the case does not amuse you, Monsieur Holmes?”
“Au contraire, Monsieur Murger, it does amuse me and I have already spoken to the two composers. Please continue to rest here. Watson and I have some work to do.” Murger nodded, closed his eyes, and was soon overtaken by the fatigue induced by the events of the previous night.
Holmes paced back and forth, almost silently, as he considered his next move. “The young woman, Watson, she is part of this story, though I am not sure as yet how she fits. Right now, she is merely part of the locale. Come, the sun is shining. Let us inform our Soliti Ignoti of what has transpired and enlist their aid in finding the woman. Our own Gabriele is said to be enamoured of her. Last night, she arrived at the Café Momus dressed in the most expensive attire and accompanied by a rich merchant from the north, possibly England or Germany. Era in carrozza vestita come una regina.”
We found our archangels in their den, a small flat on Via Muzio Clementi. We were in luck. They told us that they knew the young woman and that she had been surviving in the cellar of the Café Momus. Gabriele, in fact, said that he had just seen her as she ventured forth with her paper flowers that morning. She was starved and he gave her some coins with which she bought some bread. She thanked him and said that a great patron of hers had arrived in Italy and was going to take care of her as soon as he arrived in Rome. Then she would repay him. Holmes asked that Gabriele take us to the young woman, and we followed him as he walked quickly toward the Café Momus.
The café was closed, and Gabriele took us to a narrow alley that went to the back. There we saw a broken window through which Gabriele called to the young woman. There was no answer. “She is not here,” said Gabriel.
“I must enter,” said Holmes.
“Very well,” said Gabriele, “we shall stand guard as you break the law.”
Holmes climbed through the window. I watched as he searched the room. He later told me that the articles stored there were the pathetic possessions of someone close to abject poverty: a few tattered shawls, a bonnet, a soft muff, some worn-out shoes, and a thin blanket. There were no clothes that fit the description of those of the night before. As to the rest, there was no bed, only a dirt floor. There was only one piece of furniture, an old chair on top of which was a note, recently written, that read in its entirety:
Amore, arrivo oggi a Roma. Sono solo, senza P. Incontriamoci al più presto possibile. Sarò all’incrocio di Via Margutta e Via Babuino verso le dodici domani. R.
“The note is dated yesterday, Watson, and it is now eleven thirty. If we hurry, we shall watch as our young lady meets her padrone.”
We walked quickly down Via Condotti to Piazza di Spagna. The sun was hot and the snow was transformed into sparkling-clear rivulets that met at the central fountain. The Roman air was as clear as it had ever been. We sat at the Café Margutta, each of us with a large granità di mandorle in front of us.
“No one so far,” said Holmes as he glanced down Via Margutta.
“Here she comes, Holmes, dressed in her rags. And there from Via Babuino, her padrone, no doubt.”
He was a tall, thin gentleman, dressed in a long, light blue coat with velvet trim. His hair was blond, and he wore a long moustache and a goatee which gave his face the form of an almost perfect triangle. A look of recognition passed over Holmes’s face, but he said nothing.
The couple embraced after running towards each other. The man wrapped her in a shawl and hailed a cab. Holmes and I followed them briefly at a safe distance. Their driver went down the Corso, through Piazza Venezia, to the gate of the Villa Orsini, where they left their cab and continued on foot into the villa.
“We won’t follow them for now,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson. The musical aspects of the case now thrust themselves on us. Let us return to Monsieur Murger and our quarters.”
Murger was still asleep on the couch when we arrived. Holmes moved quietly to his bookshelves where he kept his collection of musical scores.
“You will see now, Watson, the value of my collection of opera scores, at least for a first assault on the problem of the two Bohèmes.” I helped him carry the most recently acquired scores from the bottom of an old almirah where he kept them in a large pile.
“Here we have, Watson, all of the major operas of the last decade or so, in both orchestral and piano scores. And here are the two delivered to Puccini and Leoncavallo. We remove as well their own operas from the pile, leaving us with the composers whose work is well known to the public and among whom we may find the culprit. The composers are Boito, Catalani, Cilea, Mascagni, Zandonai, and Giordano. We have twenty scores here, all of which I intend to read through rapidly to find the author of the two fraudulent ones.”
“Holmes, I flatter myself even if I say that I am musically illiterate, but I have no idea what you are looking for. What indeed are you looking for? These are only so many names, none of which is known outside Italy,” said I, with the full intention of annoying him.
“Very simple, my dear fellow. You are letting your concern over your admittedly tin ear detract from your reason, and reason always wins in the end. In the realm of art and music, it is reason that rules, and the rules that operate are those of observation and deduction, as they do everywhere Let us see if I can cast some light on the present problem. You agree, initially at least, that the culprit—what shall we call him, this ingenious rogue who can mimic, forge even, the art of Italy’s greatest composers? Let us call him Cagliostro, after the great charlatan—must be a composer in his own right, one of great talent at least, schooled in all the musical disciplines: harmony, counterpoint, and orchestration. In this case, he must also have the ability to compose his own libretti, or he must have one who is complicit in his misdeeds, shall we say.”
I decided to flaunt my knowledge, meager as it was, and use some of the oddments about music that I had collected by questioning him. “But only one composer has written his own libretti and that was the German Richard Wagner.”
“Indeed, old boy, but you noticed quickly that I have omitted all composers who are not Italian.”
“And why is that? Surely they would be competent.”
“Competent is an excellent term to describe what might be the work of someone foreign to Italy who attempted to forge an Italian opera. The attempt would fail miserably. The scaffolding would be there but not the individual creative impulse. It would be the equivalent of a Rembrandt trying to be a Michelangelo. It would be immediately discovered. Despite their abilities, composers such as Massenet, Bizet, Charpentier, even Wagner, could not pull it off. Their individual ‘sound’ would give any one of them away. Also, there would be little motive, whereas among the It
alians one could predict without exaggeration a certain rivalry, shall we say?”
“But Holmes, what about the similarity of some of Dvořák’s Rusalka to Puccini’s La Rondine? Isn’t there an aria—Doretta’s, I believe—that comes close to being a copy by Puccini of Dvořák’s melody?”
“You astonish me, old boy, you have been listening and learning. You raise a valid point, however. The answer is simple: It is the use of the piano as an orchestral instrument that marks this similarity, nothing more.”
Holmes was silent for a moment, and I thought that he might wish to be alone when he said, “I thank you, old fellow, for your questions. Please note once more that I have excluded Verdi from the list, though musically he is as qualified as the others. But he is old and unconcerned with other people’s work. Leave me now, for I have precious little time to consider this problem before we go to meet its creator.”
Holmes was soon lost in his scrutiny of the scores piled in front of him. Every so often he would stand up from his work and pace through our sitting room, but he said nothing. It was only after about five hours of intense effort that he said, “I am getting close, Watson, and I am pretty sure that I have identified the culprit. And I know his motive. Let me work a little longer and I will test my solution on you.”
I watched him as he took a last few notes. “Come, Watson, and listen to my solution to this musical puzzle. My method has been simplicity itself: to find in the Bohème forgeries and in the forger’s own published opera music, as well as in the compositions of the other leading composers, similar musical usages of such rare occurrence that the forger himself unwittingly might have allowed them to appear in the stolen music. In some instances he may have baited his hook consciously in order to tease and mislead, thereby throwing the investigator off the track. Now, as I expected, that no such rarities occur in the works of Catalani, Cilea, Mascagni, or Zandonai is no surprise, since the caliber of their work is far below that of Puccini and Leoncavallo. I must say that I am surprised that Mascagni is out on the first round. While his music is pleasant, it shows no élan, and beyond Cavalleria there is only Iris, of which there is little to be said.”
