Nightingale

by Juliet Waldron

  "Sir Count," Akos said firmly, rising to his feet, his eyes locked upon his adversary. "The most beautiful song of the nightingale cannot be sung unless she is released into the perfect freedom of love."

  "So your little parable asserts." His gaze stung as it measured and appraised.

  "Sir, I entreat you." Klara too rose, and then bowed before him. For an instant, gazing into that familiar face, through all the rage of injured pride and ownership, Klara caught a glimpse of the something else. It was a thing Max doubtless wanted to hide – grief!

  "Well, well," he said, with a brusque wave, "why make a performance of this? I give you leave to marry. Still, 'tis a pity, opera will be deprived of one of her glories, and a premier nightingale will leave her many admirers. Have you no fear, sir," and here he addressed Akos, "that without the nourishment of an audience’s adoration, this rare bird may starve?"

  "There will be no dearth of applause for Fraulein Silber, even in our eastern wilderness," Prince Vehnsky said. "The noble families of Hungary, Slovakia and Bohemia will hereafter receive the blessing of her talent." From the assembled gentry of those conquered and colonized lands, came a soft but unmistakable murmur of pleasure.

  "When we have occasion to travel to our provinces, we shall look forward to hearing you, Fraulein," said Prince Joseph. He seemed relieved that this potentially distasteful scene was resolving quietly.

  "I shall myself remain at Vienna until after Easter," Prince Vehnsky said. "After that time I shall retire to Komoram with my household." His speech decisively swept the newly declared couple under his wing."

  ***

  Shortly after, the Crown Prince and his retinue departed. From every side, jeweled hands were extended and kissed. Klara curtsied, barely seeing. She hardly dared believe it was over – her choice! For what she hoped would be the last time in her life, Klara kissed the air above Count Oettingen's hand.

  "You, sir," the Count murmured to the man beside her, his voice like velvet, "have no idea of the ruin this night's work will bring upon that which you profess to love."

  "It is my intent to cherish and honor this lady, sir." Akos had heard the threat in the Count's words, one he could not overlook, so he added, "I hope I do not understand that your intent towards the object of our mutual reverence differs from mine?"

  "You forget to whom you speak, sir!" The Count was coldly furious. "My intentions are nothing for a mere musician to pass judgment upon! So hear me, Maria Klara Silber! You may find that freedom for which you have beaten your wings so loud to be, in the end, the death of you! A cage is the safest place for a rare bird. I charge you, remember what I say."

  His gaze almost froze her soul. Still, at the same instant, it seemed as if he was withering, like a plant touched by frost. He seemed to be aging right before her eyes.

  "Herr Count Marshall…." The bass rumble of Prince Vehnsky’s voice was heard, but he was not allowed to finish.

  "Let us waste no more time upon servants. And I thank you, sir, for a rare entertainment, a pinnacle of musical art. Now, Your Highness, allow me to petition you."

  Vehnsky raised a salt-and-pepper brow, but extended his hand in a gesture of permission. The Count stepped forward and they moved away into a private discussion.

  The remaining audience remained where they were, still as statues, watching, forming a glittering tableaux of white and silver.The orchestra, too, might have been made of stone. Klara and Almassy stood together, he in his red and black livery, she in the soft gray dress of the Nightingale. Her hand rested lightly in his, but in spite of this safest of all places, she was assailed by an overwhelming dread.

  What was that serpent saying to Vehnsky?

  At last they turned to face the audience again.

  "With your permission, Your Highness," Oettingen said. When the Prince nodded, he snapped his fingers and one of his private guard marched forward. At his master's feet, he went down upon one knee, and held up a purse, which Oettingen accepted.

  Holding the purse high, the Count addressed the room. "This opera shall never be repeated, never heard upon this earth again. It shall be preserved in the memories of those privileged to be the guests of your house, these noble, true connoisseurs."

  When everyone's gaze was fixed upon the purse, Oettingen said, "Kapellmeister Mozart and his talented son may approach."

  Leopold and Wolfgang came from the orchestra, and, as one, bowed low. Leopold's face was as a mask, as any other principal of this drama. Wolfgang too looked wary, but curiosity at once began to take precedence.

  "This contains thirty gold Louis d'Or." Oettingen addressed the men bowing before him. "I have offered it as recompense for the score to His Highness, but he has graciously instructed me to present this purse to you." The purse was lowered into Leopold's hand.

  "Your generosity, and the generosity of His Serene Highness, is far beyond the bounds of our humble expectation, Most Noble Herr Count."

  "Perhaps not," Oettingen lifted his hand and at once his servants began to pass through the orchestra, swiftly gathering up the scores. A kind of anticipatory shudder went through the assembly. One by one, the soldiers in their blue uniforms went to the enormous white and gilt corner stoves and tossed the manuscript in. For a moment, as the doors opened, a blue glow was visible, like the sun going down over the frozen alps.

  All attention turned to the Mozarts, but neither father nor son so much as twitched. Oettingen's eyes narrowed. He seemed disappointed by so much sangfroid on their part.

  Klara covered her face with a hand, trying to hide the tears. It seemed quite unbearable to be the cause of such terrible, wanton destruction.

  He cannot have vengeance against me, so he obliterates the handiwork of genius! While professing to be a connoisseur, Max is an abominable vandal!

  The audience gaped, but Wolfgang astounded the room with a speech accompanied by another low bow.

  "Most noble Count, Amor Vincit Omnia is also my motto."

  Count Oettingen permitted himself a frosty smile at the young man.

  "Musician and gentleman alike have sacrificed upon the altar of Venus tonight." The Count turned and spoke to the room, then turned and gestured at Klara. "Blood runs at the feet of the goddess."

  Mozart and his more than usually white-faced father bowed low again. After accepting their homage, the Count offered a crisp military bow to Prince Vehnsky.

  The Prince said, "Your approbation, Count, that of a justly famous connoisseur, places the final seal of perfection upon my musical evening. I thank you."

  A few words, too low to overhear passed between these high and mighty gentlemen, and then the Count swept from the room, straight through a path hastily made by the audience. He did not pause except when he passed Madame Wranitzsky, whose arm he collected. They exited together.

  Vehnsky inclined his massive bewigged head. He made a small gesture towards his Major Domo, who bowed low and then lifted his wand of office.

  "The players, singers and orchestra, are thanked for their services and now may depart." Then, as the room bent the knee for him, the Prince and his Major Domo and all other members of his entourage, went through the path the Count had earlier made.

  As the gilt doors swung closed behind the Prince and his people, the Mozart father and son joined Klara and Almassy. Manzoli came along too, trailing behind Florian and Adele.

  "For a moment I thought he was going to kill one of us," Wolfgang said.

  "He can afford to wait," Manzoli said grimly. "We'll be meeting with him, I'm sure, one by one, and in lonely places."

  "A thought not exactly conducive to good cheer, Signor," Leopold Mozart said dryly. "We shall be on our way tomorrow, straight back to Salzburg."

  Wolfgang, hitherto the model of adult behavior, let out a boyish groan.

  "A good idea." Manzoli looked glum, utterly weary. Like the Count, he seemed, Klara thought, to have aged years in the course of the evening.

  "Good bye, my darling Prima Donna Maria Klara Si
lber." He drew her close for a quick kiss on each cheek. "The nightingale had better take flight into the forest as fast as she can. God go with you, and may He be armor sufficient."

  "Signor," Klara began, but as soon as Manzoli finished speaking, he waddled away, departing with an almost unseemly haste.

  "An unhappy prognostication," Leopold sighed and spoke to Klara."Fraulein Silber, let me say that in all my life and all my travels my ear has never been blessed with such angel song."

  Klara, numb, fetched up a smile. She knew she'd excelled, despite her fear.

  "Concertmaster Almassy, allow me to offer congratulations, too."

  "We thank you for your gracious compliments, Kapellmeister."

  "Now," Leopold said, gazing at Wolfgang, his face settling into stern lines. "Come along, Wolfgang. A word to the wise is sufficient. No dallying."

  "Firste Singerin Silber! Herr Concertmaster!" Wolfgang exclaimed, seizing Almassy's hand. "A delight! An honor! I pray we shall meet again. Perhaps in Graz or Brno – perhaps in Prague!"

  "The honor was all mine, dear sir. Your music is beyond perfection."

  His blue eyes turned to Klara. "Never have I had the delight of writing for such a divinely flexible throat." He swept them an elaborate and playful bow. When Klara, full of affection for him, extended her arms, he came into them and boldly took a kiss from her lips.

  Leopold caught his impetuous son by the arm and drew him away. "A very good night to you both. I believe that under the circumstances a certain agreement between my son and the Prima Donna may be forgotten."

  "Ah, Herr Mozart," Klara said, "a bargain is a bargain. How mean I should think myself to penalize your good fortune!

  "Let it be a small token of our good wishes upon the occasion of your wedding."

  The question remained a shuttlecock for a little longer, but eventually the Mozarts had their way. As they withdrew at last, Almassy slipped an arm around Klara's waist.

  "In another year or so, that boy will play havoc with the ladies."

  "Oh, but his opera! My freedom! Dear Almassy, a kiss seemed like very little in exchange for all that."

  Her lover smiled. "They do have more gold than Prince Vehnsky offered."

  "But how can money make up for such destruction?"

  "I'll wager that only paper, time and ink are lost. You could write out your part and most of the duets you sang, but that astounding boy can remember every note he ever set. Of course, he will complain of the boredom and fatigue, and a cramp in his hand, but I’ll wager he can do it." Akos smiled and stroked Klara's arm, for she was silent. Now, when she might have been full of triumph Klara suddenly felt dizzy. Color drained from her cheeks; her heart knocked against her ribs.

  Yes, she had carried through the plan. She had publicly broken with Max. She had declared her intention to marry, had found a new protector. Nevertheless, for love of the man beside her, she had given up her career in the Vienna! Vienna, the capital of the Empire! The city where, for the last five years, she had reigned supreme….

  Klara's throat constricted. She swayed. If Almassy hadn't been so quick, the faint would have carried her down to the floor.

  ***

  Manzoli caught sight of himself in the mirror, white as a ghost. Feeling ill, he dropped into a chair in a small side room, one that had served the players as a dressing room before the opera. Perhaps he could rest here, just for a few minutes, and gather his forces sufficiently to face the carriage ride home through the cold.

  It did not hasten his recovery when a steward of the house opened the door and Count Oettingen appeared framed within it.

  "See that the Signor and I aren't disturbed, will you, fellow?" The Count's tone was cold.

  As the door closed with a snap, Manzoli shuddered as he dragged himself upright. A long tremor went through his bulk, as if through an immense bowl of jelly.

  "Quite an evening, Signor." The Count’s voice cut, scissors through velvet.

  Miserably, Manzoli inclined his round head. He couldn't meet the Count's eyes.

  "It isn't over, you know."

  Manzoli looked up. The Count's face was at least as white as his, his forehead livid.

  "Don't fret, man. She has simply eluded us in her slippery fish way. A feint in our direction, and then, with a flip of her tail, into the weeds again. You wanted to believe that she would come to her senses; that she would throw over that Hungarian who will lock her up in the middle of nowhere and waste her talent. I confess I wanted to believe that, too, but in my heart I knew she was nothing but a young fool. Well, never fear. She will be safely back in her cage again, and not long from now, either."

  "My Lord!” Manzoli’s voice emerged as a harsh croak. He coughed once, and then fell silent.

  "I shall let them go on their way towards Komoron, but when they get into the forest – well – something will happen. No one will know what, and they may guess as much as they wish, when the Prima Donna Silber sings at next year's Carnival."

  "I believe she is with child, my lord." In spite of his resolve to appear calm, Manzoli could feel beads of sweat trickling from beneath his wig. The Count fingered his dagger in an absently suggestive way.

  "He didn't waste any time, did he? But if she carries it, she will then foal in November or December. That will be plenty of time for her to recover and make an appearance at next season's Carnival opera upon the arm of a forgiving and generous benefactor."

  Manzoli swallowed with difficulty. His throat constricted. “And – ah – Herr Concertmaster?"

  "Tragically, dead. There will be rumors, but who can stop me?"

  "In Prince Vehnsky's land?"

  "Why not? There are some exceedingly empty roads along the way to Komorom."

  "If you kill him, she will not come back to you."

  "She will have no choice. After I have killed him, I will take her to my Villa. She will stay there, weep, and grow a great belly."

  "Are you not afraid she will sicken? She is extraordinarily sensitive."

  "On the contrary, our rare bird isn't so different from the rest of womankind. She will have to set all her energy to bear the child of her martyred lover, if for no other reason than to spite me. It will be the last action she can take on behalf of her beloved."

  Manzoli reached into a sleeve, brought out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  A diabolical analysis, but probably correct.

  "And so then, Signor, if all goes as I imagine, by Carnival next year, you and I shall hear the Nightingale's voice perfected."

  "You – you – will not harm her?"

  "My dear Manzoli!"

  "But if the Concertmaster were to meet his end in such a manner … if Klara were to witness it…." Manzoli stopped and cast a pleading glance.

  "Ah, Maestro!" The Count caught his drift. Once again the icy smile gleamed. It was a smile, Manzoli thought, with less warmth than sun striking Danube ice. "Like the finest of swords, a great artist must be tempered in terrible fires."

  "But – my dear Count!" Manzoli coughed again, anguish closing his throat. "May a sword not be broken in tempering?"

  "Yes, but to make the finest weapon, one final descent into hell must be hazarded."

  Manzoli closed his eyes, tried to suppress the shudder now rising to the surface of his bulk. Silently he prayed to Saint Cecelia – yes, and Apollo and Orpheus, too – oh, protect her!

  "Yes, indeed, Molto Bene Signor." The Count gazed fiercely into a middle distance, where, in his imagination, a glorious future was already forming. "Our Maria Klara shall be tempered. Perfected – or ruined. If she withstands the final trial, at Carnival next we will hear her give voice to a glory only vouchsafed to those who have experienced great passion and suffered great pain. It will be my supreme gift to her, and the sacrifice of the beloved and talented Concertmaster will be the ultimate lesson."

  The terror Manzoli felt as he gazed at the madness before him was overwhelming, but his love for Klara forced a last weak protest to
his lips.

  "My Lord – please – consider. Maria Klara is supremely sensitive. Her health is so fragile. To so oppress such sensitivity, and in a delicate condition…." The words died away, for the Count came close, laid one strong jeweled hand upon the old castrato's trembling shoulder.

  "Come, come, Signor," he said softly, his tone unexpectedly gentle. "Courage, man! Did you not bravely die a death yourself, in order to live for years with glory?"

  Manzoli covered his face and gave way to tears. His fear for Klara mingled with the memory of his own tempering, that time of agony, of near death, suffered for the savage mistress that was Art.

  Guilt flowed just as his blood had, as agony's knife sliced his manhood away. Were the screams he heard his, or were they Klara's?

  "Your sacrifice, brought heaven to earth," the Count declared, breaking into his companion's terrible reverie. Manzoli lifted his head and met Max's gray eyes, eyes that were completely solemn, reverent.

  "I, and others, too, gentlemen of refinement and taste, shall always remember your voice with awe. Baron von Mylsbeck, whose discriminating ear was a model for us all, told me that only you, of all the modern castrati, rivaled the perfection of the legendary il Senesimo."

  "Grazie, my Lord." Manzoli tried to say more, but Max had not finished.

  "And since artists always say that we of the nobility are more generous with talk than with money, well, Signor, here is something for your service to Art."

  A sealed letter was laid upon the table. Without another word, the Count turned away. In the next instant, the heavy polished door closed behind him. Manzoli was left alone with his guilt and the mysterious letter.

  After heaving an enormous sigh, he picked it up. Using one long nail, he carefully lifted the seal and unfolded. As he eagerly perused it, excitement drowned all other emotion. It was a deed to a villa, in his name, clear and unencumbered, set in the mountains of his home province of Campania, far down the sunny boot of Italy. As he read, he learned that the rents of surrounding parcels were part of the gift, intended to sustain the residence.