Aria to Death

by Nupur Tustin

  It took Haydn a moment to comprehend. He nodded slowly, grateful for the suggestion. For Kaspar’s sake, he would have hastened to Vienna, but the prospect of traveling to the capital seemed far less pleasing now. He had no desire to encounter his sister-in-law.

  But if Maria Anna would consent to go on her own, he might still be of service to Kaspar without—He turned to his wife as another painful flutter afflicted his chest.

  “Her Serene Highness will be traveling back to Vienna before long. She will not object to your accompanying her.”

  “Go on my own! Unaccompanied by my husband!” Maria Anna rose to her feet, her hands on her hips. “What harm have I ever caused you that you would wish to humiliate me so, husband?”

  “It was not to offend you that we made the suggestion, sister-in-law.” Johann seemed just as taken aback by Maria Anna’s outburst as Haydn. “Your going, you see, could also benefit a friend of ours. Kaspar—”

  “Yes, Papa did mention his recent bereavement.” Maria Anna sat down again. “But the funeral is over.” She snorted. “Do not tell me Kaspar wanted you to travel all the way to Vienna to attend his uncle’s funeral? He might have known it would not be possible.”

  “He wanted no such thing—” Haydn began, only to be interrupted.

  “Poor man!” Maria Anna shook her head. “To have his expectations thwarted so.”

  “But his inheritance?” Johann protested. “Why, the music his uncle bequeathed him—”

  “Is unlikely to be of any value.” Maria Anna settled herself back against the wooden spindles of her chair and folded her hands on her lap. “Papa said so himself. The old merchant was forever going on about some old operas he had discovered. Always in his cups, mind you. The lost operas of Monteverdi! Whatever next?”

  * * *

  “Fabrizzio?” Wilhelm Kaspar rose hesitantly from his seat to greet his unexpected visitor. “You say you knew Onkel Dietrich?” He gestured toward the shabby emerald-green armchair in front of the porcelain stove. It was a chilly day and his visitor, rather too warmly clad for a Viennese spring, might be more comfortable seated near the fire.

  “You met him, I suppose, on his travels to Italy,” he continued once his visitor had settled himself against the worn embroidered cushions on his chair.”

  “My father counted Wilhelm Dietrich a good friend,” Fabrizzio replied. To Wilhelm Kaspar’s tired eyes, he seemed like a young Hercules, basking in the radiance of his youth. “They were more than just business associates,” his visitor continued with a discreet glance at his surroundings.

  Wilhelm Kaspar’s eyes followed his, noticing anew the damp patches against the ceiling, the faded floral design on the walls, the threadbare carpet. What must Fabrizzio, in his silk shirt, with ruffles all the way down to the edge, and gold waistcoat, think of this poor apartment?

  He stifled a sigh. The money from the music, if there was any left once Amelie’s baths and medicaments had been paid for, might allow for something to be done.

  Fabrizzio’s eyes returned to Wilhelm Kaspar’s features. “I had hoped to renew my acquaintance with your uncle, but…” He spread his hands wide.

  Wilhelm Kaspar inclined his head at this gesture of condolence. A brief period of silence prevailed. He cleared his throat and began to speak again: “Your father—”

  “I regret to say is no more.” Fabrizzio pulled himself forward, his long fingers clasping the ends of the armrests. “It was some years back. He spoke often of your uncle on his deathbed, recalling their shared interest in music.”

  Wilhelm Kaspar’s eyes widened. “Your father collected music?” he repeated slowly. God in heaven, could there be something after all to the strange tale his uncle had so readily believed? “Why, it must have been he who introduced my uncle to the printer who sold him Monteverdi’s music!”

  “Ah, that!” Fabrizzio’s thumb gently stroked the short glossy tuft of beard on his chin, his gaze fixed on the carpet. “There was a printer, yes.” He continued to regard the worn carpet. “Father often recounted the tale to us, but”—he raised his eyes—“it was Wilhelm Dietrich who introduced the man to him.”

  He leant back, holding Wilhelm Kaspar’s eyes in a pensive stare. “Whether Father set any store by the tale, I don’t know. I suppose if he had, he would have bought the music himself.”

  Wilhelm Kaspar paled. “Then, the bequest…” Was it so completely without value? But how could that be? The attempt on the chest suggested otherwise, surely? Besides, Herr Anwalt himself was convinced of its value.

  “Forgive me! I should not have spoken so plainly. Your aunt did mention your bequest to me.” Fabrizzio looked contrite. “Wilhelm Dietrich must have had the music authenticated,” he continued in a rush. “What man of the world could fail to do otherwise?”

  “I…er…” Wilhelm Kaspar’s voice faltered. Onkel Dietrich had done no such thing as far as he was aware. What could have possessed the old man to buy such a parcel of old scores? And what must he have paid for it?

  Fabrizzio propelled himself forward again and looked earnestly into his host’s eyes. “I would be happy to authenticate the works for you myself, if it has not yet been done. The possibility of your bequest containing the lost operas of the great master are very slim. But there may be some merit in the music, nonetheless.”

  He gazed out at the overcast skies and yellow building visible through the parlor window. “I must confess as a music scholar, it quite intrigues me. This possibility of re-discovering works long held to be lost. But no…” He shook his head ruefully. “It is unlikely to be the case.”

  He turned from the window. “There is news of the Empress having procured two such works herself. You will have heard of it, no doubt.”

  Wilhelm Kaspar nodded wordlessly, his expectations ruptured. He had, until this moment, been counting on selling the works to no less a personage himself. He attempted to buoy himself up again.

  “If two such works have been discovered, why should not the rest come to light?”

  “Ah, yes!” Fabrizzio steepled the fingertips of his hands together. “But Her Majesty’s source claims to have unearthed them all.” He paused before continuing. “Still, there may be hope yet. If you will but allow me to examine the works.” His eyes searched the room, coming to rest upon an old bureau standing near the small clavichord.

  Wilhelm Kaspar hesitated. Perhaps, Fabrizzio meant no harm. But how could he entrust his inheritance to a man he had just met? A man so adamant the bequest was without value; yet so eager to examine it?

  His fingers closed nervously upon the edge of his seat. If only he had heeded Herr Anwalt’s advice to put the music in safekeeping. The lawyer had warned him another attempt might be made upon it.

  “The scores are not here,” Wilhelm Kaspar uttered the lie hastily. “My lawyer has charge of them and has already arranged for them to be authenticated.” Would to God, Haydn could come to him!

  “Oh!” A flash of annoyance seemed to flicker across Fabrizzio’s features. He shrugged lightly. “Well, it had best be done soon, then.” His dark eyes bore into Wilhelm Kaspar’s. “Before Her Majesty acquires the same works from another source.”

  * * *

  “Her Majesty harbors some doubt as to their authenticity, then?” Haydn twisted his head to one side. The green silk curtains had been drawn aside and the glare of the late morning sun streaming into the comfortably furnished alcove was making him squint.

  The Kapellmeister had come prepared to broach the rather delicate matter of a leave of absence to his employer, only to be informed the Empress required his presence in the capital.

  Prince Nikolaus Esterházy shrugged, his eyes still on the thick white notepaper in his hand. “She appears to have bought the music on a whim.” He glanced up, his hand falling to his lap to reveal a glimpse of the imperial crest embossed in gold on the paper. “Her Majesty likes the arias well enough. If it were just for herself, it would matter little if the music turned out to be penned by
some lesser-known composer.”

  “But her source claims these works were authored by no less a personage than Monteverdi?” Haydn’s mind was still struggling to grasp the situation. The implications for poor Kaspar did not bear thinking of.

  The Prince shrugged again. “A cursory examination has excited no suspicions as to that fact. But the man claims to have several more such works, and His Imperial Majesty, Archduke Joseph, is naturally reluctant to expend any more gold on them without verifying his claim. Her Majesty could think of no one more qualified than you, Haydn, to undertake the task.”

  “Ach so.” Haydn nodded. His eyes drifted toward the cypress trees laid out along the paths of the palace gardens behind them. It was only to satisfy her son, the Emperor, that Her Majesty was calling upon his services, then?

  Would it be wise to mention Kaspar’s inheritance? He had intended to do so, certain the prospect of acquiring the works of an old master would hold sufficient appeal for his employer to allow him to travel all the way to Vienna to examine the bequest. But in the light of this unexpected development—

  “We shall remove to Vienna at once, Haydn. The entire household must prepare to go.”

  “The entire household?” Haydn’s voice rose. Was there to be no respite from Elisabeth Dichtler?

  “All the musicians, the singers, even Frau Dichtler,” the Prince hastened to clarify, evidently mistaking the look of consternation Haydn directed at him. “Your presence in Vienna need not disrupt your preparations for Eszterháza.”

  “No. Indeed not.” Haydn’s eyes were drawn toward the window again. He thought he had caught a glimpse of the soprano herself. Frau Dichtler, clinging to the Estates Director’s arm, appeared from one of the broad avenues. Haydn lips tightened. He averted his gaze.

  “Her Majesty has expressed a desire to see the works performed if they should prove to be genuine.” The Prince was still speaking. “Under your direction, I might add. And that being the case, it should not be too difficult to arrange for the Esterházy troupe to be a part of the production.”

  “It would be an honor indeed,” Haydn murmured. He could still see the soprano and the Estates Director out of the corner of his eyes.

  The Prince looked at him curiously, then twisted his head over his shoulder to glance out the window.

  “If she can satisfy the Empress with her performance, it may well be our opportunity to rid ourselves of that woman.” His tone was so enthusiastic, Haydn stared at him, scarcely able to credit his ears.

  * * *

  Haydn was about to make his way to the West Wing staircase when the arched oak-paneled door leading to the palace grounds opened behind him. The Estates Director entered the hallway with Frau Dichtler’s slender form draped around him.

  “You will give my proposition some thought, won’t you, my dear Peter?” the singer pleaded through pouting lips.

  The Estates Director must have noticed the Kapellmeister staring at him for he struggled to disentangle himself from the soprano. He need not have troubled himself. The singer, turning her head to follow the direction of his gaze, released her hold on him as soon as she espied Haydn.

  She swept up to the Kapellmeister and regarded him, head tilted to one side. “Did you come down in search of me, Herr Kapellmeister? Well, I am flattered. Here”—she offered Haydn her arm—“You may escort me up to the Rehearsal Room.”

  Haydn ignored the proffered arm. “I was on my way to the Music Room, Frau Dichtler,” he said somewhat stiffly. “But Luigi—Herr Tomasini—and the orchestra await you in the Rehearsal Room.”

  The Estates Director cleared his throat noisily. “Now that the Kapellmeister is here, I would like a word with him myself. In my office, if you please,” he added when Haydn looked his way in surprise.

  “Oh!” Frau Dichtler regarded the two men for a moment, then gathered up her skirts and flounced off with a toss off her head.

  “What was it you wished to see me about?” Haydn enquired once they were in Rahier’s office. He would ordinarily have resented this unexpected intrusion upon his time, but the Estates Director’s request had at least saved him from having to endure Frau Dichtler’s presence.

  Rahier drummed his fingers on his cherry wood desk, appearing to have trouble meeting the Kapellmeister’s eyes.

  “It is about Herr Dichtler,” he said finally. “Would it be possible to spare him—only for a few days, you understand? He is needed in Vienna—”

  “Is this the proposition Frau Dichtler asked you to consider, Herr Rahier?” Haydn was outraged. It was not the first time the Estates Director had presumed to tread upon areas that were by rights within the Kapellmeister’s purview. “Were you to secure a leave of absence for her husband? Why—”

  “Herr Kapellmeister!” Rahier held up his hand. “It is on my account that Herr Dichtler will be traveling to the capital. There are some important business matters that must be attended to,” he explained in response to Haydn’s questioning frown.

  “And you would charge Herr Dichtler, a mere singer, with these matters?” Haydn raised an eyebrow. Did the Estates Director take him for a fool?

  Rahier inspected his desk with pursed lips for a moment before raising his head at last. “An opportunity to purchase some items of considerable value has come into my hands. The gentleman in question”—he waved a hand in the direction of the open window—“ is reluctant to let them out of his sight without receiving a substantial assurance.

  “Herr Dichtler has offered to examine the items on my behalf and procure them should they prove to have any merit.”

  “He possesses the ability to assess the value of such items?” Haydn allowed his skepticism to ring through.

  The Estates Director’s pale cheeks turned crimson. “I would imagine a singer might know something of music.”

  “You have an interest in collecting music?” Haydn’s jaw nearly dropped at the revelation.

  “Well if you must know, it is for His Serene Highness.” Rahier sounded irritable. “I hope to present them for his collection if the items are of any worth.”

  “Indeed!” Haydn rose to leave. “You may count yourself fortunate, then, Herr Rahier. His Serene Highness wishes the entire household to move to Vienna. You may still have the opportunity to peruse these items”—he could not help emphasizing the words—“for yourself.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “The entire household to go to Vienna!” Luigi followed Haydn into the Music Room. “What could you have said to His Serene Highness to persuade him to that course of action?”

  “It was not I—” Haydn began to say, but his Konzertmeister, bent over the fortepiano in the middle of the room, continued to speak.

  “It is a welcome opportunity to be sure, but hardly necessary, Joseph.” With his long fingers, Luigi executed a rapid tremolo on the keyboard before turning to face the Kapellmeister.

  “I would gladly have taken over all your tasks in the interim. With Johann here, it would have been no trouble, I assure you. As for Frau Dichtler”—the Konzertmeister’s hand swept through the air—“Why, all she needs is a firm, guiding hand.”

  A shadow fell over Haydn’s face at the soprano’s name. “Were it my decision, I would happily have left her in your care. But His Serene Highness’s mind was already made up. Prompted no doubt by Her Majesty’s request for my presence in the capital.”

  He gestured toward the silk-covered armchairs embroidered with pale pink hyacinths that stood near the window. When they were both seated, he briefly imparted the substance of his conversation with the Prince.

  “Her Majesty’s interest bodes well for our Kaspar, wouldn’t you say?” Luigi gently stroked the long brown hairs of his beard with his thumb.

  “Does it?” Haydn pursed his lips, his eyes staring vacantly at the petals of the embroidered hyacinth on his Konzertmeister’s armrest. His gaze shifted abruptly up to Luigi’s face. “Where was it that you met the old merchant?”

  “In a tavern the cour
t musicians often frequent. Why—”

  “The wine had loosened his tongue, then, when he told you his unusual story? About the monk,” Haydn explained, noticing the befuddled expression on Luigi’s face.

  “On the contrary, he seemed quite sober.” The Konzertmeister appeared to be trying without much success to make sense of Haydn’s questions. “The illness that took him was already upon him. He could have drunk no more than one glass of wine.”

  “He did not appear to be…” Haydn frowned. What was it Papa Keller had said in his letter to Maria Anna? “It was no idle boast, then?”

  “An idle boast?” Luigi stared at Haydn.

  “To impress you. A musician connected with the Esterházy family, temporarily in the employ of the Archduke Joseph.”

  Luigi’s eyes widened. “Surely you do not believe Wilhelm Dietrich would knowingly leave his only nephew an assortment of music with no value, Joseph? Why, he was quite concerned about poor Kaspar’s predicament!”

  “Then why not simply leave him money?” Haydn murmured. He turned toward the window. A pleasantly warm breeze blew in, redolent with the fragrance of just-ripened peaches and the heady scent of the cherry blossoms from the trees dotting the slopes of the Leitha Mountains.

  “Well…” Luigi shrugged, apparently at a loss for words.

  “And he spoke quite freely of it—this music he possessed?” Haydn’s head slowly pivoted to where Luigi sat. “In a tavern where all could hear?”

  “I doubt anyone heard us speak,” Luigi dismissed the suggestion. “The old man spoke in such muffled tones, I had trouble hearing him myself though I sat not more than two paces from him.”

  “Hmmm…” Haydn drummed his fingers restively on his armrest.

  Luigi leaned forward. “It was not through him that anyone learnt of Kaspar’s bequest, Joseph.”