“Before it is too late—for other reasons. As a countrywoman, you should realize—you can see that while a man is never past the setting of fruit, he must take care to choose a wife who is sufficiently young, as well as willing—if he desires children. For this purpose, awaiting wisdom in the female is hardly necessary, nor is it advisable. And fruit, after all, is what most agree is Nature’s intent in a union. Fruit, foals, or sons. Or perhaps daughters,” he added fairly.
Though it seemed as if a thorn had pierced her, Charlotte tried to take no more from these words than she supposed they had been intended to convey. She had attempted, and failed, to produce either sons or daughters. Yet could this be all one hoped for, in marriage?
“You give a useful warning, I’m sure,” she replied at length. “Though at twenty-five, I believe I still have a year or two left, to decide. But let’s return to rosebuds, Richard. A man who waits overlong to gather his own might find himself in more danger, I think, than a woman who tarries.”
“How so, Carlotta?” her neighbor asked with new interest.
“You see how this rose clings to a much older tree for support, as you recommend. Yet while the rose thrives, her prop appears to falter. I suspect that’s why wild roses very often choose mature subjects. The softening crotch of an old limb offers security and a foothold; and with time, the rose will find even greater encouragement to wander—though this may do damage to the tree. Not what one hopes for in an orchard, I think. Nor in a marriage.”
“A strange metaphor, Mrs. Willett,” Longfellow answered, startled anew by his neighbor’s knowledge of life beyond her own simple hearth. “Shall we, then, eliminate this deadly climber?”
“Perhaps not—for it is pretty,” she returned, again taking in the blossom’s sweet aroma. “But we might agree to put off further talk of marriage … until we’re both a little wiser.”
Longfellow accepted the truce with a nod.
“But Richard, do tell me more about this attractive stranger who has been recommended by Mrs. Montagu—the friend you would have me see tomorrow.”
“There is a man who has broken a heart or two, I would imagine. I would not be surprised if he even pleases a woman as particular and obstinate as you! Though in Lahte’s case—”
Longfellow stopped short. “I only promise, Carlotta,” he continued, “that you’ll be entertained. As long as you refuse to accompany me to the center of the world’s culture—though I’ve assured you I would care for you as a brother—I’m glad to house a part of it here, to give you a small taste of Italy’s many marvels.”
“Will this marvel arrive in time for dinner?”
“He proposes to come at two.”
“Next I suppose you’ll ask me to help with the preparations.”
They exchanged smiles of perfect accord. And soon, after both had taken a last, silent look toward the hilltop, Charlotte led them down the grassy slope, bobbing like a pinnace through parting green waves—leaving dog and man to follow, contented, in her wake.
Chapter 3
Friday, August 16
GIAN CARLO LAHTE did, indeed, arrive as promised the next day.
At two o’clock, a statuesque stranger, exquisitely dressed, was observed by visitors and servants to climb down from a chaise and stand in the rising heat of the Bracebridge Inn’s gravel drive. The gentleman even seemed to strike a pose for them—until the lad who had led his horse and conveyance away came back from the stables pushing a hand-cart, and started to move a brass-studded trunk across the road.
Signor Lahte sent the boy off as soon as they reached the maples near Richard Longfellow’s front door. Once alone, he removed his calfskin gloves. He opened a handkerchief, and flicked a layer of dust from a coat of scarlet silk minutely embroidered in thread of gold, and from a matching waistcoat. While cocking his head to the song of cicadas performing in the whispering leaves above, he dusted lemon-colored breeches and white silk hose, then adjusted a pressed beaver hat over black tresses that fell beautifully about his shoulders. At last, Signor Lahte found time to admire the tall windows and white façade of the house before him. In another moment, its largest door flew open and Richard Longfellow came striding out, his arms held wide with genuine pleasure.
Some time later, as the sun continued to blaze, the two gentlemen sat coatless beneath an arbor of vines above a small flagstone piazza, enjoying an unobstructed view of the village, fields, river, and marshes below. During a pause Longfellow rose and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He casually encouraged Signor Lahte to do the same.
“But what the devil would make you consider settling here?” he finally asked outright, before sitting down again.
“What man could resist such natural beauty?” Gian Carlo Lahte countered. His voice was light and playful, his English quite tolerable. He made a move with his hand, extending his praise from the piazza to the vista before them. “What could be more delightful? Your arbor, full of fruit—the quiet river and dwellings below—the warm sun, and air full of enchanting smells of field and forest pine. How the country soothes one’s senses!”
“The months on either side of our summers are somewhat different. Many feet of snow may then fall onto our enchanting fields and forests, not to mention the roads between. I warn you, Gian Carlo—our little world is not always as kind as you find it today.”
“I have walked on ice many times,” came the guest’s proud reply, delivered as if he remembered these occasions as feats of daring—which caused the others at the table to smile.
While the two continued their banter, Charlotte Willett observed them in silence. Though perhaps forty years of age, Signor Lahte still had a figure whose youthful litheness matched his frequent bursts of enthusiasm. And what wonderful eyes! Light gray and quick, their pupils expanded with little warning, giving one the idea of peering through a window into a dark night. He was clearly intelligent. He also sighed easily, as did many an idle gentleman. But she imagined him capable of a great deal. In short, Gian Carlo Lahte seemed a paradox of easy smiles, carriage, and attitudes, yet also a man whose body had been molded by healthy discipline, and perhaps even rigorous training. But to what end?
“I promise you,” Longfellow insisted, “that come January, our landscape will resemble Stockholm, rather than Milan.”
“Is your blood too thin for this place, my friend?” the Italian then inquired of the venerable figure leaning against the doorway, nearly lost in its shadow.
“As I was born in Boston, sir, I find it just bearable,” Cicero answered quietly.
“Ah—then you are not a traveler? I had supposed …”
“Cicero once accompanied me to England and the Continent,” Longfellow informed his guest. “That was on the occasion of my first tour, but for some unfathomable reason he has since refused to go along. In this, and other things.”
“Years ago I had little choice,” the older man returned dryly. “At the time I was owned by the father of this man—my current employer.”
“Current employer?” Longfellow retorted. “Have you decided to pack your bags again, after all? Should you need assistance, be sure to tell me!”
Signor Lahte hurried on. “I believe that I understand, signor. You serve the aristocracy, much as I have done. At least, we have been asked to use the same doors.”
Cicero’s glance to Longfellow signaled his approval of this diplomatic guest, for manners pretty enough to match his face. The old man then went inside for a plate of cheese and pears.
“I have also seen more to admire here than the landscape,” Lahte added, moving back to his original topic. “Before us, there is a rare calm … a gentleness … an innocence that is a true delight. I suppose any man must find what I see before me a joy in all seasons!”
“Innocence?” Longfellow responded with a chuckle. For some time he had noticed Charlotte’s unusual stillness, though her frequent smiles suggested that she was, as he’d predicted, fascinated. He next observed with interest that she reddened at the com
pliment, though the crafter had been careful to direct his eyes away during his skillful delivery. The rogue possessed an urbane and honeyed tongue, at least. Learning what else he might be capable of promised to make the week ahead a stimulating one.
“Signora,” said Lahte, as he stood and set aside his napkin.
“Yes?” Charlotte replied, her breath quickening.
“I believe I may thank you for engineering our repas?”
“We each collected what we could—and, took courage at the thought that the meals during your recent crossing might have left you a little hungry.”
“If only you knew! A journey full of such horrors! Yet I can almost forget its savagery, having now tasted your delicate gambero di fiume fresco, spiced with cannella … the poulet en mayonnaise … the refreshing insalata, with fresh fungo and dragoncello … stuffed eggs with bold mustard … this peasant bread … magnifico! How could a man not be overwhelmed, by such pleasures of the campagna?”
“While you were in the kitchen with Cicero,” said Longfellow, “I explained to Lahte how the local boys trap crayfish in Pigeon Creek. Of course, Gian Carlo,” he went on, “we thank India and the Company for our cinnamon, and Madeira for this wine. But our bread flour came from the fields before you, and was ground in the village mill you see there—you can make out the roof over the trees. The wood across the way supplied our mushrooms—and as for the chicken, eggs, and cream, the salad and the tarragon, all came from Mrs. Willett’s barnyard, dairy, or kitchen garden.”
“You live like a king, Richard, yet you do not have the trouble of a court,” Lahte sighed, sitting down again at Cicero’s entrance.
“In winter, our tables tell quite another story. If you stay, I promise you’ll make the acquaintance of salt cod and beans. Though I do appreciate your good opinion. I’m sure your appetite has long been satisfied by delicacies only the aristocracy commands.”
“My talent has allowed me to try … many dishes,” Lahte replied, as he deftly sliced into a ripe pear that had been put before him.
Longfellow cleared his throat, then leaned forward to divulge to Mrs. Willett something he had kept from her.
“Signor Lahte,” he said in a confidential tone, “sings. In fact, for many years he has been a wonder of the operatic world. Did I mention this to you before, Carlotta?”
“No,” she whispered back.
“Gian Carlo, will you describe for Mrs. Willett some of your professional ports of call?”
The Italian replied with a flourish of the silver knife he held, before he finished the slice of fruit in his mouth.
“First, madama, Italy; then, the chapel of a duke, in Stuttgart. I moved on to Dresden, while that city drew all of Europe to its bosom, to be nourished by the world’s best music. But then, the Emperor Frederick and his Prussians—and your British, Richard—chased the armies of the rest of the world up and down that land, causing many singers and musicians to flee. Those who were born there could not, of course, leave as easily as the rest, and I have since heard that many fell beside the soldiers of Austria, Sweden, France, Russia….”
Lahte paused to savor another bite of fruit, then shrugged his shoulders with a sad smile before continuing.
“At that time, I was given letters of introduction by Maestro Annibali, a very kind man indeed! Since I had learned some English, I went to London. There it was pointed out to me, as it was to all the rest, that I was not the great god Farinelli! Still, I did well; not only my voice, but my dramatic powers, too, were called remarkable. I was often asked to sing, for the opera, and the oratorios. I also performed for gentlemen in their clubs, where I met a number of lords. Soon, I was invited into their homes … so that I might entertain their ladies, as well. Yet after a time, one wearies of the affections of the great … who are rarely constant. One begins to crave a simpler life. However, I did not wish to bury myself, like Farinelli, in a Bolognese villa, waiting for the final curtain to fall.”
“Too quiet a life?” asked Longfellow.
“As you say. I, myself, settled in Milano for a time, where there is music far better than the usual fare of the provincial teatri.”
“But do you expect to hear anything as fine in this place?”
“No, no! You see,” Lahte explained, leaning forward eagerly while his voice rose with excitement, “when I left Milano, it was to come to the New World! For many of us, the call of your freedom, your liberty, is so strong it becomes like a lovely taste upon the tongue! So, I have come here with great hope, to be far from courts, tyrants, priests—a long way from the Hanovers, the Habsburgs, and their laws that destroy one’s soul. Coming here, I call an end to politics, jealousies, intrigues—an end to life that ignores the ways of Nature. For they are the true things! I have also come to study Science, like you, Richard. And in this new land, I hope to build a home worthy of devotion—even of great love.”
While he spoke, Charlotte watched the movement of Signor Lahte’s hands. She had seen his long, delicate fingers stroke a spoon, toy with a bread basket, caress a wineglass. She could not imagine them gripping a scythe or a hoe, at least ungloved; but then, with wealth enough he would never need to. Yet it was an odd thing in Bracebridge to take no part in bodily labor.
“Science does, indeed, make an exciting mistress,” Longfellow assured him. “One I will happily share with you. But can you give up your previous love altogether? In Boston, you know, they allow no theaters.”
“No music?” Lahte asked, incredulous.
“Oh, we enjoy our music. In fact, the city manages to gather together an orchestra every few weeks, attended by the governor and a few hundred invited guests, who come to dance and otherwise amuse themselves. We also have chamber groups. And I have been lately told that singing masters are on the increase. It seems they improve not only the voices in our choirs, but our singers’ opportunities for courting … though this development has caused some preachers to fear Bacchus himself has come among us! Still, you might share your own knowledge of vocal study, for the sake of the art. And, perhaps, our ears.”
“Possibly,” Lahte replied, his eyes now strangely hooded.
Longfellow relented at last. “Well, then, as a fellow scientist, I will be glad to assist you in settling. As it is, Mrs. Willett and I have far too few intelligent neighbors.”
“Ah, bravo, Richard! What, then, must I do?”
“First, declare your intention to reside to one of our selectmen. Happily, I am one, so that is done. It is we who keep the peace here. We will take your pledge—something most of our villages require of visitors who remain for more than a week or two. I will tell the others that I’ll be responsible for your good behavior; you will vow to behave; the village will assure you that should you ever ask for its charity, it will ship you back to wherever you have legal residence. Though I doubt it would extend to paying your passage back to Milan. I rather think we might arrange to have you dropped by one of Boston’s wharves—”
“This is hardly a way to welcome a man who comes with his pockets full,” Signor Lahte replied with new coolness.
“But there is some sense in it, for it keeps farmers from having to support those who aren’t their own. Most here make just enough to keep themselves in sugar. ‘Charity begins at home, is the voice of the world.’”
“It is certainly the voice of those who have a home.”
“You need not feel alone. Even I have been ‘warned off,’ as the law calls it. Although the good people of Bracebridge have elected me to serve them repeatedly—and at my own expense—they would soon send me back to Boston if I found myself fallen into penury. I believe, however, that we might spare you the usual bond of forty pounds.”
“How kind.”
“As soon as you find property you wish to buy, we will again appraise your character. Finally, you may sign a petition to settle. At that point, you’ll be one of us. More or less. You do know,” Longfellow asked sharply, “that the Church of Rome is held in low regard by the province of
Massachusetts?”
“That, I think, will be no problem, for I have gladly left the Pope and the Vatican behind. Yet I ask you—can talk of government and religion be fitting on such a day? Instead, will you allow me to give payment for my dinner with a song?”
“We would be delighted!” cried Longfellow, his eyes suddenly charged with new life.
With an air of purpose, Gian Carlo Lahte stood. He raised a hand to his brow while composing his thoughts, and inhaled deeply. He gazed at the leafy vines above them … his lips parted … his arm stretched upward … and he sang.
The notes that flew from his throat were borne on a voice so strong, so brilliant and pure, that Charlotte’s lips, too, parted while she watched and listened. She felt her own breast heave as Lahte’s voice soared, unbelievably, angelically, higher and higher—as if it would take her heart up with it. Soft, trembling notes were followed in the same breath by piercing leaps; these in turn gave way to bubbling trills not unlike the magnificent song of a woodland thrush. It was glorious—it was astounding! First tender, then commanding, he continued with an unearthly grace, a peculiar ease. She could hardly imagine how—
Across the stone table, Longfellow saw his neighbor blink rapidly. Then he watched her shudder, as the terrible truth became clear. Observing that moment of knowledge, he even felt a pang himself.
“Cara ed amabile
ombra mai fù
di vegetabile
cara ed amabile
soave più,
soave più”*
Signor Lahte finished the brief aria. Having paid tribute to the ripening grapes above them, and perhaps to something more, he lowered his eyes with a look of pride that soon turned to confusion. He was waiting for Charlotte to speak, but she could not.
“Madama,” he said finally, “perhaps you do not understand what most of Europe knows. I am a musico.”
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