Arrival
As it turned out, my journey to the Schloss offered a much-needed, albeit short period of calm. Once en route, I found myself in neither mood nor condition to peruse the dog-eared reams of paperwork, messages, and notes I had hastily stuffed into my satchel before leaving. I earlier found myself dithering over the papers piled on my desk, having not known what I might need, or might have missed; and with the carriage already waiting outside, in the end I had decided to take as much as I could. However, the rain-cratered road, and resulting oscillation of said vehicle, punctuated with frequent, sudden jolts which only became more pronounced as we exited the city walls and traversed the verdant, yet discomfortingly unpaved route to the Viceroy’s summer residence, quickly put paid to any idea of reading, whether I had wanted to or not. So, instead of turning myself green in the face with nausea, I steadied my stomach by looking out of the window and staring out across the fields, before turning my attention to those walking to and fro along the track, acknowledging (if I dare admit so) their curiosity about who, precisely, was being carried in such a grand transport. I confess to have quite enjoyed the experience, even if it was over as quickly as it had started.
Almost as soon as we turned into the entranceway, the carriage came to an abrupt halt amid a swarm of valets, porters and others, all going about their business with some urgency. Barely had I alighted and said who I was, than I was swept up the alabaster steps by some junior gentry-person, and into the Schoss itself.
“Ah, Herr Harrys, welcome. I believe everything is in order,” came a voice from beside me, even as I stared around myself like a child in the temple. Whilst I had seen it many times, I had never been able to get used to the grandiose nature of the main entryway; and here I was, essentially, and if you will indulge me for just one moment, its master! The sheer possibility of it was more than I could bear.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” continued the voice, a little more pointedly. I turned to face the neatly coiffured, ruddy-faced, portly gentleman from whom it came. I had already guessed who it was: “I am housekeeper to the Schloss: Herr Schmidt.” Yes, yes, I nodded distractedly. “I trust you have not experienced any last minute… complications?” I did not immediately reply, transfixed as I was still by the sheer opulence of the venue, and my, to be short-lived yet, if I may, astonishing, role within it. Sensing my inability to talk, or perhaps simply having better things to be getting on with, he wrapped up our ‘conversation’ almost as quickly as he had started it. “Should you require anything… at all, speak to one of my staff. It will be a pleasure to… address your needs,” he said, as he went on his way.
I was not paying that much attention. My knees felt quite weak as I stood, on the threshold of the hall, taking it in. Whether this was down to the hall itself, or the fantasy-laden trepidation I felt at the time edging ever-closer towards the event, I could not say. As I stared, mouth agog at the ceiling, its high beams and carvings lavishly coated with gold leaf, walls adorned with ancestral paintings as if the very gods themselves were looking down upon some inner sanctum, I felt a sharp nudge in the ribs. “Either that is you, goodman Laves, or someone is going to miss the performance of a lifetime,” I murmured.
“You actually believe that?” said Ludo, for it was indeed him.
“That it will be the performance of a lifetime, or whether I believe in my powers to eject no-gooders and people of disrepute from this, most holy and sumptuously decorated of venues?”
“Either.”
I paused to reflect, in the knowledge that Ludo would be interested in my answer. “It is a good question. On the former, I am more convinced,” I said.
“You doubt the great virtuoso himself? Have you read nothing?”
Indeed, I had read, seen, and learned a great deal about the great Signor, yes, Paganini. Who hadn’t? Stories were legion, both in their salaciousness and sheer volume: how he had made his mother breathe her final, dying breath into his violin, and her demon rattled within it still; that he’d conducted some business with the devil, which in consequence afforded him some special power over the instrument; or that he’d spent several years in prison, with only his violin for company, having first murdered his wife; that he used her very entrails (or worse, those of innocent children) for strings; that, during his incarceration, he had broken all but the G string, forcing him to play that alone, for months on end. I would have set no store by such tattle, were it not… were it not for the way he appeared, through the sheer power of his music, to have charmed the great and the good across the continent, leaving nothing but awe and wonder behind him. For heaven’s sake, he had already been appointed as Kapellmeister to the King of Prussia, and ‘chamber virtuoso’ by the Austrian Emperor; he was recently bestowed the Order of the Golden Spear by Pope Leo himself, latterly given to a very young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and let me say, an unlikely honour for one who had dealt with the devil, by my reckoning!
I rather surmised the opposite to be true. Some commentators have been saying that he is no more than a charlatan, someone who looks to impress himself upon any court, any which way, and seeks only to obtain a patronage. In the months, weeks and days up to the seance itself, I considered this scenario to be a more likely state of affairs, than any of the grandiose tales about him. His mercenary behaviour had been widely corroborated, such as his well-documented refusal to visit Dusseldorf, unless several hundred Friedrichs d’Or were guaranteed in advance. What kind of a man, but a complete fraud who is able to manipulate people to his will, does such a thing! From people who claimed to know him well, I had also good reason to believe that he was on the hunt for a minor title, as would befit someone of lower birth who had come into money, through nefarious means or otherwise. All in all, I had little doubt about his weakness of character.
“I told you we should have gone,” whispered Ludo, nudging me again, a little more sharply than he needed to.
I winced. “I couldn’t get tickets!” I hissed.
“Perhaps you didn’t try hard enough.”
“Perhaps you should…”
My voice trailed off. Perhaps, he was right: I could have pulled a few strings, spoken to the right people, but deep down… really deep down, I don’t think I believed a word of it. I imagined, yes, I imagined that he was a dab hand with his instrument, that he could certainly play. But could he play? We had been bombarded by a series of reports of his tour of Saxony, where city after city had fallen for his wiles: “He stands alone as an extraordinary phenomenon, and should be designated as such, and awarded all honours that he deserves… he is a Shakespeare among artists,” effused the usually quite circumspect Merkur of Dresden: for the life of me, I do not know why I distrusted this usually quite reliable source. When he played in court furthermore, the King and Queen of the province had given him 100 ducats, in a fine snuff box, for his efforts. The signs were all there but I remained, resolutely, on the skeptical side of the house. Ultimately, I doubted that it was actually music: more a cleverly presented collection of notes, as per several other, clever yet uninspiring ‘virtuoso’ performers I had seen in my time. Some of whom had been tackling Paganini compositions, I recalled.
“Technique over emotion?” asked Ludo, reading my mind: we had had this conversation many times before. I could only shrug. “At least the ceilings are good, ja?”
“Ha, yes, at least we have that!” I laughed, perhaps, a little too heartily.
We took ourselves to one side, reviewing the layout even as a small horde of quickly moving, smartly dressed younger servants shifted chairs along walls, and marked off alcoves with braided ropes. A low stage had been installed at one end, extending to the right, I envisaged, to provide a suitable vantage point (and appropriately well-cushioned seating) for His Royal Highness, the Prince Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge, and his (no doubt considering themselves to be highly deserving) cronies.
All being well in this department, we then looked to confirm entrances and exits, above all so as to avoid future possible complaints. Certain among every audience was always a small handful of people who would be, if you could pardon the pun, a handful: whilst some would be happy whatever the circumstances, this small group would not tolerate any discomfort, and furthermore, would be the first to announce their displeasure to all and sundry. Not for the first time, I briefly asked myself why I bothered organising such events; even though I knew it would be worth the effort, barring some unpredicted disaster.
Following a handful of such cursory, yet necessary checks, we engaged Herr Schmidt to confirm the remaining pieces were in place, and tie up any loose ends. Apart from a single, momentary panic, quickly resolved, with regard to the sanitary facilities, we had to accept the fact that all was in place, or as in place as it could be. The Housekeeper informed us that artists and performers were already in situ, being fed and looked after in rooms set aside for the purpose. Meanwhile he, the name at the top of the bill, had just arrived, said Schmidt, who noted that his associate had requested an assurance of no visitors. But he is an arrogant soul, I thought, outwardly extending feigned calm and disinterest even as I felt nothing but disdain.
Either with impeccable timing, or from diligent planning on the part of the housekeeper, as our conversation ended, several servants arrived, carrying trays stacked with prepared plates of finger food, for myself, for Ludo and the other organisers. Having been handed a plate of my own, I found my gaze lingering over the luxurious seating now installed at the right of the stage, before I took myself off to an alcove, picking up a single-page programme from a box as I passed. Thus ensconced, and perhaps for the first time in days, I could relax, or at least should have been able to do so. Even though I had checked and re-checked the programme several times before, I could not stop myself scanning it for errors: I found none, to my relief, though I would not have been at all surprised to have spotted a single, misspelt word or a grammatical faux pas, even at this late stage (is it not the burden of any journalist to know that, despite repeated checking, there is always one that goes unnoticed and uncorrected, right up to the point at which type is set, to the collective horror of all involved?).
Of the content of the programme itself, I was less concerned, even if I might have hoped, deep down, for something, should I even utter the thought within the confines of my own head, less, perhaps, provincial? For a moment, even this music lover found himself washed over by a wave of doubt. As well as his Highness’ own progeny, of course, the first half was made up of local, and therefore familiar names, who would perform perfectly adequately, even if they lacked, dare I say, pizzazz. I wished we could create as inspiring an event as might be seen as normal in Paris or Vienna… but Hanover, still licking its wounds after a series of knocks, could not hold a candle to these capitals. And that was without taking the audience into account: even if such events, held with the best of intentions, did contain a musical revelation or two, their few pearls generally found themselves cast before uneducated, and frequently ungrateful swine. Ah well, I thought, casting my eyes across Paganini’s own section: he will put on his show, as well he must, perhaps bringing something approaching charisma: he was opening with a solo from his Sonata Sentimentale, on a single string; then his grand concerto, before the break; then then a military sonata, before a finale of variations. Some, though not all of these pieces, I had heard before, and they were not totally to my liking but, now that the die was set, I was prepared to keep a open mind. Let’s see what the man has to offer, I thought to myself.
Duly sated and my work complete, I had little to do beyond make small talk with the arriving guests, several of whom I knew through similar events; and to stake out my own ground to the left of the stage. Wiser members of the audience had already started to trickle in, lest they be stuck behind a pillar: I was content to note that these people, too, attempted to advance with necks craned towards the ceiling, occasionally bumping into each other as they did. From snatches of conversation, I gathered that several had attended the Italian’s performance two evenings before. “He is a master of his art,” I overheard. “You will not believe it possible, what he manages to play.” I only hoped he could impress as well as he could entertain, I said to Ludo, who was once again at my side.
We were nearly à l’heure. A final conversation with Herr Schmidt, intended to confirm that proceedings could start, found itself curtailed by the increasing volume of chatter in the hall: whilst inwardly groaning about what this might mean for the performances, I contented him with a nod that all was well; following which, I knew from his previous instructions, the doors were to be closed with the instruction to turn away any latecomers. After a short pause, a silence descended as the Prince himself entered the room, followed by a smattering of honestly meant, yet gentle applause. I was the first to join in: I have had the pleasure of serving His Excellency these past years, on and off, as he has required my assistance in his writing activities; and I know him to be a kindly yet practical man, with an easy demeanour all too common in military types, as though anything that civilian life could bring was water off a duck’s back, compared to what might be sustained on the battlefield. I watched as he and his family seated themselves in comfort, shuffling and talking amongst themselves: I bore them no ill will, despite myself having to stand — after all, it was at His Grace’s pleasure that this event could take place at all. The malingerers taking the chairs around him were another matter, however. These idiot courtiers had done little, if anything, to gain the positions bestowed on them, yet they acted as though the world owed them a favour. I could not help but grunt my irritation.
“A problem?” asked Ludo.
“Toadies,” I whispered.
“You are only jealous,” he murmured back, without catching my eye. For the life of me, I could not tell if he was being serious. No matter: the séance was about to begin.