First Acts
A hush descended upon the room. Whilst I don’t want to inject too many clichés into this discourse, if I may, this was a moment for which clichés were designed: the air, as it was, could have been cut by a knife. The mostly standing audience exhaled thick anticipation, its collective sense of hungry expectation softened only by the stark reality that it would have to wait through several, no doubt competent, yet impatience-fuelling performances, before the pièce de résistance se revelait.
From a side door into this, honey-ladled atmosphere, emerged a pretty young thing, demure though no doubt deeply nervous, followed by an older lady I happened to know very well: Frau Noske, a somewhat dour instructor from Hanover’s music conservatory. It was a tradition at such events for its students to gain exposure and experience: their performances, situated at the beginning of the programme, were rarely overwhelming, but generally accepted as good efforts. Audiences were expected to present a modicum of pseudo-altruistic empathy for these participants, and indeed, for their parents, who would invariably attend; nonetheless, any warm feelings (intended or feigned) would quickly dissipate should they be put to the test with a sub-par turn. The good Frau knew this, and would thus assure a level of musical competence that neither went beyond its means, nor dared to outstay its welcome.
The young lady undertook two of Chopin’s preludes, as per the programme: nothing too taxing, and played with competence if somewhat lacking aplomb. We all clapped politely when she finished, of course. She left the way she came in, looking just as nervous as when she entered. No sooner had she passed through the doorway than three violin-carrying young men emerged, looking much more capable, if somewhat disdainful, as if they already deserved to be topping the bill: once correctly positioned, they delivered a surgically accurate, undoubtedly faultless yet altogether underwhelming Bach concerto. The trio had been booked through a recommendation, but failed to inspire (in myself at least) any particular desire to see them again (I glanced at Ludo, who pulled a face as if to reflect what was in my mind’s eye). More polite clapping gave way to a short pause, during which people dared not move, for fear of losing their places. A general hubbub rose. “Bored yet?” I asked Ludo, who smiled beatifically back. Oh, to have his patience, I thought.
Then, to the obvious excitement of close royals and hangers-on but, no doubt, the quiet despair of everyone else, the Prince’s own daughter took the stage. After a valet had arranged her taffeta across the piano stool, the little imp strung together a thankfully short series of carefully selected notes. I rolled my eyes as subtly as I could towards Ludo; he nodded sagely, as might an indulgent parent, or a farmer surveying his field. More applause, this time borne of patriotic goodwill. Thankfully, a clutch of quite talented young singers followed almost immediately, delivering a quick succession of Mozart arias with good humour. The Queen of the Night and the Birdcatcher’s aria from Magic Flute, Un Moto di Gioia and – a personal favourite – Crudel! Perce Finora, from the Marriage of Figaro. Even as the arias began, I felt myself physically relax as, I knew, we had arrived at the more accomplished performances of the day. It would not be long before the big name itself, I realised, as the performers retired. I was not alone: despite the continued presence of His Grace, the whispered hubbub of anticipation steadily grew. The air became warmer, if that were possible in the already quite stifling room; I noticed that I was not alone in reaching for a handkerchief, with which to mop my brow.
An ensemble was gathering on the low stage, including (I noticed) the violinists we had already seen—they would have their chance after all, I smiled. These took their places alongside two cellists, a double bass, a small variety of wind and brass, and a small but noticeable kettle drum. All in all, a as much of an orchestra as the space allowed was tuning its collective instruments, arranging sheets of music and otherwise making their preparations. Of the virtuoso Genoese, however, there was no sign.
Despite my state of relative calm, I felt a certain discomfort. Where on earth was he? Whatever his traits, I decided as the minutes passed, respect for his audiences was not one of them. Prince Adolphus sat stoic, his arms folded, seemingly un-phased by the delay. I glanced at Ludo, nodding my approval at His Grace’s sang-froid at the same time as expressing my disquiet. Ludo pursed his lips, cocking his head towards an altogether more agitated fellow on the other side of the hall. I didn’t recognise the fellow – judging by his dress, he was probably some minor noble’s associate, harking straight from the cantons. “Looks like he missed the chance for a piss,” I whispered to Ludo, leaning my head. Still, and on, we waited: I counted seventeen minutes in all, during which not even the presence of the King’s representative could prevent the noise levels from increasing. Several onlookers started to exchange muttered greetings, apologies and other remarks as they excused their way past each other, heading for the side doors to powder noses and otherwise relieve their tension in the washrooms.
Quite suddenly, the doors at the back of the hall flew open. Barely did one of Herr Schmidt’s staff announce the violinist announced before he had made his way, stride by bird-like stride up the length of the room. With his tousled black hair and long sideburns, and with robes billowing behind him, he did look as close to a raven as a human might, I considered. The already-compressed audience somehow parted to let him through, clapping and making the occasional cry of ‘Hear, hear!’ as they did.
I cannot deny, however, that the ‘great’ Paganini appeared to act more like a school master late for his class than a performer about to play for the King’s representative, agitated and self-conscious rather than composed and deferential. Having managed to reach the front, he mounted the stage in one step, violin clutched in one hand and bow in the other, and immediately bowed. I will not lie about his appearance: as he returned to his full height he looked almost skeletal. His face looked quite sallow, his eyes sunken and skin drawn, his mouth thin and cracked. His fingers were bony, and his hair was lank. He stood awkwardly, a though his gangling limbs were incorrectly attached to his body. Looking at his cadaverous, awkward form, it was easy to see how the satanic rumours that followed his trajectory might have formed and then spread, as they indeed had.
The hollow-cheeked player looked around in some agitation before his eyes lighted on his Excellency, at which point he appeared to physically relax—though his attempt at a smile did nothing to create a more attractive image. He bowed once again, extending his long arms and right leg forward in the most arachnid-like display of respect I had ever seen. “Your Grace,” he said, in a surprisingly high-pitched, almost feminine squeak of a voice. He waited indifferently for the clapping to end, nodded to his accompanists, and, lifting his instrument to his chin, began to play.