Introduction
Introduction
“To the living, we owe consideration; to the dead, only the truth.” – Voltaire
Chapter 1 - Herrenhausen
Chapter 1 - Herrenhausen
Rain
Rain
The strangest six weeks of my life began with a sunbeam.
Now, before anyone gets carried away with this romantic image, take note that the capricious stream of light, rudely forcing its way through the shutters as it did, brought little succour to the weary, sleep-deprived eyelids upon which it fell. But yes, while I suspected not at the time, its presence would signal the start of a most tumultuous, life-changing period, the consequences of which I am still addressing. And all because… ah, yes. How great can be a man, and yet how broken, both in body and spirit; how visionary, and yet how base; how innately talented, and diligent in one’s art: how able to weave a complex, emotion-laden tapestry of subtlety and depth, and yet, how unable to deal with the many-threaded weft of society, of the body politic, of good financial practice, of personal relationships, of any of the realities he faced. And how, just how true it was, that his greatest strength was also his greatest weakness.
I am talking too fast: “Slow down, Harrys!” as he might, himself, have said. I have all the time in the world, and I should not waste this opportunity by rushing. Allow me to pause, to fall back, to regroup, and to tell the story of the greatest violinist to have ever walked this earth.
Where was I? Yes, yes, the sunbeam: I should explain. For as long as anyone cared to remember, the weather had been stiflingly hot, lulling all and sundry into believing it would stay that way, for better or worse. Right up, that is, until two days prior, when clouds rolled from the horizon and finally broke the sun-drenched monotony. As relentless heat gave way to rain, the clearly visible relief of the many did little to counter a sense of rising panic for those who had bet all on a sunny weekend. Not least myself, as artistic director of a most carefully planned, on all but this one count, musical séance. Securing the beautiful, though suddenly all-too-exposed garden theatre at the Schloss Herrenhausen had been complicated enough; and now, even as the first, intermittent drops started dampening the previously interminable dust, I twigged that I had just forty-eight hours to rethink the entire thing. I sincerely doubted that many of the attendees, dare I say narcissistically self-selected from the ranks of Hanover’s great and good, would accept a drenching as part of the programme.
Some are born on a path to future roles of significance, rising to their preordained positions of authority across many years of preparation, schooling and enforced discipline. Others, on the other hand, find themselves thrust into the vanguard at the moment of need: whilst unencumbered by experience, they are still burdened with the weight of expectation, faced not with solutions, but only the knowledge that all around will be taking one step back, their collective wringing of hands absolving them from any responsibility. Given the occasion… no: given the anticipated presence of no less than Prince Adolphus, the Viceroy himself, I quickly realised I had no choice but to push on with the weekend’s arrangements.
Recognising also that I did not have time on my side, I took the liberty of drafting a letter, to request an impromptu audience with Herr Schütze, the private secretary to His Royal Highness. Without hesitation, I paid a runner over the odds for the dispatch: this was no time to quibble about expenses, I reasoned. Thus far I had managed to plan the entire event without bothering such highly important people with unnecessary trivia, but this situation, I felt, merited raising the flag. With the runner on his way, I too set off towards the Schloss: at quite a clip, even for me. To his credit, on my arrival less than an hour following the runner, the good Herr not only granted me his time, but almost immediately understood my predicament: with minimal explanation from myself, he offered the main hall of the summer palace as an alternative. The main hall! In hindsight, I realise I was perhaps pushing on an open (and altogether internal) door: his Highness’ own daughter, the precocious Princess Augusta, was to be on the bill, arranged through a mutual contact of her piano instructress. Nonetheless, I was overwhelmed by the gesture. While the garden event would have been most pleasant, the image I had built of it in my mind’s eye was already fading, as gaining use of the main hall extended beyond even my expectations. You’d better be worth it, Signor, I murmured to myself, as I took my leave, retracing my steps at a fractionally more leisurely place.
On my return, and with the venue secured, I turned my attention to what quickly expanded into a small notepad’s worth of loose ends. Most urgent: the hall was sizeable enough, but would still be cramped compared to an outdoor venue, so we we would need to reconsider the staging, entrances and exits, and so on. Herr Schütze had given me the name of the housekeeper for the Schloss, Herr Schmidt, which I could pass on to my own organising team as our main contact for the day, but that needed to happen without further ado. Meanwhile, we had already sold several hundred tickets, the recipients of which would need to be advised; caterers needed to be moved; staging re-sited; cloakrooms and other facilities confirmed; ushers and carriages instructed; posters updated by a network of expensive, yet hardly reliable urchins… what’s that? I had already mentioned staging? Yes, well, you begin to realise just how complex a task lay ahead of me! Not to mention the task of informing the performers and significant guests: which I intended to undertake personally, so as to assure them that, apart from the venue, any further changes and impositions would be minimal. The famous, or should I say infamous, Signor Paganini was staying at the New Tavern, in the very centre of Hanover — I was told he would expect no less, even though the costs would be taken from his (admittedly quite sizeable) fee. Having despatched several more messengers, I ventured out, in what I believed to be a gap in the rain. Nothing in my evolving preparations enabled me to predict that the worst of the downpour was still to fall: I could not have been five minutes from his hotel when the heavens opened and emptied their contents, almost entirely so it felt, upon my head.
It was a sorry, damp and muddy-footed specimen of humanity that entered the sizeable, yet bustling lobby of the New Tavern, no more than twenty minutes later, and which tried not to make a mess of its intricately-laid, alternately black and beige parquet flooring. My efforts were to no avail, I realised, as I attempted to communicate the turn of events to a sour-faced valet, even as two, dank pools of water puddled around my feet: frankly, this state of affairs did not help my case. “The Signor is not taking visitors,” the valet told me, in terms that brokered no dissent. Nonetheless, through persistence borne out of suppressed panic, I succeeded in painting a convincing enough picture for him to nod, finally, looking at his watch and telling me to wait before disappearing up the central staircase. He returned shortly after, followed by a stocky, grey-clad man, who descended altogether more sedately in his wake. “Herr Remie,” said the valet, not bothering to introduce me by name: I doubt he had been listening. It had been easier to deal with Herr Schütze, I mused, as I turned my attention to the newcomer: he was looking at me down the length of his well-appointed nose, as if measuring the distance between us. Surmising that the man was directly connected to the maestro himself, the drowned rat I had become once again explained who I was, and the change of plans.
To his credit, Herr Remie proved more sympathetic to the turn of events than the valet had been: he listened patiently, and asked a few pertinent questions about logistics, timings, transport and so on. Remie was particularly concerned that the hall would accommodate the audience without discomfort; and I could almost see cogs turning in his head as I confirmed guest numbers, and explained how it was that expenses, and therefore fees, would stay the same. Once he had all the information he needed, I was dismissed: not directly, but nonetheless, I had the distinct impression that he was well-versed in kindly-yet-firm lines and modes of speech that could be used to send ever-hopeful music followers and hangers-on on their way.
“Thank you for your time. The Signor is resting, in preparation for this evening. Will you be attending?”
I was not: frustratingly, and despite having myself booked this very artist, I had been unable to secure a ticket for that night’s performance at the main theatre: Paganini’s reputation, earned or otherwise, preceded him. “Unfortunately, circumstances do not allow,” I lied.
“Na gut. I shall pass on your best wishes when he becomes available,” said Remie, turning on his heel without waiting for a reply. So that was that, I thought to myself. I took my damp, thankless self off once again, facing the rain as I headed to the next performer on the programme. By four o’clock that afternoon I had informed all parties of repute, without any issues of note arising: like myself, most participants were simply relieved that the occasion would still go ahead; though I did get one ticket holder who hovered briefly over the notion of a discount, before moving on to more trivial small-talk: a slip of etiquette that I noted in my mental ledger, in case it should happen again. What is it about the rich, that hones their sense of debating even the smallest sums of money, I wondered to myself as I returned to my lodgings. As I removed my now-drying coat and hat, I found a despatch from my good friend, co-conspirator in this event, and architect of repute, Herr Georg Ludwig Laves, confirming he had re-planned the stewarding and was already dealing with a number of ancillary items that had somehow escaped me. All the pieces seemed, once again, to be in place — we had secured an excellent programme, a stunning venue and, most importantly, we would maintain an audience.
Of course, I continued to fret the following day (the Friday, to be clear): I spent my waking hours shuffling programmes in boxes, reviewing checklists, and counting names on scraps of paper ad infinitum; with only the occasional knock on the door, each signalling another, last minute detail to be addressed (and reminding me that it was, indeed, still raining outside), to punctuate the silence. Finally, at some point late in the afternoon, having assured myself that everything had indeed been dealt with, there was little else to do but wait: come the evening and going almost spare with anticipation and anxiety, I confess to have turned to the gently numbing effects of one, then another glass of hastily chosen, and in hindsight probably ill-considered, Sachsen wine.
Saturday morning broke, with every intention of becoming a glorious day. Mais, bien sur it did: even as I shifted my bleary being into a state of wakefulness, the peaceful, open skies above Hanover were already, quite deliberately positioning themselves to make a mockery of my replanning efforts. Hence said sunbeam, its unwelcome glare nonetheless serving to rouse me from the nerve-jangled, dream-laden, restless sleep of the night before. No, I did not sleep well. Not that I ever did, before an event: but on this occasion, I felt at least, the stakes were higher, the risks greater, the cards more tightly stacked. All hinged on one man, who to this very date, I had been entirely reliant on hearsay and reputation, his evident virtuosity bringing with it the potential for complete disaster. In my head, I was already planning for such an event: God in Heaven, if I could ask for just one thing, let him please just turn up? And if he did, perhaps he might make it to the stage, and once there, lift his violin to his shoulder and touch the bow to it, just once? Would that be too much to ask for?
My rapidly descending reverie was, thank goodness, interrupted by my dear wife Marie, who, unprompted, had brought me breakfast in bed. The presence of a tray beside me on the covers, and the smattering of kindly, yet firm words, were all I needed to sit myself up, arch my back and shuffle into a position where I could start to face what had turned out to be a frustratingly fine day.
I harnessed, corralled, tempered, and otherwise dragged my thoughts into a semblance of order. I had booked a carriage to the Schloss for four schillings, just this once, given that I could barely spare another hour’s walk, and furthermore, I did not want to spend the day spattered with mud. Plus, I could review the schedules yet again en route, even if this would be too late in the day, quite literally, to fix any discrepancies. The die was cast, and the event would have to unfold without further intervention from myself. What would be, would be.
Arrival
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.
First Acts
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.
Revelation
Revelation
All remained silent as the violinist drew the bow across the neck of his instrument, the single, prolonged note doubtless intended to mesmerise. That might have been the case, had the moment of serenity not been shattered by a loud snort: the exasperated fellow across the hall was, it appeared, unable to contain his pent-up frustration. The signor arched an eyebrow and continued, layering a more intricate layer of music on top of the tone. As the piece picked up momentum, he started to move in a semicircle, his elbow held tight to his body. His long, delicate fingers danced across the fingerboard, wrist loose, each touch made with gentle purpose as he teased the notes from his instrument. His playing was notably understated and delicate; only as he ended the first section did he add a series of complex trills, carefully placed so as not to interrupt the mood, I surmised. I found myself pleasantly surprised, as (based on some reviews I had gleaned from the popular press) I had half-expected him to be throwing all but the kitchen sink into each bar of his performance.
He can certainly play, I thought, as the accompanying violinists joined in the equally sedate, un-presupposing second movement of the piece. Against this gentle backdrop I surveyed the hall, my eyes alighting upon an almost unanimous set of appreciative faces — all, in fact, bar the provincial upstart, who continued to shake his head and whisper loudly to a compatriot. Glancing back, I saw the performer glare at the fellow, which quelled his mutterings briefly. Before long the virtuoso had shut his yellowed eyes altogether, perhaps choosing to embrace the music completely – or simply blocking out unruly elements of the audience, I could not tell.
At the end of the piece, which was met with genuine applause, Paganini gave a small, more deferential bow. Having requested his accompanists to be seated, he turned back to the audience. “Good evening, and now something a little less… formal,” he said, in broken, affected German. He lifted his instrument to his chin once more, playing a long, single note then a staccato series… What was it? In all honesty, it sounded like chickens. Then I realised it was chickens! Then, wait, a duck, and, ah!, the mewing of a cat… as he played, he looked pointedly at the jumped up fellow. “I dedicate this piece to farmyard animals, who were born without the ability to be silent,” he said, before playing a series of sharply drawn, quite harsh sounds, sawing at his instrument in the sound of… Yes! It was the oinking of a pig! I could barely suppress a laugh, but I was far from alone; laughter was all around me, filling the room. I glanced at his Grace, whose expression was fixed – whether he was being stoic or stony I could not tell.
The rural gentleman did not take kindly to the affront. At first he became flustered, turning bright red in the process, before storming from the room, followed moments later by his, somewhat apologetic acquaintance. Without waiting for the door to slam, the performer whipped into a fast, furious piece that was not, I knew, to be found on the programme: this finished as quickly as it had started, to no more than a smattering of light applause. “We shall continue now,” he said, turning back to his players. “Gentlemen?” With which, the accompanists stood once more. On a nodded signal, a flautist and two oboes emerged from the side entrance, and we settled down to Paganini’s latest creation - on the programme, his Grand Concerto in E minor, performed for the first time only weeks before.
Feeling better prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, I watched as the violinist stood to one side, letting his ensemble of players open the piece. He rocked on the balls of his feet as the stringed accompanists began, painting an initial picture of musical decadence which gave way to gentility and calm, serving (I noted) as much to ease the minds of those in the room, as to develop the themes of the piece. Eventually the horns entered, yielding back to the strings as these returned to the original motif.
After several minutes, relaxed now and without a tremor, the maestro raised his violin to his shoulder, paused, and proceeded to join with the theme, as one might enter a dance. His playing was so smooth and inoffensive, that I barely noticed as he took the music in a new direction altogether. I couldn’t help but be impressed by his glissandi, even if I felt, I dare to say, that he might have been showing off, just a little. Yes, I feel uncomfortable mentioning that now, but I can only speak as I felt at the time.
Where was I? Yes: his brief demonstration gave way to a gentle, dare I say delicate section which (I noted) had many in the audience also rocking back and forth on their heels. Whilst, at the risk of continuing to dig myself a hole, both music and playing was full of decoration, I can’t say it ever felt out of place. His clever key change, for example, nonetheless aligned with the piece as a whole, as ballet dancers might perform yet nonetheless be part of a broader choreography.
Before anyone could get bored, as if that might be possible, the music accelerated. Even as the violinist coaxed his notes forth, I observed a the emergence of a strange harmonic phenomenon, as though he was playing two instruments at once, one aligned with the ensemble and the other conflicting, like a songbird fluttering against the bars of its cage. The two came together quite suddenly in a single, soaring note before once again parting: it took all my concentration to follow, even as the music itself led myself, and everyone else in the room, on its merry dance, the ensemble rejoining the soloist once again.
I leaned back against the wall and allowed the combined rhythms to wash over me. Signor Niccolo Paganini quickened and slowed his pace, skilfully accompanied by an ensemble that was, it felt, being taken on the same journey. Through the resulting, conflicted anguish of themes, I imagined a character, frustrated, longing to participate within society’s norms, yet unable to restrain their passions. At a point, the character attained a level of relative calm, before once again they gave in to their inner demons. I could not but feel for the many. What journey were they on? Could they ever reconcile their unfortunate selves with the conflict within?
The accompanists pushed back in kind, embracing the movement’s ebbs and flows, even as the virtuoso’s bow danced across his instrument without pause nor panic. I was, I confess, enthralled: so enraptured I was, it almost passed me by that he was living up to his reputation. Continuing to pace slowly around the stage, he coaxed notes out of his instrument like a man might implore a tree full of birds to sing. And sing they did, the accompanists building to a point before dropping away once more, back into the deep.
A silent respite, at which I glanced around the faces of the collected ensemble. I had misjudged earlier — they were delighted to be there, supporting him, their faces now expectant as he once again raised his bow above his instrument. A series of dark, dissonant sounds left me in no doubt of the poor person at the heart of this tune’s demise. He was running, being chased, casting this way and that — is there no way out, I wondered, before it was already too late to know. The movement had ended, accompanied only by a collective release of breath as the room regained its composure.
As the second movement began, I deliberately avoided letting my emotions take over. Fine music, ja, to be observed, not to overwhelm. Nonetheless, as the soulful tones continued, my more trivially inclined side couldn’t help wondering: had the character now lost their way, were they now forced to accept whatever fate might befall? It was no good. I let the deep sadness enter me, even as it gave way to anguish and occasional bursts of frustration. Why, asked the character. Why indeed? I responded. The interplay between solo violinist and horn section was sublime, delicate renditions of hopelessness against an immovable judging world. Collectively, the supporting musicians provided a dark backdrop, against which our plaintive perpetrator made his last, hopeless plea.
I wasn’t sure I could cope with much more of this, I thought. How fortunate, then, that the third movement started altogether more cheerily, with the maestro setting off in the upper register, the strings joining with percussion altogether more pizzicato. I smiled, then realised I was doing so — to my relief, so was everybody else. As the piece continued, Paganini leaned forward, interspersing arpeggios with more complex slides, once again harmonising with himself. Suddenly it occurred to me: he did not seem to have played a single note wrong. Such was the music, carefully intertwined note on note, that it would have been noticeable indeed but no, he had been musically and technically perfect throughout.
The ensemble returned, with horns signalling what I surmised must be the finale. Where is our character now, I wondered, as a series of gentle interchanges suggested reconciliation, perhaps even resolution. These built and became more complex, offering a final demonstration of Paganini’s prowess. Yes, the shift to a major key, this had to be it, surely. Paganini gave a small jump before weaving the final, delicate strands of magic into the performance. And indeed, that was that.
One could feel the wave of relief rippling gently across the hall. Magic? Did I really just think that, I wondered; but as I glanced around, I realised I was not alone — he had me, and many others, in the palm of his hand. I confess to have felt my eyes pricking, and I heard several sniffles from various corners. Even as I stood, regaining my composure in the main salle of the Schloss Herrenhausen, I was in no doubt that I, together with a privileged few, had experienced something unique.