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.