Good Night, Mr. Holmes (25 page)

Three pages of onion-skin parchment embellished in her distinctive green ink were needed to convey the drama of the first Great Event, dated twenty-first January, 1886:

Mydarling Nell!

You will find yourself most astounded by my latest great good news. Forgive the erratic path of my ‘penwomanship’—which is to a mistress of the typewriter like yourself shocking, I know; I am composing this missive while on a moving train. I confess that my heart is still beating a bit out of time as well. Between the rattle of the rails’ snare drums and the pounding of my own internal kettledrum my thoughts find small peace.

Where, you must be wondering, is your footloose friend bound now? Away, dear Nell, like a gypsy!    To—well, you will hardly credit it. Let me begin by saying that I am no longer attached to La Scala in Milan. There was a certain unpleasantness among the resident sopranos after my recent debut. I may hint at ground glass in my rouge pot, but will go no further. My sister sopranos, after all, were mostly Italian and cannot be expected to hold to standards of emotional civility; it Impedes Their Art, they claim.
Mama mia,
say I.

Yet adversity has cast my cards of fate into an even more fortunate arrangement. I am crossing the Alps

like Hannibal, only I ride a great, black, steam-propelled elephant I soon will speed through Austria, Moravia and a tiny slice of Silesia to become
prima donna
of the Imperial Opera of Warsaw! Yes, your own friend and fellow-lodger—a diva at last! I am blissful to an excess. I am overjoyed! I am—running out of ink...”

(Here the words faded into a shower of green ink droplets as Irene shook her pen, as though abusing a thirsty writing instrument were ever a substitute for redipping it. —PH.)

There. Fat with ink and free-running again. I feel rather tike this pen, Penelope: brim-full of all I require, ready to work like a Trojan and let all the world’s glorious words and music ripple from my throat. Not only roosters can crow!

My good fortune owes itself again to the recommendation of Mr. Dvořák, who has taken quite a fancy to my voice—also to my quick mastery of the languages for song. Warsaw is not, of course, Vienna. Ah, I sigh for the grandeur and glory of life in the imperial city of Franz Josef and the Empress Eugenie—but German is spoken in Warsaw, so I will be able to sing in a language I know rather than being required to master Polish, too, which would be rather too much acquaintanceship with consonants to my taste.

And
prima donna,
my dear, such a triumph for a voice such as mine, which is continually being labeled by one misnomer after another: “contralto” which would condemn me to singing faithful mothers and elderly gypsies for life, or “mezzo-soprano,” which offers some delicious “trouser” roles of women masquerading as men—you
know
how adept I would be in such parts—but limited leading roles. At any rate, the director of the Imperial Opera witnessed my La Scala debut after hearing Dvořák sing my praises (so to speak), the deed is done and they shall have to settle upon a repertoire that suits my voice and style, that is all.

(Here the letter reverts to a travelogue of the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s far-flung kingdoms, a paean that more expresses the writer’s emotional enthusiasm than the region’s pastoral beauty requires. I next quote a subsequent letter, which conveys a flavor of Irene’s life in Warsaw. —P.H.)

Well! Warsaw is so much more magnificent than I expected. Like many Americans, I pictured Europe as a mirror image of the United States—an Atlantic-edging confluence of states that represent the highest civilization with nothing but desert beyond it. I expected that delving so far East would be like going West in America—all sand and savages.

Indeed, there is a certain savage splendor to the Poles and their city that reaches back to a time when they had to repel the Tartars of Genghis Khan. They are a gentle people who love peace almost as much as they love their land, but they love their land more—the symbol of Poland is a siren, half-fish and half-maiden, armed with shield and sword! Sirens are said to lure men to a watery death with their unearthly voices, so I suppose
this
fierce siren of Warsaw would be well equipped by both voice and weapon to sing at La Scala!

Warsaw has its river, as London has the Thames, and the faded yellow buildings seem cheery even on dark days. The Old City is most quaint, as is the traditional peasant garb. I undoubtedly shall have to appear in some bucolic opera or other in blouse, corselet and skirts as short as a circus bareback rider’s. The Polish national anthem is no solemn processional, but a lively little mazurka like those composed by the great Chopin.

Chopin’s genius is no accident, by the way; this land is infected with music. The simplest peasant tune plays tribute to the babble of a brook, the turn of the spuming wheel, the bleat of the sheep.

Yet for all the peasant roots (which seem very exotic to an American like myself) music is an ancient deity here and has many temples. Magnificent palaces and parks dot the landscape, but the Imperial Opera is housed in true rococo splendor, in this city where music is queen, and sits along the river so that those Amazonian sirens may join the chorus, I imagine. I think that I shall be very happy here.

(I am no admirer of opera, despite my long association with Irene Adler. Most of her letters detailed the hardships of rehearsing and mounting operas and the excitement of opening nights. I shall omit the technical details and convey more of the Polish society itself.
—
P.H.)

Poor Poland has had most of its reigning monarchs stripped away, although several still rule over the streets in the form of lofty public monuments. Yet, my dear Nell, I have actually met a king!

You will no doubt raise silently skeptical eyebrows and I shall be forced to be most precise so that I cannot be charged with exaggerating. Very well. The man in question is not quite a king, but he is a Crown Prince. And he is not Polish, but German. And his kingdom (when it becomes his kingdom on the death of his father) is not Poland, or even Germany, but Bohemia!

Have I confused you enough, my literal Nell? His name is Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein and one day King of Bohemia. (Lest this string of Teutonic names overwhelm you, I must add that he is known to intimates as “Willie.”)

“Willie” is a needed familiarity; otherwise the prince’s person would intimidate utterly. He stands nigh six-and-a-half feet tall, with a physique to match this generous height. His eyes are bluer than the Vistula River that ambles through Warsaw and he has a great fancy for things operatic. Every Sunday he takes me for drives in his open coach, its doors emblazoned with the von Ormstein coat of arms (and very gaudy they are, too), along Miodowa Street where all of Warsaw’s fine folk gather, and we are much commented upon. He has not much sense of humor, but perhaps that is a common failing of royalty.

I have also often seen Antonin Dvořák. While my operatic ambitions tie toward the West—Vienna, even Paris—Mr. Dvořák had urged me in the past months to master more of his Czech songs. I do have a facility for languages, no matter how they maul consonants, so I am humoring the composer, who is, after all, quite the musical lion in London these days. Still, I do not intend to lavish my life and talent on the “provinces,” no matter how princely the company!

(I read hope of my friend’s return into such sentiments. It soon died as later letters chronicled Irene’s title role in a mounting of Carmen; told of her employing a German singing master to learn the Schumann song cycle that so admirably suited her deep, dark voice; of dancing and dining and driving out with “Willie” . . . So it came as small surprise when 1886 had dwindled to a pair of leaves on the calendar, that there arrived a landmark letter announcing a sudden turn in Irene’s plans. —P.H.)

I go West again at last, dear Penelope, but not so far as I had anticipated. Thanks to the persuasion of Mr. Dvořák, who is quite commanding for such a plain and wholesome man, I will become
prima donna
at Prague’s new National Opera. (Yes, I shall be singing exclusively in the Bohemian language, save when I give concerts. How difficult that will be is clear when I tell you that the name of my dresser is Petronilla Anckvicfc—only two vowels to her entire last name!)

Naturally, the Prince was most persuasive. He assures me that Prague is an ancient, cosmopolitan city and that I shall not miss Warsaw or even London. (Though I shall always miss you, my dear;
even princes
are not persuasive enough to erase the memory of my first and most loyal friend!)

“I cannot say how divine it is, darling Nell, to be released at last from the daily struggle for bread and to receive the roses of recognition both at once. I am feted, praised, petted, paid very well indeed and treated like a queen. I feel that I have found my true place in the world, and though I find myself among strangers in a strange land, I feel very much at home.

If you have ever fretted about me in my exotic and distant travels, fear no more. I remain your devoted and ever-grateful friend (though I think it will be long e’er I see London again),

Irene

(Here, at the letter’s close, the writing dissolved into a puddle of ink, though that was hardly the fault of the writer’s pen, but rather of the reader’s pensiveness...—P.H.)

Chapter Seventeen

A
S
UMMONS

Buds thickened
on
every bare branch, swathing the trees in a delicate veil of green. No rain fell, but the damp cobblestones gleamed like licorice in the clouded light. River fog drifted through the Temple’s alleyways alongside me as I hurried to Mr. Norton’s chambers.

The hour was early, but I found the office door unlatched, and Mr. Norton dressed, combed, brushed and alert at his desk, contemplating the open chest Irene and I had rescued from interment at The Sycamores. By that tender spring of 1887, it had been more than a year since Irene had departed Saffron Hill and left that homely object in Mr. Norton’s keeping.

“My dear Miss Huxleigh, you are early! You have caught me puzzling over the old mystery. Take another look at the contents, perhaps you will discern a clue.”

I guessed that he was chagrined that I had found him studying the mysterious chest; he had made no reference to it of late. Yet I was too distracted by my own news to wonder at his occupation with it.

“I am not good at puzzles,” I began.

“Nonsense! It was your turning to the Mutterworth garden and its topiary messages that made me think of the chest again. Both the late Cavendish Mutterworth and my father were childish old gents; perhaps they thought in the same way. If we can apply the same illogicality to their surviving artifacts, we can— But you are quite pale, Miss Huxleigh! Have a seat, never mind the box. Are you ill?”

“Perplexed,” I confessed. “Since this letter of Irene’s arrived yesterday... letter! That is too grand a term for such a communication—”

“Let me see.” He plucked the envelope from my hand. The instant he did he paused and said, “Forgive me, Miss Huxleigh. I have quite grown to feel that I share your concerns as a brother does. I have no right to interrogate you, no right to intrude.”

“Oh, Mr. Norton, I’d welcome a calmer perspective. I am so... befuddled.” I quite felt like a client, and indeed, I was in sore need of advice.

“Letter, you said,” he murmured a moment after, gingerly pulling several sheets of thick parchment from the envelope. “This is but a note—and barely that.”

“That is what surprised me. Irene is an expansive correspondent. And these empty pages...”

He took the paper to the window, where light filtered through a veil of grey fog, then declaimed the scrawl that occupied the entire first page: “ ‘Nell—come at once to Prague! I need you. Irene.’”

Mr. Norton turned to me, the fog pressing against the window behind him like a ghost. I could not read any expression in the silhouette he presented me. “The message is brief enough to make a cablegram the speedier and more sensible method of communication, unless—”

“My thought exactly.” I sat forward and clutched my reticule. “Irene has written to me almost weekly. Another letter would hardly be noticed, but a cablegram...”

“A cablegram would attract attention, but not another fat letter to you; hence the empty pages, to allay suspicion.”

“But... who would be suspicious of her? And what circumstances would forestall her sending a simple cablegram? She wrote that Prague is a cosmopolitan city—”