Sent to the Devil (10 page)

She shook her head.

“Good,” he said as he released her from his grasp.

She put her hands on her shapely hips. “I've come all this way to see you.” She gestured toward the church. “I've been waiting over there for an hour already. Where have you been?”

“Paying a condolence call,” von Gerl answered. He beckoned to me. “And making a new friend. Lorenzo, this is Marta Cavalli. Marta, my friend Lorenzo Da Ponte.”

I bowed to her. Her features were unremarkable—the face a bit too wide, the nose too short and full. But her green eyes were luminous and full of emotion, and her mouth was ripe, the color she had applied earlier in the day now smudged, as if she had just been kissed. My heart turned in my chest.

She glanced at me and turned back to von Gerl. “I must speak with you,” she said.

“Of course you must,” he replied. “But you are dusty from your travels and you must be hungry. Come inside and have dinner.” He took her arm and led her through the archway into the courtyard.

I picked up her valise and followed.

 

Seven

The foyer of von Gerl's palace had the same design as that of the Palais Albrechts—a monumental staircase rising from a vast floor of smooth marble. A single bench sat on the right side of the large room. Von Gerl removed his cloak and hat and placed them on the bench, then helped Marta Cavalli out of her traveling cloak. He pulled a rope on the wall.

“Why don't you freshen up while I show my new friend my collections?” he suggested. “Then the three of us will dine.”

A door in the back of the foyer opened and a servant appeared. His build and height resembled his master's, but he had none of the baron's handsome looks.

“Ah, Teuber. Look who's come to visit.” Von Gerl passed Marta's cloak to the servant.

Teuber's eyes widened. “Miss Cavalli,” he said, bowing slightly toward her.

Color rose in her cheeks. “Don't call me—”

“Come, my dear,” von Gerl said. “Let Teuber draw you some water. You can wash and change your clothes.” He smiled at her.

“All right, Valentin,” she said. “I won't be long.” I handed Teuber her valise and the servant led her up the stairs.

Von Gerl looked after them. “Complications, I'm afraid,” he said. He rubbed his hands together. “But nothing that cannot be handled. Come, Da Ponte. The collection rooms are upstairs. Leave your satchel on the bench there. Teuber will take care of it later.”

I followed him up the marble staircase. At the first landing, we turned right and passed through two large salons, both empty of furniture and decoration.

“I emptied the place out when I arrived,” von Gerl explained. “My father's furniture was so heavy and dark. But I haven't had time to buy anything new yet. I've been too busy setting up my collections.”

The third room was a library lined with tall wooden shelves, just one of which was full of books. I crossed to it and examined the volumes. Von Gerl's collection was eclectic—Dante's
The Divine Comedy
shelved beside the old chestnuts
Robinson Crusoe
,
Moll Flanders,
and
Gulliver's Travels
; Palladio's
The Four Books on Architecture
next to the sentimental novels
Pamela
,
Tristram Shandy,
and
The Sorrows of Young Werther
; a few volumes of the
Encyclopédie
; and works by Voltaire, Diderot, and Rousseau. I smiled when I saw a copy of Beaumarchais's play
The Marriage of Figaro.
I had spent a long time with my own copy, adapting it into my first opera with Mozart. On the middle shelf stood a row of large volumes, all bound in the same dark leather.

“As I told you, I have a small book collection,” von Gerl said. He waved his hand around the room. “We have plenty of work ahead of us, Da Ponte.” He noticed me eyeing the large leather volumes. “Those are my catalogs,” he said, pulling one off the shelf and opening it. He turned the page toward me. “My travel expenses, for each day since I left home ten years ago.” He replaced the volume on the shelf and took another. “This is a list of all the animals I've shot on hunting expeditions. I started this when I was a boy.”

He returned the book to its place on the shelf and ran his fingers over the spines of its neighbors. “This one contains a list of every book I've ever read. Now this one, this should interest you.” He pulled out a volume and handed it to me. “A list of all the operas and recitals I've attended.”

I opened the heavy book's cover.

“And this last one, this is a list of every acquaintance I've made in my travels. I've just started a new page since I came home to Vienna. I will add your name.” He took the book over to a desk and wrote in it.

“Come, Da Ponte. Leave that one on the desk here. You must see my scientific collection. This way.”

I left the book on the desk and followed him into the next room. Rows of empty glass display cases filled the large space. Piles of cartons sat along the walls. “I'm just getting started in here,” von Gerl said. “Let me show you some of the things I have.” He led me over to the cartons along one wall. “This box is filled with herbal specimens I collected during my travels in the east,” he explained. I looked down into the carton, which contained a number of small wooden boxes. “And over here are my stones, my playing card collection, oh, and here are my astronomical instruments. I spent a small fortune on them when I was in Italy.”

He pulled a bronze astrolabe from one of the cartons and shook his head. “I really must get these unpacked,” he said. He set the instrument aside and opened another carton. I peered into it. It was full of mismatched shoes. “I collect women's shoes wherever I go,” he explained. He grinned. “You think it odd? Some of them are works of art!”

We retraced our steps to the central staircase and entered the large salon on its other side. “My paintings are in here,” von Gerl said.

I drew a sharp breath as I entered the room. Each wall was covered with framed paintings from floor to ceiling. My eyes took in a dark-haired, voluptuous woman reclining on a sofa, her breasts partially exposed, her lips parted to receive the kiss of her lover; the nude goddess Diana, attended by a nymph, drying her feet after bathing, her auburn hair clasped in a tiara, a delicate string of pearls in her hand; and a cozy scene of a young noblewoman, clad in a peignoir, serving coffee to the family priest in her boudoir.

“I just purchased this one last week,” von Gerl said, directing my attention to a large canvas. “I've been pursuing it since it was painted three years ago.” I studied the picture. A fountain of light poured through the vaulted ceiling of a ruined basilica as two cowherds led their charges through the rubble of the ravaged building.

“Amazing,” I murmured. I turned to the opposite wall. The paintings here were uninteresting, pedestrian depictions of the muses, the seasons, and the senses most likely done by students—the type of art purchased by the cartload by the newly wealthy merchants of Vienna who were decorating their homes.

Von Gerl noticed my disdain. “I know, I know,” he said. “There is nothing special about these. But when I saw them, I couldn't help myself. I had to have them.” He gestured to the next room. “Come, there are two in here you must see.”

The long gallery contained but two paintings, which hung side by side on the right wall. The first was of a raven-haired male nude, his body stretched out on a saffron cloth, his head at the left bottom corner of the large canvas, his crossed feet at the right top. One hand rested behind his head, the other was splayed out to his side. I leaned in to study the lifelike muscles on his chest.

“Hector, the great Trojan warrior,” von Gerl murmured. “And over here, Patroclus.”

I gazed at the second painting. Achilles' bosom friend sat on a red cloth, his torso twisted away from the viewer. “The brushstrokes depicting the muscles are amazing,” I said.

“The artist is the rage in Paris right now,” von Gerl said. “His name is David. I bought these at an auction, and I must tell you, I paid dearly for them.”

We contemplated the paintings.

“Come, the Botticellis are upstairs,” von Gerl said.

“I've never seen anything like this,” I said as we climbed the wide steps to the next floor. I couldn't imagine the expense of shipping the collections to Vienna.

Von Gerl beamed at me. “Thank you. I'm proud of it. I must confess that sometimes I worry I have gone too far, but I enjoy owning all of these things. To view a fine painting whenever I wish, to study an anatomical object, to read a great book—I love being able to do that. I am never bored!”

He led me down a long hallway on the right. “We'll go through my chamber,” he said. We entered a large, airy room, its ceiling decorated with elegant gold and white medallions. An enormous bed, its posters swagged with red velvet, stood in the center. A large fur throw lay across the well-stuffed mattress. We passed through von Gerl's closet, a room twice the size of my room at Madame Lamm's. Open cupboards filled with suits of the finest fabrics lined the walls. The plumed hat sat on a bench in the middle of the room. I lingered to admire a dark blue velvet coat with golden braided trim.

“In here, Da Ponte,” von Gerl called. I continued into a much smaller room lined with waist-high display cases. I approached the one nearest to me. A collection of butterflies of varying sizes, all in shades of gray, lay pinned to the felt under the heavy glass.

“Those are just the carpet moths,” von Gerl said. “They are all local. The more interesting ones are over here.” I crossed over to him. The case held more butterflies, these in shades of blue, some with violet dusted on the edges of their wings.

“I caught these when I was in Spain.”

I tried to avoid a grimace as I studied the poor creatures, their brief lives ended so that this man could enjoy their beauty. I looked up and gestured around the room. “You've caught all of these?” I asked.

“Many, but not all of them,” von Gerl answered. “I've bought a few from other lepidopterists.” He reached for a dark leatherbound volume on a shelf underneath the nearest case. “I have them all cataloged here,” he said, showing me the pages.

“How many are in the collection?” I asked.

He flipped to the middle of the book and ran his finger down the page. “As of today, 527.” He replaced the volume. “Come, let us see those Botticellis. They are this way, in my art cabinet.”

When I entered the next room, I gasped in delight. The cabinet was long and narrow, with a low coffered ceiling trimmed with gilt. Fine light wood paneling lined the walls, which were hung with small paintings. I wandered around, looking into the glass cases that displayed small, delicate objects—boxes inlaid with amber; elaborate miniature clocks; a chess set formed from ivory; perfume bottles made of the glass blown by the skilled artisans of Murano, in my own beloved Venice; and small animals sculpted from jade and marble. In the center of the room stood a long table, its surface inlaid with an elaborate, multicolored mosaic of marble.

“I reserve this part of the collection for myself alone,” von Gerl explained. “I love to spend the evenings in here, with a glass of brandy, looking at these things.”

“It's beautiful,” I breathed.

Von Gerl opened a large, elegant wooden cabinet and pulled out a portfolio. “Here are the Botticellis,” he said, carrying it over to the table. He drew two pieces of parchment from the folder and spread them on the mosaic. I leaned over and examined the first. The illustration had been drawn in pen and ink, the lines still legible on the yellowed parchment. It showed the punishment of the heretics, from Dante's
Inferno.
Small groups of men walked among a field of burning coffins. In the center of the illustration, a heretic stood in the flaming lid of his bier.

“‘For among the graves flames erupted, firing them all with glowing heat—no smith could ask for hotter iron,'” I murmured. I turned to the second parchment. The lines on this one were even more delicate and painstaking than on the first, as the great artist depicted the terrace of the lustful from Dante's
Purgatory.

“‘There the bank hurls its furious flames, and a spiraling wind from the ledge reflects them and constrains their way,'” I said.

“You certainly know Dante,” von Gerl exclaimed. “I am impressed.”

“Where did you get these?” I asked.

“In Berlin. They were a gift from a grateful widow. Her husband had collected them. She had sold most of them, but had kept these two.” A wistful smile came over his face as he carefully placed the parchments into the portfolio. “Now, there is one more thing you must see. I bought these prints while I was living in Paris.”

He placed the Botticelli portfolio in the cabinet and brought out a smaller folder. Back at the table, he unfastened the ribbon on the folder. “These are the finest specimens of their type,” he said. “I share these with special friends.” He spread a number of colored drawings across the table.

I leaned over to examine them. The first showed a naked woman astride a man, her ample derriere lifted in the air as he moved to enter her. I laid it aside and reached for the second. A man, clad only in an unbuttoned shirt, sat on a bed, his hand pulling up the skirts of the woman on his lap to reveal the muff of fur between her legs. My loins stirred as I took the third drawing. A nude woman, her torso tangled in a pure white bedsheet, writhed with pleasure on a soft bed—

“There you are!”

Von Gerl and I started as Marta entered the room, wearing a simple dress. I flushed.

“What are you two gawking at?” she asked.

“Come see,” von Gerl said, flashing me a wicked grin.