The Bells (29 page)

“No,” I said. I struggled up against Tasso’s resisting hand. “I am sure. Orpheus tries to kill himself, but Amor intervenes. Orpheus’s lament has moved her, and Amor brings Eurydice back to life and takes them to the Temple of Love. That is where it ends! With a ballet!”

Tasso’s eyes were glassy. “Yes, the temple!” he said. “The final backdrop! It is true. I’ve seen it!”

Remus shrugged. “Then Calzabigi and Gluck have changed the story,” he said.

“And what’s wrong with that?” Tasso asked. He huffed, and his lower lip stayed hung in defiance of the learned man.

“The story is more than two thousand years old,” Remus said. “One of our oldest myths. It makes no sense if the gods keep giving Orpheus more chances. They become merciful to absurdity.”

Tasso’s face was angry. “You just don’t believe in love.” He jabbed a short finger at Remus.

Remus smiled kindly. He shrugged, and was about to answer, but did not have the chance, for at that moment Nicolai spoke. “I believe in love,” he said. I had assumed the giant was dozing, but he sat upright in his chair, looking stronger than I’d seen him since I had arrived in Vienna. “And to prove it,” he continued, “I am coming to the premiere.”

The candle’s light seemed to flare up and illuminate his smile.

“The premiere?” muttered Remus. “What do you mean the—”

“Yes!” I said and jumped up, still dizzy from my spell, and stepped to Nicolai’s chair. “You must—you of all people deserve to be in that crowd. You shall—” I cut myself off, realizing only then the many obstacles. Nicolai’s grin did not fade. “But … but how will your eyes bear the light?”

“You will put a sack over my head and parade me through the streets like the sinner that I am,” he said. “But in the theater, where I will sit, it will be dark.”

Remus shook his head. “No. It is light throughout the theater,” he said. “So all may see the empress.”

“Not light everywhere,” said Nicolai. “Not beneath the stage.”

Tasso sprang to his feet. “No,” he said. “No, no, that is not permitted.” He waved his hands, clawing at the air. “The empress would have my head.”

“Don’t worry about your head,” Nicolai said with a smile. “It is your heart we want!”

Tasso’s glance darted from Nicolai, to Remus, then to me. He looked at the door—his escape. He chewed his lip, but then he looked back at the spot where I had sung, and his face brightened.

“But you must promise not to touch a thing,” he warned.

“You can tie my hands behind my back,” said Nicolai. “I need nothing but my ears. That, my dear Tasso, I promise you.”

XIII.

I
t was the fifth of October, 1762—barely forty years ago today if we count revolutions of the sun, but so much longer by any other scale. We were so young. Little Napoleon still needed seven years before he was ready to be born, and another thirty to conquer France. That year Robespierre and his Terror cried in a Calais crib. Frederick the Great was just Frederick then. America was a far-off place where cotton grew, not a nation that would embarrass George III with revolution. Bach and Vivaldi were still our heroes. No one had ever heard of Beethoven; he was not yet alive. Little Mozart was six and, in fact, was that night just ten miles from where this history unfolded, speeding toward the imperial city to play his tiny violin for the empress. Today, Amadeus is already fifteen years dead, though he will outlive us all.

The year 1762 was still one full of dreamers. And one of the most faithful dreamers had a sack over his head that October evening. He was being shoved foot first into a coal chute, which, though it may have been the widest coal chute in the empire, was not quite wide enough for this dreamer, large as a bear. His two friends pushed with a violence that made several well-dressed passersby pause in consternation. Then there was a tearing of cloth, a thick pop, and our dreamer slid into the chute.

I left my friends in Tasso’s cave and raced back into the theater. My master had sent me for his wine and would scold me if I tarried any longer. The small foyer was so full that the rumbling voices shook the floor. The entrance was split. To one side the common people jostled. They waved their tickets like flags, for these tickets—which would allow them to peer down from the galleries or to sit upon the hard benches at the rear—let them breathe the same air as the empress, be seen with her, and be seen with those who were seen with her. These men, accompanied by their wives, were simple lawyers, secretaries, physicians, craftsmen. They waited impatiently, while on the other side, a stream of nobles, their faces known to all, strolled through the entrance.

I, too, knew them well by now. There was His Excellency Duke Herberstin and his eight daughters, all dumb, plain, and highly sought as wives. Behind them, the Spanish ambassador, Duke Agiliar, was clearly in a sour mood, for he had agreed to share his loge with the tedious Prince Galizin of Russia. General Braun was in Prussia dying of gangrene, but his wife was here, with a smile on her face. Old Duke Grundacker Staremberg waited perplexed for a son or grandson to lead him to his loge; he could not find it anymore alone. Though Duchess Hazfelda arrived in one of the finest carriages, she could not afford the four hundred gulden for her loge this season, and so she entered behind Princess Lobkovitz, who had taken pity and let the dumpy duchess sit behind her tallest son. Among the parade of peach muslin and powdered wigs were also those, like Herr Buthon with his stunning child bride, who had no title; Buthon had never bothered to purchase one.

I darted through the foyer with Guadagni’s wine held before me, my other hand fending off princesses. There was lace, frills, the glitter of many medals. I was nauseated with their swaying. I closed my eyes for just an instant. I felt wine splash on my wrist.

The crowds lingered in the passages outside their loges, chattering, rubbing up against one another in the narrow space. I squeezed along the wall, trying not to brush the wide gowns with my clumsy knees. More wine swished past the rim—oh my, a bloody stain on a dowager’s behind! At last, I cleared the last loge and reached the stage door.

Here, there was even more excitement. At the end of the former ball court there was little space for all the secret machinations that go on behind a stage. Musicians streamed past with instruments held to their shoulders, like soldiers bearing guns. Tasso’s stagehands filled the lamps with oil, greased the wing frame grooves. They swept the stage one final time; should Guadagni stumble and trip, he would surely feed them to the bears at the empress’s menagerie. Furies smeared black greasepaint on their faces. Tasso poked his head up through a trap and shouted, “If any of you touch Quaglio’s scenes, I will bite off your filthy fingers!”

Signora Clavarau trilled arpeggios in her cramped dressing room, while in Signora Bianchi’s room, I saw through the cracked door that Eurydice was being smeared with white paint so she would look properly dead in the opera’s first scene. I had spilled half the wine by then, and protected the remains as I would my very blood.

Guadagni had the only room larger than a closet. I knocked, and though he did not answer, I entered. Anyone else who dared step inside would have been cursed, but he wanted me here—the way he looked up expectantly told me this. He sat with his back to me and considered me in his mirror. I was shocked by the reflection—his eyelids gently curled, his wrinkles smoothed by cream—because he looked ten years younger. For a moment, I thought I was looking at myself in the mirror.

But then he spoke. It was not my voice. “Was the empire out of wine?”

I shook my head and handed him the glass. He took a sip and set it aside. He looked in the mirror. Gluck had carried through with his plans; there were no peacock feathers, no gold lace, no wig. Orpheus wore a simple white tunic, opened at his rounded chest.

I stood behind him. He stared at himself as he inhaled through flared nostrils and then closed his eyes and formed his mouth into a tight circle, exhaling as if softly blowing out a candle. He had to let the sadness grow, he had told me, if he was to make us know it with his song.

My toes twitched inside my shoes.

“Signor,” I finally asked, unable to stand it anymore. “Do you need me?”

“Do you have somewhere else to go?”

“No,” I said. “I do not wish to disturb you, that is all. Shall I wait outside?”

He paused, but I knew he would never admit to needing me beside him. “Very well,” he said.

I stepped outside and nearly collided with four bearers holding Eurydice’s funeral bier. I ducked and grabbed a skinny boy—he seemed to be rushing about with no job to do—and ordered him to stand outside Guadagni’s door and holler into Tasso’s cave if the singer called for me.

“And why should I?” the boy said. Though I towered over him, he glared up at me as if I were beneath him.

I fished in my pockets. Empty. I promised him twenty pfennig. He nodded and took his station, and I dived into an open trap.

Below the stage, in Tasso’s cave, Nicolai was reclining on the remains of Tasso’s cot. I smiled, for though he had crushed it into a dozen pieces, he seemed at ease. Remus sat beside him on the floor, leaning up against the cold iron stove. Tasso skittered all about this dark room, checking lines, greasing blocks. Then he leapt and hoisted his head up through a trap to yell at the dull stagehands to light the lamps, and then he hung there, a body without a head, jerking in horror as they nearly set the curtain afire. Nicolai did not seem to notice that the little man was busy; he wanted to know about every line, every trap.

“And what about the capstan at the front?” he asked. “Does that raise the empress’s gown, so all can see her skirts?”

“That is the footlight elevator!” Tasso growled, disdainful of Nicolai’s ignorance.

“And that rope?” Nicolai said, squinting in the light of the dim lamp.

“Works the central trap!”

“Amazing,” Nicolai said to Remus, “how much he knows.”

Remus looked at Nicolai with distrust. “Do not touch a thing!” he whispered, so Tasso did not hear.

Nicolai held up his hands. Tasso had not, in the end, insisted that they be bound. “I am as innocent as the empress.”

I was so happy to see Nicolai beaming. I hugged him as I crawled past.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To see,” I said over my shoulder. “To see!”

A few days earlier, I had discovered a tiny peephole that Tasso used to peer out at Gluck. I crawled to it now and peered out. I had never seen so magnificent a gathering. In the Ox Pen, a crowd of the finest men in the world conversed loudly. Those in the loges must have heard every word, which was, of course, the intention. Above them, the candle-laden chandelier tinkled with the resonance of so many voices.

To my left was the royal loge, just beyond the orchestra. It was distinguished tonight by a crimson awning, as if a drizzle were expected in the theater. In the center, buxom and rosy, sat that great woman, mother of sixteen children and an empire. Her cheeks shone as if someone had slapped them. Beside her, the emperor—his nose bulbous, his mouth thin and narrow—was a pale, drab figure. They were surrounded by a halo of their children.

But I was not at this peephole to see the empress.

Hundreds of eyes peered down from the double gallery of
Le Paradis
, as though they were considering a leap. Perhaps they would have risked the injury, but landing on a duchess would mean eternal banishment from the theater.

My ears searched all the theater’s sounds.
She must be here, she must
.

The orchestra began to tune in discordant chaos. The loges were filling up. Most sat six: three along the railing, three behind. (What coordination was needed to see the stage from that second row!) Surplus sons and daughters stood behind their older siblings. There was a lamp burning in every box, so every loge appeared itself a stage.

And then, opposite the empress on the second tier, they entered. They were so close I made out the sharp tendons of Countess Riecher’s neck as she led Count Riecher in. Then Amalia entered before Anton—and my heart soared!
She is here!
Four other Riecher offspring followed, but I had eyes only for Amalia, round and glowing, the most beautiful specimen Countess Riecher ever had to display, no matter how many children she had borne herself. Amalia was given the honored third seat in the front row of the family’s loge. Anton sat behind her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled as if to say,
See? See how right I was?

I was certain she would soon be mine again. When Orpheus looked into Eurydice’s eyes, Amor would be as kind to us as she was to those fabled lovers on the stage.

Then the urchin I’d asked to stand watch outside my master’s door yelled into the cave, “Guadagni calls his boy!” The little wretch stood above the trap, his hand outstretched for his reward. I smiled and told him I would pay him on the morrow. He grinned and tripped me as I passed.

I stumbled to Guadagni’s door just as he opened it. He wore his coat across his shoulders, his face serene. “I am ready,” he said.

I nodded, but was unsure what to do. I turned to the crowd of stagehands standing in dumb admiration of the singer. “He is ready,” I said.

For the first time in my life, the world reacted to my words with instant obedience. The fervor subsided. Like giant bats, Furies flew off to hide in the recesses of the wings. Stagehands took their stations and were still. The chorus rushed onto the stage. Eurydice climbed onto her bier and was dead. Behind the curtain, all was silent as Gaetano Guadagni strode onto the stage.

I followed him. My footsteps felt so heavy I was sure the empress herself could hear them. The clamor of the audience behind the curtain was like a foreign army waiting at a gate—please wait for me to flee! Guadagni stood in the middle of the stage. He placed his fists across his chest. Sorrow was painted on his face.

He nodded to me.

What was I to do? I looked to my left, my right. Every stagehand and chorus singer stared at me, but their blank stares were no help.
Do it
, the stares said.
Everyone is waiting for you to do your job
.

Do what? Leave? Peek through the curtain and tell Gluck all was ready? No one had told me anything! I had never before attended an opera!

Then I realized—his coat. It was Guadagni’s coat, not Orpheus’s. I took it as if I were removing a blanket from a sleeping baby.

I rushed off the stage as applause began. Gluck tapped twice for attention and began the overture. Still, Guadagni did not move. His head was bowed. The footlights at the lip of the stage were just partly raised, so his face was dimly lit. Behind him, the choir of mourners were as still as a painting of a funeral.

The overture ended. The curtain parted.

Gluck’s music became a sad march. Beside me, the bearers lifted Eurydice’s bier and slowly advanced onstage. Guadagni stayed bowed until the chorus began their song. Then his head rose until his eyes focused on his love, dead before him.

He sang her name.

I had woken Spittelberg with that call. As his voice filled the theater, Guadagni woke fourteen hundred hearts. For an instant his echo rang from every corner. He sang again, his voice more sorrowful, and the wooden loges and crystal chandeliers resonated with her name, silencing the shuffling feet and nervous hands.

I had seen it so many times in rehearsal, but now it was a magic rite—this crowd assembled, their scents of rose and jasmine; this dead woman on her bier; the stifling heat of the lamps and fourteen hundred bodies; Guadagni’s voice even more brilliant than I had ever heard it—all this summoned the immortal lovers back to life. Tears shone on mine and many other faces as Orpheus sang his lament, as Jove heard his call and sent Amor to him. Soon Guadagni and Clavarau’s voices mingled in the cavern of the theater. My heart swelled. He would gain her back! He would save Eurydice from death.

When the curtain closed, I rushed to Guadagni with the coat, but he shook his head. The theater erupted in applause. Four times Guadagni stepped through the curtain to take his bows. Still they applauded, but he strode to his dressing room.

Tasso’s head peeked through a trap, and when the singer’s door closed, the stagehand sprang to action. I heard the spinning of blocks, the creaking of the axle’s turning, the tensing of lines—and as if by magic, the wing frames slid on their tracks. The backdrop fell. Red-tinted glass moved before the lamps, turning the stage a flickering red. It was the cave beyond the River Styx, where Orpheus would tame the Furies.

Gluck began act two.

The black-faced Furies danced. Their ankles cracked as they jerked and writhed. The sounds of a harp made them freeze, for hope and love were forbidden in their cave. They cursed the man who dared bring beauty to the underworld. They sang more loudly to overpower Orpheus’s harp. Guadagni’s door opened as the harp sounded a second time. He shrugged off his coat, not even glancing at me, and marched onstage. I tried to catch the coat, but it fell to the floor.