The Devil in Music (5 page)

Donati
did not quite like his tone. He sounded as if he expected his
protege to disappoint him. But Orfeo was more than equal to the
challenge. He had never sung better than he did this morning.

The
marchese ought to have been pleased and he was, when he could
concentrate sufficiently on Orfeo's performance. But he was restless
and distracted, often walking about while Orfeo was singing. At one
point Donati even heard him scribbling with Tonio's quill. He had a
habit of writing absently with any pen and paper that came to hand,
but he had never done this during Orfeo's lesson before.

Was
the infatuation fading? Donati did not think so. Something must be
preying on the marchese's mind. Could it have anything to do with
his impromptu plan to spend the night at the villa? Donati still
thought this extraordinarily strange. Lodovico had always maintained
a strict social distinction between himself, on the one hand, and
Orfeo and Donati, on the other. They rarely dined together and never
slept under the same roof. Indeed, Lodovico never passed a night
anywhere without a retinue of servants.

When
the lesson was over, Lodovico applauded vigorously. "Bravo!
Bravo, my songbird! Your portamento is sublime you glide from note
to note with the natural grace of a bird in flight."

"Thank
you, Signer Marchese."

"Your
little bout with the night air doesn't seem to have affected your
throat."

There
was the briefest of pauses. "No, Signer Marchese."

"Thanks
be to the Madonna for that!"

"What
bout with the night air?" asked Donati.

"Didn't
he tell you?" The marchese burst out laughing. "Our Orfeo
was smitten with love last night, and scaled the wall of Castello
Malvezzi in search of his lady."

"Scaled
the wall?" Donati exclaimed. "My son, what were you
thinking of?"

"His
Excellency is pleased to be metaphorical," said Orfeo. "I
got in through the castle gate, with a key I found in one of the
storerooms here."

"I'd
best take that key back to the castle with me," said Lodovico.
"Just to put temptation out of your way."

"As
you wish, Signer Marchese."

"Or
better still, I'll give it to Matteo for safekeeping. You can't very
well ask the girl's father for the means to get to her bed, now can
you?"

"I
hope I should have sufficient taste to ask the girl herself first.
Which, as I told you last night, Signor Marchese, I haven't done."

"See
how he protects her reputation!" mocked Lodovico. "Anyone
would think she was a duchess. Why, he won't even own up to the
assignation!"

Orfeo
rose. "If you require nothing further of me, Signor Marchese, I
should like to go for a walk in the garden."

"Now
I've ruffled his feathers," said Lodovico. "Apparently
Englishmen don't like to boast of their conquests of peasant girls."

"I
wasn't aware that a gentleman of any nation boasted of his conquests
at all. Good day to you, Signor Marchese. Maestro."

Orfeo
walked out unhurriedly. Donati could eerily feel the marchese
looking after him. At last Lodovico said, "He came dangerously
close to insulting me."

Donati
summoned his courage. What had he to be afraid of, after all? He was
a famous teacher, dependent on no one for money or patronage. And he
was at the end of his life a time, surely, when a man could, and
ought to, take chances. "You goaded him, Signor Marchese. And
pardon me but I think you did it deliberately. Why?"

There
was a faint rustling among the sofa cushions, as if Lodovico were
settling himself more comfortably. "Because his pride needs
curbing. He can't afford to be too sensitive about his honour, once
he goes on the stage. You know how singers elbow each other for the
best operas, the choicest arias, the topmost rank on the bill, the
highest fees. If Orfeo succeeds, his rivals will plague him with
spiteful tricks and gossip. If he disappoints the public, they'll
turn on him, snapping at his heels, just as surely as they fawned on
him before. What, will he send out challenges to every man in an
audience that boos him the first time he has to sing with a cold in
his head? He must learn to court the public's favour accept
humiliation when necessary. And the sooner he learns that, the
better."

"Not
all singers resort to underhand tactics," Donati argued. "And
those who do usually lack the talent to succeed any other way. Orfeo
has the talent what's more, he has fire and charm that come in large
part from his high breeding. To break his spirit might well
undermine his art."

"Tut!
a thoroughbred horse is none the worse for a little schooling, and
that's all I mean to give Orfeo."

"Horses
are animals, Signor Marchese. They respect a strong hand they may
even come to love the one who tames them, as a child loves a fond but
firm parent. A proud young man doesn't love where he's forced to
submit. When you give to such a man, and he discovers you believe
you've bought him, he will neither love nor respect you; even his
gratitude may wither away. Orfeo will come to feel he owes you
nothing. He will leave you, even turn on you, without compunction."

"I
don't know what you're talking about!" Lodovico cried angrily.
"I've never mollycoddled Rinaldo, and he's loyal and respectful
toward me!"

He
wouldn't dare be anything else, Donati thought sadly. Poor boy the
marchese had cowed him so thoroughly that he had no will of his own.
There was a joke in Milan that Rinaldo and his wife's lover had not
enough balls between them to make up one whole man. Lodovico's
tragedy was that he admired strength and courage but could not bear
to have them exerted against himself. He was always trying to bend
people to his will, yet once he succeeded, he despised the puppets he
had made. He was like a child forever breaking his favourite toys.
Only one person seemed able to keep both his love and his respect:
his second wife, Beatrice, who by all accounts was as beautiful as a
goddess and as subtle as a sphinx.

Donati
gave up the dispute. He had known the marchese too long to have any
hope of changing his mind, once it was firmly made up. Better to
keep on his good side, so that he might intervene on Orfeo's behalf
if a serious quarrel blew up between them. Orfeo had too fine a
voice to blight his prospects by making an enemy of a man of
Lodovico's influence. Lodovico must not be allowed to destroy his
career, as he had Valeriano's.

"Please
forgive me, Signer Marchese," Donati said meekly. "I'm
afraid I was carried away by my zeal as a teacher."

"I
understand, Maestro. That's only natural. If you didn't care
passionately about your pupils, you couldn't bring out the best in
them. But your province is voices, not character."

Donati
nodded submissively. His fingers ranged over the piano keys, picking
out an old melody by Paisello. I no longer feel youth shine in my
heart. Sometimes he wished it were true.

He
left off playing to listen to the sparrows, who were filling the air
with song as they built their spring homes in the villa's cornices
and balconies. It was a fine day: he could feel the sun streaming
through the window and smell the first blossoms opening. "Orfeo's
idea of a walk appeals to me, too. With your permission, Signor
Marchese, I'd like to ring for Tonio to take me round the garden."

"I'll
take you, Maestro," Lodovico said genially. "This isn't a
day to be indoors."

He
helped Donati up and gave him his arm. They went out onto the
terrace. If Donati had not known the terrace overlooked the lake, a
hundred things would have told him so: the restless plashing of the
waves against the embankment, the gulls' cries, the smell of fishing
nets, the beating of oars, and the extraordinary natural harmonies of
the boatmen, who had never studied music and could not read a note.

Lodovico
led Donati away from the lake. Donati knew this path: it

snaked
around the back of the villa and continued north by a series of
twists and turns, till it reached the cliff on which Castello
Malvezzi was perched. This formed the northern boundary of the villa
garden. Donati took off his hat to feel the alternating sun and
shade on his bald crown, as the path passed in and out of the shelter
of trees. Bees hummed, and there were sudden rustlings in the bushes
that must be lizards darting to and fro.

All
at once there was a new sound: a babel of raised voices, mostly male,
and a sharp, confused scuffling. "What is it?" Donati
asked anxiously.

"It's
coming from the caves," said Lodovico.

Donati
knew there were several small caves hollowed out of the cliff on
which Castello Malvezzi stood. Beneath the caves were fanciful
grotto rooms, now used as wine cellars.

"Do
you think someone is trying to steal the wine?" Donati asked.

"I'll
soon find out!" said Lodovico. "Wait here!"

Donati
wanted to obey, but he was frightened he hardly knew of what. When
the marchese let go of his arm, he stretched out his hands and took a
few faltering steps. There was nothing to hold onto he did not even
have the light rattan cane he usually used to find his way about. His
foot caught on a tree root, and he almost fell.

"Oh,
here, Maestro, come with me." Lodovico caught his arm
impatiently and hurried him along.

The
fracas ahead grew louder. Donati made out Tonio's coarse voice
cursing, and Matteo's shouting to him to shut his mouth. But when
the marchese and Donati reached them, there was dead silence.

Lodovico's
arm went stiff in Donati's grasp. "What's happening here? My
God, Orfeo, are you all right?"

"I'm
perfectly all right, Signer Marchese." Orfeo's voice was level,
but a little breathless.

"Perfectly
all right! Body of Bacchus! Your face is covered with blood!"

"My
lip is split. That's where all the blood is coming from."

"You've
been fighting!" said Lodovico. "And with this cur of a
servant! Well, sirrah! What have you to say for yourself?"

There
was no reply only the shuffling of feet that was Tonio's usual
response to a difficult question. A smell of sweat came from his
direction, mixed with the reek of wine around both young men.

"I
will have an explanation of this!" Lodovico stormed. "Matteo,
what's going on here?"

"They
were fighting down in the grottos, Excellency Signer Orfeo and
Tonio." The gardener hesitated; he was not a man of many words.
"Lucia here, she heard the noise and fetched me to break it up.
I did or I had most nearly, when Your Excellency arrived."

"What
was this fight about?" Lodovico demanded.

Orfeo
said quickly, "Tonio and I had a difference of opinion over a
game of cards. He accused me of cheating. I tried to explain that
he was mistaken, but he wouldn't be persuaded, and finally I was
obliged to knock him down. He objected."

"You
got yourself into this state, risked doing yourself grievous harm,
demeaned yourself by fighting a common servant all over a game of
cards?"

"In
retrospect, Signer Marchese, it does seem hardly worth the trouble."

"You
are impudent, signer. You forget yourself and me."

"I
could never forget you, Signer Marchese." Orfeo's voice was
just a little wry.

Donati
wished with all his heart that Orfeo would sulk or rebel or lose his
temper. Anything was better than this cool composure. For Lodovico,
it was like a red flag to a bull. "So this is what your fine
manners and breeding amount to!" he spat out. "Grappling
with a servant in a wine cellar! Maestro, you should see your pupil:
his lip split, his hat gone, his collar half torn off, and his
clothes all stained with wine! How did that happen, pray?"

"We
broke a bottle of wine in the fight, and rolled in it while we were
struggling on the floor."

"Better
and better!" Lodovico taunted. "And who is going to pay
me for the bottle of wine I've lost?"

"As
you know, I haven't much money," said Orfeo in a low voice.
"But you may have my gold cravat-pin if you like."

"I
don't want your damned cravat-pin! I can buy a hundred like it! What
I want is an apology!"