Nightingale (34 page)

Herr Adamberger, imposing in a black magician's robe embroidered with stars and crescents, entered, first to listen, and then to sing a basso duet with her. In it, he complained that although he'd given her "clothes more beautiful than the drab feathers she used to wear, wonderful food and the best of care," every luxury his magic could command, she still refused to sing the song he wished above all to hear. Although her songs of mourning were very beautiful, he'd fallen in love with the song which she’d sung in the woods.

She, in reply, said that in the form of a woman she could only grieve. Although his power was great, he could not compel her to sing the song which had enticed him to cage her. That could only be sung to the mate of her soul. Like the swan, she said, she gave her love for life, and no other but her own true mate could draw out that special song.

The listeners applauded loudly for both arias, for emotion they contained remained behind, like a mesmerizing perfume. Music carried them away, out of their silver court clothes, into another world. Not only the connoisseurs, but everyone, from the servants who tended the lamps and stood by the doors, to the Princes of the Blood, were entranced. Young Mozart had out done himself.

The Nightingale wrapped her shining cloak around her, and the magician threw a cover over her cage. Next, he sang a song explaining that he would force the special song from her when his studies at last reveal the correct spell. A chorus of spirits sprang from the wings to dance a ballet, while at the rear, upon the magician’s table, small fireworks popped and shot sparks.

Eventually, the magician left with his spirits to search for the single herb required to finish his potion. A young man entered, singing of his life in the woods, where he was a forester. He was sent by his master, a Prince, to collect a healing potion from the Magician. He restlessly moved about in the confinement of the room until weeping from the covered cage caused him to uncover it and find the Nightingale.

They burst into song at the sight of one another. Even inside the woman's body, her true love knows her. They sing a duet about the forest and how they have longed for each other. Pledging eternal love, the forester opens the door. Just as they are ready to leave, the magician returns with his spirits.

In a jealous fury, he commands the spirits to bind the forester, while the bird woman sings another aria, pleading for his life, and offering in return to stay forever with the Magician. When the magician refuses, she embraces the forester and sings the song, the one that she has been unable to sing for so long, the one that she sang when they both were free in the forest.

This was the show stopper, an aria which drenched the room with the essence of beauty and longing. The refrain, based upon the trills of a nightingale, made a charming musical device. As the song ended, the young man’s bounds fell away. At the same time, the captive sheds her finery and stands in plain Nightingale gray once again.

The
Magician is astonished by this destruction of one of his ‘unbreakable’ spell. He can do nothing but wonder (and sing the bass line) while the lovers embraced and their rejoicing music soared. Love holds sway over all other powers and bowing to this mighty love, he allows the bird woman and the forester to leave. The principals were joined by a spirit chorus and the music swelled from trio into grand finale.

Klara had never been so nervous in her life, except perhaps for the first solo arias she'd sung before the Empress. Still, tonight she was surrounded by supporters. There was her dear friend Adamberger, and his tall daughter, Adele, who played the forester. There was the little composer, Wolfgang Mozart, seated at the harpsichord. Her adored Almassy stood first among the violins. Even dour Prince Vehnsky, she thought, was on their side.

Enemies were present too. Max was there with Madame Yvetta on his arm, an event that sent fans on every side to fluttering, although much of their ‘secret’, and Klara’s too, was now the subject of a storm of gossip. It was all too clear to everyone who was to be installed in her place.

***

The applause, Klara thought, would never end. These aristocrats came to their feet, all of them, applauding wildly. Women wept. Shaking with the effort of singing, shaking with anticipation, she went forward to curtsy before the Crown Prince.

"Bravo, Fraulein Silber! A tour de force! Celestial!"

"I am honored, Your Excellency. I am, however, only the instrument. The composer….” Gracefully, she extended to her hand to Mozart. Together they saluted the imperial presence.

"Ah, Herr Mozart." Pale cold eyes, so like Max’s, studied the diminutive figure. "Astonishing, young man. I must
confess – my ear is ravished."

Everyone bowed low again at this royal expression of pleasure.

"With your permission, Your Royal Highness." Klara spoke as clearly as she was able. Mozart was right beside her, squeezing her hand, trying with every ounce of pressure to communicate brotherly encouragement. "I would like to beg your indulgence, sir."

One thin blond eyebrow lifted questioningly, but the Crown Prince nodded.

Not daring to meet Max's eyes, which, even from across the room, Klara could feel burning, she extended a hand. Herr Almassy came from the orchestra. His violin and bow had already, in anticipation of the moment, been passed to his friend, Ferenc. As soon as he reached Klara, they joined hands and to their knees.

"Sire, I, Concertmaster Almassy of the Household of Prince Vehnsky, beg for
Your Highness’ protection and permission to speak freely."

The Crown Prince cleared his throat, knowing immediately what this meant. Count Oettingen did not move a muscle, but his face was a study in ice.

"For what do you need my protection, Concertmaster?" Prince Joseph asked, gazing ingenuously around the room. "Have you not the permission of your Master?"

"He has my permission to speak, sire." Prince Vehnsky’s deep voice sounded.

"Well, Concertmaster?"

"Your Highness, here in your presence, I wish to address Count Oettingen."

The slightest smile curved Max's thin lips. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, graciously signaling his permission.

"Herr Count, I wish to take your protégé, Fraulein Silber, to wife. As this lady is an ornament of the Viennese stage and owes her life and her fame to your generosity, permission must be granted by you."

Count Oettingen glanced around the room, sizing up the situation. He seemed calm, but his eyes glittered.

"So, Fraulein Silber, tonight is meant to be your swan song upon the Viennese stage?" His words were pointedly not addressed to Akos.

"Yes, my lord Count. 'Tis a woman's duty to follow her husband."

Oettingen grinned like a death's head into the absolute silence which now filled the room.

"A mere woman, perhaps, but only very rarely, a prima donna."

Titters sounded, and tears popped into Klara's eyes, for his mockery resounded like a slap. From here and there came muffled whispering. The eyes around them rolled with the delight of schadenfreude. Fans fluttered.

This unfolding drama, far more exciting even than the delightful and unexpectedly beautiful opera, would supply gossip for weeks!

"Sir Count," Akos said firmly, rising to his feet, his eyes locked upon his adversary. "The most beautiful song of the nightingale cannot be sung unless she is released into the perfect freedom of love."

"So your little parable asserts." His gaze stung as it measured and appraised.

"Sir, I entreat you." Klara too rose, and then bowed before him. For an instant, gazing into that familiar face, through all the rage of injured pride and ownership, Klara caught a glimpse of the something else. It was a thing Max doubtless wanted to hide
– grief!

"Well, well," he said, with a brusque wave, "why make a performance of this? I give you leave to marry. Still, 'tis a pity, opera will be deprived of one of her glories, and a premier nightingale will leave her many admirers. Have you no fear, sir," and here he addressed Akos, "that without the nourishment of an audience’s adoration, this rare bird may starve?"

"There will be no dearth of applause for Fraulein Silber, even in our eastern wilderness," Prince Vehnsky said. "The noble families of Hungary, Slovakia and Bohemia will hereafter receive the blessing of her talent." From the assembled gentry of those conquered and colonized lands, came a soft but unmistakable murmur of pleasure.

"When we have occasion to travel to our provinces, we shall look forward to hearing you, Fraulein," said Prince Joseph. He seemed relieved that this potentially distasteful scene was resolving quietly.

"I shall myself remain at Vienna until after Easter," Prince Vehnsky said. "After that time I shall retire to Komoram with my household." His speech decisively swept the newly declared couple under his wing."

***

Shortly after, the Crown Prince and his retinue departed. From every side, jeweled hands were extended and kissed. Klara curtsied, barely seeing. She hardly dared believe it was over – her choice! For what she hoped would be the last time in her life, Klara kissed the air above Count Oettingen's hand.

"You, sir," the Count murmured to the man beside her, his voice like velvet, "have no idea of the ruin this night's work will bring upon that which you profess to love."

"It is my intent to cherish and honor this lady, sir." Akos had heard the threat in the Count's words, one he could not overlook, so he added, "I hope I do not understand that your intent towards the object of our mutual reverence differs from mine?"

"You forget to whom you speak, sir!" The Count was coldly furious. "My intentions are nothing for a mere musician to pass judgment upon! So hear me, Maria Klara Silber! You may find that freedom for which you have beaten your wings so loud to be, in the end, the death of you! A cage is the safest place for a rare bird. I charge you
, remember what I say."

His gaze almost froze her soul. Still, at the same instant, it seemed as if he was withering, like a plant touched by frost. He seemed to be aging right before her eyes.

"Herr Count Marshall…." The bass rumble of Prince Vehnsky’s voice was heard, but he was not allowed to finish.

"Let us waste no more time upon servants. And I thank you, sir, for a rare entertainment, a pinnacle of musical art. Now,
Your Highness, allow me to petition you."

Vehnsky raised a salt-and-pepper brow, but extended his hand in a gesture of permission. The Count stepped forward and they moved away into a private discussion.

The remaining audience remained where they were, still as statues, watching, forming a glittering tableaux of white and silver.The orchestra, too, might have been made of stone. Klara and Almassy stood together, he in his red and black livery, she in the soft gray dress of the Nightingale. Her hand rested lightly in his, but in spite of this safest of all places, she was assailed by an overwhelming dread.

What was that serpent saying to Vehnsky?

At last they turned to face the audience again.

"With your permission,
Your Highness," Oettingen said. When the Prince nodded, he snapped his fingers and one of his private guard marched forward. At his master's feet, he went down upon one knee, and held up a purse, which Oettingen accepted.

Holding the purse high, the Count addressed the room. "This opera shall never be repeated, never heard upon this earth again. It shall be preserved in the memories of those privileged to be the guests of your house, these noble, true connoisseurs."

When everyone's gaze was fixed upon the purse, Oettingen said, "Kapellmeister Mozart and his talented son may approach."

Leopold and Wolfgang came from the orchestra, and, as one, bowed low. Leopold's face was as a mask, as any other principal of this drama. Wolfgang too looked wary, but curiosity at once began to take precedence.

"This contains thirty gold Louis d'Or." Oettingen addressed the men bowing before him. "I have offered it as recompense for the score to His Highness, but he has graciously instructed me to present this purse to you." The purse was lowered into Leopold's hand.

"Your generosity, and the generosity of
His Serene Highness, is far beyond the bounds of our humble expectation, Most Noble Herr Count."

"Perhaps not," Oettingen lifted his hand and at once his servants began to pass through the orchestra, swiftly gathering up the scores. A kind of anticipatory shudder went through the assembly. One by one, the soldiers in their blue uniforms went to the enormous white and gilt corner stoves and tossed the manuscript in. For a moment, as the doors opened, a blue glow was visible, like the sun going down over the frozen alps.

All attention turned to the Mozarts, but neither father nor son so much as twitched. Oettingen's eyes narrowed. He seemed disappointed by so much sangfroid on their part.

Klara covered her face with a hand, trying to hide the tears. It seemed quite unbearable to be the cause of such terrible, wanton destruction.

He cannot have vengeance against me, so he obliterates the handiwork of genius! While professing to be a connoisseur, Max is an abominable vandal!