And so they did!

  “Oh,” said Theodor, “how the delightful fragrances of Italy waft forth from this wine— how a fresh burst of life sparks my nerves and infuses my veins!— Why in heaven’s name did I have to have to go and leave that lovely land!”

  “But wait,” Eduard objected, “in all that you’ve told me so far, I see no connection with that heavenly painting, and so, I imagine, you still have more to tell me about the two sisters. It is clear to me that the ladies depicted in the painting can be none other than Lauretta and Teresina.”

  “They are indeed,” replied Theodor, “and my wistful sighs reminiscent of that lovely land are a fitting prelude to what I still have to tell. Two years ago, before leaving Rome, I made a little sortie on horseback from the city. I passed a girl with a welcoming manner standing in front of a locanda out in the country, and I was struck by a whim of how pleasant it must be to let myself be served an ambrosial drop of wine by that sweet child. I halted at the door and peered through the leafy pergola pierced by bright rays of sunlight. Song and the sweet sound of plucked guitar strings echoed from the distance. I pricked up my ears, as the two female voices had a profound effect on me, generating a slew of dark memories I could not place. I dismounted from my horse, and listening intently to every note, slowly approached the pergola from which the music seemed to emanate. The first voice sang a solo canzonetta. The closer I came to the source of the music, the less I was gripped by that sense of the familiar that had first struck me. The songstress was in the process of singing a brilliant ruffling fermata. It eddied up and down— up and down— finally holding in a single extended tone— but then another female voice exploded in a vehement outburst— maledictions, execrations, invectives! A man protested. Another man laughed. The second female voice intervened. The dispute grew ever more heated, fueled with Italian rabbia.— Finally, I was standing right before the pergola— an abbot stormed out and almost knocked me over— he turned around to make sure I was all right, and I recognized the good Signor Ludovico, my musical gossip-monger from Rome. ‘Well, for heaven’s sake!’ I cried out.

  “ ‘Ah, Signor Maestro! Signor Maestro!’ he pleaded. ‘Save me, please save me from these raging furies— from that crocodile— that tiger— that hyena— that devil of a girl! I admit it— I admit it— I beat time for Anfossi’s canzonetta, and lowered my baton at the wrong moment in the fermata— I cut off her trill— but why did I look her in the eyes, that satanic goddess!— The devil take all fermatas— the whole lot of them!’

  “Lurching along, I strode with the abbot into the pergola and recognized at first glance the sisters Lauretta and Teresina. Lauretta kept screaming and clamoring, Teresina kept admonishing her with heated words – with his bare arms crossed, the tavernkeeper looked on, laughing, while a girl set down new bottles on the table. As soon as the songstresses saw me, they fell upon me, exclaiming ‘Ah, Signor Teodoro!’ and showering me with caresses. The dispute was forgotten.

  “ ‘Look at him,’ Lauretta said to the abbot, ‘there’s a real compositore, graceful like an Italian, strong like a German!’

  “Tempestuously interrupting each other, they told of the good times we spent together, of my profound musical mastery, even as a young man— of our rehearsals— of the excellence of my compositions— never had they wanted to sing anything but what I wrote.

  “Teresina finally let slip that she had been hired by an impresario as the lead tragic singer at the next carnival, but she now maintained that she would only sing provided that I was commissioned to write a tragic opera. The solemn, tragic was, after all, my special domain.

  “Lauretta countered, on the other hand, that it would be a shame if I did not pursue my natural proclivity for the delicate, the graceful note, in short, for opera buffa. She had just been engaged as lead singer for an opera house, and it stood to reason that no one but I should compose the opera for her to sing. You can well imagine with what a bountiful burst of feelings I stood there between the two of them. By the way, as you can see, it’s the very scene I overheard that Hummel depicts, and at precisely the same moment that the abbot misses the beat, upending Lauretta’s fermata.”

  “But what of your hasty departure and the bitter note you left behind?” said Eduard. “Did the ladies not give it any more thought?”

  “They spoke not a word of it, nor did I,” replied Theodor. “My own rancor had long since faded and the memory of my adventure with the sisters amused me. The only thing I permitted myself was to tell the abbot how many years ago, while accompanying Lauretta in an aria by Anfossi, that same mishap with the fermata befell me as did him today. I squeezed the ups and downs of my entire time spent with those ladies into that tragicomic scene, and while taking a few pointed sideswipes at them, I gave them to understand the distance that subsequent years of life and artistic experience had given me. ‘And it was a good thing that I put a stop to that fermata,’ I concluded, ‘the thing was likely to last a good long while longer, and I believe, had I let the songstress go on, I’d still be seated at that piano.’

  “ ‘But, Signor,’ replied the abbot, ‘what maestro can presume to hold the prima donna up to ordinary musical standards? Your misdeed in the concert hall, moreover, was much greater than mine here in the sundrenched pergola of a locanda – the fact is, I was only a virtual maestro, no one would set any store in it – and had I not been bewitched by the sweet fiery look of those heavenly eyes, I would not have made an ass of myself.’ The abbot’s last words proved salutary, for as he spoke, Lauretta, whose eyes had started sparkling again with fury, was mollified.

  “We spent the rest of the evening together. Fourteen years – that’s how much time had passed since I had parted from the sisters – change a lot. Lauretta had aged considerably; even so, she was not without her charms. Much better preserved, Teresina had not lost her lovely figure, and her entire appearance was as before, thus she was fourteen years younger-looking than herself. On my request, Teresina sang some of the solemn songs that had moved me in the past, but it seemed to me as if they sounded different than they once had in memory. The same held true for Lauretta’s singing, and though her voice had not noticeably lost any of its force or range, it sounded altogether different from the voice I preserved in memory. Already, this imposition of a comparison between my idealized memory and the not altogether gratifying reality upset me all the more so, since the sisters’ comportment toward me, their feigned ecstasy, their indelicate admiration that did, after all, take on a patronizing tone, had already made me ill at ease. The droll abbot, who played up his role as the sisters’ amoroso, and the good wine richly savored finally restored my humor, so that we all spent a very congenial time together. The sisters eagerly invited me to their room to discuss the essentials concerning the scores that I was to write for them. – I left Rome without seeing them again.”

  “And yet,” said Eduard, “you are indebted to them for having awakened the music in your soul.”

  “Indeed,” Theodor replied, “and for a slew of good melodies too, but for that very reason I should never have seen them again. Every composer preserves a vivid impression that time cannot crush. The spirit of music spoke forth in me, and that was the creative impetus that suddenly awakened kindred tendencies; it radiated from within and can nevermore be extinguished. No doubt all melodies that emanate from within us only seem to belong to the songstress who sings them, whose rendition ignited the first sparks. We hear it and just transcribe what they sing. But it is an inherited trait of us feeble mortals that, clinging to a clod of earth, we tend to want to drag down the otherworldly into the pitiful confinement of our earthly existence. And so we take the songstress as our beloved – sometimes even our wife! – The magic is extinguished, and the inner melody, inclined to communicate transcendent splendor, is reduced to a mundane lament over a broken soup bowl or an ink stain in new linen. Praise be to the composer who never again in his earthly life sets eyes on the one who by some arcane force managed to ignite the spark of his inner music. Although the youth may suffer the tempestuous throes of love’s sweet torments and amorous despair when the lovely enchantress leaves him, her physical presence is transmuted into heavenly notes that live on in the eternal blossoming of youth and resplendent beauty, and from these notes are born the unmistakably original melodies. What else is the one who sparked those heavenly notes but an emanation of the highest ideal mirrored in and framed by an accidentally encountered figure.”

  “Curious, but plausible,” said Eduard, as the friends emerged, arm in arm, from the Sala Tarone, and stepped out into the street.

  Skip Notes

  *1 Gaius Mucius Scaevola, a legendary Roman youth captured by the Etruscans, who thrust his hand into a fire and held it there, without showing any sign of pain, to prove his bravery.

  *2 The good child.

  *3 Accursed ass in Italian.

  *4 Affected.

  *5 I can’t live without you, my dear.

  *6 German ass.

  Counselor Krespel

  1819

  The man of whom I’d like to speak is none other than Counselor Krespel of H——.

  This Counselor Krespel was, in fact, one of the most peculiar people I’ve ever crossed paths with in life. When I moved to H——, where I intended to stay awhile, the whole city was talking about him, since one of his most harebrained devilries was just then in full flower. Krespel was renowned as a deft jurist and a capable diplomat. A ruling prince of little significance had turned to him to draft a document upholding his legal claim to a certain territory, the plan for which he proposed to submit to the emperor. The counselor carried out the prince’s wish with the desired result and, since Krespel once complained that he had never found accommodations suitable to his needs, the prince assumed the total cost of a house that Krespel planned to have built entirely according to his own specifications to repay him for his help with the memorial. The prince even proposed to pay for the building site, as per Krespel’s selection; but this Krespel did not accept, insisting rather that the house be built in his garden located in the loveliest district just outside the city gate. So he bought all the necessary building materials and had them transported to the site; he was then seen for days on end dressed in his curious gown (which, moreover, he himself had fashioned according to his own specifications), unloading lime, sifting sand, stacking the building stones in even heaps, etc. He had not spoken to a single master builder, nor had he thought of a ground plan.

  One fine day he called on a worthy wall builder in H—— and bid him appear in the garden the following morning at daybreak along with all his apprentices and hired hands, a slew of odd-jobbers and the like to build his house. The architect naturally asked after the ground plan, and expressed considerable surprise when Krespel replied that none was needed, and everything would fall in line. When the master builder appeared the next morning with his people at said locale, he found a perfect square-shaped ditch, and Krespel said, “The foundation of my house is to be laid here, and then I ask that the four walls be raised until I say they’re high enough.”

  “Without windows and doors, without transverse walls?” the architect interrupted, as if stunned by Krespel’s madness.

  “Just as I tell you, my good man,” Krespel very calmly replied, “the rest will all work itself out.”

  Only the promise of generous payment finally prompted the architect to commence the ridiculous construction; but never has a building been built with more merriment, for the four walls rose with exceptional dispatch, the work accompanied by the constant laughter of the workers, who were treated to endless food and drink, until Krespel called out, “Stop!

  Trowel and hammer fell still, the workers climbed down from the scaffolding, and as they circled around Krespel, every face seemed to ask, “So what now?”

  “Take your place!” cried Krespel, who then ran to one end of the garden, turned around and slowly approached his perfect square; having arrived at the wall he reluctantly shook his head, ran to the other end of the garden, once again strode toward the square, and again did as before. He did the same thing several times, until finally striking with the tip of his nose hard against the walls, he cried out at the top of his voice, “Get to it, get to it, you workmen, break down a door, break down a door for me here!” He indicated precisely the length and width in feet and inches, and all was done as he ordered.

  Then he went inside the house and smiled complacently as the architect remarked that the walls came to precisely the height of a stately two-story domicile. Krespel strode back and forth inside, followed by the masons with hammer and pickax, and when he cried out, “Here a window six feet high, four feet wide!”— “There a little turret three feet high, two feet wide!” the walls were promptly bashed in based on his specifications.

  It was at this very time that I arrived in H——, and it was most amusing to watch as hundreds of people stood around the garden, and gave a loud cheer each time the stones flew out, and yet another window appeared where no one had expected it. Krespel had the house’s remaining buildout and all accompanying tasks accomplished in exactly the same way, all hollowed out on the spot according to his precise orders. The absurdity of the entire undertaking, the growing conviction that everything would in the end work out much better than anyone expected, and in particular, Krespel’s generosity – that, granted, cost him nothing – kept everyone in a good mood. Thus the difficulties necessarily precipitated by the unorthodox manner of building were redressed, and in no time at all a fully furnished house stood there – a house which, viewed from the outside, made the strangest impression since no one window resembled another and so on – but the interior of which evoked entirely its own sense of well-being. This was confirmed by everyone who entered, and I myself felt it when, after a closer acquaintance with him, Krespel invited me in. As a matter of fact, I had not until then exchanged so much as a word with the man; he was so preoccupied with the construction of his house that he did not even, as had heretofore been his wont, attend Tuesday lunches at the home of Professor M——, and informed the latter upon receipt of a personal invitation, that prior to the housewarming of his new home he would not set foot outside. All of his friends and acquaintances anticipated being invited to a big meal, but Krespel invited no one but the master builder, journeymen, hired hands, and handymen who had been involved in building his house. He treated them to the most lavish dishes; masons’ helpers hungrily gobbled down partridge pâtés, apprentice joiners blissfully carved up roast pheasants, and hungry handymen managed to lay their hands on the most exquisite forkfuls of truffle fricassee.

  That evening, the wives and daughters came for a great ball. Krespel took a turn waltzing with the wives, but then sat himself down with the musicians, grabbed a violin, and conducted the dance music until dawn.

  The Tuesday following this festivity – in the wake of which Krespel was hailed as a friend of the people – to my considerable delight, I finally found him at Professor M——’s for lunch. You could not invent a more curious comportment. Stiff and clumsy in his movements, at any moment you would have thought that he’d collide with someone or something and do some damage. But that did not happen, a fact one might well have foreseen since the lady of the house did not display the least concern when he galivanted around the table set with the finest china, when he maneuvered his way toward the floor-to-ceiling-length mirror, nor even when he grabbed hold of a flowerpot of splendidly glazed porcelain and tossed it in the air, as if he wished to let the colors run. Krespel, in fact, examined everything on the professor’s table with the most careful attention, even going so far as to climb onto a padded chair, take a painting down off the wall, and hang it up again.

  All the while, he accompanied his actions with copious commentary vehemently expressed, sometimes (this was particularly conspicuous at table) jumping hastily from one subject to another, sometimes unable to let go of an idea, taking it up again and again, getting lost in all sorts of conceptual blind alleys, unable to find his way out until some other idea took hold. Sometimes his tone was gruff, howled at the top of his lungs, sometimes softly drawled, trilled; but the manner never matched the subject at hand.

  If music was being discussed, a new composer lauded, Krespel chuckled and cantillated softly, “Would that the black-feathered Satan fling that accursed tone-bender ten thousand million fathoms into the abyss of hell!” Then he expostulated heftily and wildly about some diva: “She is an angel from heaven, emitting nothing but pure God-blessed tone and timbre— the bright ideal and starry constellation of all song!” And as he spoke, his eyes welled up with tears. All present had to be reminded that an hour ago they were talking about a famous female singer.

  A roast hare was devoured, and I noticed that Krespel painstakingly gnawed off the flesh, left the bare bones lying on his plate, and made inquiries after the hare’s foot which the professor’s five-year-old daughter fetched for him with a friendly smile. Even during the meal, the children regarded the counselor with canny smiles, and now they got up from the table and approached him, albeit with bashful respect, maintaining a distance of three paces. What surprise lay ahead? I thought to myself. The dessert was served; then the counselor plucked a coffret out of his pocket that contained a little steel lathe. He promptly screwed this onto the table, and carved up the hare bones with unbelievable agility and speed into all sorts of tiny little canisters and boxes and balls which the children received with wild delight.

  At the moment of rising from the table, the professor’s niece asked, “How is our Antonia doing, dear Counselor?”

  Krespel made a face, like someone who had just bitten into a bitter orange, but wished to appear as if he had just enjoyed something sweet. Soon this look twisted itself into a gray mask from which an altogether bitter, fierce, indeed it seemed to me, downright devilish derision spewed forth. “Our? Our dear Antonia?” he inquired in a slow, drawn-out, disagreeable singsong.

 

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