The professor soon interceded; in the punishing look he gave his niece, I understood that she had touched a chord that needs must disseminate a repugnant dissonance in Krespel’s heart of hearts. “What’s happening with the violins?” the professor asked in a right jovial manner, clasping the counselor by his hands.

  At this, Krespel’s facial expression lightened up and he replied with his loud voice: “Splendid, Professor, why just this morning I cracked open that capital instrument made by Amati, the one I told you about. What a stroke of good luck that it happened to fall into my hands. I hope that Antonia will give it a good workout with her bow.”

  “Antonia is a good child,” said the professor.

  “That’s a fact, she is indeed,” the counselor cried out, turning around quickly. In one fell swoop he had grabbed hat and stick, and leapt out the door. In the mirror I noticed that hot tears welled up in his eyes.

  As soon as the counselor had departed, I dashed over to the professor to ask him to explain the business about the violins, and above all about Antonia.

  “Well let me tell you,” said the professor, “just as the counselor is in all other respects a one-of-a-kind, he pursues instrument building in the most peculiar manner.”

  “Instrument building?” I asked, altogether taken by surprise.

  “Yes,” the professor continued, “according to connoisseurs, Krespel fashions the most splendid violins being made nowadays; in the past, from time to time, if a fiddler struck his fancy, he let him or her play his instruments, but for quite some time now he has stopped doing so. Once Krespel finishes fashioning a violin he himself plays it for an hour or two, indeed with great vigor and captivating expression. Afterward, however, he hangs it among the others without ever touching it again or allowing anyone else to touch it. If there is any prized fiddle fashioned by an old master to be had by hook or by crook, the counselor buys it for whatever price asked. But just as he does with his own instruments, he only plays it a single time, before disassembling it to inspect and analyze the structural finesse. And if he fails to find what by his own criteria he happens to be looking for, disgruntled, he flings the mangled instrument into a great big closet already full of the scattered parts of other precious violins.”

  “But what about Antonia?” I hastened to inquire with keen interest.

  “That, my friend,” the professor continued, “that is a delicate matter that could arouse the counselor’s greatest consternation, were I not convinced that, given his fundamentally good-natured character bordering on softness, it did not concern some secret consideration. When, many years ago, the counselor came to live in H——, he lived like an anchorite, with an old housekeeper in a house on X—— Street. Soon, on account of his curious ways, he aroused the curiosity of his neighbors, and as soon as he became aware of this he sought and found acquaintances. Just as in my house, people everywhere grew so accustomed to his presence that he became indispensable. His rough exterior notwithstanding, even the children took him to heart without burdening him with their attention, since despite all fondness, they maintained a certain respectful distance that shielded him from being overwhelmed. You have already seen how he has a way of winning over the children with all manner of amusements. We all held him for a confirmed bachelor, and he never gave us reason to doubt it. After having lived here among us for some time, he took a trip (no one knew where to), and returned several months later.

  “The evening following his return, Krespel’s windows were uncommonly lit up. This already made the neighbors take notice. But soon they bore witness to the altogether wondrously lovely voice of a woman accompanied by a pianoforte. Then the stroked tones of a violin resounded and wrestled in fiery combat with the voice. Everyone immediately recognized the counselor playing the violin – I myself joined the considerable crowd that had gathered before the counselor’s house for the wondrous concert, and I must admit that the voices of the most famous female singers I’d ever heard sounded flat and inexpressive compared to the altogether singular singing style of that unknown diva that reached deep down into the heart of the listener. Never had I had the faintest inkling of these long-drawn-out notes, of this nightingale trill, of such billowing and breaking undulations, of this rising intonation to the forceful blast of a wind organ, of this subtly articulated tempering into the faintest breath. There was no one in the crowd who failed to be enveloped by that sweetest enchantment, and in the silence that followed her singing all you could hear were quiet sighs.

  “It must have already been midnight when the counselor was heard speaking loudly, and based on what we could make out, another man’s voice seemed to chime in with reproaches, and in between you could detect a girl’s interrupted outbursts. The counselor yelled more and more vehemently, until finally he fell into that slow, drawn-out singsong tone that you know. His outburst was interrupted by a loud scream from the girl, followed by a deathly silence, until suddenly someone went stomping down the stairs and a young man staggered out sobbing, flung himself into a postal carriage waiting nearby, and whizzed away.

  “The following day, the counselor appeared to be very merry, and no one had the courage to inquire after the incident of the night before. But when asked, the housekeeper replied that he had brought home a lovely young girl whom he called Antonia, and who sang just as sweetly as she looked. A young man also came along, who appeared to be on intimate terms with Antonia and must surely have been her fiancé. But the latter had been obliged to beat a hasty retreat, on the counselor’s prompting. What relation Antonia bears to the counselor remains a mystery to this day, but one thing is certain – that he tyrannizes the poor girl in the most hateful manner. He watches over her, like Doctor Bartholo watches over his Mündel in The Barber of Seville; she’s seldom even allowed to show her face at the window. When once, after her pleading entreaties, he finally gave in and took her out into society, he kept an eagle eye on her and could not stand that a single musical note be heard, far less that Antonia sing; moreover, she was no longer allowed to sing in his house. For the people of our city, Antonia’s singing on that night consequently turned into something of a fantasy, a soul-stirring legend of a splendid miracle. Even those who did not hear her sing often remark if some female singer tries to make a go of it here: ‘What kind of crude warbling is that? The only real singer worth her salt is Antonia.’“

  You know all too well that I have a fondness for such fantastical affairs, and can well imagine how essential it was for me to make Antonia’s acquaintance. I had often heard those public avowals concerning Antonia’s singing in the past, but I never suspected that the beautiful one might be living right here and that she might be held by that madman Krespel, as if in the clutches of a tyrannical wizard. Naturally, the very next night I heard Antonia’s magnificent voice, and since it was in a splendiferous adagio (which ridiculously enough, it seemed to me at the moment as if I myself had composed it), I solemnly resolved to save her, to break into Krespel’s house, like a second Astolfo into Alzino’s[*1] enchanted fortress, and free the queen of song from ignominious bondage.

  Everything happened differently from how I had expected; for no sooner had I seen the counselor two or three times, and engaged in a heated discussion on the optimal structure of the violin, than he himself invited me to visit him at home. This I did, and he proudly showed me his precious collection of instruments. Some thirty violins hung in a cabinet, among which one stood out. Bearing all the marks of great age (engraved lion’s head, etc.), it appeared to be hung higher than the others, and was bedecked with a corolla, as queen demanding the obeisance of all the others.

  “This violin,” observed Krespel, after I had asked him about it, “is a very remarkable, wondrous piece, the handiwork of an unknown master, probably from the time of Tartini. I am absolutely certain that there is something altogether extraordinary about this instrument’s inner structure, and that if I disassemble it, a secret which I have long sought after would reveal itself. But – laugh at me if you wish – this dead thing, to which I alone can restore life and sonority, often speaks to me in a wondrous way, and the very first time I stroked its strings it seemed to me as if I were only the hypnotist able to elicit somnambulist notes, and that the instrument itself were expressing its own conception of music – please don’t suppose that I am fool enough to give the least credence to such utter poppycock, but it is strange that I never considered myself worthy enough to disassemble that dumb dead thing. I’m glad now that I never did it, for since Antonia is here I sometimes play her something on that violin – Antonia is glad, all too glad, to hear it.”

  The counselor spoke these words with evident emotion, which emboldened me to reply: “Oh, my most esteemed Counselor, would you not deign to play for her in my presence?”

  In response to which, however, Krespel gave me a wry look and responded in that slow, drawn-out singsong tone of his, “No, no, my dear sophister!”

  And that was the end of that. I was obliged to continue to admire all manner of somewhat childish rarities; until, finally, he reached into a light wooden box, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and pressed it into my hands, speaking in a ceremonious manner, “You are a friend of art, please accept this little gift as a treasured souvenir that must remain ever precious to you!” With these words he very gently nudged me by both shoulders to the door, and embraced me at the threshold. Essentially, it was his way of symbolically kicking me out the door.

  When I unfolded the paper, I found an approximately eighth of an inch of a fifth note string, accompanied by the words: “From the fifth note with which Stamitz, of blessed memory, tuned up his violin before playing his last concert.”

  The disdainful snub at my allusion to Antonia appeared to underline the fact that I would never set eyes on her; but that was not the case, for when I visited the counselor for a second time, I found Antonia in his room assisting him in the assembly of a violin. At first sight, Antonia’s outward appearance made no lasting impression, but soon it was impossible to break free of the look of her blue eyes, her lovely rose lips, and her uncommonly delicate dulcet figure. Her face was very pale, but as soon as something witty or merry was uttered she flashed a sweet smile and a fiery flesh color spread across her cheeks, the rosy shimmer fading fast. I spoke in an altogether uninhibited manner with Antonia, and noticed Krespel giving me none of the Argus-eyed looks that the professor had imputed – he seemed rather to maintain a perfectly even-keeled expression, indeed to follow with interest my exchange with Antonia.

  So it happened that I often dropped by the counselor’s house, which resulted in a mutual acclimatization in our little circle of three that gladdened our hearts. The counselor continued to amuse me with his altogether singular comic mannerisms; and yet it was Antonia alone I cared about, attracted as I was by her irresistible allure, and I was consequently inclined to overlook some things that would otherwise have riled me. All too often, tasteless and tedious comments were mixed in with the hodgepodge of the counselor’s other peculiar remarks, but what I found particularly odious was that whenever I turned the discussion to music, and song in particular, he would stop me with some altogether extraneous and most often mean-spirited remark in his noxious singsong voice, flashing his diabolical grin. From the great distress evident in Antonia’s extremely sorrowful look I became aware that Krespel only did this to keep me from making any request that she sing. But I did not let up. With all the snags the counselor thrust in my way, my determination to surmount them grew, lest I lose my mind in my longings and intimations. I simply had to hear Antonia sing.

  One evening, Krespel was in particularly high spirits; he had taken apart an old violin from Cremona and discovered that the tailpiece was set at a slightly greater slant than usual. “A significant discovery, particularly so for a performer!” I remarked and managed to spark some heated reflections from Krespel on how to play the violin. The notion that the old masters must surely have been inspired by the great and authentic virtuosos of song led directly to his observation that things are reversed nowadays, that singing is mangled by the singers’ desire to follow the affected leaps and flourishes of instrumentalists.

  “What can be more senseless,” I cried out, jumping up from my chair, running to the pianoforte, and hastening to uncover the keyboard, “What can be more senseless than such convoluted embellishments which, instead of making music, produce a sound like that of dried peas poured on the ground!” I sang some of the modern frills you hear nowadays that whir like a mightily spinning top let loose, accompanying my singing with a couple of pounded chords on the pianoforte.

  Krespel laughed profusely and cried out, “Haha! Methinks I hear our Teutonic Italians or our Italian Teutons attempting to interpret an aria by Pucitta or Portogallo, or some sort of maestro di capella, or rather Schiavo d’un primo uomo.“

  Now is the propitious moment, I thought. “Isn’t it so?” I turned to Antonia. “Isn’t it so, that Antonia knows nothing of such posturing?” I promptly let loose with a rendition of a lovely soulful ditty by old Leonardo Leo.

  Antonia’s cheeks flushed red, and a heavenly glow illumined her bliss-filled eyes— she leapt to the pianoforte— she parted her lips— but at the exact same moment Krespel shoved her away, grabbed me by the shoulders, and cried out in a strident tenor, “Sonny boy— Sonny boy— Sonny boy.” And grasping my hand, with his head bowed politely, he promptly started singing very softly, “In effect, my most esteemed Master Scholiast, in effect, it would breech all good breeding, offend all good manners, were I to give loud and lively voice to my ardent desire that right here and now the Hellish Satan break your neck with a gentle twist of his fiery clawed fists, and in this way, as it were, expedite you to kingdom come; but my best wishes notwithstanding, you must admit, my dearest bosom buddy, that it is getting very dark out, and since no lantern is shining, even if I did not right this minute kick you down the stairs, you might well suffer injury to your dear bones. Do hurry home, and keep fond memories of your true friend, should you never more – you catch my drift? – never more cross his threshold!” Whereupon he took me in his arms, and spun around with me in his firm grip, slowly nudging me out the door, so that I might never again set eyes on Antonia. You will admit that, under the circumstances, it was not possible for me to give the counselor a proper thrashing, as he most definitely deserved.

  The professor laughed heartily, and he assured me that I had forevermore burned my bridges with the counselor. Antonia was too precious, I dare say, too holy for me to play the part of pining lover at her window or scheming adventurer plotting to whisk her away. I left H——, shattered in body and soul. But as usually happens, the flamboyant colors of fantasy faded, and Antonia— yes, even Antonia’s singing, which I had never heard, often resonated deep in my heart of hearts, soothing me with a soft rosy glow.

  Two years later I was already employed in B——, when I set out on a trip in southern Germany. The towers of H—— reared up in the hazy red twilight. As I drew nearer and nearer I was gripped by an indescribable feeling of the most disconsolate angst; it burdened my breast like a heavy load, so much so that I couldn’t breathe— I had to climb out of my carriage and stand in the open. But my trepidation grew into a physical pain. It soon seemed to me as if I heard the harmonies of a heavenly choir wafting through the air— the tones became more and more distinct, so that I was able to distinguish men’s voices chanting a sacred chorale. “What is that?— What is that?” I cried out, as the sound pierced my breast like a burning dagger!

  “Can’t you see?” replied the coachman seated beside me. “Can’t you see? They’re burying someone over there in the churchyard!”

  We were indeed driving past a churchyard, and I saw a crowd of people dressed in black standing around an open grave just then being covered with dirt. The tears coursed from my eyes; it was as if they were burying all the zest, all the joy of life. The carriage having advanced quickly, with a hill now cutting off my view, I could no longer peer into the churchyard. The choir went silent, and not far from the churchyard gate I noticed black-clad people returning from the burial. The professor with his niece on his arm, both in deep mourning, passed directly in front of the carriage without noticing me. His niece had a kerchief pressed against her eyes and was sobbing intensely. I suddenly felt unable to enter the city; I sent my servant on ahead with my things in the coach to my accustomed inn, leapt out, and ran into the surrounding fields that I knew all too well so as to rid myself of this mood that, being overheated and exhausted as I was, may well have simply been a physical consequence of the hardships of my long journey.

  As I entered the allée leading to a pleasure garden, I witnessed the strangest spectacle. Counselor Krespel was being led forward by two mourners from whose grip he tried by all sorts of twists and turns to break free. He was, as usual, dressed in his peculiar, gray, homemade robe; but from his small triangular cap, which he wore in a martial fashion tilted toward one ear, there dangled an exceedingly long and narrow black crape ribbon that fluttered back and forth in the breeze. Around the middle he had bound a dagger scabbard, but instead of a dagger it contained a long violin bow. An icy chill ran down my spine; he’s gone mad, I told myself, as I slowly followed behind. The men in mourning led the counselor to his door, where he embraced them with a loud burst of laughter. As soon as they departed, his glance fell upon me. I was standing directly beside him. He gave me a long blank look, then cried out in a muffled voice, “Welcome, Master Scholiast!—You understand, don’t you!” He grabbed me by the arm and tugged me into his house— up the stairs, into the room in which the violins hung. All were enveloped in black crepe; the violins of the old masters were missing, and in their place hung a wreath of cypress.

 

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