“Yes. I read it while at university, and I still pull out my copy occasionally.”
Henry gave his head a shake. “The Italian is beautiful, but I grew tired of all the misery in the Inferno. One must give Dante credit for making art out of poetic spleen and fiendish torture. A bit twisted, though.”
Violet nodded. “Revenge is rarely so poetic or beautiful, nor does it often rise to the level of art, but Dante’s language is sublime. I love the Italian country, too, all that sunshine and spontaneity, and of course the food.”
“Did you not travel there just after your marriage?” Holmes asked.
Violet was smiling, but the right side of her mouth straightened, then twitched. She swallowed, the expression in her eyes suddenly changing. “Yes. I... I came down with a common traveler’s ailment and felt quite dreadful. I believe it was some bad fruit I ate in Venice. We... I had to come home early.” She managed a laugh. “I fear it still makes me queasy just thinking about it! That was not my first trip. My father loved Greece and Italy, and we spent many summers there. Sometimes I long to just run away to some beautiful villa in Tuscany or perhaps by the sea. But come, we should be gazing at the other spectators, rating their apparel, and sharing the latest gossip. We have little time for this amusing sport, for the performance is about to begin.”
“That does not stop most ladies,” Holmes said.
Violet laughed. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. My sister-in-law is one of the worst offenders. We have this large box to ourselves, a blessed occasion—as you would know if you had ever endured a performance in the company of Donald and his relations! The worst was the time the Reverend Killington accompanied us.”
Holmes’ brow furrowed. “Whatever could have persuaded him to attend? And what was the performance—Parsival?”
“Oh, no—Wagner is the Antichrist. It was Saint-Saëns’s Samson and Delilah. He approved heartily of the temple coming down at the end. Let us be seated. Michelle and I shall be in the middle where I can talk to her.”
We sat in the front; Violet was on my left, then Sherlock, with Henry to my right. The chairs had red velvet seats and padding over the arms. They were much more comfortable than anything in the stalls below, and the view was perfect. The balconies swung about in a great U; we were up one level very close to the stage on the right-hand side. The orchestra in the pit began to warm up. Violet handed me a book.
“You and Henry may share one libretto, Mr. Holmes and I the other.”
Holmes glanced overhead at the massive chandelier. “As usual, there is plenty of light. I would prefer the Bayreuth custom of dimming the lights in the auditorium during the performance.”
Violet raised her right eyebrow. “Ah, but then one might be forced to watch the performance rather than the other spectators. And have you really been to Bayreuth? Oh, how I envy you!”
“You were going to explain the plot to me,” I said.
“Yes.” Violet put her gloved hand over mine. “The title, Il Trovatore—‘The Troubadour’—is misleading.”
Holmes nodded. “Verdi thought of calling it The Gypsy.”
“That would have been better,” Violet agreed. “Azucena is the gypsy in the opera. An evil count has burned her mother at the stake as a witch. In revenge, long before the opera begins, Azucena has stolen one of the count’s sons. But I do not wish to give too much away. If you get confused, nudge me, and I shall untangle things for you. The three other main characters are part of a love triangle: the tenor Manrico—Azucena’s supposed son—the soprano Leonora, and the baritone Conte di Luna, the old count’s son and successor. Just remember, at heart the opera is about Azucena’s vengeance and other dark passions. The music is sublime, although, in real life, human misery is never so beautiful.”
Soon the brief overture began. The first scene with a chorus of soldiers did not catch my attention, but the second with the heroine Leonora, and the two men quarreling over her, was more interesting. Violet and Sherlock were clearly excited about the tenor and the soprano, but the high pitch of their voices sounded odd to me. I preferred the warm baritone of the count, and he was pleasant to look at with his black goatee, doublet, and tights. Henry and I shared a pair of opera glasses.
During the second act, the opera truly came alive. The anvil chorus of the gypsies (even I recognized it) was great fun, but then the chorus trooped offstage and the gypsy Azucena began to sing to her son Manrico. Her voice was very dark—smoky, even; she hardly sounded like a woman—but gripping. I peered through the glasses at her. The makeup on her face was obvious—the lines for wrinkles, the false shadows—but her dark eyes appeared genuinely haunted. She had on a white wig, and large golden circles dangled from her ears. She wore a red dress, a black handkerchief over her hair, and a black shawl over her shoulders. Truly she seemed possessed.
I followed her words in the libretto. She explained how she had struggled to get through the crowd with her baby, desperately trying to reach her condemned mother, “ma invano.” The music was low and ominous, the violins playing a plaintive, re-occurring sigh. Before the ghoulish crowd drove her mother into the roaring fire, she cried out to Azucena, “Mi vendica”—“Avenge me.”
I would not have thought the gypsy could be any more intense, but then she sang how later she stole the evil count’s baby. She was determined to throw the baby into a fire of her own, but she hesitated, disturbed by the child’s crying. Then she saw the cruel mob and the flaming pyre again, her mother’s pale ghost screaming “mi vendica.” She hurled the baby into the flames, but when the fatal delirium faded, she saw the count’s baby next to her.
“Ah! Che dici!” sang the tenor Manrico. “What are you saying?”
The music built to a tremendous crescendo. “Il figlio mio—mio figlio avea bruciato!” The Italian was simple enough: “My son—I had burned my son!”
“Orror! Quale orror!” The tenor seemed genuinely horrified. So was I. She had thrown her own baby into the fire. A shiver worked its way up my spine.
I glanced at Sherlock and Violet. They were absolutely transfixed, in another world. I think that for them, Henry and I, the audience, no longer existed. Violet’s cheeks were flushed, her pallor gone, but her excitement somehow did not look healthy.
The tenor repeated “orror” several times, and then the music died down even as flames would. Manrico asked who he was if he was not her son, but Azucena stubbornly told him he was her son. The moment was past; the story went off in another direction. When the scene ended, the tenor and the contralto, Azucena, were loudly applauded, but during her brief solo bow, shouts of bravo filled the hall.
I could barely restrain another shudder. “She was incredible.”
“Yes,” Holmes said. “Bravos are rare at Covent Garden. The tenor has a beautiful voice but not her histrionic talents.”
Violet nodded. “I doubt even Donald could have slept through that. The end of the scene always strikes me as comical. Poor Manrico, always running off to save someone; always having to choose between Leonora and his mother. His grand moment in the limelight is coming up in the next act. I shall give you a nudge, Michelle, before he hits his high C. If done well, it is a thrilling moment. This is a splendid performance. The one in eighty-eight with Tomagno was good, but hardly on a par with this.”
Holmes’ gray eyes watched her. “You saw that Il Trovatore, did you?”
Violet hesitated only an instant. “Yes. What did you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”
“You are correct. This is far superior.”
During the intermission Henry and I went outside together. Violet and Sherlock were talking and hardly noticed us leave. I held Henry’s arm with both my hands and nodded my head against his shoulder. “It seems such a pity,” I murmured.
“You mean Violet and...?”
“Yes. What is the good of forcing her to remain married to Donald Wheelwright? How is the public morality served by the misery of three people—or four, if you include the mistress?”
The first scene of the second act had the count’s men catching Azucena and preparing to burn her at the stake, just as they had burned her mother. Again, the singer was remarkable; she made me feel apprehensive and trapped. In the next scene Manrico was about to marry Leonora, when his friend rushed in to tell him Azucena was about to be burned before the castle walls.
Violet nudged me gently. “Be prepared—here it comes.”
Manrico had just sung a slow rhapsodic song, but the tempo picked up as a chorus of soldiers trooped on stage. The tenor’s Italian was simple: “I was already a son before I loved you.” “Madre infelice, corro a salvarti, or teco almeno corro a morir!” “...Unhappy mother, I run to save you, or at least I run to die with you!”
On the teco the tenor briefly hit the high note. The chorus sang “all’armi”—“to arms.” I watched Manrico through the opera glasses. He swelled up like a frog, the sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes ferocious, then drew his sword and bellowed: “All’armi!” This was the high C to end all high Cs, the note piercing, filling the auditorium. He held it so long I thought his lungs would burst. The back of my neck felt prickly. The curtain dropped, and the audience applauded wildly.
Sherlock and Henry shouted bravo, while Violet and I clapped. She smiled. “Well?”
“It was not exactly a pretty sound, but it was very exciting!”
“Only one act left,” Violet said. “The count has captured Manrico and locked him up with Azucena. Leonora makes a bargain with the count, offering herself in exchange for Manrico’s life. The count accepts, but she takes poison, then goes to Manrico in prison and tells him to flee. However, being a man, he assumes the worst and berates her for her faithlessness.”
Holmes was watching her. “Do you think, madam, that only men are capable of assuming the worst of the opposite sex?”
“I did not say that.” Her smile was ironic. “But it is often the case.”
Leonora was moving in the final act when she pleaded with the count for Manrico’s life, then again when she begged Manrico to flee. However, as before, I found Azucena’s mere presence spooky. One moment she raved of “il rogo,” the stake, the next she sang longingly of escaping to the mountains. When Manrico realized the truth—that Leonora was dying—he sang mournfully, “And I dared curse this angel!” At that point I sympathized with Violet’s viewpoint—how like a man!
At last Leonora collapsed and died. The music sped up. The count had Manrico dragged away. My eyes flickered back and forth between the libretto and the stage.
“Madre! O, Madre, addio!” Manrico sang.
Azucena awoke with a start. “Manrico! Where is my son?”
“He runs to his death,” snarled the count.
“Stop!” screamed the gypsy. “Listen to me!”
But the Count dragged her to the tower window. “Vedi?” he cried. “Do you see?”
“Cielo!” Azucena sang. A loud bang, the dreadful sound of an ax hitting a block of wood, resounded through the auditorium.
The count said something, and then Azucena, absolutely mad, turned to him. “He was your brother!”
“Ei. Quale orror!” The Count sang the same words as Manrico had earlier.
Azucena’s voice, already powerful, soared above the orchestra. “You are avenged, mother!”
With a final clash of cymbals and beating of drums, the music ended: the Count collapsing in horror and remorse, Azucena raising her clenched fists to the heavens, the curtain falling upon the scene. There was a second or two of silence, and then the applause began.
I gave a great shuddery sigh and turned to Henry, my eyes wide. He smiled but did not try to speak over the din. We all stood. Violet’s brown eyes glistened with tears, and she tried to smile at me. Her face was flushed, and she looked almost feverish. Oh no, I thought. Holmes was more restrained, but his face was also flushed.
There were several curtain calls and a standing ovation. Worried now, I kept an eye on Violet. When the clapping finally ended, she sank down into her seat, and the rest of us did the same.
“Amazing,” Holmes said. “I doubt we shall see its equal any time soon. Wagner’s leisurely musical dramas simply do not have the sheer visceral appeal of a well-performed Verdi opera.”
Henry nodded. “This is the only opera I have ever seen that compares with the Faust we saw in Paris.”
Holmes’ lips formed a brief smile. “That performance was... unique, especially its unexpected conclusion.” He withdrew his watch. “It is not yet eleven. Thanks to Mrs. Wheelwright, my billfold has been spared thus far this evening. Perhaps you would all join me for some refreshments nearby?”
Henry nodded.
“Oh, I would love to!” Violet exclaimed. She stood up, but abruptly, tears flowed from her eyes. She made a choking noise, then twisted away and leaned against the railing.
Henry and Sherlock were astonished. I gave my head a shake. “Too much excitement.”
“It is not that!” Violet tried to say.
I stood up and took a handkerchief from my handbag. I touched her shoulder. “The music—it was so...” she began. “The story is so dreadful, so sad, but the music is so very beautiful.”
“Sit down, my dear.”
“I am tired. My sleep is still... Oh Lord, I feel so foolish!”
“Please sit down.”
She swayed. “I am dizzy.” She sat, then dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. I noticed her other hand slip down and clutch at her side.
My own eyes filled with tears, and I glanced at Henry. It was so unfair—I had never seen her so happy.
He pulled at the corner of his mustache. “Perhaps we should make it another night, Sherlock.”
“Not on my account!” Violet said. “I shall...” She took a deep breath, and I could see her will exert its customary force. “I shall go home. Collins is waiting out front for me, but you two must join Mr. Holmes. I only wish—how I wish...!” She paused. “I only wish I could accompany you.”
Holmes looked at me, his face a mute appeal.
“I think it would be best for her to rest,” I said.
Violet closed her dark eyes, the nostrils of her aquiline nose flaring. “I shall go home. You have had enough outlandish behavior from me for one evening.” Her mocking smile had returned. She handed me the handkerchief. “Please, let us go.” She stood up.
I followed her, ready to catch her should she stumble. Sherlock and Henry were behind us, two tall figures in their black tailcoats and trousers.
“Do not be glum on my account. I am quite recovered.”
“Be sure to eat some soup or something when you get home.”
“I shall, Doctor. Did you like the opera, Michelle?”
“Oh, yes, but it was sad. I see why you said it should be called The Gypsy.”
“And the plot was not too difficult?”
“No. It was, as you said, a simple story.”
“I also enjoyed myself.” We reached the bottom of the stairs, and she took my arm with one hand, then half turned. “I know Mr. Holmes enjoyed himself.” She slipped her other hand about his arm.
He stiffened slightly, allowing a brief smile. “I am in your debt, madam. The seats were perfect. It was a performance—an evening—which I shall always treasure.”
Violet’s smile softened. “I believe you mean it. As for me—you have no idea how wonderful it was. True, the box is a fine one, but if you had had to sit through so many performances listening to Father and Mother Wheelwrights’ insipid chatter—at least Donald sleeps quietly and does not snore.”
I smiled. “Poor Violet.”
“It is very distracting. You understand, do you not, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes.”
We had lingered in the box, and most of the crowd had left by the time Henry and Sherlock got our coats and we had stepped outside. The rain had stopped, and the cool air felt good on my face after being inside for so long.
“Thank you so much, Violet,” I said. “It was wonderf
ul.”
“Superb,” Henry added.
Violet smiled, her eyes bleak. “You are welcome. There is Collins.”
“I shall see you tomorrow,” I said.
“Oh, Michelle, you need not.”
“I shall be the judge of that.”
Violet stared past me at Holmes. He had on his black top hat and greatcoat. His pale thin face stared down at her, but he did not speak. The gas lamps before the theater were bright enough that I could see the flush return to her cheeks. “Mr. Holmes,” she began rather loudly.
“Yes?” He looked puzzled.
“I thank you—thank you—for a most pleasurable evening, and for...” Her voice died away.
“As I said, it is I who am in your debt.”
“No—no—it is I who...” She drew in her breath. “Thank you for being so charming, for reminding me that not all men are—for reminding me that men can also be intelligent and love art and music and the beautiful.” Her small hands quivered before her, then reached out and seized his big hand. I do not know which of them was more surprised. They stared at one another, their eyes devouring each other, briefly paralyzed. Henry looked at me in disbelief. Abruptly, Violet raised Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it tightly, then releasing it. “Goodnight.” She turned and fled, her heels clattering upon the pavement as she strode toward her carriage. Sherlock’s lips had parted, his eyes still fixed on her.
Henry put his arm about me, shielding me from the wind and drawing me close. “This has been quite an evening,” he murmured. “Sherlock, I could certainly use those refreshments—especially something liquid.”
Holmes stared curiously down at his hand in its black glove and drew in his breath. “An excellent suggestion, Henry. I know a place close by if you would care to walk.”
“Let us walk,” I said.
We hardly spoke. I slipped my hand about Henry’s arm and stayed close to him. The restaurant was warm, brightly lit, and full of opera-goers. We remained morose and silent until the drinks came. I sipped my liqueur and felt it heat my mouth and throat.
“I wish...” I began. “I wish Violet could have come. And I wish she felt better and—I wish this nightmare were over, the old gypsy woman found, and Donald...” I took a big swallow, then coughed. “Oh, pardon me, but I do hope, Sherlock, that you soon figure out who sent those terrible notes.”
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