Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more

by David V. Barrett

  The evidence, such as it is, is scattered over several centuries: fragmentary accounts, anecdotes, reports of folk beliefs. Whether such portals might actually exist is beyond the remit of this committee, but the Vatican appears to have given them serious attention for some centuries.

  1970 (1770)

  There have long been stories about Gregorio Allegri’s Miserere, a setting of Psalm 51 composed in the 1630s. It must only be performed in the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican; Pope Urban VIII decreed that it was forbidden to remove it from the Vatican or to transcribe it on pain of excommunication; the young Mozart heard it once and wrote a perfect transcription from memory.

  The following documents found in a file marked Allegri’s Miserere can only add further to the mythology of this famous piece of music. We begin with the eighteenth-century records.

  Miserere

  Sarah Ash

  Rome, April 1770

  One by one the candle flames were extinguished in the Sistine Chapel as the last sombre cadences of the Tenebrae responses echoed around the shadowed vault. The darkening air was filled with the bitter, burning smoke of snuffed wicks. And then, out of the shadows, came the first chanted notes of Allegri’s famed Miserere:

  ‘Miserere mei, Deus. Have mercy upon me, O God . . .’

  The boy shivered as he stood beside his father in the crush of worshippers. Is this what it feels like to die . . . ? The sounds of everyday life gradually ebbing away as the light fades to darkness . . .

  The voices of the papal choir floated through the air, the unearthly, ethereal voices of the celebrated castrati like a distant promise of divine forgiveness.

  His own voice was breaking. He knew what it meant to become a man. What must it be like to be one of those singers and lose that essential part of yourself? To choose to keep the voice of a young boy, to delight audiences with that unique angelic sound, but to give up any possibility of enjoying carnal pleasures? Or were the rumours he had heard true . . . that in spite of their mutilation, some of the most celebrated castrati of the operatic stage were still capable of satisfying their adoring female admirers?

  He felt a sudden flush of heat suffuse his whole body. What am I doing, thinking such impure thoughts in this holiest of holy places? He glanced sidelong at his father Leopold, certain that he must have noticed . . . but his father’s eyes were half-closed as he listened, concentrating on the music.

  And then the exquisitely sensuous wash of voices swelled and enveloped the boy as well, bearing him away to a place where all earthly concerns were no longer relevant.

  When it was over, they merged into the crowd of the faithful who were filing silently out of the chapel into the rain-swept piazza. When the boy dared to glance up at the faces of the other worshippers, he saw a glazed look in their eyes, many stumbling away with strange, enlightened expressions, as if they had looked on hidden wonders and experienced some life-changing revelation.

  ‘But lo, Thou requirest truth in the inward parts: and shalt make me to understand wisdom secretly,’ he heard an elegantly dressed and bewigged man whisper in Latin, crossing himself.

  ‘Thou shalt wash me,’ a veiled woman murmured under her breath, ‘and I shall be whiter than snow.’

  Ahead of him in the throng, one figure paused to adjust the hood of his cloak against the rain. The face beneath, glimpsed for the briefest of seconds, was as beautiful as one of the painted angels in the chapel: a youth, not much older than he, with curling hair of a light chestnut brown. The boy felt his breath stop as the youth’s intense, grey-eyed gaze caught his own . . .

  Has he recognised me? Is he a music student too?

  The boy was half expecting to be greeted, even asked for an autograph . . . but the youth merely smiled, shook his head, and turned away, melting into the crowd.

  ‘Did you see—?’ he began, turning to his father.

  But his father seemed as distracted as the other congregants. ‘It’s almost as if that music has the power to shrive souls,’ he was saying and the boy heard the wonder in his voice. ‘No wonder His Holiness wants to keep it a secret.’

  *

  The boy dipped the nib into the ink again and again, desperate to capture on paper the exquisite sounds he had just experienced, trying not to omit a single note as he swiftly transcribed the notes of the Vatican’s Miserere.

  A shadow fell across the manuscript paper; distracted, he glanced up to see his father watching him.

  ‘I know it’s forbidden,’ the boy said, ‘but I just wanted to be able to write it down so that I could study it for myself. I want to understand exactly how the composer made those vocal lines work together to produce that particular effect. That’s all. It’s not as if we’re going to sell the score, are we? Are we, Father?’ he repeated sternly, remembering what a shrewd entrepreneur his father was, always looking out for a way to make a profit as they travelled from concert to concert.

  ‘Some would argue that it’s a shame to keep such a beautiful and improving work from being heard outside the Vatican,’ Leopold said.

  ‘And yet it’s the technique of the Vatican singers that creates its unique beauty,’ the boy said. ‘Look,’ and he pointed with the feathery end of his quill to the passage he had just painstakingly transcribed from memory. ‘These passages of free improvisation, the abbellimenti, display such extraordinary artistry. It’s unique. This secret art must have been passed down from singer to singer over the centuries.’

  His father leaned forward to look at the score. For a moment he did not respond. Then he said, ‘Any kapellmeister in Christendom would give his eye teeth for this, Wolfgang. No one can match your ear and musical memory. You’ve managed to transcribe the untranscribable.’ He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘But this is enough to get you excommunicated. This skill is the Vatican’s secret art and if we were to publish it—’

  ‘I just wanted to learn how it works,’ the boy protested.

  ‘We’re off to Naples tomorrow,’ Leopold said, removing his hand. ‘We must hide that manuscript from inquisitive eyes. Slip it inside that new string quartet you’ve been working on in case the customs search our luggage . . .’

  *

  Naples, May 1770

  The boy played the final cadence of the rondo with a flourish and waited for the applause to start before rising to his feet to acknowledge the enthusiastic response of Neapolitan society. One hand resting on the lid of the fortepiano, the other on the expensive lacy ruffle over his heart, he bowed low.

  He could not help noticing that, behind the brightly dressed members of the audience (the Neapolitans seemed to favour a warm palette of colours for their brocaded jackets and silk dresses that reflected the sunny streets outside), stood one listener garbed in sober black who was not applauding. The boy caught his eye for a second and felt – as he turned back to the keyboard to give an encore – as if he had been assessed by that keen, probing glance and somehow been found wanting.

  Who is he? He rattled effortlessly through a merry little minuet and trio he had composed before they left Salzburg that he knew would please his Italian audience, risking an occasional glance from time to time at the unsmiling listener. Why is he here if my music displeases him so much?

  After the boy had been presented to their host, the English ambassador, several of the ladies insisted on plying him with sweet treats.

  ‘Master Wolfgang, you must try our Neapolitan gelato; it’s a real taste of heaven!’

  While he was enjoying his second dish of the delicious ice cream, he noticed his father deep in conversation with another of the English guests. Beckoned over by Leopold, he bowed politely, hoping that the gelato had not left a rim of white around his mouth.

  ‘I would like to present my son, Dr Burney,’ said his father.

  ‘So this is the prodigious boy I’ve heard so much about,’ said the Englishman in passable Italian. ‘Let me congratulate you, young Wolfgang, on your performance. What are you composing at present? I do hope you
will come to give concerts in England soon . . .’

  *

  They had just stepped down from the carriage at their lodgings when a soberly dressed man emerged from the shadowed doorway and said softly, ‘A word with you in private, if you please, Signori.’ His face was concealed by a broad-brimmed tricorne hat.

  The boy glanced uncertainly at his father. Were they being held to ransom? He had heard the rumours about the risks of being kidnapped in Naples . . . and a child prodigy famed in all the courts of Europe might make a desirable target and fetch a handsome sum. But this stranger was well-spoken and even as his father looked at him suspiciously, he held up his hand, revealing, not a pistol but the golden seal of a papal legate.

  ‘You’d better come in.’ Leopold opened the door and led the way upstairs. Once in their rooms, he bowed low to the stranger, inviting him to sit on one of the threadbare brocade-upholstered chairs. ‘Please excuse these humble surroundings; as musicians, we can’t afford anything more luxurious—’

  ‘Can you guess why I’ve come?’ The papal legate’s austere expression had not altered.

  The boy shook his head, sensing the rising tension in the shabby little parlour.

  ‘You were seen at the Miserere in Rome, Master Wolfgang. And as your fame travels before you, His Holiness is most anxious that you are not about to commit an act of transgression.’

  How cold his eyes are. ‘I . . . I’m sorry; I don’t quite follow,’ the boy said, shooting a desperate look at his father.

  ‘Let me put this another way; His Holiness, Pope Clement, would like to make you a Knight of the Golden Spur, Wolfgang.’

  ‘Me?’ The boy repeated, astonished. His father’s mouth had dropped open; for once Leopold was shocked into silence.

  ‘This is a singular honour for one so young,’ continued the legate, ‘and it should open many doors for you in your chosen career. However,’ and the legate paused to gaze piercingly at Leopold, ‘such an honour could only be conferred on your son if he is not guilty of even the slightest suspicion of any forbidden activity. Such as passing on the secret art of the Vatican choristers.’

  The boy stared at the floorboards, not daring to raise his head. How does he know? Has my father gone against his word? He promised me he wouldn’t sell the transcription.

  ‘The Miserere has a unique and, some might say, unfortunate history among the many works composed for the Papal Chapel. When Pope Urban VIII took the decision not to release it for performance outside the Vatican, he did so for a reason. And now, you must promise on your immortal souls – and kiss my ring to seal that promise – never to reveal a word of what I am about to tell you.’

  Wolfgang glanced again at his father – and then saw him drop to one knee before the legate, and press his lips to the golden ring. He swallowed hard. It seemed somehow like an admission of defeat.

  And yet I could be the youngest ever to be awarded the Order of the Golden Spur. There was nothing for it but to comply. Yet as Wolfgang brushed the cold metal with his lips, he felt for a moment that he was somehow betraying his artistic principles in letting himself be bribed by the might of the Church of Rome.

  ‘Very well,’ said the legate. Close to, the boy noticed how old he looked; his pale skin stretched over his prominent cheekbones like the finest vellum scraped to an almost translucent thinness. ‘Every time Allegri’s Miserere is performed – just once a year in Holy Week – it has, as you witnessed for yourselves, a unique effect upon the congregation. The faithful leave the chapel in a beatific state, cleansed of their sins.’

  The boy nodded, remembering the transfigured expressions of the departing members of the congregation. That moment of transcendence as the choristers’ voices intertwined one with another and time seemed to stop . . . I felt it too.

  ‘Hidden within the Miserere is a secret sacred sequence of notes based upon the celestial music of the spheres. It is enhanced by the performance of certain abbellimenti in certain combinations of voices.’

  The boy leaned forward, captivated. ‘A secret sacred sequence? But how did Maestro Allegri come across such a thing?’

  The legate drew his grey brows together in a forbidding frown. ‘In the cruellest way of all. For this exquisite Miserere to fulfil its healing, cleansing purpose in Lent, an act of sacrifice is required. You can hear the pain and the regret of such a sacrifice in the sublime beauty of the voices of the castrati. But no one involved with performing the work can escape unscathed – and it is the selfless act of the few that enables the many to continue their lives, transformed by what they have experienced.’

  There was silence in the little panelled room although outside in the narrow street, the clatter of hoofs and iron carriage wheels, mingling with the cries of the street sellers, seemed louder and more strident than before.

  The boy did not dare to meet his father’s gaze. The mere fact that the usually talkative Leopold had said nothing alarmed him. Is it too late? Has he already passed it on without my knowledge? And if it’s too late, what act of sacrifice will we have to make?

  ‘At the time of the first performance – which was by private invitation only – it was noted that there was one member of the congregation present who was not admitted by any of the guards or the Vatican staff. At the conclusion of the service, they were under orders to apprehend the uninvited guest – but he was nowhere to be found. And – tragically – one of the altos fell mortally ill that evening.’

  ‘An uninvited guest?’ The boy shivered, even though the room was stiflingly warm. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Some who saw him said that – beneath his hood – they glimpsed a face as striking as one of Botticelli’s angels. One or two even remarked that he looked as if he had stepped down from the one of the chapel frescoes . . . But others said that he greatly resembled a young chorister, Amadeo Vitali, a protégé of Gregorio Allegri, who had died of a fever while Allegri was composing the Miserere.’

  A figure pauses to raise the hood of his cloak against the rain. The face beneath is as beautiful as one of the painted angels in the chapel.

  ‘A ghost?’ The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the legate smoothly. ‘For when the Miserere was performed the following year, he was seen again. Again, he evaded the guards and the stewards, simply vanishing into the crowd. And another member of the choir close to Maestro Allegri fell ill and died.’

  ‘The work is accursed?’ The boy glanced at his father who had contributed nothing so far to the exchange.

  ‘Accursed – or blessed with unique healing powers when performed in that certain way.’ The legate gave a little shrug of the shoulders. ‘Superstitious rumours spread like wildfire at the time. Secret rites of exorcism were performed. It would not have done for the Papal Chapel to be reputed to be haunted.’

  ‘But I saw—’ began the boy and then fell silent, certain he would not believed.

  ‘Besides, there was no doubt that the Miserere itself, when performed by the papal choir in Holy Week, had the transcendent power to bring solace and healing to all those who heard it.’

  ‘Yet at the cost of a life?’ Leopold spoke for the first time since the legate had entered their rooms.

  ‘Perhaps you understand now why His Holiness declared that the work must never be performed outside the Vatican – on pain of excommunication.’ The legate was staring, unblinking, at Leopold.

  Leopold hesitated and then went to the little trunk in which they stored their precious scores when on the road. The boy saw him take out his new String Quartet in G, slide the Miserere transcription from inside, and hand it to the legate.

  After a swift scan of the first page, the legate looked up at the boy. ‘You truly have a God-given gift, Wolfgang. You wrote all this down after a single hearing?’

  The boy nodded, wondering apprehensively what the legate would say next.

  ‘Given that you have such an exceptional memory, will you give me your word to “forget”
the performance – and all the special abbellimenti – that you heard? And never to reproduce them?’

  ‘I give you my word.’ The promise came out as a hoarse whisper.

  The legate folded the manuscript and slipped it inside his soutane. ‘I am glad that we were able to conclude this conversation so satisfactorily.’ He took out a letter and handed it to the boy. ‘My congratulations. The ceremony will take place in the Vatican in July.’

  The letter was a formal invitation to become a Knight of the Order of the Golden Spur. Wolfgang gazed down at the elaborate script, the glossy scarlet of the papal seal.

  ‘We are most honoured,’ said his father, making his most obsequious bow as the legate rose to leave.

  At the door, the legate turned and said, ‘So you saw Amadeo, Wolfgang? Some say that he only appears to those about to die.’

  The boy stared at him, aghast.

  ‘But others say that only those blessed with genuine musical talent can see him. He might have been a great composer, had he lived. It is even thought that some of the abbellimenti in the Miserere were his own and that Gregorio Allegri wove them into the score as tribute to his gifted student . . .’

  *

  Cambridge, February 1970

  ‘Well, James, here’s to old times.’ Gareth poured us each a glass of the expensive Soave he had ordered and raised his to clink against mine.

  I sipped the wine and nodded my appreciation as the Soave diffused ‘clean notes of citrus and elderflower’ on my palate. ‘Good stuff.’

  ‘How long has it been, seven years?’ The buzz of conversation in the busy wine bar seemed oppressively loud after the quiet of my college rooms.’ The Stradella Singers have kept me pretty busy.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed,’ I said, concentrating on enjoying the sensation of the chilled acidic sweetness of the wine on my tongue. ‘So to what do I owe the honour . . . ?’