it.
But what made him think that long night of intimacy would produce a new existence of frequent discussion? His father belonged to the state as surely now as ever. And if his ankle had failed to heal and he could not go out as he chose, then the state must come to him. And so it seemed to be happening.
But Alessandro had something else on his mind.
“Have you ever seen the Villa Lisani near Padua?” he asked.
Tonio held his breath.
“Well, pack everything. And if you have no riding clothes, send Giuseppe for the tailor. Your father wants you there for the whole summer, and your cousin is delighted to have you. But, Tonio,” he said (he’d long ago dropped the formal address at Tonio’s insistence), “think of some questions to ask your tutors. They feel superfluous; they’re afraid of being dismissed. And of course they won’t be. They’re coming with us. But you know, make them feel important.”
“We’re going to the Villa Lisani!” Tonio leapt up and threw his arms around Alessandro.
Alessandro had to take a step backwards, but his large languid hands moved gently over Tonio’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered, “but I’m as excited as you are.”
17
AFTER THE CUTS in his wrists healed, Guido remained at the conservatorio where he had grown up, devoting himself to teaching with a rigor that few of his students could bear up under. He had genius, but not compassion.
And by the age of twenty, he had produced several remarkable pupils who went to sing in the Sistine Chapel.
They were castrati whose voices, without Guido’s training and instinct, might have amounted to nothing. And grateful as they were for the instruction which had elevated them, they were nevertheless terrified of the young maestro and glad to leave him.
In fact, all of Guido’s students at one time or another, if not always, hated him.
But the masters of the conservatorio loved him.
If it were humanly possible to “create” a voice where there had been none given by God, Guido could do it. And over and over again, they watched with amazement as he instilled musicianship where originality and talent were lacking.
To him they sent the dullards and those very pitiful little children who had been gelded long before their voices showed themselves to be nothing.
And Guido turned them out decent, skilled, and not unpleasing sopranos.
But Guido loathed these students. He took no enduring satisfaction whatsoever in their meager accomplishments. Music was infinitely more precious to him than himself, so pride was unknown to him.
And the pain and the monotony of his life pushed him deeper into his composition. This he’d neglected all the years he had dreamt of the singer’s life, and others had passed him by, having already seen their oratorios performed, and even their operas.
His masters didn’t look to him for anything here, but burdening him with students from dawn till dusk, reproved him for working alone so long into the night hours.
But doubt was no component of his pain. He was far behind in his skills. Yet he never wavered. Rather he went without sleep, working endlessly. Oratorios, cantatas, serenades, whole operas, were spinning out of him. And he knew that if he had but one great voice among his pupils, he might bargain for time, and writing for that voice, recapture the ears that were now deaf to him. That voice would be his inspiration, and the impetus he so needed. Then others would come, ready and willing to sing what he had written for them.
As it was, his miserable little singers struggled without comprehension or grace to deliver his songs to him.
But on long summer afternoons when he could no longer endure the sweltering cacophony of the practice rooms, he strapped on his sword, found his only decent pair of paste buckle shoes, and wandered out without explanation into the bustling city.
Few capitals in Europe seethed and crackled with as much humanity as did the great sprawling seaport of Naples.
Suffused with the pomp and glamour of the new Bourbon court, her streets veritably streamed with all manner of men come to see the magnificent shore, the splendid churches, castles, palaces, the dizzying beauty of the nearby countryside, the islands. And looming over all, the great hulk of Vesuvius against the misty sky, and the vast sea spreading to the horizon.
Gilded carriages roared and rattled through the streets, liveried servants clinging to the painted doors, footmen racing.
Courtesans strolled the promenades, splendidly decked out in jewels