And up and down the gentle slopes, calashes plunged through the surging crowds, the one-horse drivers crying, “Make way for my lord,” and at every corner were the hawkers of fresh fruit and snow water.
Yet in this paradise where flowers bloomed in the cracks and vineyards spilled over the hillsides, poverty festered. The restless lazzaroni—peasants, idlers, thieves—roamed aimlessly about, mingling with the lawyers, clerks, lords and ladies, monks in their brown robes, or littered the steps of the cathedrals.
Pushed to and fro, Guido watched all with mute fascination. He felt the sea breeze. He was now and then almost struck by the wheels of a carriage.
Heavy of build, his shoulders massive under his black coat, breeches and stockings splashed and dusty, he did not appear the musician, the young composer, least of all the eunuch. Rather he was only another shabby gentleman, hands as clean as a nun’s, with money enough to drink in the wine gardens he entered.
There at a greasy table, he would rest his back against the mat of vines that covered the wall, vaguely sensible to the hum of the bees or the perfume of the blossoms. He listened to the mandolin of a strolling singer. And watching the sky melt softly from the blue of the sea to a rosy haze, he felt the wine lull his pain. And yet the wine allowed the pain to flower.
Tears wet his eyes, giving them a dangerous gleam. His soul ached, and his misery seemed unendurable.
But he did not fully understand the nature of it.
He knew only that as any singing master might, he wanted those passionate and gifted students to whom he might give the full weight of his genius. And he heard these singers—yet unknown—bring life to the arias he had written.
For it was they who must take his music to the stage and to the world, it was they who would realize for Guido Maffeo the only chance for immortality given him.
Yet it was unbearable loneliness he felt, too.
It was as if his own voice had been his lover, and his lover had forsaken him.
And envisioning the young man who could sing as he himself could no longer sing, that pupil to whom he could confide all that he knew, he saw the end of his isolation. He would have someone who understood him at last, someone who knew what he was doing! And all the distinctions between the needs of his soul and the needs of his heart were melted.
Stars dotted the sky, twinkling through the traces of cloud that were like the mist from the sea. And far, far away, lost in the darkness, the mountain gave off a sudden glimmer of lightning.
But the voices of promise were denied Guido. He was too young a maestro to attract them. The great singing teachers such as Porpora, who had been the teacher of Caffarelli and Farinelli, drew the great pupils.
And though his masters were pleased with the operas he penned, he continued to be lost in a swamp of competition. His compositions were “too peculiar,” it was said; then on the other hand, they were “uninspired imitation.”
The drudgery of his life threatened at times to break him. And he realized more clearly all the time that one sterling pupil would change everything.
But to draw the good students, Guido must first produce one luminary from the slush that was given him.
Time passed. It proved impossible. He was not an alchemist, merely a genius.
And at twenty-six, despairing of anything coming his way, he drew from his superiors a small allowance and their leave to go about Italy in search of new voices.
“Maybe he’ll find something.” Maestro Cavalla shrugged. “After all, look what he’s managed to do so far!” And sad to see him gone so long, they nevertheless gave him their blessing.
18
ALL HIS LIFE, Tonio had heard about it, this splendid summer interlude called the villeggiatura, with long suppers every night, rooms laid out in full silver plate and lace for each course, and leisurely excursions afterwards up and down the Brenta. There would be musicians coming and going all the time: maybe Tonio and Marianna would even play now and then, when the professionals weren’t about, and all the families would make up their own little orchestras, this man proficient on the violin, that one on the double bass, this senator as talented at the harpsichord as any paid performer. The girls from conservatorios would be invited out; and there would be the open