The Devil's Opera(72)

Logau unfolded the page into a broadsheet. It was a momentary shock to see the words he had penned for Marla in print under a screaming banner. But then the reality of who had to be involved sank in, and a sardonic smile crossed his face.

“Of course. It was to be expected that the good Gunther Achterhof would not let this opportunity slip.”

The conversation turned after that to questions of what Gronow would publish in the next issue of Black Tomcat Magazine, as well as their various projects, such as Gronow’s libretto for the opera Arthur Rex. It turned, that is, until Gronow himself jerked upright coughing and spewing coffee from his mouth.

Logau leaned back to make sure that none of the spew landed on his clothing. He frowned at his friend. “Coffee is for drinking, not breathing. And what, may I ask, brought on this fit?”

Gronow held up a hand until he finally could clear his throat and get a breath of air. “It just dawned on me—she’s going to sing Guinevere in my opera!”

Logau began to laugh at the panic-stricken look on his friend’s face.





Chapter 30

Magdeburg Times-Journal

January 21, 1636





Editoria—On the Notes of Angels—by Friedrich von Logau

It was my extreme good fortune to spend a good part of my evening last Saturday night in an establishment called the Green Horse. I and some of my friends had gone there to hear the up-timer—no, she would object to my characterizing her in that manner—to hear that most accomplished of musicians, Frau Marla Linder, hold court. She and her band of Companions took the field, if you will allow me to mix metaphors, and salvoed song after song at those who were seated before her. Slow songs, fast songs; serious songs, funny songs. And she had us all in her hand, going where she directed, laughing and crying in turn.

Those of you who have heard of Frau Linder, but have not actually heard her, may think to brush aside the oft-heard statement that she sings with the voice of heaven. Do not do so. If you have been reading my columns here, you know that I seldom permit hyperbole to go unchallenged. Therefore, be suitably impressed when I say that to call her voice angelic or heavenly is not an insult to heaven or an overstatement of her gifts as a musician. I have been to Rome. I have heard the finest voices in the world there, and in Florence, and in Venice. And I say to you, that she is not their equal, but beyond them—ne plus ultra, if you will.

I could end this article at this point, with a paean to the good Frau Linder. But in all truth, I told you all of that in order to now tell you this story, with words that cannot help but be inadequate to the task. Saturday night, at the last, Frau Linder proved to be an outstanding general as she unveiled her greatest stratagem which had been held in reserve all evening. She sang a song: a song that was flavored with bitterness, and rue, and gall; a song that stirred the blood of everyone there and called for blood; a song that fired the soul and chilled the spirit; a song that, although no names were named, called for all the Germanies to stand forth; and she aimed it at Berlin. She aimed it at the heart of Chancellor The Ox, and the herd that has gathered behind him. Like Diana the Huntress she stood forth, aimed, and loosed. And she loosed no shaft of Eros, but rather of Eris; Mars himself would not be shamed by what was sent forth that night.

In the light of day, I marvel at Frau Linder: for her voice, for her passion, for the hard steel of her convictions. At the risk of evoking the anger of the pastors, I will paraphrase Our Saviour: “I have not found such passion, no, not in all the Germanies.”

As for Saturday night, let me end this rumination with another paraphrase, this time from the English playwright William Shakespeare:





And gentlemen in Germany, now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

“I was there that night, to hear Frau Linder sing.”





Andreas Schardius lowered the paper and stared at the wall opposite his desk. He laid a finger from nose to chin, thinking. After a moment, he removed it and nodded. “Interesting,” he said. “So the angel is not ignorant of where she is, after all.”

He leaned back in his chair and thought some more.

In his youth, Schardius had spent some time in northern Italy, mostly at Venice and Florence. He had enjoyed both cities and their societies greatly, but even now, years later, Florence called to him. It was there he had seen Francesca Caccini, La Cecchina, the nightingale of the Medici court. She was a few years older than him, and wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she was a most exciting person to be around, in several senses of the word.

And he had lusted after her; there was no other word for it. He had wanted to possess her so badly he had ached. But even as a near-callow youth, and even in that state of constant arousal, he had retained enough wisdom to understand that she was under the protection of the Medici family, which was a line that he had dared not cross.