Between the Thames and the Tiber

“You perhaps, Mr. Holmes, have heard the news or perhaps rumours concerning me and my friend, Ruggiero, who so kindly accompanied me here in order to explain his side of our problem.”

“Indeed, Signore, I spend much of my time at Piazza del Popolo, where one learns much by slowly sipping one’s caffe latte. One of you might describe your problem once again for the benefit of my colleague, the good Dr. Watson.”

“Let me then begin,” said Leoncavallo with a nod from Puccini. Taller than Puccini and more handsome, Leoncavallo carried some of the signs of his native southern Italy. His speech, though impeccable grammatically, bore the telltale sounds of his native Naples.

“Briefly, Signor Holmes, the story begins in this way, perhaps in one of the hobbies that Giacomo and I share,” he began, “which is a love of old books and old musical scores.”

“Davvero,” said Puccini quietly.

“I am afraid that I share the vice with you both,” said Holmes.

“It was no more than a few months ago,” continued Leoncavallo, “that I was standing in Largo Borghese, only a few minutes’ walk from here, wondering where I would find a suitable libretto for my next opera. My Pagliacci had been a great success, and I was under great public pressure to produce a sequel. I could think of nothing that produced even the slightest enthusiasm on my part. I stood as if glued to the street when it occurred to me that the stalls of old books and prints staring at me might contain some hitherto unknown jewel that would serve me. And so I began to look through the stalls. In an instant, my eyes fell on something called Scenes de la vie de boheme, a book that took as its theme the life of poets and artists in Montmartre. I took it home with me and read it through. Divided into scenes as it was, it looked like an ideal text out of which a series of operatic tableaux could be easily constructed. I was so happy with my find that the melodies for the new opera began running through my head. I rushed to the house of my librettist and told him of my good luck. Perusing the book, he thought it most suitable, and suggested that we make an immediate announcement of our intention to write an opera entitled La Boheme. I then wrote immediately to the author Murger’s publisher but received no reply. They appeared to have closed. And I had no way of finding Murger.”

“Perhaps I may inject my account here,” said Puccini. “I was in Paris when Ruggiero was here in Rome. Almost to the day on which he found the book here in Italy I found it in Paris along the Seine. I then tried to find Murger, but it was difficult to trace him, and I did not succeed. The book had been written almost fifty years before, and his fate was unknown. I sent a letter to his publisher but I too received no reply. I assumed that he was dead. Upon my return to Italy, I showed the book to Giacosa and Illica, my two chief librettists, and they both thought it would be an excellent vehicle for a new opera. Unaware of Ruggiero’s announcement—I was at my home in Lucca —we announced our intention to write an opera based on Murger’s text. It was then that the argument began. When I heard through a journalist friend that Ruggiero intended to use the same text, I replied good-naturedly, ‘Good, now there will be two.’ I meant nothing mean or critical, but always ready to report a quarrel, the press twisted my remark and Ruggiero responded strongly.”

“Word of Giacomo’s intention,” said Leoncavallo, “and what was twisted by the press into a highly provocative remark, turned our plans into a public argument. In the end, Giacomo and I, who had always been on the best of terms, met secretly at the home of a friend and tried to resolve the argument privately. We agreed that the first thing that should be done would be to maintain a salutary silence for a time, and then to see if Murger were still alive, and perhaps write an opera together. Could we do it? In any case, we agreed that neither of us would begin our work on La Boheme until all problems, both legal and ethical, had suitable solutions and our mutual agreement.”

“It was at this very moment, my dear Signor Holmes,” said Puccini, “that something extraordinary began to happen that has brought us to you. I was here in Rome at the Albergo Panteone, about to leave for Lucca, when Leoncavallo came to see me at the hotel. He was in a considerable state of excitement and accused me of abusing our friendship and of abrogating our agreement. Why? Because he had just received a package by courier containing the initial pages of a manuscript of La Boheme, purporting to be written by me. I looked at the manuscript and could scarcely believe what was in front of me: in what seemed to be my own hand were the first ten pages of La Boheme almost exactly as I might have written it. I of course had written nothing.

“Just at that moment,” continued Puccini, “a courier arrived at the hotel and presented me with a package in which there was a manuscript labeled La Boheme da Ruggiero Leoncavallo. I handed it to Ruggiero and he gasped. His handwriting, his melodies, his plot—all was there in front of us. And then, as if to mock us, a note addressed to both of us was delivered by the hotel maid: dated a week ago, it said simply: Davvero, ce ne saranno due . . . o tre . . . o quattro!”

“Indeed, there will be two or three or four La Bohemes, if I interpret the note accurately,” said Holmes. “And presumably you have continued to receive, each of you, further portions of the other’s opera?’

“Yes, we are almost halfway through each version. All of our attempts to find the strange genius who began this have led to nought. He obviously has managed to obtain access to our ateliers, how and through whom we have no idea. And why has he chosen to do this? What is the motive?”

“But most importantly, cari signori,” I interjected, “it is not that this scoundrel gained access to your ateliers. Indeed, neither of you has begun to write, so that if your agreement holds, there is nothing in your ateliers for him to use. The physical accoutrements, the paper and ink and other things, are easily available, but the musical insights—they are another matter. If he is working on his own, then we must admit that we are dealing with an incredible musical genius, one who can read your future musical thoughts from what you have already published.”

“Brilliantly put, Watson. I must say that I am impressed by your logic. Because of its great achievements in painting and sculpture, Italy is no stranger to artistic forgery. It is not surprising therefore that fraud has finally moved to the field of music,” said Holmes.

“We come to you, Signor Holmes, not only because of your international reputation, but also on the recommendation of two people who know you well: Grimaldi, of the Roman police, and Lombroso, who speaks in the most glowing terms of your abilities. Signor Holmes, you must find Murger, to see if he agrees to having his book transformed into opera. If he does not agree, or is dead, then we will abandon our projects. And who is writing these versions of La Boheme. And why?”

“I accept, dear amici, with pleasure. Please leave the two Bohemes with me and I shall examine them closely for any clews they might provide about the identity of the author. In the meantime, keep strangers away from your notes and manuscripts. Remember that a good musician can easily mimic the work of another, but this appears to go far beyond mere mimicry. As soon as I have some results, I shall notify you.”

“Many thanks, and arrivederla, Signor Holmes.”

“Well, Watson, we have our work cut out for us. Where is Murger?”

“He is drinking his morning tea,” said I.

Holmes followed me into the sitting room. There sat Henri Murger, much refreshed and in rather good spirits, considering his ordeal. He smiled and thanked us profusely for our help the night before.

“Messieurs, merci de nouveau. I assume you are Mr. Holmes and you Dr. Watson.”

Holmes nodded and assured our guest that we were happy to have saved him from the cold and that he should feel free to stay with us as long as he was in Rome. “Monsieur Murger, right now I need some information from you.”

“Tell me and I shall answer as best I can.”

“M. Murger, what I have to ask concerns your novel Scenes de la vie de boheme, a book that you published many years ago, in 1848. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Monsieur. The book was a failure and I forgot about it until recently when two Italian composers of opera, Leoncavallo and Puccini, wrote me asking if I would acquiesce in their writing an opera based on my work. The letters were mi Unfortunately, someone else preceded them and offered me a large sum for the rights, which I have accepted.”

“And who is that, may I ask?”