The Web Weaver

count’s baby. She was determined to throw the baby into a fire of her own, but she hesitated, disturbed by the child’s crying. Then she saw the cruel mob and the flaming pyre again, her mother’s pale ghost screaming “mi vendica.” She hurled the baby into the flames, but when the fatal delirium faded, she saw the count’s baby next to her.

“Ah! Che dici!” sang the tenor Manrico. “What are you saying?”

The music built to a tremendous crescendo. “Il figlio mio—mio figlio avea bruciato!” The Italian was simple enough: “My son—I had burned my son!”

“Orror! Quale orror!” The tenor seemed genuinely horrified. So was I. She had thrown her own baby into the fire. A shiver worked its way up my spine.

I glanced at Sherlock and Violet. They were absolutely transfixed, in another world. I think that for them, Henry and I, the audience, no longer existed. Violet’s cheeks were flushed, her pallor gone, but her excitement somehow did not look healthy.

The tenor repeated “orror” several times, and then the music died down even as flames would. Manrico asked who he was if he was not her son, but Azucena stubbornly told him he was her son. The moment was past; the story went off in another direction. When the scene ended, the tenor and the contralto, Azucena, were loudly applauded, but during her brief solo bow, shouts of bravo filled the hall.

I could barely restrain another shudder. “She was incredible.”

“Yes,” Holmes said. “Bravos are rare at Covent Garden. The tenor has a beautiful voice but not her histrionic talents.”

Violet nodded. “I doubt even Donald could have slept through that. The end of the scene always strikes me as comical. Poor Manrico, always running off to save someone; always having to choose between Leonora and his mother. His grand moment in the limelight is coming up in the next act. I shall give you a nudge, Michelle, before he hits his high C. If done well, it is a thrilling moment. This is a splendid performance. The one in eighty-eight with Tomagno was good, but hardly on a par with this.”

Holmes’ gray eyes watched her. “You saw that Il Trovatore, did you?”

Violet hesitated only an instant. “Yes. What did you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”

“You are correct. This is far superior.”

During the intermission Henry and I went outside together. Violet and Sherlock were talking and hardly noticed us leave. I held Henry’s arm with both my hands and nodded my head against his shoulder. “It seems such a pity,” I murmured.

“You mean Violet and...?”

“Yes. What is the good of forcing her to remain married to Donald Wheelwright? How is the public morality served by the misery of three people—or four, if you include the mistress?”

The first scene of the second act had the count’s men catching Azucena and preparing to burn her at the stake, just as they had burned her mother. Again, the singer was remarkable; she made me feel apprehensive and trapped. In the next scene Manrico was about to marry Leonora, when his friend rushed in to tell him Azucena was about to be burned before the castle walls.

Violet nudged me gently. “Be prepared—here it comes.”

Manrico had just sung a slow rhapsodic song, but the tempo picked up as a chorus of soldiers trooped on stage. The tenor’s Italian was simple: “I was already a son before I loved you.” “Madre infelice, corro a salvarti, or teco almeno corro a morir!” “...Unhappy mother, I run to save you, or at least I run to die with you!”

On the teco the tenor briefly hit the high note. The chorus sang “all’armi”—“to arms.” I watched Manrico through the opera glasses. He swelled up like a frog, the sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes ferocious, then drew his sword and bellowed: “All’armi!” This was the high C to end all high Cs, the note piercing, filling the auditorium. He held it so long I thought his lungs would burst. The back of my neck felt prickly. The curtain dropped, and the audience applauded wildly.

Sherlock and Henry shouted bravo, while Violet and I clapped. She smiled. “Well?”

“It was not exactly a pretty sound, but it was very exciting!”

“Only one act left,” Violet said. “The count has captured Manrico and locked him up with Azucena. Leonora makes a bargain with the count, offering herself in exchange for Manrico’s life. The count accepts, but she takes poison, then goes to Manrico in prison and tells him to flee. However, being a man, he assumes the worst and berates her for her faithlessness.”

Holmes was watching her. “Do you think, madam, that only men are capable of assuming the worst of the opposite sex?”

“I did not say that.” Her smile was ironic. “But it is often the case.”

Leonora was moving in the final act when she pleaded with the count for Manrico’s life, then again when she begged Manrico to flee. However, as before, I found Azucena’s mere presence spooky. One moment she raved of “il rogo,” the stake, the next she sang longingly of escaping to the mountains. When Manrico realized the truth—that Leonora was dying—he sang mournfully, “And I dared curse this angel!” At that point I sympathized with Violet’s viewpoint—how like a man!

At last Leonora collapsed and died. The music sped up. The count had Manrico dragged away. My eyes flickered back and forth between the libretto and the stage.

“Madre! O, Madre, addio!” Manrico sang.

Azucena awoke with a start. “Manrico! Where is my son?”

“He runs to his death,” snarled the count.

“Stop!” screamed the gypsy. “Listen to me!”

But the Count dragged her to the tower window. “Vedi?” he cried. “Do you see?”

“Cielo!” Azucena sang. A loud bang, the dreadful sound of an ax hitting a block of wood, resounded through the auditorium.

The count said something, and then Azucena, absolutely mad, turned to him. “He was your brother!”

“Ei. Quale orror!” The Count sang the same words as Manrico had earlier.

Azucena’s voice, already powerful, soared above the orchestra. “You are avenged, mother!”

With a final clash of cymbals and beating of drums, the music ended: the Count collapsing in horror and remorse, Azucena raising her clenched fists to the heavens, the curtain falling upon the scene. There was a second or two of silence, and then the applause began.

I gave a great shuddery sigh and turned to Henry, my eyes wide. He smiled but did not try to speak over the din. We all stood. Violet’s brown eyes glistened with tears, and she tried to smile at me. Her face was flushed, and she looked almost feverish. Oh no, I thought. Holmes was more restrained, but his face was also flushed.

There were several curtain calls and a standing ovation. Worried now, I kept an eye on Violet. When the clapping finally ended, she sank down into her seat, and the rest of us did the same.

“Amazing,” Holmes said. “I doubt we shall see its equal any time soon. Wagner’s leisurely musical dramas simply do not have the sheer visceral appeal of a well-performed Verdi opera.”

Henry nodded. “This is the only opera I have ever seen that compares with the Faust we saw in Paris.”

Holmes’ lips formed a brief smile. “That performance was... unique, especially its unexpected conclusion.” He withdrew his watch. “It is not yet eleven. Thanks to Mrs. Wheelwright, my billfold has been spared thus far this evening. Perhaps you would all join me for some refreshments nearby?”

Henry nodded.

“Oh, I would love to!” Violet exclaimed. She stood up, but abruptly, tears flowed from her eyes. She made a choking noise, then twisted away and leaned against the railing.

Henry and Sherlock were astonished. I gave my head a shake. “Too much excitement.”

“It is not that!” Violet tried to say.

I stood up and took a handkerchief from my handbag. I touched her shoulder. “The music—it was so...” she began. “The story is so dreadful, so sad, but the music is so very beautiful.”

“Sit down, my dear.”

“I am tired. My sleep is still... Oh Lord, I feel so foolish!”