Sent to the Devil Page 2
Urbanek shook his head. He was a homely man, with froglike features and a sallow complexion. His bright, intelligent eyes seemed to belong to another face. “It’s taking them all day to clean up after that funeral. Did either of you attend?”
Alois and I shook our heads.
“You missed quite a show. There was much beating of the breasts over the death of the great man.”
“The general was a war hero,” Alois said quietly. “The country owed him a debt.”
“He was merely doing his duty, as we all are, Father,” Urbanek said. “He was generously rewarded for his service—a title, several fine houses, a large pension. What about all of those who fought under him, the men who never came home from the wars?” He gestured toward the bunting. “Where is their glory? I’m not the only one in Vienna who feels—”
Alois opened his mouth to speak. “How did he die?” I asked, hoping to head off an argument between the two priests.
“A seizure of some sort, I believe,” Urbanek said. “It was sudden.” He turned back to Alois. “I’m glad you are here, Father,” he said. “I am starting a committee to help the poor children who have lost their fathers in the current siege.” He sighed. “Already there have been too many deaths. It would be a great help to me if you would agree to chair the meetings. I’m busy with a lot of other things right now.”
Alois hesitated, and shook his head. “That’s a job for an active priest, someone younger and more energetic than I, I’m afraid,” he said.
Urbanek pursed his lips. “You cannot find the energy to help war orphans?”
“No, you misunderstand me,” Alois said. “It is just that I—”
Urbanek waved his hand. “Never mind, Father Bayer. I’ll find someone else to do it. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll bid you good day.” He nodded at me and turned away, heading toward the south transept.
Alois sighed. “He’s always trying to recruit me for his latest committee,” he said. “I’ve done my share here, Lorenzo. I’m tired. I just want to spend my last years with my books. Is that so bad?”
I shook my head. “No, my friend. In fact, I wish I were able to join you.” We laughed. Alois excused himself and ascended the stairway that led to the upper offices and archive. I walked onto the main floor of the cathedral. To my left, past the expansive choir, lay the elaborate high altar with its marble statues of bishops and saints. I turned my back on it and wandered over to the Gothic sandstone pulpit sculpted by Anton Pilgram in the late fifteenth century. The pulpit resembled a giant wine cup set against a large pillar. The bowl of the cup was made of four blocks of sandstone carved to resemble oriel windows, from which figures of the four fathers of the church—Saint Ambrose, Saint Jerome, Saint Gregory, and Saint Augustine—presided over the nave of the cathedral. A stone stairway curved around the pillar, its banister strewn with intricate carvings of frogs, snakes, and lizards. I had heard that the sculptor had hidden a self-portrait beneath the stairway. I ducked my head and leaned in to find it.
“Lorenzo, is that you?” A voice sounded behind me. I turned to see a dark-haired priest with a wide, crooked smile extending his hand to me. A second cleric, whom I did not recognize, stood behind him.
“Maximilian,” I said, shaking his hand. “It is good to see you. How is your work coming?” Maximilian Krause had been a lawyer before taking holy orders, and was an expert on the writings of Ludovico Muratori, a modern church reformer. I often ran into him in various bookshops in the city.
“Very well,” he replied. He gestured to the man behind him, who stepped forward. “Father Dauer, have you met Lorenzo Da Ponte? He is the poet at the Court Theater. Lorenzo, this is Hieronymus Dauer. He’s just joined the staff here.”
As I shook hands with Dauer, I studied his face. He looked like no priest I had ever seen; instead, he resembled one of the heroes of the novels the ladies had taken to reading lately, with wavy chestnut hair; a long, aristocratic nose; and a heart-shaped mouth. His gold-green eyes considered me and dismissed me with a blink.
We strolled down the nave toward the great front portal.
“Father Dauer comes to us from the abbey at Melk,” Krause said. “He was rising in the ranks there, but our provost stole him away to help manage the cathedral. Now that the state is so involved in church affairs, we needed someone with his political skills and talents.”
Dauer gave a satisfied smile at his fellow priest’s praise.
“You two have something in common,” Krause continued.
Dauer arched a delicate brow.
“You both have lived in Venice.”
“Were you born in Venice?” I asked Dauer.
He shook his head. “I was born here,” he replied. “But I spent my childhood and teenage years there. My father was attached to the Austrian embassy.”
“Lorenzo is a native,” Krause explained. “We are lucky that he has chosen to live and work here.”
Now it was my turn to look pleased at the compliment. I bit off the correction I wished to make to Krause’s statement. I would much prefer to be back in Venice, my beloved home, instead of here in Vienna. But I was no longer welcome there.
“Excuse me, please, Fathers,” a small voice said. A girl of about sixteen, dressed in an elegant satin dress festooned with bows, the neck cut low as was the latest fashion, was attempting to maneuver her way around the three of us. We moved to let her pass. She smiled gratefully and entered a small chapel to our right.
Dauer stared after her. “Look at her,” he hissed. “Dressed like a common prostitute to light a holy candle. Why does her father let her out of the house wearing that dress?” He shook his head. “I must confess, my friends, that I am amazed at some of the behavior I’ve witnessed here in the city. The moral laxness—I’ve never seen anything like it.” His eyes narrowed. “It’s due to the emperor’s reforms, I believe. There are no longer any rules about how to behave properly.” He gestured toward the young woman, who had pushed aside her skirts and was kneeling before the altar in the chapel. “That is the result.”
Although I never would criticize my Caesar aloud, I agreed with Dauer’s assessment. Over the last seven years, the emperor had attempted to apply the modern ideas of the French philosophes to Viennese society. He had ordered equal treatment for all the social classes in matters of taxation and criminal punishment; had modernized medieval church practices; and had built new schools and hospitals. But instead of the society he had aimed to create—one based on freedom and reason—it seemed to me that the emperor’s efforts had had the opposite effect. Instead of acting for the greater good, everyone these days did whatever they wanted, with no concern for the well-being of their neighbors, and no consideration of propriety.
“The result of what?” Alois joined us.
“Father Dauer was commenting on the young lady’s attire,” Krause explained, nodding toward the chapel, where the young woman had stood and was now lighting a candle.
“I’ll speak to her,” Dauer said, turning toward the chapel.
Alois placed his hand on the new priest’s arm. “I would not advise it,” he said gently. “You will not make friends that way, my son. Her father is the government minister who oversees the cathedral’s treasury.”
Dauer stiffened. “You are probably right, Father Bayer,” he said. “I appreciate your guidance.”
“Let me be, you cruel man!” a woman’s voice cried from behind us. A tall, slender young woman, shrouded in black satin and velvet, her face covered by a dark veil, rushed out of the Chapel of the Cross. She was followed by a much shorter, thick-set man with light hair. He took her arm.
“My love, please. Listen to me,” he said.
She shrugged off his hold. “I want to die too! Oh, my poor father! Can you really be dead? How could you have left me?”
All four of us gaped at her.
The young woman clutched her companion’s arm. “Swear to me! Swear to me that you will do something! Promise me you will avenge his blood!”
Dauer turned to me. “I see my presence is required, gentlemen. Signor Da Ponte, it was a pleasure meeting you.” He hurried over to the couple and murmured a few words to the young woman. She collapsed in his arms, sobbing. Dauer gently led her back into the chapel. The light-haired man followed.
“Christiane Albrechts,” Alois said. “The late general’s daughter. The man is her fiancé, Count Richard Benda. Father Dauer has just been appointed her confessor.”
“You know everyone, Father Bayer,” Krause said.
“I was her confessor years ago, when she was ten years old,” Alois explained. “Her mother had just died. Of course, her father was often away. And like most men, he had wished for a son. She was a lonely child, perhaps too serious for her own good. When the general was home, he managed her education. I thought his choices inappropriate for a young lady. I approved of the books he encouraged her to read, but he also taught her to hunt and ride astride.” He sighed. “It was a sad time. The two of them, alone in the palace on the Freyung, she pining for her mother, he for the son he never had. But she has grown to become a lovely woman. I was happy to hear of her engagement to Count Benda. He is a good man. He’ll do his best to make her happy.”
We stood quietly for a moment.
“While you are here, Father Bayer, I would like to ask a favor,” Krause said. “I’d be honored if you would read my latest article and give me your thoughts.”
“More of your natural religion ideas, Maximilian?” Alois asked, his eyes twinkling.
Krause laughed. “If you are referring to the idea that religious belief should be instilled in our flock through rational discourse rather than medieval mumbo jumbo, well then, I would say yes, that is my topic.”
“I agree with you that many of the superstitious activities the church encouraged in the past should be abolished,” Alois said. “Worshiping the icons, dressing the statues of the saints and parading them around the city—everyone knows those practices are ridiculous. But if you are arguing that we should not teach about the existence of Heaven and Hell, there is where we part ways.”
“But surely you don’t believe that we should lead people to God by using fear of retribution and threats of burning in Hell,” Krause protested. “That flies in the face of all modern church philosophy.”
I stifled a yawn.
“No, no. Not that,” Alois replied. “I just worry where all this new thinking will lead, that is all. If we take your theories to their logical ends, the laity might question whether the church is necessary at all. That is my fear.”
I coughed.
“Yet you support the emperor’s reform of the church, Father Bayer, do you not?” Krause persisted. “You must admit, the cathedral has changed for the better since Joseph took away control of the church from Rome.” He looked at me. “You’re a priest, Lorenzo. What do you think?”
I smiled. “I think it’s time for dinner.”
The priests laughed. “Send your article over to my office, Maximilian,” Alois said. “I’d be happy to read it.” We said our good-byes to Krause and headed outside.
* * *
Dusk was falling as I made my way home after a pleasant afternoon. We had tried the new catering shop near the Greek church, and the food had been tasty and plentiful. After the waiter had cleared away the dishes, we directed our attention to finishing the bottle of wine I had ordered. Our wide-ranging discussion eventually turned to the cathedral.
“These new men!” Alois said. “Maximilian, spouting all the new philosophies, and now Dauer, with his political acumen. I can no longer keep up with them. I’m happy to be retired.”
“There are a lot of new ideas floating around this city,” I agreed.
“But enough of that,” Alois said. “Tell me. What are you working on now?”
“Mozart and I are modifying Don Giovanni for the premiere on May seventh,” I told him.
“The old Don Juan farce.” Alois laughed. “People never tire of that story.” Don Giovanni, like many other operas and plays that had come before mine, was based on the Don Juan legend, the story of a noted libertine who is dragged to Hell by the ghost of a father whose daughter he had seduced.
“I hope the public here in Vienna is not tired of it,” I said.
“I’m certain they won’t be,” Alois said. He reached over and patted my hand. “You told me it was a hit in Prague last fall. It will be successful here, you’ll see. Tell me, what kind of changes are you making?”
“Well, it is always necessary to change some of the arias to suit the talents of the new cast. Sometimes a singer isn’t comfortable with an aria that hasn’t been tailored to his or her particular voice. Wolfgang prides himself on writing music to suit each performer. He calls it ‘fitting the costume to the figure.’”
Alois smiled.
“And of course Vienna is a much more sophisticated city than Prague,” I continued. “So we might have to add some scenes to appeal to the tastes here.”
“All that must take a long time,” Alois said.
“We’ll soon know how much work there’ll be. We’ve been working through the Prague libretto and score with the cast here, and we’ll finish that tomorrow.”
“What else are you doing?” my friend asked.
“I’m setting aside time to write a bit of poetry,” I answered. “I’m thinking of having a small collection published.”
“That’s wonderful, Lorenzo! I’d love to read some of them.”
“I’d be honored if you did. I’ll bring them by your office in a day or two.” We chatted about books for a while, enjoying our comfortable companionship, and did not notice the hours passing until the owner of the catering shop finally shooed us away. As I paid the bill, I remembered the pallet on the floor of Alois’s office, and considered offering to help him pay for a room at my own lodgings. But I bit my tongue for fear of embarrassing him.
Now I was heading to my lodging house, through the great Stuben gate cut into the medieval battlements of the city, and over the wide bridge that crossed the glacis, the sloped, grassy field designed to deny cover to an approaching enemy. Like most Viennese, I would prefer to live in the city, but lodgings are much less expensive out in the suburbs. My father still needed my help educating my stepbrothers back in Ceneda, so I tried to cut my expenses so that I could regularly send him funds. I have a long walk to and from my office every day, but I try to view my situation as an advantage. I’ve been so busy lately, my walk to and from work is all the fresh air I get.
The evening was as warm as the day had been, and I carried my cloak over my arm as I walked across the dusty, broad path that ran parallel to the city walls and made my way over another, smaller bridge that spanned the Vienna River. Moments later, I turned into my street. I had to admit that it was pleasant out here. Small, neat houses lined both sides of the street, and a strip of land planted with linden saplings ran down its center. Shrieks of girlish laughter greeted me as I approached the house of my landlady, Josepha Lamm. Ahead of me, a burly young man was maneuvering a cart laden with hay through the narrow opening into the house’s courtyard.
“Good evening, Signor Da Ponte,” he called.
“Good evening, Stefan.” I gestured at the cart. “Are you giving up stonemasonry in favor of farming?” I asked.
He laughed. “No, sir. This is for Sophie’s party. Come, you’ll see.” He rolled the cart into the courtyard. I followed.
My jaw dropped at the sight before me. Madame Lamm’s normally neat courtyard was strewn with hay. Six young women, dressed in white gauze dresses tied at the waist with satin ribbons, had formed a circle and, holding hands, were attempting to dance around a small goat in the center of their ring. A blond, heavily pregnant girl sat forlornly on a bench to the side. The goat jumped up and put its hooves on one of the dancers.
“Stefan, help! Get it off me!” she cried, laughing. The young man pushed at the animal.
“Good evening, Signor Da Ponte,” the girl said.
“Would you happen to know anything about goats?”
“Hello, Sophie,” I greeted my landlady’s daughter. “What is the meaning of this bucolic display? Where did you get that poor animal?”
My landlady came out the door of the house, carrying a tray with a pitcher and several mugs. “The goat belongs to Hoffer down the street,” she said. I put my satchel on the ground and took the tray from her. She pointed toward the small garden that lay beyond the courtyard, and I carried the tray over and placed it on a table next to the garden bench.
Sophie extricated herself from the embraces of the goat and came to me. “It’s my sixteenth birthday, signore. We’re having a country party, like the queen of France.” The emperor’s younger sister, Maria Antonia, had built a rustic hamlet on the grounds of the great palace of Versailles, where she and her lady’s maids escaped from the boredom of court life and played at being shepherdesses.
“I think the royal farm animals are more obedient than this goat,” Sophie added. I smiled at her. She never failed to charm me, with her pleasing features, shapely figure, laughing gray eyes, and friendly smile.
Stefan captured the goat and tied a length of rope around its neck. “I’ll take him back to Hoffer,” he said, dragging the animal out of the courtyard.
“Thank you, Stefan,” my landlady called. “Would you like a punch, signore?”
“Oh no, thank you, Madame Lamm. I’ll just go up to my room.”
“There’s a cold supper in the kitchen when you are ready,” she said.
I thanked her and went into the house and up to my room on the second floor. I dropped my satchel on the floor, crossed to the cupboard and put my cloak on a hook, and then took off my coat and waistcoat and hung them next to the cloak. My eyes fell on the pocket of my cloak. I sighed, then pulled out the message I had received that morning. I had put off looking at it long enough. I broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and read the contents:
33 27 54 71 52 33 61 33 28 55
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