Masks and Shadows by Stephanie Burgis Read Free Book Online Page B

into the inner pocket of his own coat and drew out the collection of letters he’d couriered. “Along with affectionate greetings to you, sir, I’ve also brought commissions from the empress of all Russia, among others. The tsarina is most eager for a new opera from your pen.”
    â€œIn St. Petersburg?” Haydn sagged back on his heels. “Ah, signor, I am truly honored, but I could not possibly accept. My contract states explicitly that I may only compose new works for the honor of the Prince, and he is most concerned that I keep to that promise.”
    â€œBut your publications—”
    â€œWill be graciously allowed by His Highness after first performances here—and I fear the older operas I have written for this court would not do in another setting. I know my prince’s taste too well, and it influences all that I write.” He twisted his lips into a rueful grin. “I do not think that the tsarina would appreciate such a string of tedious long arias as Prince Nikolaus dotes upon.”
    â€œLong, perhaps, but beautiful, too. I have seen those unauthorized editions, remember.” Carlo frowned. “You do understand, sir, how your reputation has spread? Even in distant England, I heard talk of you and your talents. Were you ever to leave the Prince’s service—”
    â€œAye, and for what?” The kapellmeister laughed. “You must have been speaking to my young friend Mozart. If we ever met in person, perhaps I might shake more sense into him. The last missive he sent me from Salzburg fairly scorched my hands, it was so full of fiery ambitions for an independent life, wild and free of his archbishop’s service . . . and with no promise of salary or security whatsoever. I hope my reply cooled his head somewhat.” Still smiling, he shook his head. “No, no, signor. It is well and good for a great artist such as yourself to stand on your own talents and travel the world, but I do very well here as I am. I have a fine employer with a true ear for music, who genuinely appreciates my work. And my own salary is . . . not inconsiderable for an honored servant, shall we say?” He lowered one eyelid in a roguish wink.
    And yet you will remain only a servant here, forevermore . But Carlo did not speak his thoughts. Instead, he handed over the collection of letters. “Your mail, sir. One of the letters is indeed from young Mozart.”
    â€œAh, he is a good lad. ‘Papa Haydn,’ he calls me, you know. A tribute to my poor graying hairs.” Haydn grinned and slipped the collection into his pocket. “I’ll enjoy these later, at my leisure. A fine reward for haggling with these temperamental singers all day! By now I should have led a full rehearsal of my orchestra and had an hour for my own composition, too.”
    â€œA pity indeed.”
    â€œWell, never mind, eh? Come, signor, you shall not escape a view of the opera house, for it is a joy to me.”
    Carlo followed the kapellmeister in his tour, and roused himself to comment appreciatively on the sound qualities of the auditorium, the unusual depth of the angled stage, the fine detail of the carvings around it, and the positioning of the orchestra’s benches. He even felt a mild amusement as he noted the correlation between the red and green of Haydn’s uniform and the deep red and apple-green shades that dominated all the opera house’s decorations, from the great velvet hangings to the plush seats in the auditorium. Someone—perhaps even the Prince himself—had an innate sense of order, or at least efficiency.
    All the while, though, he felt himself abstracted, and hoped the man beside him could not see it. It was well indeed to enjoy one’s position in life, and to feel that one’s talents were appreciated. Yet for such a mind and talent to be confined to this petty princedom, far from the lights of cosmopolitan culture . . .
    â€œDo you