Novel Treatments / The Viennese Tale of English Music: Chapter One

        Julien Tiphaine executed his commissions as only the famous Frenchman knew how. Exchange modest sacrifice for great reward.
        He arrived with all seven of his golden instruments. On precisely the day he had declared in writing to his host. On a night clear yet preceded by such heavy rain in the morning and afternoon that by evening, if anyone had been watching his carriages as they approached from over the crest of the moonlit hillside, they would have insisted all had walked upon a face of shimmering glass.
        In his letter, Tiphaine had drawn in detail certain modifications made to each instrument as far as pitch, diamond keys, and everything else that, aside from being made of gold, should otherwise set them apart from their standards. All of this his host, the Duke of Shireton, would have been familiar with having never seen any of them before but having exchanged far too many correspondences with Tiphaine than he could explain to anyone.
        The letter concluded,

“Touring at such cost comes at remarkable impracticability. In this instance, alone, I am forced to improve my escort of three horsemen to ten (!) horsed men in order to prevent undue haste on the part of my handlers, but, for your grace, should any expense be spared?”

It was, in truth, customary for M. Tiphaine to travel with no more than three of these instruments—that being the precise number of golden instruments he had mastered, but the last part of his letter had been mostly inaccurate as increasing his escort had more to do with increasing his frequency of travel than the number of immodest instruments traveling with him. This, perhaps, his grace also knew and responded,

“There is no one here, monsieur, who does not anticipate your arrival.”

        And no one had assembled to applaud the monsieur as he descended from his carriage. No smattering of noble guests, their numbers loosely bolstered by liveried attendants gathered on the lawns and in the yards so as not to miss a single button or lace of the man’s fine array illuminated in golden sunlight. But neither this nor the night chill seemed to bother Tiphaine as he gave the men attending to his horses patient commands by torchlight. The servants, as they carried his animals and carriages away to the stalls, could not help laughing over so little fanfare for a fellow whose fame came almost entirely from everyone’s waiting.
        Had not the monsieur, as many times before, told as many others in advance of his arriving the type and number of instruments he would bring with him? And—
        By letter or directly to as many persons as eager to be in attendance as he was, would he not proceed at length to describe, again, diamond keys, timbre, and other details of each instrument’s beauty that could be easily imagined without his aid? Then—
        Upon the arrival of that evening intended to reconcile in everyone’s tender hearts the wonderful thoughts of this master joined with the precious results of some master craftsmen— would not this “golden ruse” turn, instead, to find the most fitting flute, horn, or violin for his evening appearance from among the standard instruments his grace kept for the standard use of his private orchestra?
        If anyone dared to break the secret resentment all Tiphaine’s admirers shared for their object—not knowing, of course, that he broke it— by asking the duke about the friendly submissions he always allowed for this illustrious master, his grace would only reply that any instrument placed in the hands of the glorious Tiphaine would, in essence, be golden.
        A violin, a lyre, an hautbois, a flute, a lute, a trumpet, and a music box that “played in seven parts, the most beautiful melody in the world.” Each provided a single man, a private coach with an added guard—and all in black cases shrouded in black cloth as if their black-clad handlers proceeding up the marble stairs of Winterlay had been entrusted with transporting parts of the sun!
        A ninth carriage arrived in less haste than the eight others, but the driver stumbled in his hurry to remove the door and drop the step as if he might suddenly make time for his riders. From within appeared one fellow in a fashionable mode of lace and silk followed by another of equally neat appeal, though more modest than the first. Tiphaine embraced both men in the order that they appeared, and after a brief exchange, all three could be heard quickly ascending the steps of Winterlay.

        None of his darkly clad handlers had been moved beyond the foyer. Each stood visibly undecided with their charges as the house valets remained unsure of what to do with their guests, in fact, appearing unwilling to aid them with any direction at all. The monsieur said to the one standing closest to him, “His grace is expecting me and has reserved the usual apartments above the salon. Hurry along, and see also that these men receive equal accomodations, and your master will no doubt double your reward.”
        The valet’s lips parted to speak, but he made no motion to answer this request. Of course, wanting to serve his master and Tiphaine in the most agreeable way, he wanted to serve his master more. Tiphaine understood this, guaranteeing the arrangement with several coins before calling one of his handlers to him, and to another, not of his own,  made a gesture to go with the words, “Now, lead us.”
        The valet led them down halls and into large antechambers. They followed long corridors growing dimmer as the lamps on every wall appeared fewer in number, and soon, the sounds of stringed instruments returned their senses from those of small blind night creatures to the more modest but sensible ears of human adults.
        A functionary intercepted the trio as they neared the end of the corridor, having got wind of the quiet commotion risen by the three new guests. Tiphaine held up his hand to allay the man as he approached, but he ignored this. “M. Tiphaine, his grace will not see you!”
    ”That is correct, Mr. Penny; his grace will not see me, but all of us!”   He made a gesture to include the men surrounding him.
        ”No, no! His grace has said exactly—”
            ”Do you know these men?”
        Penny paused to looked at both faces, even the single handler Tiphaine had ordered along with them, and squinted his eyes as if the name of each was not so clearly written across his brow. “No, sir; who are they?”
            ”Just this one, sir. Do you know him?”
        ”No, monsieur, but it is of no importance; I have said already that his grace will not see you. He has said exactly this: You are to be turned away with your vehicles at exactly the minute you decide to arrive.” Penny said all of this at once and became out of breath, though very much relieved.
        Tiphaine remained silent in case the fellow wanted to say more. “He is clearly unhappy with me, his grace is.”
        ”Clearly, monsieur.”
        ”He would not be if he knew my reasons for arriving at this hour—or minute, as you’ve said, and since he has not refused these gentlemen anything, further conversation between us will only continue to delay his grace’s great delight.”
        Penny understood that, if he had ever known them at all, he had not yet remembered the names of any of the three men standing behind Tiphaine and that this gave the monsieur’s statement some advantage. “Well, who are these gentlemen, then, and let us find out?”
        ”Your interest is of no import. You will not announce them as it is.”
        Penny’s steady glances at all of the men all at once brought to his aged eyes some realization quickly followed by a glint of what Tiphaine had to assume was some certainty. “Do not announce him!”
            ”Oh, but what shall I say, then, monsieur?”
            ”If you are wise, you will say nothing.”
        Penny had not decided if this would be an agreeable thing to allow by the duke when Tiphaine, impatient, proceeded forward. The old functionary, wanting to protest, instead, made a noise confusing every response and found himself pressed backwards through an arched way and onto a small balcony with no balustrade to mark its edges, no more closer to the ceiling than the floor, and raised higher than even the magnificent chandelier illuminating the ornate relief that gazed over the chamber’s occupants from the ceiling and walls.
        The guests below, always to be aware of their host and his distractions, noticed the duke’s gaze turn upward as Tiphaine appeared through the archway leading the descent of two men at first, then four and following the stairway along the wall then bending with its steps outward toward the floor.
        The duchess, Catherine Sonderlee, squeezed her husband’s hand slightly amused. “Is it the Monsieur Tiphaine?”   The duke and those within distance of her question knew that she had really asked, ‘Is that the M. Tiphaine, who should have been turned away if he ever decided to arrive?’ The duke did not answer but held fast the hand of his wife. Tiphaine met his eyes and bowed politely.
        Sensing the position he had placed his grace in and the wonderful advantage he had given himself, he called his handler forward with his charge and drew from the case he bore, a golden violin with black silk cloth. Gasps of delight came from the guests as they turned to each other with smiles and nods of approval. All were in the habit of pretending that, of seven instruments, they had seen at least one of three, but it was obvious by their eyes and their sounds that none of them had seen anything like it before. The duke made none of these noises, realizing that the monsieur had lessened the surprise of his golden violin for one, in the duke’s heart, far better.
        ”Your grace will forgive me, I hope; I stopped briefly in London to satisfy a short commission given to me by the Archduke Fidelheim in Vienna. Given the subject of that matter, your grace will surely understand.”
        The duke nodded.”Continue, monsieur….”
        Tiphaine’s eyes sparkled, looking over the guests. “But, Milord, is this everyone you have called here for this evening?”
        The duke’s brother-in-law, the Baron Chaldress, felt obliged to speak in place of his host, who seemed, for once, to get stuck by his own thinking. “Monsieur, haven’t you just arrived, yourself? Which is not to say that everyone will be arriving shortly, but that such disappointment is what the absence of M. Julien Tiphaine brings.”   The baron and others began to chuckle. Tiphaine, too, laughed a little.
        ”Very much a disappointment, milord, for the presence of Julien Tiphaine is something equally remarkable, you must know or will know of, presently, I assure you. More remarkable this evening than any before.”  They guffawed at his nonsense.
        ”Because of your violin, monsieur?” Asked another guest.
        ”No, no, milord; because I have been of a terrible state of mind since my departure from Vienna and subsequent delay in London, but a wonderful story has come of it. Only,  I fear the tale is nearly wasted on so modest an audience. No one will believe any of you who tell it.”  Tiphaine was not unaware that the guests he addressed were mostly in a station above his own and, therefore, having enjoyed their food and drink for the evening were fast losing their patience with this late arrival and his unwillingness to ride simply on the effects of his golden violin, but fortune never compromised M. Tiphaine’s interests or comforts, and fortune gave him always the sense of looking down.
        ”A very good point, monsieur,” said another guest, the Duke Chagrinet, more occupied with his drink but becoming a little impatient. “One to keep in mind should you decide again to arrive late when so many are counting on your presence, but pray, continue your story.”  Tiphaine bowed..
        ”Does your grace know the inn of the Cock and Crow?”
            ”No,” Chagrinet grumbled. “I cannot say that I do. Whereabouts?”
            ”In London, and kept by a cow complaining of two birds in her last vacant apartments.”
            ”Ah, yes; I know her,” said Chagrinet, losing the last of his words on the edge of his glass.
        Tiphaine, with his golden violin, began to make a path through the guests, and if they had already sat in exasperation, stood in admiration of the instrument as he walked by. He admired, rather, the duke’s three young daughters, seated together and visibly amused by the developments, each showing a grin of her character. Polite. Innocent. And not at all. He saw briefly behind each young lady, a row of six aides, and at the end of their row a chair that seated a small golden birdcage housing a single golden bird.
        The duke’s middle daughter, Cassandra Tay, was paying no attention to M. Tiphaine as he walked by but followed the eyes of the one who had emerged second from the last of nine carriages and remained the object of everyone’s great interest.
        The young man’s patience seemed older than his twenty-six years, as if he had spent more of his life waiting than he had intended until finally settling upon some disappointment with grimness. His eyes, solemn and intelligent, followed the path of Tiphaine and turned in every direction the monsieur’s gaze bent without meeting another, and when the monsieur Tiphaine observed the duke’s daughters the young man’s eyes, too, passed over each and over their six aides. He noted the golden bird carriage, the small yellow bird seated comfortably on its breast, and the deep, dark eyes of the child seated on the chair beside it.
        ”Upon arriving in London, I proceeded at once to the inn of the Cock and Crow. Its proprietor, the cow, was expecting me as I had informed her of my arrival in advance, but two birds, abandoned by their mothers and fathers, had decided to nest in one of her rooms. She requested my assistance in removing them if I expected to take the room she had reserved. I was forced, therefore, to enter, impose, gather and remove their nesting mulch in order for the little creatures to fly away. When they took flight, I too flew by horse for reasons I need not to explain to any of you, who have traveled all over Europe and then, here, more often between London and your residences, which is enough to understand that it is not a pleasant thing, after all, to lie where birds once laid.”
        Most had not expected to be amused by this.
           “But what became of the birds, Monsieur Tiphaine?”
        Tiphaine, the two young men, and everyone else turned their gazes to Cassandra, seated directly in front of the girl keeping the golden bird. The guests seemed annoyed by this particular question, as Tiphaine had already explained the birds had flown away, but she continued against their indignant looks. “The cock and crow, as they were. The true proprietors of the inn. Have they returned?”
        Tiphaine returned quickly to the winding stairs, climbing enough steps to be easily seen and heard by all of his audience. “Miss Cassandra has understood me, perfectly. My good friends. More golden than any instrument of mine, I return, to you, your good son, whose pen could ennoble even a trumpet of silt!”
        ”Of silt, you say, monsieur?” said one, looking at the others laughing around him. “Tiphaine, you’re mad!”
        ”Indeed, sir, I must be—For how many of you, upon seeing a white raven or black swan flying above your heads would dare reach your hand up and pluck it from the sky? I dare say, who among you could manage it?”
        ”Any of us, you simple ass!”
        ”Then you duplicitous lovers of music should have previously caged your bird in hand! Have I not made it easier for you by catching him myself? Or do I place the good Mr. Craven on the closed hands of many ungrateful heirs?”
        ”Mr. Craven, you say?”
        The duchess turned to her husband, but the duke stood before she could speak. “Please, M. Tiphaine. To know one is to know the other, and who will forget Mr. Cummings?”
        The first, acknowledging the duke’s words, gave a polite bow, and Tiphaine said, “True, your grace, for there is no introduction necessary. Let us cheer, first and last, the good Roger Craven.” He passed the golden violin into the hands of the second then raising his own so everyone could see him applaud. The combined breath of the small audience, nearly taken by the magical toys of M. Tiphaine, at once swelled and burst, and they cheered not the attempted loftiness of Julien Tiphaine but the exalted name of their beloved countryman.
        The young man received the instrument graciously, lifting his hand to settle their applause. “Please, with more of your patience, my brother and I shall try to repair those parts of the monsieur’s reputation, still be repairable.” The guests laughed, applauding this sentiment. He continued, “The story I have for you is quite different than that of the Monsieur Tiphaine. It is neither tragedy nor comedy. Wisdom nor deceit. Simply, it is the story of a bird removed of his wings and given liberty from his confinement in order to stare at the sky.”

Musical Prosody

        Gentlemen used to gathering in small musical circles and toasting their own celebrity pardoned liveried players for the honor of taking their place. At such an informal gathering their zealousness—asserted not with words but by suggestion and in one instance by force— could be forgiven not because there were too few of them to undermine the integrity of the music, but because those in audience were less inclined to care. Both parties were more impressed that they might, at least, leave with a description of the man and a brief opinion of his character to play against those who would have neither and would, therefore, talk more about his music.
          Roger led with the golden violin, his fingers dancing along its neck never crossing the broad and gentle glide of his bow. At his side stood the violin master Julien Tiphaine, generous enough to allow music written for himself to be heard first by the more capable and renowned hands of another, and across from them, a cembalo sang at the spirited touch of the affable concertmaster Cameron Cummings.
        The divine air of invention descended upon their heads and, from their enthusiastic fingers solved simply into a harmony that sent the delicate perfection of their souls  in a flourish towards heaven. The sound dissolved into the sweetest anticipation, and when Roger should have begun a singular show of virtuosity, he lowered the violin instead, surrendering the instrument, with a bow, to his concertmaster.
        The gasps from those listening, and Tiphaine, sounded, perhaps, more roundly than they should have since very few listeners could describe, in fact, what had occurred, and therefore their short breaths were more likely attached involuntarily to those able to understand this forfeiture but much too startled in their delight to give any explanation.
        Could they, they would have insisted that Roger Craven understood—to his nature, somewhat, but more because he was better off accepting this truth graciously— that his virtuosity became only “quite good” when compared to that of Cummings and then thanked him for leaving extravagant shows of skill, if between them, to his brother, whose genius was often confused between that of a musician and histrion with no talent, by choice, for endings.
        Cameron Cummings stood of  noble posture and affected height, the divine air pouring over his head as an ocean, measured and served as much with virtuous ability as virtuous design– and brilliant defiance, for on the many parts that should have returned him to the body of the music, he retreated, devising a longer strain of his original motif.
        Roger listened with unobvious delight, not entirely opposed to this deviation. In his youth, and he was, then, not much older than his youth, such a display would ignite an improvised raillery played as a theme passed “quite well” between them, returning, at the end of two turns to the second who then wrote a different theme, ascending a ladder of convention and complexity that, after long, made it inconceivable for one man to top the other and forcing those in audience of this bantering to close their eyes in order to keep their swelling hearts from pressing the breath from their lungs.
        The eloquent hand of either man could not be doubted, but too often did Mr. Craven yield to Cummings by allowing him to rejoin merrily in tutti at his pleasure. His critics no longer gave him the benefit of assuming he had control of this fellow, thanking him, instead,  for asserting the better talent of his brother with this vaudevillian garbage. That Mr. Cummings began and ended their jousting, made Craven’s admirers love him more, for it spoke of their man’s humility, and they imagined that his critics must truly hold for him the dearest place in their hearts to encourage this good-natured  rivalry, conjured without careless drivel. The rest could not decide whether these cavorts were a ruse for fattening thinner compositions or a subtle boast that Roger Craven never bothered himself with the shape of a critic’s opinion.
        Time and excessive travel taxed the enthusiasm of both men, not in spirit or in heart, but in body, and they could afford this deviation to fewer concerts with the exception of what is normally offered at the beginning, occasionally at the end and not normally attributed to deviation.; for those who had only heard of this concert spectacle, then, came terrible disbelief, when, even given the possible inclusion of a third voice in the crowing, pompous, self-important Julien Tiphaine!, Roger, in all fairness, having already surrendered his violin, and in all fairness, not engaged in a concert proper, raised his hand on one beat and lowered it on the next to drive the anxious band swiftly through the rogue without engaging him. The masterful Cummings continued, without pause, to counterpoint the score.
        Roger rejoined from the keyboard with a scattering of his own inventions, so cordially interjected as if to applaud his zealous concertmaster and the players. Their dance ascended, resolving  three times before settling to an end.
        The Duke Shireton stood  a third time in enthusiastic applause.

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