Work Text:
James Bigglesworth (known to friend and foe alike as Biggles, to the bemusement of the locals) prided himself on excellence paired with an adventurous spirit. At present, as the newly arrived composer in residence to the court orchestra of the Elector Palatine in Mannheim, he was vexed as to how to square the one with the other. He owed the elector his best work, that went without saying. Biggles’ work was well known beyond Albion; even on the continent, they said his symphonies transported the listener like unto the power of flight, and he meant to deliver the same to his patron.
A straightforward problem, as these matters went. But Biggles presently paced his quarters in Mannheim Palace, troubled not by the draftiness (although it was significant) but the Kapellmeister, Erich von Stalhein. This was not Biggles’ accustomed restlessness, for he was always in motion, especially when thinking, rather a sign of no small agitation.
The Kapellmeister was a devilish handsome man, tall and dark, his eyes blue and piercing despite the monocle he affected. Beyond his management of the Mannheim orchestra, they whispered that he’d bargained with dark powers for his proficiency upon the violin. Biggles would not have thought that harsh soil of Prussia would produce an artistic soul, rather the contrary; from the beginning he had noted von Stalhein’s distinctly military bearing. Of the various political undercurrents stirred by the reign of der alte Fritz, the less said the better. Biggles, while he understood the complexities imperfectly, knew enough of diplomacy not to pry into von Stalhein’s origins.
Yet something of that Prussian discipline must have inspired von Stalhein’s mastery of the violin. That stern face, which had impressed itself on Biggles to the point that it troubled his dreams, rarely revealed human weakness or emotion—save when it came to the violin. Even then, drawing impossible trills and glissandos and acciaccaturas from the instrument, so brilliant Till Eulenspiegel would pause in his pranks, von Stalhein’s expression remained remote and faraway, as though he dwelled apart from his own orchestra.
It will not do, Biggles thought in vexation. The individual players might each be virtuosos and geniuses in their own right, for von Stalhein was scarcely the only one so gifted. The lowliest viola at Mannheim could play pieces that would challenge a soloist anywhere else. Biggles, who was an accomplished keyboardist himself, and could play continuo blindfolded and upside down, conceded that the Mannheim orchestra’s reputation was not exaggerated, as he had speculated, but if anything exceeded the standard he had been led to expect.
Yet an orchestra, in Biggles’ philosophy, was not a creature of impassioned individuals. The players worked together, weaving a whole beyond the sum of its parts. He had expressed this to the players upon his introduction, so that they might understand each other. The flautist, that one tow-headed cellist, even the perpetually scowling youth who copied out parts—they’d all come around, won over by Biggles’ easy manner. All but von Stalhein, who always, always held himself apart.
He’ll see the right of it, Biggles told himself, sitting at last as a new theme blazed in his mind. The so-called Mannheim rocket, with its rapid and breathtaking ascending melodic figures—yes. Surely Biggles could use such means to draw real emotion from his Kapellmeister, integrate him into the orchestra entire.
*
The rehearsals did not have the desired effect.
Biggles had completed his manuscript in a flurry of activity, spending an unwholesome part of his stipend on candles as he composed late into the night. His inner ear was so reliable that he did not need to write at the keyboard. He navigated the scales and arpeggios and harmonic progressions with the surety of a migrating bird, finding compass north by mysterious means. He’d received a first-rate education, everything from cantus firmus to cadences; it stood him in good stead now.
The Mannheim musicians excelled at sight-reading. Biggles himself only had to give the slightest indication of his desires as conductor, beyond the notations on the page: the swell of a crescendo here, the sighing accentuation of a note there. The orchestra responded, as wonderfully skilled as the dancing horses of the Spanish Riding School carrying out their caprioles.
For all his conscientiousness, Biggles’ gaze snagged time and again on the Kapellmeister with his gleaming monocle, the lightning-flash of his bow. It would be a handsome face indeed, Biggles thought during this latest rehearsal, if only he did not look so forbidding. He wondered what a smile would look like on von Stalhein’s visage.
Surely von Stalhein was not entirely unmoved by the symphony that Biggles had labored at producing. Biggles closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, letting himself revel in the aching poignancy of that violin. None of the other players possessed that vibrancy of expression, so reminiscent of the itinerant peoples and their fiddlers. No one who could draw such a cry from the violin could himself have a heart of stone.
Biggles’ first concern should have been whether the piece would please the Elector. Instead, he wondered whether it had moved von Stalhein after all, or whether this was nothing but the von Stalhein’s version of professionalism: a performance dutifully rendered without true passion. The possibility of the latter troubled him more than it ought. How could such extraordinary talent be coupled with an utter lack of feeling?
Biggles opened his eyes, saw the next movement, and the next, to a close. Despite his usual awareness of every note, the nuances of each section’s performance, the hour had passed in a blur. He made his excuses and left the hall, hardly aware of his own footsteps, let alone the idle pizzicatos and chatter in his wake.
He barely made it to his room…to his bed…couldn’t even muster the strength to pull the covers over himself. Nor did he retain enough presence of mind to realize that he had fallen ill, between the drafty room and overexertion.
For a long time, Biggles tossed and turned. But with him there was warmth, to which he pressed himself, greedily drinking of the heat. It was too difficult to think or question, so he did neither.
Once or twice he thought he heard a servant tapping at the door, and another voice gruffly sending the man away; didn’t think about that either.
When the fever broke, he reached out for the warmth anyway, having grown accustomed to it. His eyelids fluttered open. At last he beheld the source of the heat: it was von Stalhein, sharing his bed, although it took a moment for Biggles to recognize him without the characteristic monocle. His eyes were, if anything, even more blue up close.
Biggles stared at him, too astonished to speak.
“I did not,” von Stalhein said, as if it were obvious, “consider the servants’ care for you adequate. So I took matters into my own hands.”
“I did not,” Biggles returned, his voice husky, “realize that my health would be of such personal concern to you.” It surprised him to learn that von Stalhein had any regard for him—but he was not displeased.
Von Stalhein’s mouth curled in a curious half-smile. “You must be aware,” he said, “that we have entertained composers of the highest caliber here at Mannheim. It takes the truly extraordinary to make an impression.”
The fever might have passed, but Biggles remained disoriented enough that it took him a few moments to puzzle out the compliment. “Then perhaps,” he suggested, “I could return the favor by taking matters into my hands.”
For all his self-control, von Stalhein could not hide the way his pulse quickened. “It would not be meet,” he said, “to take advantage of a man in your condition—”
Biggles kissed him, and in the course of what followed, von Stalhein proved himself a master of more instruments than the violin, and demonstrated a whole new kind of Mannheim rocket.