There are a number of women in the story.”
“Yes, but Klein cut them all out of the libretto. Penelope, the wife, is mentioned but never seen. Even the role of Calypso is minor. Our friend Veronica barely has three stanzas to sing. The entire story is all about Odysseus and his men, longing to come home.”
Just then, something began to ferment in Vincenzo’s mind. It was barely more than an inkling, but he had been observing Klein as much as possible that evening, and there was more to his general rigidity than simply being Austrian. There was something almost puritan about his attitude. He regarded the partygoers—especially the ladies, with their soft forms and high-pitched laughter—with disdain.
And now, he writes an opera with almost no parts for women?
“Oh hell, what is it?” Oliver asked, peering at him closely. “I know that look. You are planning something, aren’t you?”
“Not planning, no. I am very much making this up as I go along.” Vincenzo replied, his face breaking into a smile. His first honest smile all evening.
“Vincenzo, I’m warning you. Don’t do anything rash. If the Marchese expels you from his home again, there is no possibility you’ll ever—”
“Stop acting like a grandmother,” Vincenzo whispered vehemently. “Do not worry. I am simply going to test a theory.”
Luckily, Klein finished playing then, lifting his fingers off the keys, allowing the notes to float over the room. Vincenzo made certain his applause was the first, and the loudest.
In his Harlequin costume, he was well positioned to put on a show.
“Bravo! Bravo!” he cried, as he moved through the crowd efficiently, coming to stand next to Klein at the pianoforte. “That was marvelous, Gustav, simply marvelous. I cannot wait to see the production at La Fenice. What an excellent selection you chose to play for us. Showcasing the two sides of nature.”
“Thank you, Signor Carpenini.” Klein gave another one of his short bows. “I am gratified by your compliments.”
“Indeed, the beginning so forceful and powerful, and the calming of the storm so delicate, and . . .
feminine
.”
The word struck home. Vincenzo could barely hold back his triumph as pure malice flashed over Klein’s face.
“Feminine? Perhaps I did not understand you correctly. My Italian . . .” Klein said by way of excuse, stiff politeness in his voice.
“Feminine? Of the female nature? Although I suppose the angry crashing of the beginning could be described as feminine as well. We’ve all known a woman who is a force of nature.” He found Antonia in the audience and winked at her. She blushed as the crowd tittered, knowingly.
“My work is not feminine,” Klein ground out, his entire being shifting uncomfortably, trying to decide between deferment and engagement.
“What is wrong with feminine?” Vincenzo asked innocently. “Here in Venice, we have the tradition of the Ospedale della Pietà—female foundlings trained in music and regarded as angels. Feminine music is not an insult. Women are the more expressive sex—indeed, some might say it lends them to music and art far more than men.”
Gustav Klein threw back his head and laughed at that. “Women are useful, I’ll grant you. They can reach the higher notes, they can inspire men’s work—but no woman has the education, the deep understanding of music that men have.”
Vincenzo glanced at the Marchese. He had hoped that Klein’s sentiments might earn him a blacker outlook, but the Marchese did not look angry. The man did not express more than mild interest in this sparring for his favor.
Clearly, Vincenzo needed to guide this confrontation through one more turn.
“I am sorry, Gustav, but that is simply not the case. I have female students who far outstrip my male ones.”
“
Your
male students perhaps, Vincenzo. Not mine.”
And there it was. The way to what he wanted. And Vincenzo would seize it like a man aflame.
“I accept your
“Yes, but Klein cut them all out of the libretto. Penelope, the wife, is mentioned but never seen. Even the role of Calypso is minor. Our friend Veronica barely has three stanzas to sing. The entire story is all about Odysseus and his men, longing to come home.”
Just then, something began to ferment in Vincenzo’s mind. It was barely more than an inkling, but he had been observing Klein as much as possible that evening, and there was more to his general rigidity than simply being Austrian. There was something almost puritan about his attitude. He regarded the partygoers—especially the ladies, with their soft forms and high-pitched laughter—with disdain.
And now, he writes an opera with almost no parts for women?
“Oh hell, what is it?” Oliver asked, peering at him closely. “I know that look. You are planning something, aren’t you?”
“Not planning, no. I am very much making this up as I go along.” Vincenzo replied, his face breaking into a smile. His first honest smile all evening.
“Vincenzo, I’m warning you. Don’t do anything rash. If the Marchese expels you from his home again, there is no possibility you’ll ever—”
“Stop acting like a grandmother,” Vincenzo whispered vehemently. “Do not worry. I am simply going to test a theory.”
Luckily, Klein finished playing then, lifting his fingers off the keys, allowing the notes to float over the room. Vincenzo made certain his applause was the first, and the loudest.
In his Harlequin costume, he was well positioned to put on a show.
“Bravo! Bravo!” he cried, as he moved through the crowd efficiently, coming to stand next to Klein at the pianoforte. “That was marvelous, Gustav, simply marvelous. I cannot wait to see the production at La Fenice. What an excellent selection you chose to play for us. Showcasing the two sides of nature.”
“Thank you, Signor Carpenini.” Klein gave another one of his short bows. “I am gratified by your compliments.”
“Indeed, the beginning so forceful and powerful, and the calming of the storm so delicate, and . . .
feminine
.”
The word struck home. Vincenzo could barely hold back his triumph as pure malice flashed over Klein’s face.
“Feminine? Perhaps I did not understand you correctly. My Italian . . .” Klein said by way of excuse, stiff politeness in his voice.
“Feminine? Of the female nature? Although I suppose the angry crashing of the beginning could be described as feminine as well. We’ve all known a woman who is a force of nature.” He found Antonia in the audience and winked at her. She blushed as the crowd tittered, knowingly.
“My work is not feminine,” Klein ground out, his entire being shifting uncomfortably, trying to decide between deferment and engagement.
“What is wrong with feminine?” Vincenzo asked innocently. “Here in Venice, we have the tradition of the Ospedale della Pietà—female foundlings trained in music and regarded as angels. Feminine music is not an insult. Women are the more expressive sex—indeed, some might say it lends them to music and art far more than men.”
Gustav Klein threw back his head and laughed at that. “Women are useful, I’ll grant you. They can reach the higher notes, they can inspire men’s work—but no woman has the education, the deep understanding of music that men have.”
Vincenzo glanced at the Marchese. He had hoped that Klein’s sentiments might earn him a blacker outlook, but the Marchese did not look angry. The man did not express more than mild interest in this sparring for his favor.
Clearly, Vincenzo needed to guide this confrontation through one more turn.
“I am sorry, Gustav, but that is simply not the case. I have female students who far outstrip my male ones.”
“
Your
male students perhaps, Vincenzo. Not mine.”
And there it was. The way to what he wanted. And Vincenzo would seize it like a man aflame.
“I accept your
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