challenge.” He smiled at Klein graciously.
“What challenge?”
“The challenge you just laid out, my dear fellow. One of my female students against a male one of yours.” Vincenzo knew that every eye in the room was on him as he chanced a glance at the Marchese. The corner of the man’s mouth had lifted ever so slightly. A thrill of triumph went through him.
“I made no such—” Klein began, but then he, too, chanced a look at the Marchese. He saw the same thing Vincenzo had. Quickly, he changed tactic.
“I had heard that you did not have any students—male or female,” Klein stated blandly.
Vincenzo had to hand it to him; the man was smarter than he looked. But instead of letting his ire show, he simply smiled.
“If that’s the case, then you will win the challenge quite easily.” He laughed, and the crowd laughed with him. Including the Marchese, he noted victoriously.
“But how will one student be judged against the other?” Klein said. “Music is a subjective art. One person’s perfection is another banality.”
Vincenzo knew in that moment that he had him in the trap. Now, to get him to agree to the terms.
“Excellent question. I would submit that there be one judge. And there is only one person in all of Venice qualified to do so. Marchese?”
The Marchese gave a serene smile as all eyes in the room turned to him.
“An interesting challenge. Can a woman play with the same intensity, the emotional depth of feeling, as a man? It would be my pleasure to serve as judge.”
Applause lit the room. Vincenzo’s face broke into a wide grin.
“But”—the Marchese raised his hands to quiet the room—“what are the terms, gentlemen?”
“The terms . . .” Vincenzo thought a moment. “Each student plays his or her best piece.”
“No,” Klein spoke up. “They must play the same piece. If his student plays ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,’ and mine plays the Waldstein, one can assume one will play better than the other. Then again, perhaps not.”
A titter went up from the crowd again. Vincenzo felt his smile cool. “I am perfectly fine with playing the same piece. As long as it is the Marchese who chooses it.”
Klein seemed to think this over. “I agree to those terms.”
“When shall the competition be?”
Everyone looked around the room, speculating a good date. Vincenzo heard “One week?” from someone murmuring in the crowd, and felt himself pale. It was a very tricky moment—he had to make certain that he got his way on this point.
“Marchese, tomorrow marks the beginning of Lent—and it would not do to have a fete in a time of penance.” Vincenzo then looked to Klein, who seemed to be chewing on this information. “Also, in deference to you, Gustav, I would not want you to be distracted by this while you are trying to put on an opera. Thus, shall we say, mid-May? Just before you retire to the country for the summer, if I recall correctly, Marchese.”
Everyone held their breath as the Marchese took this information in and, after a heart-stopping breath of time, nodded firmly.
The room went up in a cheer. People began speculating what the festivities would hold, which students would be performing, what musical piece would be selected. Vincenzo even saw one masked attendant running gleefully from the room, likely to tell everyone else at the ball what had just transpired in the music room.
As a finale to the show they had just performed, Vincenzo gave Klein a deep bow. And Klein was forced to return it.
“I don’t know what you expect to come of this, Vincenzo,” Klein said through gritted teeth.
“I expect to send you back to Vienna, Gustav,” he replied, his smile going cold.
He left Klein’s side and was immediately enveloped by the crowd. The crowd that loved him and his theatrics. He would rule them again; he would be hoisted on their loving shoulders some day soon. Shaking hands, accepting flirtatious touches from women, he cut his way to where
“What challenge?”
“The challenge you just laid out, my dear fellow. One of my female students against a male one of yours.” Vincenzo knew that every eye in the room was on him as he chanced a glance at the Marchese. The corner of the man’s mouth had lifted ever so slightly. A thrill of triumph went through him.
“I made no such—” Klein began, but then he, too, chanced a look at the Marchese. He saw the same thing Vincenzo had. Quickly, he changed tactic.
“I had heard that you did not have any students—male or female,” Klein stated blandly.
Vincenzo had to hand it to him; the man was smarter than he looked. But instead of letting his ire show, he simply smiled.
“If that’s the case, then you will win the challenge quite easily.” He laughed, and the crowd laughed with him. Including the Marchese, he noted victoriously.
“But how will one student be judged against the other?” Klein said. “Music is a subjective art. One person’s perfection is another banality.”
Vincenzo knew in that moment that he had him in the trap. Now, to get him to agree to the terms.
“Excellent question. I would submit that there be one judge. And there is only one person in all of Venice qualified to do so. Marchese?”
The Marchese gave a serene smile as all eyes in the room turned to him.
“An interesting challenge. Can a woman play with the same intensity, the emotional depth of feeling, as a man? It would be my pleasure to serve as judge.”
Applause lit the room. Vincenzo’s face broke into a wide grin.
“But”—the Marchese raised his hands to quiet the room—“what are the terms, gentlemen?”
“The terms . . .” Vincenzo thought a moment. “Each student plays his or her best piece.”
“No,” Klein spoke up. “They must play the same piece. If his student plays ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,’ and mine plays the Waldstein, one can assume one will play better than the other. Then again, perhaps not.”
A titter went up from the crowd again. Vincenzo felt his smile cool. “I am perfectly fine with playing the same piece. As long as it is the Marchese who chooses it.”
Klein seemed to think this over. “I agree to those terms.”
“When shall the competition be?”
Everyone looked around the room, speculating a good date. Vincenzo heard “One week?” from someone murmuring in the crowd, and felt himself pale. It was a very tricky moment—he had to make certain that he got his way on this point.
“Marchese, tomorrow marks the beginning of Lent—and it would not do to have a fete in a time of penance.” Vincenzo then looked to Klein, who seemed to be chewing on this information. “Also, in deference to you, Gustav, I would not want you to be distracted by this while you are trying to put on an opera. Thus, shall we say, mid-May? Just before you retire to the country for the summer, if I recall correctly, Marchese.”
Everyone held their breath as the Marchese took this information in and, after a heart-stopping breath of time, nodded firmly.
The room went up in a cheer. People began speculating what the festivities would hold, which students would be performing, what musical piece would be selected. Vincenzo even saw one masked attendant running gleefully from the room, likely to tell everyone else at the ball what had just transpired in the music room.
As a finale to the show they had just performed, Vincenzo gave Klein a deep bow. And Klein was forced to return it.
“I don’t know what you expect to come of this, Vincenzo,” Klein said through gritted teeth.
“I expect to send you back to Vienna, Gustav,” he replied, his smile going cold.
He left Klein’s side and was immediately enveloped by the crowd. The crowd that loved him and his theatrics. He would rule them again; he would be hoisted on their loving shoulders some day soon. Shaking hands, accepting flirtatious touches from women, he cut his way to where
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