The Black Spaniard Page 5

  “My dear young man,” she said, reaching out and feeling for his hand, which he willingly gave her. Her sensitive fingers felt the palm, like a fortune teller, and she noted the wide flat fingertips and deep calluses. “I hope misfortune never befalls you, and you may have a long and happy life. But if affliction does come your way, do not fall into melancholy or despair. I wasted many days of a precious life feeling sorry for myself…”

  “As well you might!” said Luis, placing his other hand on top of hers, and also noting the strength of the fingers.

  “No, this is important,” she said, with some urgency. “Whether it is a love affair gone wrong or some personal tragedy, do not let it destroy you. Let your intellect and your spiritual depth guide you. Do you read the classics?”

  “I do,” he said, “as well as classics from the East.”

  “That’s not surprising, given your interest in Freemasonry,” she said. “Be a musician, be a composer,” she continued, “but above all, be a philosopher and an open-minded, open-hearted child of God, however you chose to define him. That will get you through the hard times, even if they are as overwhelming as the hard times I have faced, being blind and a woman.” She smiled without humor.

  “Young man, what is your name?” she asked.

  “Luis van Beethoven,” he said.

  “Van Beethoven. I will remember that name. Mr. van Beethoven, I think your friends are missing you. Why don’t you join them? I will not stay much longer, my friend should be here shortly. Sir, it has been a pleasure talking to you. Remember what I said. Salieri, for opera. Great thoughts, for survival. All my best to you.”

  Though he was not accustomed to doing so, Luis lifted her hand to his lips. “Thank you, my lady, and best wishes for a fascinating life!”

  Luis rose and took one final look at the poised woman seated before him, and walked back into the room. A number of gentlemen nodded and introduced themselves, attempting conversation, though none was the match of Maria Paradis. Luis in turn shook hands, stated his name and occupation, and then caught Haydn’s eye across the room. He was about to cross the floor when the Baron spotted him.

  “There you are, Beethoven, where have you been all evening? Let me introduce you to Dr. Reinhold…”

  “Sir,” said Luis, “is George Forster here? I must speak to him.”

  “Forster, Forster…oh yes, the Captain Cook adventurer,” recollected the Baron. “No, I believe he is in Paris, sorry to disappoint you. Paris! What a god-forsaken place to be! What man in his right mind would willingly go there and risk the guillotine.”

  Luis was crest-fallen, and said, “Sir, if you don’t mind, I’ll just circulate, you need to attend to your guests.” At that moment, Blumauer, the editor and satirist, cornered the host, and Luis slipped away without detection. Former Masons had spread out throughout the downstairs, and it was easy to find other hiding places where he could withdraw, think things through and decide who, if anyone, he wanted to approach.

  As he was thinking this, he felt a firm hand fall on his shoulder, and a voice—a deep melodious voice with a foreign cadence—fell upon his ears.

  “Excuse me,” said the man who appeared to be an Ethiopian noble in splendid African dress, “do I know you?”

  Chapter 9

  “No, sir,” said Luis, “I am Beethoven, the pianist.”

  “I am most pleased to meet you,” said the African, making an unusual bow that involved touching his fingers to his lips and forehead. “A musician! I am acquainted with your Haydn, and have known Mozart.” Luis frowned. The “M” word once again! “I am a former member of the True Harmony,” the white-robed man continued, “and my name is Angelo Soliman.”

  Angelo Soliman! Even in Bonn, he was a living legend. Neefe had mentioned him on several occasions, and Ries had made a comment regarding him that eluded Luis at the time. Luis did not know what to say, and for once, he was fascinated to meet someone who would offer him no particular advantage, either as a patron or a musical insider. Meeting and talking to people from different backgrounds enlarged his own experience, feelings, and how he thought about the world. His imagination quickened.

  “Sir,” said Luis, “it is an honor to make your acquaintance. Were you not the Grand Master of the Lodge?”

  “Very good,” said the gentleman, with a subtle smile. “The Viennese are a fickle lot, and few recall my service in that. As an outsider, perhaps, you, too, have noticed how people here, how do you say it, flow with the tide?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Luis, “My days are taken up with lessons, teaching, and wooing patrons, leaving me little time to observe human nature.”

  Soliman laughed to himself. “Human nature. Yes, you will find it in abundance here!” he said. “I sometimes wonder whether the dissolution of the Lodge had less to do with politics and more to do with the peculiarities of my leadership.”

  “What peculiarities?” asked Luis.

  “Surely, my appearance, what is considered my ‘exotic’ background, but more than that,” Soliman mused. “The Lodge had become a place of superficial society, gossip, that sort of thing, not worthy of the Masonic tradition. I proposed to reform the Lodge and steered it in the direction of scholarship, connoisseurship, critical analysis of world events; in a word, scholarly discourse. Scholarly discourse in Vienna! Imagine that!” The Moor shook his head. He studied Luis for a moment and narrowed his eyes. “Surely,” he said, “you must have encountered some experiences in your life relating to your skin color and unusual features!”

  Luis felt a jolt go through his body. No one had ever been so direct with him on this subject. At the same time, a thousand recollections of derision, restriction, and abuse raced through his mind, and he sank into one of the dozens of elegant chairs placed around the perimeter of the room.

  Soliman looked down at the young man, noticed his pock-marked face, the shaving cuts, the unkempt hair, the hastily tied cravat, and short hands already, at this young age, covered with a mat of dark hair. He noticed the broad forehead and nose, the forward slope of his jaw.

  “My dear young man,” he said, sitting down beside him, “I fear I have upset you. Please forgive me.”

  “No, no,” said Luis, whose imploded posture gave quite the opposite message, “It is true, of course it is true.” He looked closely now at the man before him, and said, “My entire life has been touched by my otherness. From my birth, to my profession, to my ill luck with women, to simple matters of business and commerce. I find myself followed in shops, and suspiciously watched, as though I were about to make off with a pocket watch or even a pair of game hens!”

  Soliman could not stifle a soft laugh, and he patted Luis on the shoulder. “But I was thinking not of negatives, but of the benefits,” the African exclaimed. “You have done well for yourself in life, already at this young age,” the African said. “Surely you are not from a rich or royal family…”

  Luis was about to protest that there were rumors he was an illegitimate child of royalty and that the “van” in his name had aristocratic connotations, but he thought better of it.

  “Black men in white society—or even men who are simply darker than the norm—may face obstacles, but I like to think they have advantages, including a shared history of wisdom, perhaps an inner sense of organization and ability to synthesize, and a natural predilection for achievement,” Soliman said in his beautiful, rolling voice. “Just look at yourself. I hear you are a success, another Mo…a singular talent on the concert stage.”

  He paused and reflected, then said, “We foreigners need to be better, don’t we. We have to surpass our own personal best, time and again. Well, for some that is simple enough. For someone who is aware of their roots in the great Continent and its community of souls, it is not difficult to be great in this…” he waved his hand gracefully to indicate the hall, “…superficial world of minuets and bon bons!” Luis frowned, but it was a frown of understanding and appreciation, a new way of looking at his world
.

  “I hear you defeated the priest!” said Soliman, in a lighter tone. “Word travels fast where Gossip is King. You will be fine, I am sure, as long as you keep your edge. Don’t let anything happen to distract you and pray for good health! In my own case, a good marriage has been my saving grace, and as a high-level servant and intellectual advisor, I am able to maintain my place in society with minimal interference.” He arranged the folds of his spotless robe, trimmed in a thin ring of ermine. Soliman wore an equally brilliant turban, and had a gold ring in his right ear and several on his dark, graceful hands.

  “Sir,” ventured Luis, “are you from Ethiopia? I know little about Africa, except a Biblical reference to that country, and to Egypt, thanks to my teachers.” This time it was the African’s turn to frown and consider.

  “I am from Nigeria,” he said, “and I began life, as a child, as a slave.”

  Luis swallowed hard, and the words were out before he could stop them: “I know what you mean! I was a slave, too.” A wave of coldness fell between the two men.

  “You were not a slave,” said Soliman in icy measured words. “You have no idea. No matter how shackled and abused, you were not ripped from your mother’s arms, locked in irons, and herded onto a slave ship with thousands of others whose only crime was being born in a land easily accessible to those driven by greed and cruelty.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Luis, as memories of sketches of the slave trade he had seen in the von Breuning’s library came vividly to mind. “I know, the words just slipped out…”

  “Those were your true thoughts,” said Soliman, “but while we serve the Truth, we must be certain we know what is true before we utter it.”

  He took a breath, smiling slightly. “Come now, no harm done. You may read of my story, it is widely published, so I’ll say no more about my history. You may look at me, Luis, and ask, how is this man different from me, other than surface details of dress and deportment? I will tell you. You may be dark, but you were raised in a white culture with white attitudes. I was raised in the Great Continent, steeped in its culture and lore, nourished by its forests and fields, and a body of philosophy, literature, and music that came deep from within the culture and was shared orally and in the details of life, every day, with each member of the community. We did not go to Church on Sunday: each moment was a Mass of Celebration, and Nature was our high priest. The rhythms of life pulsed in our music, and it was never ending. We had a spirit of brotherhood that your culture only now is beginning to experience.

  “You have something of the appearance of blackness, but do you have its soul? Only you will know. I can say this: if you study our scriptures and literature, our symbols and wisdom, you will be a better man, a better musician for it. This is what drew me to Freemasonry. In its mysteries, I found a hint of not only my own origins, but also the origins of all mankind. And remember: though the Brotherhood may be banned at present, it will live forever. It lives now.”

  Luis could say nothing. He remembered Neefe’s instruction, the book of wise sayings from Egypt and the East, the symbols, the Illuminati rituals derived from Masonic tradition. He recalled his own insinuation into the Illuminati when he was a young adolescent, read the rites by Neefe, the Bonn Illuminati director, and by Simrock, the hornist and publisher, also a leader in the group. The candlelight, the sacred knives, the words of invocation in a forgotten tongue…

  Layered over his understanding of Western thought, culled from conversations and lessons at the von Breunings, and his brief term in philosophy at the University of Bonn, Luis began to understand. What Soliman said, seemed so right. His own otherness had not been so much the cause of his problems as a pathway to their resolution. Embracing the culture would take him closer to the Goal; and perhaps that was the “G” in the Masonic logo.

  “Tell me,” said Soliman. “When did the world begin? What were you taught?”

  Luis thought for a moment, trying to remember if he learned that from the Jesuits or from Neefe’s Masonic calendar. He was never good at history…or math.

  “Was it around 5,000 B.C.?” he asked.

  The corners of Soliman’s lips turned up ever so slightly. “So your teachers would have you believe,” he said. “Yet at that time, the civilizations of the Great Continent were thousands of years old. And they have never been matched for greatness in every area of human endeavor. Read the words of those people, study their images if you want to achieve greatness in any field.”

  Luis drank in Soliman’s words, but a cloud hung over his heart as he realized how different they were from all the teachings he had known. “Sir,” he said, “there are those who insist that blackness is a sign of inferiority. How do you deal with that?” He was thinking of some of the racist secret society members, such as Meiners, who had branched off into their own narrow world of hatred and ignorance.

  Soliman’s face became profoundly serious. “I know, there are two camps at war in your Enlightened society: those who believe in the equality of all people, perhaps even to the overthrow of kings; and those who wish to categorize and prioritize people by race to their own advantage. Did you ever hear of a Chinese or African who regarded the white race as superior? Of course not. In fact the Chinese word for Westerners may be translated as ‘barbarian.’

  “Luis, European society is playing a dangerous game. In recent years, scientists have studied the different human types. I am no authority on this, but try to remain as current as I can. It is sometimes difficult without the active support of the Brotherhood. We have had Brothers such as Meiners and Spittler, who claim white superiority and provide fake science to back up their claims. Their supporters are thankfully in a small minority. Then there is the majority view, including the recent shift of the philosopher Kant to this camp: the viewpoint that all people are equal, and that differences of appearance can be attributed to climate and geography. The racist argument was founded on the false idea that the skulls of Africans and the skulls of Europeans were of different calibrations. But Blumenbach actually measured skulls in a controlled and systematic way, and discovered there were as many variations in the one race as in the other.

  “Well, we have gotten ourselves in a rather heavy discussion,” the older man said. “I must be moving on, and I see that your companion is growing restless across the room.” Luis looked up and saw Haydn looking as though he wanted to escape from the clutches of two long-winded natural scientists.

  “Thank you, sir, I’ve learned a lot, and I’ll be sure to follow through with your reading suggestions,” said Luis, rising. “It’s been wonderful meeting you, and do know that though I am a newcomer to this city, you may regard me as a friend and confidante if you so choose.”

  Soliman was amused at the young man’s self-confidence and obliviousness to the older man’s rank and station. He nodded slightly.

  “Keep that spirit, young man,” he said, unsure whether he really had made an impression or simply provided an hour’s entertainment. “You will need it in this world filled with adventure and intrigue.”

  They shook hands, and Luis joined Haydn, whose eyes widened with delight, perhaps for the first time, upon seeing his young charge.

  “Sir, isn’t it rather time we left? I have work to do early tomorrow, and I am certain you must be tired.” Luis took his teacher’s arm and somewhat forcefully extracted him from the scientific conversation. Haydn looked curiously at Luis. Why this sudden concern, he wondered, the scamp must have something up his sleeve.

  “Thank you, Luis. May I suggest we make an inconspicuous escape? You will find out soon enough what it is like to try to say farewell to the Baron!” The pair eluded their host’s attention, though Luis would return to van Swieten’s at a later date. But as for Soliman, their paths would never cross again, except obliquely under unimaginable circumstances.

  Chapter 10

  Haydn announced that he was taking Luis along to Eisenstadt for the summer, to a small house reserved for him near Prince Esterhazy�
��s family castle. The current prince, Nicholas II, who had been Haydn’s patron for several years, was not expected to be in residence at the castle as it was rumored he kept a brothel in the city with dozens of mistresses to keep him occupied.

  The carriage ride was half a day’s journey south, through a pass in the Leitha Mountains. The small town lay flat and peaceful on a plain filled with farms and a patchwork of crops.

  The two men enjoyed a relatively cool summer and many opportunities for Luis to wander in the woods not far away. He was finishing up his set of three piano trios, which would become his milestone Opus 1, while Haydn was busy ingratiating himself to the court and working on his so-called London symphonies. The plain grey house where they stayed was within easy walking distance of the Baroque castle, which had more of a palace’s appearance, being rather boxy with four stories and two rectangular towers. A magnificent church from the same era, with terraced roofs cascading from three sides, occupied the center of town. There were many opportunities to play and to hear music at a leisurely pace. And yet, there were no friends, no society. Luis had, of course, his books, his music, but how he longed for the sympathetic companionship of the large number of friends he had left in Bonn! First and foremost, Wegeler, who was now a medical doctor and professor at the University; the Kugelen twins, the Rombergs, Tony Reicha, the von Breuning brothers. Eleanor. Eleanor above all others. He fell to musing about her, his heart full of the romantic intensity that was just beginning to make its presence known in the Germanic lands, and began composing a set of piano variations. His thoughts grew warmer as the weather cooled, and his time in Eisenstadt was nearing its end.

  The too-quiet summer eventually turned to fall, and soon the two musicians’ sojourn came to an end. Returning to the city with bundles of music manuscripts under his arm, Luis was greeted with much fuss and to-do by the Prince and Princess, their guests, and a growing number of hounds and lapdogs. A large box of correspondence awaited him when he returned to his apartment, and before he was properly settled, he began writing a letter of contrition to Eleanor.