Vivaldi and the Number 3 by Ron ButlinLeadtext: HAYDN LEARNS TO PUT HIS DEMON TO GOOD USE''Yes?'' '' . '' ''And?'' '' . '' ''Really? And she wants - what?'' '' . '' ''Who did you say? Surely they didn''t -'' '' . '' ''I''ll think about it. Goodbye.'' He rings off. Haydn''s symphonies occasionally give surges of violent emotion, but not the man himself.
Not often, and not just now. He remains calm. He remains cool. He remains collected. Yet he can hardly believe the phonecall he has just had. His wife would like the two of them to appear on the Jerry Springer Show - is she mad? Having exhausted the emotional grunge of ''trailer trash'', Rosanne the research-girl had explained to him, the producers decided to up the ratings by inviting well-known celebrities. Last week Kant was heckled into explaining why so few philosophers got married. He was then proposed to, live on stage.
He declined, and the audience nearly lynched him. A great start to a great show, she burbled. Next on was Fichte. His slot got off to a slow start, but once the audience grasped his theory of the Ego - that nothing real exists outside Fichte''s own mind - they got verbal, then physical. Hard-core, knockabout stuff. The ratings soared. The suggested script: that Haydn denounces his current mistress, then gets down on his knees to propose to his wife all over again. The show''s seen by millions across North America and Europe, Rosanne pointed out.
He''d get a night in a 5-star hotel and all travel expenses would be covered, including a limo to the studio. Tempting? He''s to call back by noon. With cries of ''JER-RY! JER-RY! JER-RY!'' ringing out like a low-budget chorus, he enters the music room and crosses over to the clavichord. The wooden floor creaks at every step. The stove''s not been lit. The place is freezing. Exposure on network TV would make his CDs a sell-out. Reissues, box-sets, mood anthologies.
Celebrity status would guarantee him a seat on the gravy-train that runs back and forth between chat-shows, panel games and late night discussions about the arts. He''d be baryton-free forever! Yes, the baryton. That bane of his life. This morning especially. His employer and patron, Prince Esterházy, wants a new baryton trio. Baryton Trio number forty-seven - who cares? Haydn loathes the baryton. Cumbersome, dull, justly neglected. Maybe he should slip the prince one of the early ones, in a different key.
His royal personage would never notice. As Haydn sits down at the clavichord his chair creaks. His bones creak. In winter this part of the palace is an all-day icebox. He puts down his mobile and blows on his knuckles to warm them; his breath comes in clouds. There are hours of grisly work ahead - he knows he should switch off his phone. But he doesn''t; any interruption will be welcome. Also, he just can''t bear to watch the tiny electronic hand waving ''goodbye'' as it fades from the screen, not just now.
It makes him feel as if he''s being abandoned to his fate. The room is so cold that when he shuts his eyes, he can almost pretend it''s his day-off and he''s outdoors, wandering the windswept wastes of the Great Hungarian Plain. The middle of nowhere, but at least he''d be wrapped up warm! And having some fun: he and a few friends out hunting, with regular picnic-breaks of pies and schnapps. The early morning mist, the pale winter sky, chill sunlight. Perfect! Not like this . The clavichord is fragile-looking and fragile-sounding. When he opens the lid, the vibrating strings echo around the curtainless, carpetless, sub-zero room. A grim setting for the morning''s grim task.
Still half-dark too. He strikes the tinder box to make a spark, then reaches for the candle and lights it. ''It will be one of the great moments in Western music.'' ''Who said that?'' He peers into the surrounding dimness. ''It''s a premonition of the first performance of your oratorio The Creation. That great C major chord for full orchestra and chorus at the words: And there was LIGHT!'' Haydn whirls round in his seat: ''Where are you?'' The bleak room is empty. He''s quite alone. ''Not yet though,'' the voice continues.
''Not for another thirty years.'' ''Show yourself. What do think you''re -?'' Ignore it, he tells himself, and it''ll go away. ''Even so, you have no time to waste pretending you''re wandering windswept plains, eating pies and the rest of it. There''s work to be done.'' ''I know, I know!'' Haydn grits his teeth and turns back to face the keyboard. Hearing voices? Just one more problem. Like the Jerry Springer Show.
''Rousseau''s already booked, together'' - and here Rosanne had paused, with a laugh that sounded like breaking glass, to set up her punch-line - ''together with all the kids he''s abandoned!'' Haydn shudders at the memory. But, he thinks to himself, why not? Financial independence for the rest of his life - in return for one brief act of televised self-debasement? Tempting isn''t the word . The moment calls for a reflective cigarette, if only to get the music room warmed up. And that''s another thing. With that CD mega-payout, he could afford a house of his own with log fires burning in every room and limitless hot water. All for one hour''s humiliation on cable, or less if you count the adverts. Flip open the mobile. Check last caller.
It''s his old phone so he''ll need to dial, then press the little green icon. Easy enough. He punches the keys in time to a possible opening allegro of yet another symphony. His next one''ll be number thirty-nine. He sighs. Thirty-nine! - how many more can there be? ''Sixty-five.'' It''s in his ear, that''s where the thing is. In his left ear! ''Come out of there!'' He cuts the call and puts down the phone.
Then sets to fingering out the intruder. ''You''ll end up with over eighty quartets, fifty-three piano sonatas -'' The voice is getting a little breathless and muffled as it retreats into the whorls. Haydn''s finger digs deeper. ''Twelve concertos for piano, concertos for lira organizzate, for violin, cello, trumpet, forty-seven piano trios, not to mention all the operas, masses, cantatas and oratorios.'' The cataloguing ends in a rush. ''Don''t worry though, I''ll help you.'' A soothing croon of a voice, viola-coloured. He removes his finger.
''What do you mean - help me?'' Silence. Haydn jumps to his feet. ''What am I doing? Who do I think I''m talking to? My left ear? I''m going mad, that''s what it is. Mad. Mad. Mad.'' He sits down again. He''s reaching for his mobile when .
A dirge-like scraping has begun somewhere in the inner labyrinth of his left ear. Dirge-like, and baryton-like. Yes, he''s going out of his mind. He must be. He tells himself: Stay calm, stay cool, stay collected . and watch your right hand stretching forwards, opening the ink pot, picking up the quill. Dipping it in. Your other hand''s pulled over a sheet of music-paper.
He shakes his head. It''s not really happening. Can''t be. Ignore it. Ignore everything. Phone the Jerry Springer Show. It''s your only hope. Get yourself out of here - out of this asylum! His hand with the quill has now begun to write out what looks like a line of crochets and quavers.
It''s one baryton trio too many - and the pressure''s finally got to you. The proof? You''re watching your hand sketch out a bass-line under instructions coming from your left ear? Yes, he''s really losing it. Time to get out of here. Phone Jerry Springer and - It''s getting worse. He can''t believe what he''s seeing now: the melody line''s coming next. Note after note - getting rapidly inked in, right before his very eyes. Fine, fine, fine, he tells himself. That''s it.
You''re going off your head. Clutching the phone, like a drowning man. Flip it open. Redial. It''s ringing. But he just can''t resist a glance down to see what kind of music his madness is producing. Melody line above, bass line below, and not all crazy and blotchy as he''s expecting, but neat, clear and ordered. The movement - an undemanding allegro in 2/4 time - has Thump-thump-Thumpity-thumped its way through a series of straightforward tonic-dominant chords, and come to a merciful stop.
New bar-line, new movement. Same key. Meanwhile, in the Jerry Springer office, someone''s answered. Haydn clears his throat: ''Can I speak to Rosanne in research, please?'' '' .'' ''Yes, I''ll wait.'' Glancing down again, he can see the trio''s coming along rather nicely. '' .'' ''Joseph Haydn here.
'' '' . '' ''Joseph Haydn, the composer. I want to speak to Rosanne, please. She asked me to call her back to arrange -'' '' .'' ''I''ve already been waiting for over -'' ''Finished,'' interrupts the voice in his left ear. ''Pardon?'' ''Finished, I said. Baryton Trio number 47. With enough note-for-note repeats to avoid over-taxing the royal fingers.
A doddle.'' His other ear: ''Rosanne speaking. Well, Joe - are we going for it? Your wife -'' Haydn closes the mobile, puts it carefully down on the polished wood surface of the clavichord. He stares at the newly written music. A trio sonata in less than ten minutes? Easy-to-play, predictable, with hardly an inspired note from beginning to end. Perfect. The Prince - who has a lot more enthusiasm than talent - will love it. Amazing.
Miraculous. He manages a nod of appreciation. Adding that he couldn''t have done better himself. ''My pleasure -'' comes the reply, ''and I''ll write the others too, if you like.'' ''What others?'' ''The other seventy-nine trios still to come.'' ''There are seventy-nine more!'' The prospect of banality on such a scale almost takes Haydn''s breath away. He pauses, then adds: ''Would you? Would you really?'' ''Certainly, as and when required.'' ''But - why would you? Why would anyone?'' ''Trust me.
'' ''But - ? I just don''t understand.'' Haydn is hoping for a few words of reassurance. A bargain of some sort being struck, perhaps. A reason that makes sense. Any reason. But none is offered. ''Trus.