Page 4 - Effable Encounters

Scarlatti’s Deathbed Sting

“You would appeal to my greed and my vanity? Look at me. For
too long I indulged my baser appetites: gambling, drinking wine, and
eating rich food have brought me down to this sad condition. My
wife is adequately provided for, nonetheless. Money means nothing
to me now. Nor have I any desire to impress the petty bourgeoisie of
your generation; things are indeed changing, but not into any form I
can recognize or appreciate. Most of my adult life has been spent in
the service of the royal family of Spain; thanks to them, I escaped the
penniless position I occupied in Italy. Whatever accomplishments I
may claim in the art of composition are due in large part to their
patronage; I could not betray them now, even were I able.”
“Not able? I don’t understand.”
Scarlatti grinned hideously.
“Mad as hatters. The king from birth, no doubt. The queen from
their wedding night, I’d guess. Poor Farinelli, the castrato from
Naples: he had to sing the same lullaby to that demented man every
night until he died. Can you imagine working in that court, spending
months each year in the Escorial, trying to entertain Maria Barbara, a
doomed woman? No, young man, you cannot. Their world is dying,
yours is being born—but both mad, quite mad. Yes, in that island of
privileged insanity I created works of genius, of inspiration miles
above the dull plodding counterpoint of the Germans, the foolish
boring embellishment of the French, the lackadaisical sweet harmony
of my fellow Italians! But not a note of it is mine to dispose of as I
wish: my services belonged to the royal family, and to them alone.
Look around this room: do you see any manuscripts? Not a scrap! I
was nothing but a mechanical songbird popping in and out of a
jewel-encrusted cuckoo clock. The queen may have retained some of
my compositions: go ask her for the publishing rights!”
Van Gartner flushed. “Maestro, you know that is impossible. I’m
sorry I have disturbed you. Good day.”
He stood and bowed slightly to the failing human wreckage before
him. Then he turned and left the house as quickly as decorum would
allow. Mad, he thought; the man is totally mad. But his name still
meant something in the musical capitals of the world: perhaps
Canarius could commission some pastiches of the early sonatas and
sell them as original Scarlatti works. Yes, the idea made a lot of sense,
Van Gartner mused; a dead composer had no rights at all.

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