Anatomy of Murder (22 page)
‘It gives their voices a power unparalleled,’ he said. ‘They were used instead of women when the fairer sex giving voice on stage or in church was regarded as an offence against God, and they have been at the heart of Italian opera ever since.’
Harriet was impatient with the explanation and snapped her toast into indignant crumbs.
‘But how could God be
less
offended by the practice of maiming His creatures in childhood?’ she demanded. ‘Graves, you cannot approve of the fact that these children are operated on in such a way. It must be the ruin of their lives, whatever the success that some achieve. Though you may envy their training I doubt you would change places with them. And they become so . . . strange as a result.’
less
offended by the practice of maiming His creatures in childhood?’ she demanded. ‘Graves, you cannot approve of the fact that these children are operated on in such a way. It must be the ruin of their lives, whatever the success that some achieve. Though you may envy their training I doubt you would change places with them. And they become so . . . strange as a result.’
Graves shifted in his seat rather uncomfortably at the mention of the operation.
‘I believe, Mrs Westerman,’ he said, adjusting his coat, ‘that there is a polite fiction that these boys were damaged in their . . . lower parts . . . and that disease or accident rendered it necessary to . . .’
On seeing Harriet roll her eyes and attack the preserves, Crowther put down his newspaper and took over.
‘It is of interest what the removal of the testicles before puberty does to a child, though I agree that morally, it seems indefensible.’ He had Harriet’s attention, but apparently she had also noticed Graves twist in discomfort again, and was amused. Crowther continued, ‘The voice does still alter as the subject ages, but retains its high register.’
‘I have never heard a castrato speak, rather than sing,’ she said. ‘Describe it.’ Then bit down on her breakfast.
Crowther watched the movement of the muscles of her jaw for a moment before replying; ‘The speaking voice of a castrato is rather pleasant, if a little strange. It is rounder than a woman’s and not shrill, but rather has a sort of cooing. It recalls the pigeons in the Square outside here.’
Crowther had thought this information would suffice, but Mrs Westerman did not seem to agree. Apparently she would shake all the facts out of him, as a terrier shakes the life out of a rabbit when it has it by the neck. Dabbing at her lips, she returned to her coffee, giving him a slight wave.
‘Say on, Crowther. I have my prejudices, I know, and come to you for enlightenment. You cannot refuse a pupil.’ It was an encouraging indication that having something more to occupy her mind than her husband’s recovery was improving her health and spirits already. However a man is generous indeed who can take delight in such things so early in the day.
Crowther knitted his fingers together as he gathered his thoughts. ‘Physically, the operation has several effects that are not yet fully comprehended,’ he began. ‘Development is hampered and altered as the child becomes adult in ways other than those that affect the vocal cords.’ He coughed slightly. ‘I had the privilege of attending the autopsy of a renowned castrato in Milan some years ago. He serves as my example.’
Harriet interrupted: ‘How came you ghouls – sorry, gentlemen of science – by such a body? I thought any known castrato must have money enough for a lead-lined coffin and a man or two to stand guardy his grave while he rotted in peace.’
Crowther was not disposed this morning to find Mrs Westerman entertaining. He snapped, ‘The gentleman in question was a man of means, indeed, and a great friend of one of the Professors of Anatomy at the University. He suggested that his friend would like to examine his corpse long before he died, and repeated the offer on his deathbed in front of other witnesses. He was glad to be of use to his friends at a time when mortality has normally robbed us of the pleasure of doing service.’
Harriet wrinkled her nose. ‘Very well. Though I cannot imagine making a similar offer myself – even to you, Crowther.’
‘No matter, Mrs Westerman. I doubt the examination would produce any scientifically significant results.’ Harriet, in spite of herself, looked a little put out at that. He continued smoothly on. ‘Many of the castrati grow unusually tall ‒ why, we cannot say. The bones of the gentleman I examined were sound, however, so their height does not seem to weaken them physically. Their thyroid cartilage does not grow as pronounced as in ordinary men . . .’ He paused on seeing her raise an eyebrow. ‘Their Adam’s apple is small, madam.’ Again she gestured him to carry on, then renewed her attack on Mrs Martin’s jam. ‘And of course they have a tendency to collect soft matter in a manner unusual for their sex, and somewhat more like a woman. The gentleman I examined was unusually fleshy around his chest and hips, though that of course is not guaranteed by the operation. Manzerotti is, as we have seen, rather slender, for instance. In summation, the effect can be highly unusual. I remember walking into a drawing room where a castrato was present among the fashionable crowd. To see this mountain of a man, some six feet tall perhaps and covered in soft fat under his finery, holding forth in that strange fluting tone was . . .’ he paused and looked up at Graves’s ceiling rose for inspiration ‘. . . odd.’
Harriet considered the picture he had drawn for a moment. ‘I have heard questions as to their temperament,’ she said, making Crowther consider his fingernails.
‘It would be a foolish man who would venture a concrete opinion on the results the procedure has on the character of a growing boy. We are formed, I think, by a mixture of many factors, though such a violent operation and its after-effects are likely to have complex consequences.’
At that moment, Graves stood and began to prepare to leave for the shop in Tichfield Street, gathering up the sheaf of papers that had been his study over breakfast.
‘I have met a number of castrati in my time in music,’ he told them, ‘and have found them as mixed in character, I think, as any group of men. Some have been all that is good and generous; others have been like violent children and thoroughly unpleasant to deal with, vain and demanding and very tiresome.’ He shrugged. ‘But whether that is because of some physical effect of the operation, or because their fame and talents tend to mean they are so thoroughly indulged . . .’
Crowther was still watching his fingertips as he replied, ‘I suppose these beings are kept by the operation in a sort of half-childhood, never allowed to mature physically along the path nature intended forthem, never forced into adulthood by having children of their own – though they can still enjoy intimate relations. Perhaps it is to be expected they can remind us of infants at times.’
Harriet shuddered. ‘It is a monstrous practice.’
Graves was still juggling his pile of papers. Some slipped onto the floor, as many objects that Graves tried to carry tended to do. He bent to pick them up then became very still and looked up at his companions.
‘I would agree. But those voices, Mrs Westerman – the voices of the best of them, at any rate. They are a blend of boy, man and woman. I do not think there has ever been a sound on earth quite like it. When I heard Manzerotti sing on Saturday evening, I was sure that such is the voice an angel might have.’
Harriet watched him quizzically, his young face still lit by the memory. It was an expression she associated normally with those of a religious bent. ‘It is strange you mention angels, Graves. The only time I thought of angels in the opera house was when we glanced in at the scene room and saw that strange gentleman dressed in brown.’
Graves at last had control of his belongings and stood again with a jerk. ‘You mean Johannes? The new genius of the stage machinery!
The man who makes yellow roses bloom, water turn to gold dust and the Furies to fly. He is a castrato too, you know, and a particular companion of Manzerotti: they always travel together. Every production where Manzerotti has been
primo umo
, Johannes has been in charge of the scenery.
primo umo
, Johannes has been in charge of the scenery.
Harriet’s toast paused halfway to her mouth. ‘But he does not sing,’ she said.
Graves shrugged. ‘Not every boy who has the operation develops a voice like Manzerotti’s, Mrs Westerman. Many become shrill and unpleasant. It is a horror, I think. To make that sacrifice, or have it forced upon them, then to discover it was for nothing.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘They are often given other musical training; in Johannes’s case, he simply turned his hand to the trade of theatrical illusion. It is making him almost as famous as a voice might have done. He does not like to speak, however; he communicates in whispers where possible, so the oddity of his voice is less noticeable.’
His papers assembled, Graves began to look for his gloves. Worried that the search might dislodge his load again, Harriet picked them up from the side-table and handed them to him.
‘Thank you,’ he said. Then: ‘Who can say? I think there is a growing fashion against the use of castrati in the current age. We are beginning to prefer it when our romantic heroes look and sound a little more like real men. Perhaps in time Johannes will be the most gainfully employed of the two.’
IV.2
I
T WAS
A little early to call on a gentleman. Harriet and Crowther were forced to wait in Lord Carmichael’s drawing room for almost half an hour before Manzeroti made his appearance. If the home that Graves had leased for the children in Berkeley Square was rather more opulent than he might have wished, it still looked no more than quietly genteel in comparison with Lord Carmichael’s home.
T WAS
A little early to call on a gentleman. Harriet and Crowther were forced to wait in Lord Carmichael’s drawing room for almost half an hour before Manzeroti made his appearance. If the home that Graves had leased for the children in Berkeley Square was rather more opulent than he might have wished, it still looked no more than quietly genteel in comparison with Lord Carmichael’s home.
This was designed as a place to entertain and impress. No surface was without a display of elegant china, no niche without some antique head or fragment of some ancient Colossus. There was a profusion of moulding. Above each door hung golden festoons of plaster fruits and above them, oils of Gods and Monsters. Each room therefore had its crowds of the celebrated and worshipped sneering at each other before any living beings entered. Harriet peered at the marble head of a young woman caught, her lips slightly open and now shyly turning her face away from Lord Carmichael’s guests for as many years as he chose.
‘Our host appears to be a collector,’ she said, straightening again. ‘Do you think that is why he invited Manzerotti to reside here?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Crowther replied. He was standing in the middle of the room and looking down at the top of his cane. It was as if, Harriet thought, he would refuse Lord Carmichael the compliment of even seeing his collection of treasures.
She tried to think clearly about the room in which she found herself. Many of the pieces were very good, even beautiful. There was a sense of harmony and balance in the decoration of the room, yet the overall effect was subtly disturbing. She made a swift inventory of the artworks in front of her. There was a small sculpture of a Spartan, lying dead on his shield; above the door was an image of Paris choosing to whom of the three Goddesses he would hand his apple. In the alcove that twinned the one with the girl with her lips parted and face turned away, was a larger piece. A young God held a woman in his arms: tears were visible on her face, and her hands were in the process of transforming into leaves. With a shock, Harriet realised that the large oil opposite the fireplace, which at first glance she had taken to be a standard rendering of a great crowd jostling in the middle of some scene of classical antiquity, was in fact a depiction of the Rape of the Sabine Women. She shivered, and found she had no desire to examine the elegant paintings on the various amphora which the room offered up for her inspection.
There was a movement in the corridor outside. Harriet expected him to fling open the door, one foot forward and his free hand raised, but Manzerotti entered quietly and bowed to them both with grace, but without great show. She looked up at him from under her lashes as she made her curtsy. He was beautiful. He had looked so on the stage of His Majesty’s but, having been tricked by other performers, Harriet had assumed the effect was one of lighting and paint. However, Manzerotti was more lovely in person than she could have imagined. He looked like a great romantic’s conception of what a human being
should
be – the pattern, rather than the faulty and various copies that stumbled about the earth calling themselves the children of God. His face was, like Johannes’, entirely smooth, softly rounded and perfectly white. His lips were full and dark, though the mouth through which the miracle of his voice was gifted to the world was small. It was a bud at first light in the rose garden. His eyes, though, were large, and a deep brown that blurred into darkness. They seemed to pull the light of the room into their depths and give nothing back, oddly passive like black, polished marble.
should
be – the pattern, rather than the faulty and various copies that stumbled about the earth calling themselves the children of God. His face was, like Johannes’, entirely smooth, softly rounded and perfectly white. His lips were full and dark, though the mouth through which the miracle of his voice was gifted to the world was small. It was a bud at first light in the rose garden. His eyes, though, were large, and a deep brown that blurred into darkness. They seemed to pull the light of the room into their depths and give nothing back, oddly passive like black, polished marble.
Harriet felt she must fight the impulse to stare at him as she would a creature set up for display at Smithfield’s Fair. There was something unsettling in his physical proximity. He seemed in the drawing room – and, she imagined, in any company of ordinary men and women – a beautiful but alien bloom. It was as if in her walks round her estate in Sussex she had found an orchid from the West Indies planted among the flowering grasses at the edge of the lawn, or in the shade of her oak tree. His presence had something of the fever dream about it.
‘Forgive me for keeping you, madam, sir. We performers are not the earliest of risers. I hope that Lord Carmichael’s collection has been entertainment enough in my absence.’
His voice was unnerving. A falsetto almost, high but gentle, and without the shrillness of a child. His English was perfection, nothing but a trace of an Italian accent.
Harriet said, ‘The room is full of many treasures, though their subject-matter seems uniformly dark.’
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