An Opera Novel

[Amfortas]

Amfortas, I've been following this with interest (I'm still reading chapter 6) and think once it is complete we should publish it in book format. I've explored already self-publishing through Amazon.com and it is actually a very good deal, given that they distribute the book through their virtual store and give the author a larger share of the sales than traditional publishers. Then we could also sell the book in the future (coming soon) Opera Lively online store which I'm about to set up (we got approved for partnership with Naxos and will be allowed to sell their opera labels including Opus Arte).

Congratulations, good job. But you definitely need a title for your novel so that we start to publicize it through our facebook and tweeter.

Thank you so much, Alma. If you think there's more to be made of the novel, I'll be happy to consider your ideas. You're much better at that sort of thing than I am.

Alex Ross, whose blog article about Tosca surviving her fall gave me the idea for the novel, jokingly posited a sequel called Tosca Returns. That's been my tongue-in-cheek working title, though I do *not* intend it as the final version. I'll have to give the matter some thought.

[Amfortas]

Another character in Dumas' novel set during the war in Naples between the Republicans and Royalists is "an ex-Republican and police officer, an unscrupulous man of great ability named Sciarpa." I'm wondering if this was a real person, since most of the other characters in this novel appear to be, and if he was the model for Scarpia. The spelling of the names is so similar, and "police officer" and "unscrupulous" are pretty close to our boy the Baron.

One of my key sources is Susan Vandiver Nicassio's Tosca's Rome: The Play and the Opera in Historical Perspective.



On pages 118 to 119, Nicassio says that Sardou almost certainly derived the name of his villain from Gherardo Curci, an "irregular" or bandit leader who supported the King of Naples during the Republican revolution:

"Curci, or Sciarpa--the nickname (meaning scarf or sash) seems to refer to an item of paramilitary clothing--features prominently in contemporary accounts of the fall of the Parthenopean Republic. Republican historian Vincenzo Cuoco considered him to be 'one of the most lethal of the counter-revolutionaries.' He was created a baron by Ferdinand IV in May of 1800, in recognition of his services to the kingdom, but his enemies portrayed him as a crude figure, wearing 'a piece of pigskin badly attached with a string' for shoes, and exuding peasant cunning and religious hypocrisy."

[Amfortas]

Chapter 12

The organ sounded quietly as Tosca entered the church of Sant’Andrea della Valle. She had seen its dome—the largest in Rome after St. Peter’s—off in the distance as she headed away from the Piazza Navona.

In her desperate state, her options for refuge were few. At first she had thought about going to the Palazzo Venezia, the diplomatic headquarters of the Venetian state in Rome. As a star opera singer and native of the Veneto, she had been given lodgings there for the past few months, since her arrival in the city. But it would be far too dangerous to show herself there now. Similarly, she could have gone to the Argentina theater where she had recently performed; perhaps the manager would help her. But again it was too risky a move; she didn't know whom she could trust.

Finally she had come here, in the hope of finding her confessor, old Father Caraffa. But as she walked down the nave looking for him, she saw no sign of the man. This time of night, the cavernous church was nearly empty, as it had been when last she was here. Only a single old woman prayed in one of the back pews.

Tosca walked down toward the altar and approached the statue of the Madonna, where she knelt and crossed herself. Then she sat in one of the pews on the left, near the front of the church. She was starved and exhausted, and her back still throbbed as she sat morosely trying to collect her thoughts.

Looking up and to the right, she saw the Attavanti Chapel, where Angelotti had briefly hidden himself after his escape. Directly ahead of her stood an elaborate scaffolding, with a stepladder leading up to a raised platform where a painter's palette and brushes still sat unused. The nearby wall displayed an unfinished painting of Lazarus rising from the dead. At the lower right of the composition knelt the figure of the Magdalene; her blonde hair and blue eyes marked the unmistakable features of the Marchesa Attavanti.

Gazing at the image, Tosca felt tears well up. She recalled the day she had first seen Mario's painting and confronted him about it. Of course she had recognized the Attavanti woman, having seen her in the audience at some of her opera performances. Tosca had bitterly accused Mario of betraying her with the blonde beauty, but he swore her suspicions were unfounded. He had managed to dispel her fears, ending their quarrel with a kiss.

It was the last moment of untroubled happiness they had known, before they were plunged into so much turmoil. But Tosca saw more clearly now. It had all been a lie; the painting had looked down on them in mute mockery. However much she tried to still her racing mind, Tosca could think only of how Mario had betrayed her. How many nights, as he took her in his arms, he must have inwardly laughed at her; how many times he and the other woman must have laughed at her together.

Overwhelmed with despair, she suddenly fell to her knees and clasped her hands in front of her. Lifting up her eyes, she murmured quietly.

“Signore, help me please. I have nowhere else to turn. The man I loved betrayed me with another. I have made terrible mistakes, cost people their lives. I am a fugitive, pursued on all sides. I am lost, abandoned, and alone. Please, Signore, hear my prayer. Help me in my hour of need.”

Footsteps approached from behind. Tosca hurriedly bowed her head, hunching her shoulders up closer to her cap. Assuming an attitude of fervent prayer, she waited for the new arrival to pass by. But the intruder came to a halt at a point in the nave just behind her. Tosca waited in growing anxiety, sensing the observer's presence. At last, with trepidation, she turned her head and looked cautiously over her shoulder.

The Marchesa stood watching her. For a moment, she remained motionless. Then she genuflected toward the altar, moved into the same pew as Tosca, and knelt down beside her. Without a word, she hung her head in prayer. She was still damp from the fountain; a few drops fell from her disheveled blonde hair onto the stone floor. Tosca stared at her in dismay; her first impulse was to attack her rival again. But a quick glance at the Madonna prevented her.

For a time, both women knelt side by side, heads bowed. At last, Tosca could bear the tension no longer.

“Must you shadow me everywhere I go?”

The Marchesa remained still. Once more silence descended upon them, frustrating Tosca even more.

“You are brave to come here, at least. Where is your henchman?”

“Trivulce is outside. Do not worry; he will not come in.”

Again they fell into contemplation. Tosca shrugged, accepting the impasse. The organ continued playing softly. From the back, the prayerful mutterings of the old woman could just barely be heard. Every now and then, a muffled cry from the street outside echoed in the quiet sanctuary.

At last, her head still bowed, the Marchesa spoke softly.

“One day, several months ago, I came here to pray. I was in agony over my brother, afraid he would never be free again. My life seemed desolate, with a husband who ignored me and a companion who could never be more than a friend.”

Tosca felt suddenly uneasy at this unexpected intimacy. The blonde woman went on.

“As I prayed, I noticed a handsome young man with a mustache staring at me, all the while sketching on a tablet. I should not have paid attention, but somehow his look reached out to me. So alive, so passionate.”

She paused, her hands clenched together, then gathered herself to go on.

“I knew it was wrong, but I came back the next day. And the one after that. Each time I knelt in prayer, he looked at me and made his drawings. I tried to keep my eyes to myself, but I could tell he knew I was looking back at him. I hoped he would speak to me, but at the same time was terrified that he might.”

A rivulet of water from her hair coursed down her cheek. Brushing it aside, she continued.

“Then one day, as I was about to leave the church, he came up to me, bowed, and introduced himself. He admitted he had been sketching me, said he was struck not only by my beauty, but by my pious devotion, my attitude of deep suffering. He asked what troubled me so. I could not help but tell him, unburden all my grief. We walked around the city together for a long while, spoke more intimately than I had in years. By the end, we both knew this would not be our only meeting.”

Tosca glared at her, then turned her head away, scowling.

“Scarpia told me to be wary of you two. And here, these last few days, I thought he lied."

“He did lie, at least so far as he knew,” the Marchesa said. “He could not have known about our affair—Mario and I were scrupulous about keeping it a secret. Of course Trivulce, my escort, knew all about it; he became our accomplice. But it was hidden from everyone else, even my brother in prison. It would have been far too dangerous for me if word got out; Mario promised he would never reveal our secret to anyone.”

She looked off wistfully into the distance.

“We were so careful. Trivulce always accompanied me, so there was no cause for suspicion. I would travel veiled, in simple clothing. We would take a wandering path through the city, changing coaches several times, before I would finally reach Mario’s villa. I spent many long afternoons there; my husband never suspected.”

Feeling her anger welling up once again, Tosca sniffed indignantly.

“And you told me you held your marriage sacred, that you loved your husband. Lies. All lies.”

The Marchesa sighed wearily, then looked up toward the altar.

“I do love my husband,” she said. “And I value my marriage.”

Seeing Tosca's skeptical look, she turned to face her.

“I still have some youth, but I am a bit older than you, Tosca. I do not expect you to understand these things. Yet as hard as it may be for you to believe, I do love Leandro. I never stopped loving him, or hid that fact from Mario. But there can be a loneliness in marriage I hope you never know.”

Tosca shifted uneasily. It took a moment for her to manage a retort.

“And so you have to steal someone else's man? Your loneliness made it right to cause me pain?”

The Marchesa recoiled, her features distressed. After composing herself, she went on earnestly.

“Forgive me, please, Tosca. I knew he was your lover as well, and that made it all the more wrong. But I was desperate for even a small part of his love. I did not want him all to myself; I knew he could never be mine. But I could not turn away from him, no matter how hard I tried, could not go back to my life as I had known it. After enduring years of neglect, you cannot know how good it was to feel a man’s touch once again; to be looked at with more than indifference; to feel, once more, like a woman.”

Against her will, Tosca felt her heart stir. As she gazed at her rival, she came to a disturbing realization: it was not so easy to hate this woman.

[Amfortas]

Sant'Andrea della Valle

[Amfortas]

Chapter 13

As the two women knelt side by side, there was a clattering not far away. Tosca looked up to see a door in the left transept open and a figure emerge. The grumpy old Sacristan, with his jowly face, wispy gray hair, and shambling gait, walked past the scaffolding and approached up the nave, mumbling to himself as usual. Tosca remembered him from her previous visits to the church, and knew he was not sympathetic to Mario’s Jacobin leanings. He might be only too willing to give her away.

Fearing he would recognize her, she bowed her head in prayer; she hoped her cap covered her face adequately, and that her male disguise was still convincing. The Marchesa too assumed a prayerful pose. The Sacristan came to within a few feet of them, then stopped, taking note of the blonde woman’s bedraggled condition and the growing puddle of water at her knees. He seemed about to speak, then shook his head violently and went on. Tosca heard him mutter something about “crazy young lovers” as he departed.

She let out a sigh of relief. Then she recalled the unsettling confessions of the women kneeling next to her, and made an effort to harden her feelings once again. She looked up at the painting, the praying Magdalene with her blue eyes raised fervently to heaven. Sure enough, it brought back all the old jealousy.

“I knew there was something about that painting; even from the way he drew the figure, it was clear you were more than just a model to him. It drove me mad; I could not stand to look at it. I wanted him to paint over the blue eyes, make them black.”

The Marchesa looked up, a sad smile playing across her features.

“Yes, that painting. Over time, after sketching me so often, the artist in Mario took precedence over his better judgment. He put me into his great commission for the church. At first I was angry, horrified. How could he have placed our secret love on display for all the world to see? He reassured me, said he would tell everyone that we had never met, that he only happened to see me praying in church and was inspired to capture my features in his art. The story did not seem too incredible; it was, after all, how we first met.”

She gazed wistfully at the painting.

“In the end, I could not stay upset about it. He painted me as Mary Magdalene, praying for her brother Lazarus to be raised up out of his dark tomb to new life. Just as he first set eyes on me, praying for my own brother to be raised up out of the tomb of the Castel Sant’Angelo. It was his way of comforting me, and of offering me hope.”

Tosca looked away in distress. Then a thought struck her, and she turned back to the other woman with a malicious smile.

“He was wrong about that painting. You were both wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

After a moment to formulate her thoughts, she went on.

“My confessor here, Father Caraffa, knew Mario was my lover. He did not approve, called him a Frenchman with Jacobin ideas, a dangerous sans-culotte. He wanted me to burn the books Mario gave me to read—Voltaire, Rousseau. And he always believed Mario took the commission to paint the church wall, not out of any true religious devotion, but simply as a way to appear more pious, to deflect suspicion of his revolutionary sympathies.”

The Marchesa looked quizzically at Tosca, but waited for her to continue.

“Father Caraffa is a scholarly man. When he found out the subject of the painting, he took delight in pointing out to me that Mario had made a common mistake—he had confused Mary Magdalene with Mary of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus. They are two different people. Of course I never told Mario, not wanting to dash his spirits. Now I wish I had.”

She shot a bitter glance at her rival.

“It is fitting, is it not? As Mary Magdalene, you do not even belong in that picture. Any more than you belonged between Mario and me.”

She glared at the Marchesa, whose eyes seemed pained. Tosca turned away, trying to enjoy her small triumph. But somehow, it gave her little satisfaction.

As she stared at the painting, contemplating the two different Marys, her eye wandered upwards, to the other main figure, Lazarus rising from the dead. The image made her wayward mind recall the words of the old madman Cagliostro in his dark prison—that she would undertake a journey to the house of Lazarus.

Then suddenly it struck her. Of course! Two different people. How had it not occurred to her before? She looked back at the painting in amazement.

“Tosca, what is it?”

Just as quickly, she shrugged it all off in a wave of despondency. What did it matter? What did anything matter now?

“Just leave me. Please.”

There was a long silence, but the Marchesa remained in place. Behind them, the old woman could be heard as she arose from her pew and slowly made her way out of the church. At last, the Marchesa spoke quietly.

“You are right about the painting: it is the wrong person there. But not in the way you think.”

Tosca glanced at her in puzzlement; the blonde woman met her gaze.

“In a way, it was the painting that brought Mario and me together. And in a way, it was the painting that broke us apart.”

After taking note of Tosca's querying look, she turned and peered off into the distance.

“We met one day at his villa. He was contrite, but said it had to end between us. It would be the last time we saw each other. I broke down in tears, asked him why, what had changed? He told me the decision had come to him while working on that painting. I suppose it is not surprising. He was an artist; he could not help but contemplate the world from that perspective. And through his art, he realized the truth.”

Tosca stared at the woman, listening intently as she went on.

“Mario told me that, in loving both you and me, he was struck by the hidden harmony of contrasting beauties: you with your dark hair, I with my blonde locks; my eyes blue, yours black. He marveled how these dissimilar beauties could be blended together by the mystery of art. But in comparing them that way, he finally discovered the truth of his own heart.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you not see? Though he tried to be cavalier, to play a callous game, ultimately there was no room for two women in his life. Even as he painted my portrait, his sole thought was of you. In the end, there was no question who held his heart; I never had a chance. Tosca, it was you.”

Tosca looked away, for the first time finding herself unable to reply. Slowly, a tear formed in her eye. At last, the Marchesa went on.

"I know you have reason to hate me, Tosca. Perhaps I should never have approached you at all. But I had no choice; I need your help. After all that has happened, can you not forgive me? You are alone in the world now. So am I. Perhaps, we can help each other.”

Tosca remained silent, stubbornly noncommittal. After waiting her out, the Marchesa sighed, then rose to her feet.

“I am cold and wet. You are tired and hungry. At least, come with me now. Accept my shelter for one night. Then, if you feel no different in the morning, you are free to leave, and we will never to see one another again. Let me do this for you. Please . . . Floria . . . I owe you that much.”

Tosca was about to decline. But even she as started to speak, she suddenly felt just how deathly tired she was, having barely eaten or slept in so many days. She hadn’t the strength to resist.

At last, she nodded her head. She started to get up, but as she tried to rise to her feet, she staggered from exhaustion. The Marchesa reached out and took hold of her arm. Tosca’s first impulse was to recoil, to pull away from this woman who had secretly been her rival. The old jealousy tried to flare up once again.

But somehow, the tribulations of the past several days had softened her spirit. The old resentments seemed too petty. And in the end, it was true: she and the Marchesa did have much in common—not only loving the same man, but also finding themselves adrift in a harsh world, with no one to turn to but each other.

Arm in arm, the two women walked up the nave and out of the silent church.

[Amfortas]

Artists traditionally portrayed Mary Magdalene as a blonde, fervently devout beauty, as in this painting by Tintoretto:



Both Puccini's opera and Sardou's play specify that Mario painted Marchesa Attavanti as Mary Magdalene, though only Sardou places this biblical figure, erroneously, in a picture of Lazarus rising from the dead.

[MAuer]

Ah, so General Caraffa has now resurfaced as a priest. This is fascinating material, to see how two different authors (Sardou and Dumas) treated some of the same historical characters in their fiction.

And, of course, I'm really enjoying your novel.

[Amfortas]

Ah, so General Caraffa has now resurfaced as a priest. This is fascinating material, to see how two different authors (Sardou and Dumas) treated some of the same historical characters in their fiction.

Tosca's confessor Father Caraffa does not appear, but is mentioned several times, in Sardou's La Tosca. His disdain for Mario's revolutionary ideals comes from this source; the bit about the two Marys is mine.

In a footnote to his translation of the play, W. Laird Kleine-Ahlbrandt says, "Although Caraffa is the name of an ancient and illustrious Neapolitan family of princes, generals, cardinals, and men of letters, apparently Tosca's confessor . . . is fictitious."

Susan Vandiver Nicassio, in Tosca's Rome, discussing the martyrs of Naples's short-lived Parthenopean Republic, mentions "the artistocratic republican soldier Ettore Caraffa, who defiantly refused a blindfold and lay face-up on the headsman's block."

And, of course, I'm really enjoying your novel.

Thanks!

[Amfortas]

Chapter 14

After a winding trek through the bustling nighttime streets, the Marchesa’s coach finally reached its destination. The Palazzo Attavanti stood in the largest of Rome’s historic districts, the Rione Monti—or the Sezione della Terme, as the area had been renamed two years earlier during the city’s short-lived French occupation.

Once a footman had rushed forward to open the carriage door, Tosca stepped onto the pavement and looked up at the three-storied building. The torchlight revealed an imposing façade, with an architrave capped by the Attavanti insignia. Surrounding it, the triangular pediments over the windows and the deep overhanging cornice all looked uncomfortably like a small-scale version of the Palazzo Farnese—where she had witnessed her Mario tortured and in turn had dealt Scarpia his deathblow.

Overcoming her foreboding, she followed the Marchesa and Trivulce as they passed another liveried footman and walked up an exterior staircase to the piano nobile or main floor. From there they proceeded to a spacious hall inlaid with marble tiles. Busts on thin pedestals ringed the room, while the brightly lit chandeliers illuminated colorful tapestries and frescoes. A curved staircase led to the upper story. Tosca surveyed the hall with interest; clearly, the Marchese did not want for comfort.

There was a flurry of activity as footmen and ladies-in-waiting gathered around the Marchesa.

“Oh Madam, you are wet! Come let us get you in some dry clothes!”

“Not yet.”

The servants stared dismayed at Tosca in her male attire, and even more so as she took off her cap and shook out her dark hair. Meanwhile a short, balding man with thin wire spectacles approached.

“Ah, Madam, you are home at last! I have news! Nicola has returned!”

“Nicola! I must see him at once. Where is he?”

“He awaits you in the drawing room.”

Remembering her guest, the Marchesa turned to Tosca.

“Tosca, this is Gualtiero, Leandro’s secretary.”

“You are the one who found the Marchese’s letter?”

The secretary gaped at Tosca in surprise, then glanced at the Marchesa. After a nod of permission from her, he turned back to the singer.

“Yes, I found the letter, along with his journal.”

“Journal?”

“It is late,” the Marchesa interjected. “That can wait until tomorrow.”

Tosca turned back to the secretary.

“You knew the Marchese well?”

“Well enough to know his hand, if that is what you mean,” the man said stiffly. “After so many years serving him, I could not mistake it. But in his writing, he seems not himself. He was always a quiet, sober man. In those last words, though, he seemed possessed by some wild idea.”

The Marchesa gestured for Tosca to follow, then led her, along with Trivulce and Gualtiero, through a door into a luxurious drawing room. A smartly dressed young man stood waiting nervously. As she walked up to him, he made a deep bow.

“Marchesa.”

She sat in a plush high-backed chair, and gestured for Tosca to do the same. Then she addressed the man with an urgent air.

“Tell me, Nicola. What have you found?”

The man fidgeted anxiously before managing to speak.

“I was in Paris five days, Marchesa, and made every possible effort.”

Tosca watched as he shifted his weight in discomfort.

“As you can imagine, it was not easy to gather information in . . . this case. But I drew upon all of my sources, and learned what I could.”

He took a nervous glance at Tosca, then back at the Marchesa.

“In the end, I found no sign of the Marchese.”

The blonde woman seemed to deflate as she sank back in her chair.

“Thank you, Nicola.”

The young man looked grieved, then made a hasty bow and exited. The Marchesa sat pondering a moment, her head hung down. Then she seemed to recall herself and looked at Tosca.

“Forgive me. You are tired and hungry. Let me take you to your room. I will send Benedetta to you with food.”

Taking a candle, she rose and led Tosca back out into the main hall, then up the curving staircase. At the top they came to a large portrait in a gilded frame. The Marchesa paused before it.

“The Marchese?” Tosca asked.

She nodded, looking forlornly at the painting.

Tosca studied the image. The man was florid and beefy—certainly not a handsome figure like Mario—with a complacent, even pompous air about him. Judging solely by this rendering, it was not apparent what the Marchesa saw in her husband. Seeming to sense Tosca’s reaction, the woman spoke awkwardly.

“It is not the best likeness.”

She turned away from the portrait in evident dismay, then spoke in a subdued voice.

“I had hoped for some news. Nicola was the last of the servants I sent to Paris, the one with the best hope of discovering something worthwhile. Now . . . as to Leandro's whereabouts . . . I am left without a clue.”

She looked once again at Tosca.

“Forgive me. I am preoccupied with the search for my husband, and I know you have made no commitment to take part. But we can talk of that tomorrow.”

She led Tosca down a hallway and stopped by a door near the end. As the Marchesa ushered her into the room, Tosca paused and turned to her.

“I know I have been a great deal of trouble to you. But please believe, I am grateful for your hospitality—and all your help. Thank you, Marchesa.”

The blonde woman smiled.

“Please, call me Giulia. I think by now, we know each other well enough for that.”

After bidding a final goodnight, Tosca entered the room and shut the door. Candles had already been lit, allowing her to survey the sumptuous furnishings and luxurious canopied bed. Much better accommodations, she acknowledged, than she had known in her dark prison cell.

There was a knock at the door. It was Benedetta, the wizened old servant woman, bringing a tray of food. Tosca sat at a small table and greedily devoured the prosciutto, pecorino cheese, and focaccia bread. As she ate, a brigade of servants processed into the room one by one carrying pails of water; they filled up a copper bathtub in the corner.

Once they were done and Tosca had eaten her fill, Benedetta helped remove her clothing and assisted her into the tub. The warm waters were a blissful relief, as the old woman gently wiped Tosca, rinsing away the grime from many long trying days.

Afterwards, she helped Tosca step out of the tub, then had her sit down while she gently applied a salve to her back. The mixture smelled unpleasant, but was cool and soothing to the touch.

As the old woman laid on the ointment, Tosca turned her head.

“Benedetta, what sort of man is the Marchese?”

“A good master,” she said. “But often lost in his own thoughts. He would sometimes lock himself away in his study for days on end; we would not see him.”

“Why do you think he would disappear so suddenly?”

“It is hard to say.”

She screwed up her brow in thought.

“Aldo and Pasquale were two of his oldest, most trusted servants. The three of them left one morning well before dawn; none of us saw them go. It was unlike the master to act in such secrecy.”

The old woman sighed as she dabbed on the last bits of the salve.

“I only hope he comes home safely. The poor Marchesa worries herself so much over him. We are all concerned for her; after losing her brother, now she fears the worst for her husband.”

Benedetta helped her slip on a nightgown, then exited. Tosca lay in the soft, over-sized bed, pondering the events of this long day. Looking back, she couldn't be angry at Giulia. She knew too well what it was to be burdened with the lure of beauty. She knew how irresistible Mario could be, the handsome revolutionary with his jaunty mustache. If anything, she blamed him for what happened. And try as she might, she couldn’t help but pity the woman whose husband had so ignored her—and admire her for being so determined to find him.

It was not long before she fell asleep.

She awoke late in the morning, refreshed, for once not beset by her horrible dreams of Scarpia. Benedetta came knocking once more, carrying a beautiful high-waisted white gown, just her size.

As the old woman helped her dress in the sober light of morning, Tosca made a decision. She would thank Giulia for her help and her hospitality, but would go her own way from here. Certainly she was used to looking after herself. And while she would tell the Marchesa what she knew about the statue in Venice, she couldn’t imagine being of any further use in the search.

When she made her way downstairs, Giulia greeted her with a broad smile.

“Floria, you are awake! I am so glad. There is someone here to see you.”

She gestured toward the person entering the room. In amazement, Tosca looked at the familiar features of one of Europe’s most celebrated men. With a cry of joy, she rushed into his arms.

“Papa!”

[Amfortas]

Chapter 15

“Oh Papa!” she cried, embracing him tightly. “I have missed you so much! So many things have happened! I was hounded by an evil police chief; the man I loved was executed; I tried to kill myself!”

“Yes, my dear, I know, and am terribly sorry for all you suffered.”

She drew back at last, never so happy to look into the kind, comforting brown eyes that were always full of mirth.

Domenico Cimarosa was a stout man with plump, rosy cheeks, bespeaking his love of good food and good company. He wore a faded wig and a long, old-fashioned coat befitting his fifty-odd years. Tosca noted with alarm that he seemed more stooped with age and sorrow than when she had last seen him over a year ago. But still, he carried himself with the air of man whom misfortune has beaten down but not defeated.

“It is so good to see you, Papa! But how is it you are here?”

“You must thank your friend the Marchesa for that,” he smiled. “I have been in Rome the past several days. I heard the police were searching for you, not sure if you were alive or dead. Then, early this morning, a messenger came to me, saying you were at the home of Marchesa Attavanti. I followed him here; the Marchesa has been gracious enough to entertain me while we waited for you to awaken.”

Tosca turned to Giulia, who nodded.

“I knew Maestro Cimarosa was in Rome—the arrival of such a famous man could not go unnoticed. I hope I did not presume too much to invite him here; after all you have been through, Floria, I thought it would raise your spirits. I knew the two of you are very close, though I confess I do not know the full history.”

Tosca linked her arm with Cimarosa’s.

“He is like a father to me—the only Papa I have ever known. I grew up as a foundling, tending goats among shepherds in the Veneto, not far outside of Verona. Later the Benedictine sisters took me to live in their convent. The nuns were devout, but strict; I did not care for that life. But always, I had my singing to ease my loneliness.”

She turned to Cimarosa and smiled.

“Word spread of my ability. Then, seven years ago, when I was sixteen, Maestro Cimarosa came from Naples to hear me sing. He immediately declared I should have a career on the stage.”

He nodded. “Even then, she sang like an angel, but with a bit of diabolical fire.”

Tosca grinned, then went on.

“But the nuns did not want to let me go; he had to fight hard to win my release. But at last, he took me away, arranged for my training, and has stood by me over these last three years as my career has grown.”

“And grown it has!” said Cimarosa. “I have watched her perform at La Scala, San Carlo, La Fenice. You were magnificent as Nina, Rosina, Sabina. And you were splendid as Carolina in my Il matrimonio segreto. If only you had sung at the premiere! Tomeoni was good, but you would have made the evening an even greater success!”

Tosca winked at Giulia. “Papa is too modest. Nothing could have improved upon that night. I have heard the story many times from his students.”

“Oh Floria, not that again, please!”

Knowing he was secretly pleased, she went on. “It was the year before I met you, was it not? He had just taken Salieri’s place as maestro di capella in Vienna. Mozart had died just a few weeks earlier.”

“So sad. Such a genius,” Cimarosa sighed.

“It was the opera’s first performance, attended by the Emperor.”

“Actually, the second performance. The Emperor could not attend the first one.”

“At any rate, that night Il matrimonio segreto received the longest ovation in history. Emperor Leopold had dinner served for the cast, then ordered the entire opera encored! And Papa received a generous financial award as well.”

“They were indeed very kind,” he beamed.

“Since then he has been the most celebrated composer in Europe.”

“People are far too extravagant in their praise,” Cimarosa shrugged. “Once a painter told me my music was a thousand times better than Mozart’s. I told him his paintings were a thousand times better than Raphael’s. That gave him pause.”

Tosca hugged the man once more, as a new thought struck him.

“Ah, but mostly likely you have not heard the news about Grassini! Earlier this month, before the Battle of Marengo, she performed for Napoleon himself at La Scala. Now they say he has taken up with her. If it is true, I pity the First Consul."

All three of them laughed, before Giulia spoke once more.

“Well, if you will excuse me, I will leave you two alone; I know you have much catching up to do.”

Cimarosa made a labored bow as the Marchesa exited. Servants had brought chairs, so the two of them sat down, the old man with some effort. Tosca, concerned, spoke more softly.

“Papa, earlier when I asked how you were here, I meant, how are you in Rome? How did you get out of Naples?”

“Not with ease, my child. It is a long, unhappy story.”

She waited as he gathered his thoughts.

“You know, my dear, when the French occupied Rome, Ferdinand IV of Naples sent an army to drive them out. They entered an unguarded city; but a week later, the French returned in force and drove the Neapolitan troops not only out of Rome, but out of Naples as well, causing Ferdinand to flee to Palermo. Then General Championnet set up the Parthenopean Republic. The brightest young intellectuals supported it, but it was never popular among the people at large. Then, after a few short months, the French withdrew to fight on other fronts, leaving the Republic to fall. Armies of royalist irregulars closed in from the land, the English from the sea.”

He paused, his eyes searching the distance.

“The conventional surrender terms allowed for supporters of the Republic to leave the city. But the king and queen chose not to honor those terms, and had the republicans hauled off their escape ships. Thousands were arrested, hundreds executed in the public squares, many of them friends of mine: young, idealistic, well-educated people. Many more were butchered by the lazzaroni mobs. I saw them drawn and quartered, blinded, maimed, burned alive. My beloved Naples became a nightmare."

She reached out to touch his hand.

“And what of you, Papa?”

He let out a long sigh. “While the Republic stood, I wrote music to a patriotic hymn by the poet Rossi, used for a great celebration to burn the royalist flag. When the Bourbons came back to power, this was naturally held against me. I did what I could to appease Ferdinand by composing a cantata in his honor, but it was not my most inspired work; the king did not find it sincere. At any rate, an order went out for my arrest.”

“What did you do?”

“I went into hiding—along with Lablache, his wife, and the dancer Duport—under the floorboards of the Teatro del Fondo. After several days, unable to see anything outside, Duport climbed up to look out a window high above the stage floor, but fell to his death. We hid his body under the stage, but five days of the stench drove us to go outside, where we were arrested.”

“And then?”

“I was imprisoned for months. Poor Rossi was beheaded; I almost lost my head as well. But in the end, people in high places interceded on my behalf, so instead the King banished me from Naples forever. It is sad, but perhaps just as well. No one will perform my works there anymore.”

“I am so sorry, Papa. What will you do?”

“I am on my way to St. Petersburg, hoping for a better reception this time than last. Catherine the Great did not think much of opera, and the company dwindled to nothing. But I must go where there is opportunity, as I have all my life.”

She nodded, then studied the man's appearance.

“You do not look well, Papa.”

“Trouble with my stomach; it comes and goes. But seeing you again, my dear, takes the pain away.”

After a thoughtful silence, he looked at her with concern.

“And what of you, Floria? You are still in danger. What will you do now?”

Tosca shrugged. “I do not know. Giulia wants me to help find her husband, who has gone on some strange, secret quest. But I do not think I will join her. It is sad, but seems hopeless. He wrote a letter saying he was heading to Paris, and she has sent servants to look for him there, without success. But the one clue I have seen points instead to Venice.”

“Venice!” Cimarosa said. “Why, I am about to travel there myself, on the way to St. Petersburg. It will be good to see the city once again; they always loved me there. But where in Venice does this clue point you?”

“To the Mendicanti.”

The man's eyes widened as he looked off into space.

“The Mendicanti? No, it cannot be! Strange . . . I wonder . . .”

“What, Papa?”

“Can it be a sign? I suppose it is possible . . .”

Breaking his contemplation, he turned to Tosca.

“Forgive me, my dear. For several weeks now, I have been struggling with an important decision, weighing my options. I have been torn, not knowing what to do. But perhaps, you have just given me the answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come . . . I will show you.”

[Amfortas]

Sardou's play briefly mentions Tosca's childhood as a foundling shepherdess, her adoption by the Benedictine sisters, and her discovery by Cimarosa.

Domenico Cimarosa (1749 - 1801)


Cimarosa's appearance in my novel is a bit of authorial license. The scene is set in late June of 1800; Cimarosa did not leave Naples for Venice until December of that year. Elsewhere, I try to be more scrupulous about chronology.

[Amfortas]

Chapter 16

Cimarosa rose from his chair unsteadily, then led Tosca across the great hall to the door through which he had entered earlier. Gesturing for her to stay quiet, he gently pushed the door open and pointed inside.

Tosca peered into the drawing room she had seen briefly the night before. There in the middle of the floor sat a little girl, about ten years of age, with wavy brown hair, in a plain dark frock. She was holding a small, well-worn cloth doll in her arms. As she rocked it gently, she sang, with a pure, angelic treble voice, a simple folk song in Neapolitan dialect.

xxxxxI have one mother,
xxxxxStill I want another.
xxxxxThis one first mother
xxxxxIs not enough for me.

xxxxxI want to have
xxxxxMy sweetheart’s for the other,
xxxxxAnd then I would uncover
xxxxxThe heart inside of me.

As the girl finished singing, Tosca broke into applause.

“Brava!”

The child turned around, at first abashed. But then, seeing Tosca’s enthusiasm, she smiled.

“Hello! I did not know anyone was listening.”

“I am glad I did. That is a lovely old song, and you sang it beautifully.”

“Thank you. I love to sing. I do it all the time.”

“And who are you, little one?” Tosca asked, entering the room. “What is your name?”

“Teresa,” the girl said. “Teresa Sanfelice. And I know who you are. You are Floria Tosca!”

“Oh, you have heard of me then?”

“Yes. Maestro Cimarosa told me about you. How he found you when you were young, in a convent. How he helped teach you. And how you became the greatest singer in all of Italy.”

“I do not know if that last part is true,” Tosca said, smiling nonetheless. “And who is this?” she asked, pointing to the doll.

“This is Claudia.”

“Hello, Claudia. Is she your little baby?”

“Oh no,” the girl said, looking scandalized. “She cannot be my baby. Claudia is just a doll.”

“Ah yes, I see that now. Perhaps I was confused by the way you were singing to her.”

“Well, sometimes Claudia does feel a little lonely, or scared,” the girl said. “I sing to make her feel better.”

“Yes, I know how that is,” Tosca said, sitting on the floor beside the girl. “Singing to drive away loneliness. I used to do it myself, when I was a little girl just about your age.”

“Where did you grow up? In a great fancy house?”

“No, I grew up as a poor shepherd girl, tending the goats. I would sing to the little bleating kids, carrying them home at the end of the day.”

“Your mama and papa were goat keepers?”

“No . . . I never knew my parents. I was a foundling.”

The girl considered a moment.

“I have never met my father, either.”

“And what about your mother? Is she here in Rome with you?”

“No, Mama is back in Naples. In prison.”

Tosca stared at the little girl.

“Oh, I am sorry.”

The child shrugged. “I never saw her very often, even before that. But I hope they let her out soon; maybe then we will be together all the time.”

Tosca looked at the girl, uncertain what to say, before rousing herself to speak once more.

“So what brings you here to Rome?”

“I am going with Maestro Cimarosa to Venice.”

“You are fortunate, then! Venice is a beautiful city. I love singing at the opera house there.”

“The opera! That must be so wonderful!” the girl cried. “I have never been, but I hear it is the most beautiful, magical thing there is!”

“They are right,” Tosca smiled. “It is quite beautiful, and magical. And heavenly, with the voices of angels. Though it has its share of demons too—you find that out very quickly. But there is nothing in the world like it.”

“I want to go so much,” Teresa sighed. “Someday I will. Maestro Cimarosa has told me that if I study and work hard, someday I may even get to perform there . . . just like Floria Tosca.”

Laughing, Tosca gave the girl a quick hug.

“Perhaps you will.”

She noticed Cimarosa beckoning to her from the doorway.

“Speaking of the Maestro, I need to go talk to him for a little while. Will you be all right here by yourself?”

“Oh yes. I do not mind being alone. I can always sing.”

Tosca stood, exited the room, and shut the door behind her. After a moment of contemplation, she turned to Cimarosa.

“Is it true about her mother?”

"Yes. The mother is notorious, known to all Naples now as La Sanfelice.”

Offering Tosca his arm, he led her back toward the chairs as he told the story.

“Luisa Molina was the daughter of a Spanish Bourbon general. She was married at the age of seventeen to her cousin and childhood playmate, Andrea Sanfelice, of the younger branch of the Dukes of Lauriano. They were passionate lovers, and in short order had three children. But they were also childish and imprudent, profligate spenders living an extravagant lifestyle well beyond the limited means that Andrea, as the youngest son, could afford. In a way, they were too much in love: he could not help buying costly jewels to adorn her. Meanwhile more and more creditors hounded them, and all of Naples was scandalized.”

He seated Tosca in her chair, then took his own with effort.

“Luisa’s mother asked the king to intervene, and he appointed a guardian to take over their finances. At the same time, the three children were sent away to school in Magnacavallo. But the couple still kept up their reckless mode of living. Finally Andrea’s brother, Duke Michele, agreed to pay off their debts, but only on the condition that the two of them were separated. Luisa was sent away to the Conservatory of Santa Sofia in Montecorvino Rovella, Andrea to the monastery of Nocera.”

He paused to gather breath before going on.

“But the lovers managed to get together once more, in secret. Teresa is the result of that meeting. Her mother kept the pregnancy hidden as long as possible. Then, when her condition was obvious, the nuns at the conservatory took pity on her, since she had already lost her three other children. They kept this child hidden from the world.”

“What happened to Luisa then?”

“After three years of separation, Andrea finally escaped from the monastery and arranged Luisa’s escape from the conservatory. Fearing what might befall the child, they left her behind. They returned to Naples; the king turned a blind eye. But finally Andrea went into hiding to escape his creditors, leaving Luisa to seek shelter where she could find it.”

“But why is she in prison now?”

Cimarosa gave a long sigh before going on.

“Last year, when the Republic was formed, Luisa was courted by the Royal Army officer Gerard Baccher, of a Swiss banking family that supported the king. He joined a plot to overthrow the Republic. The English ships would bomb the shoreline, causing the republican forces to run to the harbor and leave the city undefended. But since Baccher was hopelessly in love with Luisa, he gave her a safe conduct with the insignia of King Ferdinand to keep her protected.”

“And did she use it?”

“No. She gave it instead to her handsome young republican lover, Ferdinando Ferri, to protect him. He did not accept the safe conduct, and instead urged her to report the treachery to the government. She did not follow his advice; so he denounced the conspiracy himself. The plot was crushed, with many of its participants sentenced to death; the Baccher brothers were shot in a courtyard.”

He peered at Tosca sadly.

“Luisa's role might have gone unnoticed, but the poetess Eleonora Pimentel, in her pamphlet The Monitor, proclaimed La Sanfelice a savior of the Republic, something she had never meant to be. Then, when the Republic fell and the kingdom was restored, that past came back to haunt her. The powerful family of the dead brothers pressed for her arrest, and she was taken into custody.”

“Will she get out of prison?”

Cimarosa shook his head. “The king has pronounced her death sentence. They have delayed the execution for months, only because she has claimed to be pregnant.”

“Is she?”

“No. But two different doctors, sympathetic to her plight, have confirmed that she is. It is just a matter of time before the truth is discovered.”

Cimarosa looked back toward the door to the drawing room.

“Little Teresa has grown up at the conservatory, learning arts and music, seeing her mother only rarely. Since the child has musical talent, Luisa has asked me, as a final request, to do what I think best for her.”

Tosca frowned in thought. Then she turned back to Cimarosa.

“I understand the decision you face. And yes, I think the Mendicanti is the right choice.”

Suddenly she turned to listen to the gentle sounds that had just started to waft through the great hall. Soon afterwards, little Teresa came out of the drawing room and stood listening with a puzzled look.

“What is that music?”

“Come,” Tosca smiled, offering her hand. “Let us go and find out.”

[Amfortas]

La Sanfelice is an historical figure. Her daughter Teresa is fictional.

Luisa Molina Sanfelice (1764 - 1800)

[MAuer]

More fascinating history. Dumas made her husband considerably older than her, more of a father figure, and turned her into the lover of Salvato Palmieri -- who fathered the child that was later stillborn. It's really interesting to learn the actual version of events.

Is Palmieri mentioned in your book at all? I found nothing on the web and would have assumed that he was an invention of Dumas -- but for the fact that Scarpia orders Mario's (supposedly) feigned execution to be carried out as it was in the case of the Conte Palmieri.

[Amfortas]

More fascinating history. Dumas made her husband considerably older than her, more of a father figure, and turned her into the lover of Salvato Palmieri -- who fathered the child that was later stillborn. It's really interesting to learn the actual version of events.

Is Palmieri mentioned in your book at all? I found nothing on the web and would have assumed that he was an invention of Dumas -- but for the fact that Scarpia orders Mario's (supposedly) feigned execution to be carried out as it was in the case of the Conte Palmieri.

Dumas largely fictionalizes his Sanfelice. Apart from a fictional daughter, I've attempted to sum up her actual history as best as I can (the sources I've consulted vary from one another in numerous small details). It's certainly a great story in its own right!

My reading indicates that Dumas's Palmieri is entirely fictional, not withstanding Sardou/Puccini's use of the same name.

As for who does or doesn't turn up in my novel . . . you'll just have to read on.