I decided to flaunt my knowledge, meager as it was, and use some of the oddments about music that I had collected by questioning him. “But only one composer has written his own libretti and that was the German Richard Wagner.”
“Indeed, old boy, but you noticed quickly that I have omitted all composers who are not Italian.”
“And why is that? Surely they would be competent.”
“Competent is an excellent term to describe what might be the work of someone foreign to Italy who attempted to forge an Italian opera. The attempt would fail miserably. The scaffolding would be there but not the individual creative impulse. It would be the equivalent of a Rembrandt trying to be a Michelangelo. It would be immediately discovered. Despite their abilities, composers such as Massenet, Bizet, Charpentier, even Wagner, could not pull it off. Their individual ‘sound’ would give any one of them away. Also, there would be little motive, whereas among the Italians one could predict without exaggeration a certain rivalry, shall we say?”
“But Holmes, what about the similarity of some of Dvořák’s Rusalka to Puccini’s La Rondine? Isn’t there an aria—Doretta’s, I believe—that comes close to being a copy by Puccini of Dvořák’s melody?”
“You astonish me, old boy, you have been listening and learning. You raise a valid point, however. The answer is simple: It is the use of the piano as an orchestral instrument that marks this similarity, nothing more.”
Holmes was silent for a moment, and I thought that he might wish to be alone when he said, “I thank you, old fellow, for your questions. Please note once more that I have excluded Verdi from the list, though musically he is as qualified as the others. But he is old and unconcerned with other people’s work. Leave me now, for I have precious little time to consider this problem before we go to meet its creator.”
Holmes was soon lost in his scrutiny of the scores piled in front of him. Every so often he would stand up from his work and pace through our sitting room, but he said nothing. It was only after about five hours of intense effort that he said, “I am getting close, Watson, and I am pretty sure that I have identified the culprit. And I know his motive. Let me work a little longer and I will test my solution on you.”
I watched him as he took a last few notes. “Come, Watson, and listen to my solution to this musical puzzle. My method has been simplicity itself: to find in the Bohème forgeries and in the forger’s own published opera music, as well as in the compositions of the other leading composers, similar musical usages of such rare occurrence that the forger himself unwittingly might have allowed them to appear in the stolen music. In some instances he may have baited his hook consciously in order to tease and mislead, thereby throwing the investigator off the track. Now, as I expected, that no such rarities occur in the works of Catalani, Cilea, Mascagni, or Zandonai is no surprise, since the caliber of their work is far below that of Puccini and Leoncavallo. I must say that I am surprised that Mascagni is out on the first round. While his music is pleasant, it shows no élan, and beyond Cavalleria there is only Iris, of which there is little to be said.”
“Who then are left? I must say that I can barely keep their names straight.”
“Don’t bother, Watson. Follow my reasoning, not the names of the composers. What I want, dear fellow, is your critique of the argument. Shall I go on?”
“Please do, Holmes.”
“If I am correct, the remaining composers are still under consideration: Boito, Ponchielli, and Giordano. In my judgement, these three are the equal of Puccini and Leoncavallo. Their output is small, but the quality is high. In the coming years, the works of the first group will disappear from the stage, their main arias being the only portion to be widely remembered. Boito, Ponchielli, and Giordano, however, will be performed increasingly.”
“I say, Holmes, I am still troubled by the absence of the greatest of all operatic composers, to wit, Giuseppe Verdi. Surely, he deserves a place in your reasoning.”
“Thank you, dear Watson. No doubt, he deserves a place on historical grounds, but the old man is now an eighty-year-old Orpheus hard at work on Falstaff, his greatest masterpiece. His transition to a late style has evoked much talk, particularly his use of orchestral textures reminiscent of the verismo school. More to the point, he has never had any interest in the rivalries of composers. Quite the contrary not even Wagner troubled him in the least.”
I detected a pinch of pomposity in Holmes’s tone and said no more. “Sorry, old boy,” he said. “I am sure my enthusiasm is a bit difficult to take, but hear me out.”
“I am listening with the greatest interest.”
“Good. We may dispose of Boito immediately. He is now working as a librettist for Verdi. He has no time for the machinations of other composers. That leaves two finalists: Ponchielli and Giordano. Despite the greatness of some of his music, Amilcare Ponchielli is uneven as a composer, and his chief work, La Gioconda, is marred by deep dramatic faults, the notorious “Dance of the Hours” being the most reprehensible. That leaves Umberto Giordano, a native of the city of Foggia and perhaps Italy’s greatest operatic composer of the present generation. A brilliant melodist, orchestrator, and dramatist, his opera Andrea Chenier is the high point of all the scores I have examined.”
“I must say, Holmes, that my ignorance is profound in his respect: I have never heard his name before.”
“You will hear it more and more. Lombroso knows him well and so it should be easy to find him. I think there is someone at the door. Probably a courier with a message from Lombroso with Giordano’s address.”
I took the message from the courier and handed it to Holmes.Via Orlando di Lasso 45, interno 12. È a casa proprio addesso. Lombroso
“Come, Watson, let us go and meet Umberto Giordano. Let us see if my reasoning proves correct.”
I perused a map of Rome that Holmes had tacked to the back of our front door. “It is nearby,” I said, “just off Via Palestrina. It is no more than a ten-minute walk.”
The walk was indeed a short one, for Via Orlando di Lasso crossed Via Palestrina only two streets north of our residence. Interno 12 was on the first floor. The door opened as soon as Holmes rang the bell.
“Signor Giordano?” asked Holmes.
“Son’ io,” replied Giordano with a grin.
“Ma io non son la mamma morta,” replied Holmes with a broad smile.
“Certamente no. Infatti, io aspettavo il famoso nemico del male umano, il Signor Sherlock Holmes. Credo, se non mi sbaglio, sia lui chi sta in fronte a me. E Lei, dovrebbe essere il famoso dottore Watson. Dunque avanti, signori, entrate senza lasciar indietro la speranza.”
I beg the reader’s indulgence here, for he can quickly see from the above that the converstion between Giordano and Holmes went far over my head with its witticisms, its references to Dante and other poets, and its plays on words. I sat silently with a bemused expression on my face, waiting for Holmes to come to the point. It was Giordano who first spoke with reference to the reason for our visit.