The Nightingale Affair

The Nightingale Affaira novelTIM MASONALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL 2023 For Mel and Angela Marvin CONTENTSPart One: Rome, 18511: London, May 5, 18672345668910111213Part Two: Scutari, Turkey, 185414: Late September 1855151617181920212223242526272829303132333435363738394041: July 18564243Part Three: London, 185444: London, 186745464748495051525354555657585960616263646566676869707172737475AfterwordAcknowledgmentsAbout the Author Her family was extremely well-to-do, and connected by marriage with a spreading circle of other well-to-do families. There was a large country house in Derbyshire; there was another in the New Forest; there were Mayfair rooms for the London season and all its finest parties; there were tours on the Continent with even more than the usual number of Italian operas. . . . Brought up among such advantages, it was only natural to suppose that Florence would show a proper appreciation of them by doing her duty in that state of life unto which it had pleased God to call her—in other words, by marrying, after a fitting number of dances and dinner-parties, an eligible gentleman, and living happily ever afterwards.—LYTTON STRACHEY, Eminent VictoriansI consider it presumption in anyone to pretend to decide what women are or are not, can or cannot be, by natural constitution. They have always hitherto been kept, as far as regards spontaneous development, in so unnatural a state, that their nature cannot but have been greatly distorted and disguised.—JOHN STUART MILL, The Subjection of WomenHow very little can be done under the spirit of fear.—FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE PART ONEROME, 1851 In his youth he had been wealthy and acclaimed. His name was known throughout the Continent, his devotees queuing for hours to hear him sing. He was a sought-after society guest; heads of state sent their compliments. Unlike many of his kind, Massimo Ignazio Flammia moved with precision and grace. The chest that held his magnificent lungs was broad and manly, and his face—when he was young—had been that of an angel. He was articulate and well spoken, conversant in five languages. Women flocked to him, well-born ladies, titled ladies. Despite his condition, or perhaps because of it, he had been able to bring those he selected for clandestine trysts to unparalleled heights of ecstasy.All that was long over.True, at the invitation of the pope himself (Gregory XVI), Massimo had joined and was still a member of the Sistine Chapel Choir, but the pay was insulting, the repertoire stultifying, and the small boys annoying. Invitations diminished, dwindled, and finally stopped altogether. Women, titled or otherwise, no longer pursued him. He walked the streets of Rome unrecognized.He missed the recognition bitterly, but he did not miss the women. He had turned against them.It all had happened so gradually he hadn’t realized his danger. Even before his era, female singers had been allowed to perform on stages here and there, of course, but according to Massimo, these were loose women, obviously.Then there were more and more of them. It was hard to believe, but eventually they became more popular than Massimo and his kind! In a matter of years they had taken his roles, every one of them, despite the undeniable inferiority of their voices. All that he had achieved, all that he had given up, and all that had been taken from him, including his testes, had been for naught.Mother said it was our path to riches and fame, and she was proven right, never mind my tears at the time. She was a wizard with needle and thread, was Mother.No, women were not his friends. There were two of them now, English girls, already seated when he entered his box at the Teatro Argentina. They looked and quickly looked away as he folded his frame onto the petite gilt chair and set his bag at his feet. A new work from Verdi had opened here the week before, after its premiere in Venice. Now, Massimo would see it for the third time. Teresa Brambilla was singing, and it gave Massimo pleasure to sneer. The story of the opera, in his opinion, was vulgar. So was the leading lady, who played a character called Gilda, daughter of the Duke’s corrupt court jester, Rigoletto. The Duke, too, was corrupt. As were the noblemen. Everyone here, in fact, was corrupt or, in Gilda’s case, imbecilic.Oh, yes, we’re to believe she never leaves the house except to go to church. Ha! Brambilla looks like a whore after a busy night.The music, though, was irresistible to him. It was, after all, the great Verdi. Massimo adjusted his fine silk cloak about his shoulders and took his embroidery from its bag. The women in the box looked again. Massimo stared them into blushing submission. He was not about to allow any nonsense from the likes of them to mar his little pleasures. The gaslights dimmed, the overture began, and the great red drape rose majestically.It was during Gilda’s first-act aria that everything went wrong. He became aware that the English girls were scowling, one of them snapping her fingers at him. Others around him were hissing! Had he been singing without realizing it? Had he committed the aria to memory, was he making a scene?Oh dear, I suppose I was. A simple melody, really, “Caro nome.” Well, at least now it should be clear to all whose is the superior voice!A uniformed porter appeared and addressed the angry young Englishwomen. “Perdonino signore, il teatro chiede venia per il disturbo.” The man gestured and two other porters materialized at Massimo’s side. They were telling him in whispers that he must leave. It was a nightmare, it couldn’t be happening. They were actually touching him, lifting him up and propelling him to the exit! An outrage! The great Massimo Flammia, ejected!He strode at a great pace, unseeing, through the dark streets, his rage uncooled by the chill, damp air, a forgotten man spurned by the world. He knew from experience he should calm himself; he knew his weaknesses and knew he could not afford to make another mistake. His superiors had overlooked his fits of rage for the last time, they had told him