Scherzo

By Jim Williams

MEET two unusual detectives. Ludovico - a young man who has had his testicles cut off for the sake of opera. And Monsieur Arouet - a fraudster, or just possibly the philosopher Voltaire.

VISIT the setting. Carnival time in mid-18th century Venice, a city of winter mists, and the season of masquerade and decadence.

ENCOUNTER a Venetian underworld of pimps, harlots, gamblers, forgers and charlatans.

BEWARE of a mysterious coterie of aristocrats, Jesuits, Freemasons and magicians.

DISCOVER a murder: that of the nobleman, Sgr Alessandro Molin, found swinging from a bridge with his innards hanging out and a message in code from his killer.

Scherzo is a murder mystery of sparkling vivacity and an historical novel of stunning originality told with a wit and style highly praised by critics and nominated for the Booker Prize.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marble City Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781908943309

Jim Williams

Jim Williams, who worked for Linear Technology for nearly three decades, was a talented and prolific circuit designer and author in the field of analog electronics until his untimely passing in 2011. In nearly 30 years with Linear, he had the unique role of staff scientist with interests spanning product definition, development and support. Before joining Linear Technology in 1982, Williams worked in National Semiconductor’s Linear Integrated Circuits Group for three years. Williams was a legendary circuit designer, problem solver, mentor and writer with writings published as Linear application notes and EDN magazine articles. In addition, he was writer/editor of four books. Williams was named Innovator of the Year by EDN magazine in 1992, elected to Electronic Design Hall of Fame in 2002, and was honored posthumously by EDN and EE Times in 2012 as the first recipient of the Jim Williams Contributor of the Year Award.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Overture

Take a country – let us say Italy. And a city – let us say Venice. The year was 17—. And there was a murder.

Be warned that my Italy may not be your Italy, nor my Venice yours. They may be the Italy and Venice of my imagination or indeed not Italy or Venice at all but a mere pretext or subterfuge, a literary fiction more plausible than Arcadia or Hyperborea. There is a fashion for these realms of the imagination. Do we suppose that Candide’s Bulgaria or the territories of the Grand Turk have any existence outside the fancies of Monsieur Voltaire, even though we may locate them on the map? As for the year 17—, I have a notoriously poor memory for dates and perhaps I have allowed myself to juggle with events in the interest of dramatic effect and because, if things were not in fact just so, then, at least, they should have been. You will therefore understand from my elaborate deceit that this story must be true.

Your narrator is called Ludovico il Tedesco, and despite his undoubted corporeal reality he is just as much an equivocation, a doubtful essay at truth, as the date and place of his tale. He was not born with the name Ludovico, nor is he Italian. He is rather one Ludwig Bauer, an insignificant subject of the Electoral Prince of Bavaria in the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation. Nor is he a man as the World understands these things.

Believe me when I tell you that I sing like an angel. As a child in my village of Kleinkleckersdorf and in its little church with an onion-dome and paintings of female saints in states of dubious ecstasy, I was famous. Indeed, I was so famous and my voice so clear and sweet, that my master the Elector packed me off to His Holiness the Pope. I sang in front of him, and the Pontiff and his Cardinals pronounced themselves delighted, praised me and showered me with sweetmeats; and my head was so turned with vanity that I scarcely noticed when they cut off my tender parts. In short, I was debollocked.

So who am I? Like the angels I sing and I do not age as others age, yet I am not an angel. Like a man I strut in breeches and powdered hair, yet in those things that make a man I am not a man. Am I a woman? Ah, well, I have my dreams! Let us leave it thus.

They call me Lewis the German and also Lewis the Eunuch, and sometimes Lewis the Liar.

In one thing I am not lying. The murder was real enough. And that excuses all my fakement. I have knowledge that I should like to share. But I have no desire to end my days at the bottom of a canal with a knife in my back.

During the seven years of my adolescence spent in Rome, I perfected my training as a singer. My build was slight and to this day I have never developed the massive chest and pendulous breasts of the mature castrato. It seemed that my destiny was to play young female parts in the opera. In the territories of the Holy Father women are not allowed on the stage. Their appearance would be indecent. By contrast it is entirely proper to emasculate young boys. In Rome I met Beppino della Mammana, who was one of the most famous in our profession and a person of great charm.

The close company of priests and de-natured boys is not likely to lead to the salvation of either. At the age of seventeen I grew tired of Rome and had a mind to go to Venice which was, even more than the Holy City, the goal of every visitor to Italy and the locus of every vice and frivolity in our vicious and frivolous age. I thought that my talents were more likely to be rewarded there.

I had managed to make some little savings from the allowance paid to me by my master, the Elector, and from the presents given to me for certain favours by my admirers. With these I made a contract with a vetturino who was going north and, by stages, in his coach and those of other vetturini I reached Padua.

There I spent some time enjoying myself with students at the Bo, which is their name for the university. Then, realising that I must sooner or later go to Venice, I took the burchiello which sails regularly up and down the Brenta canal between the two cities, and by this means at last reached my destination.

I was seventeen years old. I had no relatives or protector, no letter of recommendation or money, and no abilities other than the ones I have described. I soon discovered that my voice was not especially remarkable and that singing in the opera was a crowded and jealous occupation. I was unable to find work in that direction and therefore turned my talents to the only other job for which I was cut out.

Those next two years, which I spent, so to speak, servicing the needs of the Navy were the most miserable of my existence. I lodged in poor quarters near the Arsenal and earned my bread as Man – if not God – apparently intended. The brightest spot of that dismal period was the six months I lived as catamite to a Turkish merchant of a tolerable and generous disposition. The worst was a three-month spell as a slave, more or less, to a Slavonian captain in Venetian service who believed buggery to be the continuation of war by other means, as I was later to remark to a German officer who became a military historian of some repute.

I was relieved from my torment when, during a moment of intimate discourse with Signor Annibale Bulgarone, who will be remembered as the owner of the Teatro San Samuele for a time, I mentioned to him that I had once attracted the notice of Beppino della Mammana. It was made apparent to me that Signor Bulgarone had himself known Beppino both professionally and personally. Pleased with me, the impresario treated this connection as enough to give me an audition – though, in truth, it was no recommendation at all since he had only my word for it – and I was fortunate enough to satisfy him on the point of being able to sing competently.

At the Teatro San Samuele, I was put to the task of singing in the chorus of small female parts of no distinction. I have no pretension to being a great singer, and I have already mentioned that, for some reason, I did not acquire in the same degree the physical attributes of the famous castrati. Frankly, I had been lucky and it was enough that I could feed and clothe myself. Then, one night, I attracted the attention of Signorina Angelica Morosini.

The Morosini are an ancient, patrician family who have furnished Venice with several Doges and other dignitaries. Angelica’s father, Signor Tomasso Morosini, was a member of the highest body of the state, the Council of Ten. He was cultivated and easy-going in manner, and mildly anti-clerical and enlightened in outlook. By way of disadvantage, he had a fierce family pride and also a kind of vanity, not so much of appearance as the intellectual kind, which he masked by his manners. Indeed he was the perfect dissembler of emotions. This branch of the Morosini lived in the Ca’ di Spagna, so called to distinguish it from the family’s other palazzi.

On her sixteenth birthday, Signor Morosini brought Angelica to the theatre. He did not consider the spectacle too indecent for a young mind. She was entranced. The piece was a slight one, of the kind that run briefly and are never revived, but it contained the role of a maidservant which I had the honour to play. Such roles earned my daily bread, but in this case the librettist’s treatment of the young mistress was insipid and the servant, by contrast, was all the more fetching. It was this that my darling Angelica found so entrancing.

She turned to her father and proclaimed, ‘Isn’t she wonderful, Papa! And she even has my name, Angelica!’

‘Certainly she sings her part with vigour,’ replied her father.

‘More than that! Don’t be mean! She is Angelica to the life.’

‘Yes, if you like.’

‘I insist on it.’

‘Very well, my dear child.’

Angelica – that is to say the real Angelica – applauded so enthusiastically that I, the fausse Angelica, took notice and began to sing for her benefit to bring out of the role those turns of humour that delighted her. And in the end, the two Angelicas, genuine and fausse, were pretty pleased one with the other.

The matter of my Angelica, was not, however, over with the performance. While I was removing my make-up, the other Angelica was disturbing her father. She told him, ‘I should like a servant just like that one. She’s so witty and gay that I’m sure I’d become so too.’

‘Possibly. However, my child, that particular maidservant isn’t a maidservant at all, but a singer.’

‘Pah! I have servants to do the things that servants do, but a companion who was always mine and who would be sweet and cheerful only for me, now that would be a treasure!’

‘I can see that,’ Signor Morosini agreed circumspectly, and at that point another of his guests came to his rescue by whispering something in Angelica’s ear which caused some blushes but achieved the effect of cutting the flow of her demands.

Embarrassment was spared, but the matter was not over. Signor Morosini had himself enjoyed my performance, having had his attention forced on to it by his daughter. The latter was disappointed that it would be indecent for me to fulfil the role destined by her imagination, but the former had the idea that he could gratify her by inviting me to the Ca’ di Spagna to give a recital in the proper form.

In due course that is what happened. I attended the Morosini family and sang to order; and, afterwards, as my patron condescended to talk to me, he discovered that I was not a mere clown. In addition to gatherings of a formal character and great respectability, Signor Morosini held regular suppers for his more liberal acquaintances, and at these I was even allowed to dine and join afterwards in the more general conversation. I do not wish to sound peevish. His liberality was genuine and I appreciated it.

My story, therefore, begins with my presence acknowledged in the Palazzo Morosini. I was the faux man, the faux Italian, the fausse maidservant, the fausse Angelica, and I was on the point of meeting the man whose brilliant and enigmatic character was to overthrow my judgment so that even after all these years I think of him with love and admiration.

And, of course, I must deal with the murder. Everything written above is essential, but is a mere prelude or overture to this last-named matter.

CHAPTER TWO

A Letter from an Uncle to a Niece

Geneva 

15th January 17—

Dearest,

Your last letter – like all your letters – ravished my Heart. The Sweetness of your Endearments brings Tears to my eyes and I could rush to your side, fall at your feet and bathe them in those same Tears.

You say that you admire my Books. Flatterer! To me they seem now to be no more than the prattlings of a spirit oppressed by Tedium. I disdain all praise for their supposed Wisdom. He only is wise who can earn the Love of another. But, if it please you to receive my Affection in the base coinage of my Writings, then so be it. You wish to divine the Secret of their Creation. Truly you go to the Marrow of the thing, for what writer knows his Muse by her true name? If you had asked me about my poetic history of Henri Quatre, I could perhaps have answered you plainly. That Monarch brought Peace to France after the Religious Wars, and, from an inspired Cynicism, exchanged Protestant Bigotry for Catholic Idolatry and instituted harmony between the two communities. Was his Cynicism reprehensible? No, it was Glorious! For only a man of Free and Courageous spirit could pay those Fraudulent Priests with his own Fraudulent Confession of Faith. By treating both those Creeds with deserved Contempt, he pointed the way to the Worship of the Divine Being in true Simplicity of Soul. May I do likewise!

As to the other Book you mention, what shall I say? Shall you admire me less if I say that it was the creature of Chance, an inspired Joke? That I wrote it in the spirit of Levity and that such Wisdom as it may possess came simply from the writing of it, like the dung-cart following the parade? In truth that is how it often is. I tell a tale for the simple telling of it, wondering where it will lead me and who will be my Companions on the Journey. And they turn out to be the usual motley Pilgrims, each seeking Salvation in his own way. You will find them all in my Book: the Philosopher and the Charlatan, the Honest Fellow and the Huckster, the Lecher and the innocent Virgin. All of them myself, alas!

I am told – I do not know if it is true – that Monsieur Mozart, while on a journey to Vienna, had occasion to steal an orange and that, inspired by his associations with Italy, he proceeded to write a Work of great Sublimity on themes of that country. Does not this indicate the operations of Fortune or the Divine Humour? Who can prescribe for such eventualities and predict where they will lead? The orange inspired the music of Monsieur Mozart and perhaps (such are the workings of the Muse) that tale in itself will inspire another to write about it, though I shall not.

Now away with preliminaries, and I shall tell you a story about a story for whatever enlightenment it provides you. Some years ago I found myself in the city of Venice and recommended to the attention of a great Nobleman of that place. He was pleased to extend to me his Society and the Hospitality of his Palazzo and I chanced to be in his company on that night, the night of the infamous Murder of which we have often spoken.

Now my Venetian Friend had many retainers in his household, and among their number was one Monsieur Louis. He was singing-master to the daughter of my friend and, to his Misfortune, was a member of that neutered race whom it pleases the Pope to employ in the singing of female and soprano parts. As to his person, being twenty years of age, he still possessed a certain physical Delicacy; indeed, let it be said, certain charms of the Gentle Sex which might have fooled the eye or beguiled the Heart of one who was not aware of his Vile Condition. As to manner he was light-hearted and kept frivolous company; but withal he had a native Wit. He was unaffected and honest in his dealings with his friends. He was, in short, Candid.

That night of the Murder we walked together to our respective dwellings for company and Safety. It was that season when Venice is full of Mists and Stinks, oppressive to the Spirit, gloomy and Dangerous. Monsieur Louis entertained me with his insouciant conversation. He came, he said, from Bavaria, and had been apprenticed in Rome. Fleeing the unnatural Vices of the Priests, he had taken a carriage to Padua, disguising himself as a student in case his unfortunate condition should cause him to be ejected by his fellow-passengers.

Now the custom is that, if the vetturino is to provide food and accommodation for the journey, he dines with his passengers. I know these fellows and they have a rude Intelligence and a vulgar Curiosity. This was one of that tribe and he proceeded to interrogate his passengers.

Among them was a German, a meat-fed Beer-guzzler with a great Belly covered in a snuff-coloured suit, heavy snuff-coloured jowls overhung by a snuff-coloured Nose like a sprouting Potato, and the ensemble topped by a snuff-coloured wig. He took snuff.

‘And who may you be?’ asked the solid vetturino.

‘I am Professor Doctor Allewörter,’ returned our snuff-coloured friend in Italian that was barely comprehensible beneath a thick Swabian accent.

‘Indeed!’ quoth the vetturino, who in his own estimation was a match for any Professor and who would, no doubt, tell anyone who cared to know that he had studied at the università della vita. ‘And of what, pray, are you a Professor?’

‘Of Philosophy, the purest and noblest of the Sciences. I am a follower of the Great Leibniz.’

‘Aha!’ replied his host, undeterred. ‘And what, Signore, are the opinions of this Great Laidezza that should trouble a working-man?’

‘He believed and demonstrated that we live in the Best of All Possible Worlds.’

‘Vero?’ said the vetturino, and for a while he was silent. (I mention these silences because they are important in any story-telling.)

At length spake the good vetturino, ‘No, Signore! It can’t be so. We Starve, we Suffer, we grow Ill, and we Die. The Great Laidezza is mistaken. This world is No Good.’

‘On the contrary, my friend,’ answered the Professor contentedly. ‘We are provided with Sun and Rain, Fruit and Seed, Birds and Beasts aplenty. lf we were only Wise, this Earth would be a Paradise.’

‘B———-ks!’ said the vetturino (in Italian, naturally) and fell silent again. (And in this silence, my dear, while the vetturino racks his brains for a Riposte, shall we remember our many pleasant evenings by the fireside while you read to me? Ah! Too late! He is quick, this fellow, and has thought of something!)

‘What about Earthquakes? Or Floods? Or Plague? Don’t tell me that us poor devils are responsible for those!’

‘Nevertheless, we live in the Best of all Possible Worlds.’

‘How so?’

A pinch of snuff. (Imagine this gesture – slow, delicate, the very image of Complacency.)

‘Tell me, my good fellow – are you a good Catholic?’

‘God willing, baptized and confirmed, Signore.’

‘Then, I assume, you accept that God is Good?’

A grunt. Tricky, these Philosophers, They can get you burned. The vetturino remembers be is from Rome, where the Inquisition plies its trade.

‘And is He omnipotent – that is to say, can He do anything He wishes to do within the limits of the Possible?’

‘Most likely He can do anything He damn well chooses,’ affirms our good Catholic.

‘I don’t ask you to go so far. He cannot make two plus two equal five or black be the same as white, since these are Absurdities, but He can do anything else that is Possible. Do you agree?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Very well,’ says the Professor. ‘If, then, God is both Good and capable of doing anything that is Possible, it follows necessarily that this must be the Best of all Possible Worlds. To conclude otherwise is to assert that God is not Good, or not Omnipotent or not either.’

And there we have it, my dearest! Optimism in all its beautiful Simplicity, and who can attack the impeccable Logic? Certainly not my young friend Monsieur Louis.

However, with the innocent Percipience for which I admired him, he asked the learned Professor, ‘Professore, what is your opinion concerning Murder and Murderers within the scheme of this World?’

‘They are necessary,’ came the firm answer.

‘And are they good?’

Yes indeed! Is this not the veriest Touchstone? Let us hear the reply.

‘A Murderer may damn his Soul to Hellfire by his act, but within the scheme of this World the same act must be as Necessary and Good as any other.’ A pause. ‘Yes, in this Best of All Possible Worlds, Murder is Good.’

Thus said Professor Doctor Allewörter, and he passed into Obscurity. Except that his shadow fell upon my young friend and then upon me. And now it falls upon you, darling Child.

So that is the tale of my candid friend and it allows me to answer your question. Where do Books come from? From trifles heard and seen.

Write to me soon. Better still, come to see

Your affectionate Uncle

CHAPTER THREE

Signor Ludovico’s Narrative

Signor Morosini’s private entertainments were given for a dozen or so persons. Their form was generally the same: a good meal to an instrumental accompaniment, followed by a song recital or other performance, and ending in a game of faro played by the gentlemen. My patron was a widower but he kept a faithful mistress, the Contessa della Torre da S——-. She was an educated and witty woman and she held conversation with those gentlemen who had neither the mind nor the pocket for cards.

The guests were for the most part persons like my patron: that is to say, members of the patrician families who serve the Republic. In addition, I recall Cardinal Francesco Aldobrandini, who had once been the Contessa’s lover and also the Comte de la Ferté who fought for the Austrian Empress in the Silesian war and ended his days in the service of the Turks. They, however, were in the nature of visitors and not of the regular company.

I dined with the gentlemen, and I fancy that my prettiness – I was only twenty – confused one or two of them. After dinner I took my accustomed position at the harpsichord and sang half a dozen songs. These were of my patron’s composition to poems by Guidi. Frankly, Signor Morosini was an execrable composer, but, as I have said, he was a vain man where his intellectual or artistic productions were concerned. To satisfy my own pride, I embellished this rubbish with some elegant fioriture of my own which pleased both my patron and his guests. And afterwards they fell to playing cards.

I had not the money to indulge in cards and I was not expected to join the party. Instead I placed myself in the vicinity of the Contessa, who was engaging two gentlemen in conversation. It would have embarrassed my host had it appeared that I was a mere hired lackey, but my inferior position did not allow me to seize the reins of conversation, and I was content to wait in case they deigned to pay me some attention.

I doubt that the younger of the two men was my age, but he had the assurance of one much older. He was neatly made, handsome, and wore his own hair curled, lightly powdered and smelling faintly of ambergris. His clothes were modest but superbly tailored. There was something about him that suggested he was a priest in minor orders, an abate such as Italy is full of, and he might have been a companion to the Cardinal. However, I saw no sign of a cross. Instead I saw that his rings, of which he wore several, and his fob were engraved with curious symbols which I did not recognise. His complexion was attractively smooth and dark, which made me think of the Oriental. And, to add to this confusion of signals, there was his voice. He was cultivating a fine, literary Tuscan manner, with a few words of Veneziano appropriate to being in that city. But beneath this sophistication I detected the dialect of Sicily which he was at pains to mask.

For obvious reasons it was this good-looking young man who attracted my attention. When I turned to the other, my impressions were quite different. Frankly, on this initial acquaintance, I found him unprepossessing. He was aged above fifty, perhaps even sixty. His clothes were of good, plain English cloth such as any respectable bourgeois might have worn. He wore a wig, very smart and powdered, but unfashionably long at the sides, which told me that his tastes had been fixed in the twenties or even earlier. As to his features, I was subsequently to change my mind, but this was my first impression. His nose was long and jutted out straight to a point. His eyes were small and glittered with malice or irony. His mouth was thin-lipped, a sharp slit that complemented nose and eyes. When all this assembly was in motion, it suggested slyness and deep intelligence. I shuddered when he spoke to me.

‘Signor Ludovico, may I compliment you on your singing.’

‘I am deeply obliged to you, Signore – forgive me, but I have not been granted the honour of knowing your name?’

‘I am Monsieur Arouet, a Frenchman as you see.’

‘I am grateful, Monsieur Arouet, that you enjoyed the songs.’

‘Ah, yes’ – he hesitated and studied me for the first time with that sharp yet equivocal gaze – ‘the songs. I find that, on first hearing a song, one struggles to take in both words and music. I don’t doubt that these songs will also improve with repetition. I note, however, that you introduced certain flowery notes which I think were of your own invention.’

‘I hope they did not distract you from the beauties of Signor Morosini’s composition?’

Monsieur Arouet smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They did not do that.’

His young companion now spoke to me. His tone was gracious, indeed irresistible. He had the ability to put others at ease with his perfect manners and yet, at the same time, retain an air of reserve.

‘Your surname, il Tedesco, is not, I fancy, a family name but designates your country of origin?’

‘Indeed, I am a German, a subject of His Highness the Elector of Bavaria.’

This answer might have provoked an enquiry into my history and unfortunate condition, but my interlocutor’s instincts were too delicate to press me as to matters that were both shameful and self-evident. Instead he began a digression for the benefit of the Contessa.

‘We were speaking earlier of languages, Contessa. My friend’s name, il Tedesco, reminds me. In the speech of the Copts, whose tongue is derived from that of the ancient Egyptians, tedescah signifies a song or perhaps a singer of the Temple. Ludovico may be taken as a compound of several words, the sense of which is that the person is noble or, at least, well-born. Signor Ludovico is to be complimented on a name that is both just and flattering – when viewed from the Coptic, of course.’

The Contessa giggled prettily at this pleasantry. ‘I am never certain how much of what you say to believe, Signor Balsamo. You seem at the same time to be learned and frivolous. Do you really speak Egyptian?’

‘Not perfectly, but I learned the tongue while travelling in that country for the purpose of my studies.’

‘What were those?’

‘I had studied the works of Hermes Trismegistus in the Greek, but I wished to confirm my understanding from the uncorrupted Egyptian.’

‘I thought that the Egyptian characters remained undeciphered,’ intervened Monsieur Arouet, making his point both accurately and mildly, and seasoning it with his sly smile.

Unperturbed, Signor Balsamo answered, ‘It is true that they resist any literal or vulgar understanding. Their nature is to describe pictures or symbols which have to be interpreted metaphysically or metaphorically. As I say, I was using them merely as a check against the Greek.’

‘Ah, yes,’ mused Monsieur Arouet in apparent agreement. ‘So much may be understood if one looks beneath the surface and reads it metaphysically or metaphorically, even life itself. Indeed, it may perhaps be possible to read even our friend Signor Ludovico as a metaphor for something else.’

Fortunately, the subject of myself – metaphorical or otherwise – was dropped and the party shortly broke up. Those who had come by boat went to their gondolas, while those who had brought servants returned home with them. My own intention was to return to my lodging on foot and accept the risk of being waylaid and robbed by the bravi who infested the darkened streets; but for more fortunate guests, who included Monsieur Arouet, our host summoned his own people, who would accompany them with lanterns and cudgels.

‘Where are you bound?’ Monsieur Arouet asked me. I told him.

‘It seems that Signor Morosini cannot spare servants for all his guests, but your way lies with mine, Signor Ludovico. I should be honoured if you would accompany me and, in this way, we may each protect the other.’

‘I am infinitely obliged,’ I said with a well-judged bow. It was no less than the truth. Despite his appearance, Monsieur Arouet had shown me true kindness and done so with the most delicate regard for my situation. So far as appearances go, perhaps his, too, was a metaphor for something else – I do not know. However, this small attention on his part began the transformation of my impression of him. What my feelings became will be discovered in the rest of this history.

It was the cold season. The night was pitch-dark. The time was about six o’clock, counting from the evening angelus. The canals were almost empty, but we had our faithful link-boy, who jogged along a few paces behind us with his lantern wavering and casting an erratic light. Unquestionably there were strangers about, dark figures haunting alleys and doorways, but three men in obvious good health could walk in security.

The notion that the lodgings of myself and Monsieur Arouet lay along the same route now appeared to me fanciful. Despite my appearance of prosperity, I was living in a garret in the Calle Malipiero and my companions in slumber (since I could not afford a whole room) were my lover and fellow castrato, Tosello, and sundry actresses and whores. I imagined that the Frenchman had a room in an hotel or with a decent family. Still he made no suggestion that our path was other than convenient for him. He seemed inclined to talk. He asked me my history and, in view of his kindnesses, I could not refuse him. However, since I have already stated my history in the overture to this work, I do not propose to elaborate it with variations and counterpoint.

At the story of Professor Doctor Allewörter my companion burst into laughter of the most open and agreeable character, which confirmed my growing good opinion of him.

‘You think with me, then, that he is mistaken? That we do not live in the best of all possible worlds?’ I said.

Monsieur Arouet shook his head. ‘On the contrary. His premisses are sound; God is good and He is, indeed, omnipotent. Ergo it follows, as the professor so aptly demonstrated, that we live in the best of all possible worlds – plagues, famines, volcanoes and murders notwithstanding.’

‘Then I have done a good man an injustice,’ I admitted reluctantly.

Monsieur Arouet detected my disappointment and placed a hand on mine. ‘No, my young friend. You have done an injustice to a sound logician. But you have identified a perfect fool.’ He then recited a poem to me in English, which he translated for my benefit. It went thus:

All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee;

All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see;

All Discord, Harmony not understood;

All partial Evil, universal Good:

And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason’s spite,

One truth is clear, ‘Whatever is, is Right.’

At the end he said, ‘The author of that piece is Alexander Pope, who in this particular is also a fool. Do not be puzzled by folly and wisdom occupying the same mind, like a woman with a fine bosom and an ugly face. I am often a fool, but I think nothing of it.’

‘You are too subtle for me,’ I said.

‘And you are too candid,’ he answered.’ But, come, we’ll speak of it again; and perhaps in one of my literary excursions I shall make something of this fellow Allewörter.’

The remark concerning my new friend’s literary excursions seemed an invitation to satisfy my curiosity concerning his own circumstances. I asked,’ Monsieur, forgive me, but you seem, also, to be of a philosophical turn of mind.’

‘That is true, though I have little to do with building great systems of thought in the manner of Leibniz. I should be content if superstition were removed from Religion and if Reason were applied to the acquisition of knowledge and the ordering of human affairs. Whatever I have written is directed at those simple goals.’

‘Would I know your works, Monsieur?’

‘No. Your education has been in Rome, and my writings are all on the Index of Forbidden Books. In the mind of His Holiness I am an atheist, though I fancy he would find more atheists among his Cardinals or his predecessors.’

‘You frighten me.’

‘I frighten myself. Anyone must, who sets up his private confections of wisdom and folly against Revealed Truth. Still, one does what one must.’

The last remark was delivered in a melancholy tone. We were both tired and a little cold, and the light from the lantern, feeble at best, was fading because the lazy fellow who carried it had not replaced the candle before venturing into the night.

To revive our spirits, if only by the sound of my own voice, I asked, ‘What is it that has brought you to Venice? And how do you come to know Signor Morosini?’

‘I was not previously acquainted with your patron,’ was the answer. ‘However, I bear a letter of introduction from a nobleman who is pleased to consider me his friend – I speak of the Duc de Richelieu. As to my purpose here in Venice, I have come to publish a book. In France I am, for the time-being, out of favour with His Majesty. In Venice, on the other hand, it is not a question of favour. For the appropriate fee one can find a printer who will print anything.’

‘But won’t such an illegal publication simply aggravate your problems in France?’

‘No. Rather there is a considerable advantage. I can claim that the work was published without my authority or that

Reviews for Scherzo

[kfish823 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Scherzo by Jim Williams is a free LibraryThing Early Reviewers e-book I began reading in early January. The giveaway notice has been sitting in my inbox since last month, so I thought I'd get on the ball and start reading it.Per other reviews, the verbiage of this book is intensely rich and supple. To liken it to other literature I've come across, it's a mix of Shakespeare (particularly during its High English witty dialogue exchanges) and Chelsea Quinn Yarbro's Saint-Germaine series (due to its use of letter correspondence and description of food, clothes, and general opulence). This made it easy to scan for plot points and yet simple to let yourself go to immerse yourself in Venetian court life, squalor and fetes.

[pears_1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I was much pleased when I ”won” this book the ER programme. I had chosen this based on blurb. However, I have to say, I did not like it. The 18th century language is one thing, but I truly disliked that the “scherzo” very early on appeared (at least to me) to be based on Casanova’s autobiography; then exploded, and the bits attached to various characters, and ( not really important to me) various time-periods in afm biography. I can only hope that the author had fun doing it – I did not enjoy myself.

[pcs4music · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I received a copy of this for free in exchange for an honest review. Now that the disclaimer is out of the way......while this book is well-written, it is not a light, nor easy read. It is set in the 18th century, and as such, is full of many archaic words. I was thankful that I was reading it on a KIndle, so as to have the ability to highlight a word to bring up its meaning. Most of the words I could figure out from context, but a few of the words made me glad of this option. The story is a mystery of sorts, and in the end, one is left with not really knowing with any certainty who really did it. But that was the plan from the outset, so I don't have a quarrel with that. As a musician, I have always been fascinated by castrati, and that was my main motivation for reading this book. That was the same reason I read Anne Rice's, Cry to Heaven. Cry to Heaven, I enjoyed immensely and learned much about the life of a castrato. This book, not so much.

[mandygirl.10 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I received this book as part of the Early Reviewers program, and I have to admit that had I not received it to provide a review, I probably would not have read it on my own. This was far out of my preferred genre to read, but I didn’t entirely mind. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the book and wasn’t sure I would like it; at first I didn’t but once the plot finally got moving I enjoyed the different twists and trying to figure out who the murderer was. Despite that the literal meaning of this book means "joke," I found it to be anything but. If you're expecting a light-toned novel because the title means joke, Scherzo isn't it. This book was heavy-hitting (to me, anyway) from jump. The preface at the beginning (which was a little bit too long for my taste, I began to grow disinterested) helped me to understand that this was a book in which I needed to question everything I was told, question everything that I saw through the narrator's eyes. I think one thing that jumped out at me was how much Ludovico underestimated his depth and intelligence especially when compared to those of his peers, because to me he shows an amazing sense of insight, although this could have been the insight he gained from looking back in retrospect. I think it might have been both, but it was through his questions and second-guessing that I was reminded to remain suspicious of everyone and everything. It also showed me just how much trust we as readers put in our narrators. We trust them to tell us the truth, trust them to tell us everything as it really happened so that we can form our own opinions. Ludovico seems to be aware of this and just when you begin to forget his warning and trust his version of events, he reminds you not to. He plays with the reader by leaving out certain parts of conversation and deciding which parts the reader should be aware of, reminding you cheekily that he, too, is an unsavory character and you should be suspicious of his words as well. That ability alone speaks for his intelligence level, so I stand by my opinion that he underestimated himself compared to Arouet throughout a good portion of the book. I wasn't used to this style of writing before reading Scherzo so it took me awhile to really get into the book, but once I was in I was in. I think the manner in which the plot came together was rather smart; if you weren't paying close attention you'd miss it. Anonymous pieces of correspondence that at first seem insignificant, little bits of dialogue that at first appear to have no meaning, all slowly come together over the course of the book but at the end, is there even a conclusion? The murder was never definitively solved, no one person was ever brought to justice. But then again, was anyone ever really murdered to begin with? Wasn't it all just a jest for the sake of telling a good story? While I do understand that, I guess I just prefer more closure at the end of my stories. I do have to say that I liked how events came to pass, even if it did come together a little more slowly than I am accustomed to. I also enjoyed figuring out who was who from the correspondence and random bits sprinkled throughout the story. It reminded me a bit of an Agatha Christie book, in that every person involved had something unsavory about their character, something to call the quality of their character into question. That part I enjoyed. Sometimes the dialogue seemed a bit too complicated just for the sake of being so, and this wore on my brain after awhile. If you aren’t paying attention, the tone of the dialogue could make even the more humorous situations appear almost somber. Unless that was the intention, I think the humor could have been better executed. While I did not completely dislike the book, I can’t say I loved it either.

[fules_portrait · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Upon first reading, it took me a few pages to fall into the rhythm of the language—to get a feel for it, so to speak—but once I did, I found myself really drawn towards the characters and their elaborately painted world. An entertaining read!

[grandmacootie · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I received a copy of this novel through the LibraryThing Early Reviewers program in exchange for an honest review. However, it did not hold my interest enough for me to be able to finish it. It started out slowly and at first I thought that was just because the writing style was a bit different than what I have been reading lately. The details about the place and time were rich and seemed to be setting up the scene for the murder and what was to follow. I had a good sense of the history and politics of the period, but the murder and the characters never seemed to mesh and did not incorporate all that historical and cultural information – the background info just seemed to stay in the background. I put the book down several times and picked it up again thinking that I was just not in the right mindset to read it and that if I took a little break it would finally grab my attention and hold me until the end, but that did not happen. The characters’ viewpoints and interactions just seemed complicated and hard to keep track of and not worth the work it took to do so. With all the detailed background and variety of characters it may hold other readers’ interest, but it was not for me.

[ibkennedy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Great writing. Interesting characters but sometimes a little tedious.

[literary.elitist · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

From the outset, 'Scherzo" introduces us to an unreliable narrator. This thread continues throughout the novel highlighting the effect that narration, or point-of-view, has on the representation and interpretation of events. Given that the subtitle places the work as a murder mystery set in the distant past a further problem for narration is conceived. How to trust to history, and how do we ever solve mysteries? There is a delicious philosophical bent to this work that makes for quite pleasurable reading. Unlike some works of fiction that aspire to the philosophical, 'Scherzo' does not complicate or bamboozle the reader. In the tradition of philosophical thought, much of the philosophising is presented conversationally and humorously making it enjoyable to engage with.As to the main thread of the story, it is compelling and keeps you reading, the characters are interesting and contain just the right amount of depth. And despite setting up the unreliability of the narrator, one cannot help but fall under the spell of the narration and trust to what they are being told.This is definitely a fun read balanced with the wit and skill of some early 18th Century authorial greats.

[spbooks_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The murder mystery in this novel is really secondary. What shines above all else is the wonderful use of language - it's richly evocative, witty, and ironically oblique as descriptions of eccentric characters and earthy subjects drip from the page. I learned a great deal about Venetiann society and culture of the 18 century. It's a delightful read (if you don't mind the flowery, sometimes bloated, language of the era). I thought it could have been a bit shorter and the trickery played on the reader at the end was a bit suspicious (can't say more without spoiling the ending). If you like historical fiction and love language this one is for you.

[mishker-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Scherzo by definition, frequently refers to a fast-moving humorous composition which may or may not be part of a larger work.Scherzo the novel fits this definition well and is written as a historical murder-mystery set in eighteenth-century Venice. Our narrator throughout the novel is a now aged Ludovico il Tedesco, a castrato singer. Ludovico's narrative plus a collection of letters and excerpts from the broad range of characters makes the story move along and constantly kept me wondering what in the world was going to happen next. Ludovico's character was very different and, due to his unique situation, was often put into hilarious situations. The plot of the murder was sometimes secondary to figuring out what each of the other characters was up to. Also, whenever it seemed like one part of the mystery was figured out, more pressing questions appeared. This mystery kept me engaged and surprised to the very end. The cast of characters was wonderful, no wonder this is nominated for the Booker Prize. Recommended for lovers of historical fiction, murder-mysteries and even comedies.

[romonko · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is so much more than it appears on the surface. Yes there is a murder mystery, but it's the back story and the two main characters that push this book into the realm of the amazing. The setting is 18 century Venice. The main storyteller is a eunuch by the name of Ludovico, who describes himself as a preening coward. His counterpart and the foil to this extremely colourful character is Monsieur Arouet. Mr. Arouet is a taciturn, mysterious person who appears in Venice and somehow falls right into the middle of the murder of an upper class Venetian. Monsieur Arouet sets out to try solve this murder that seems to be part of some secret ceremony, and he uses Ludovico to help him as Ludovico has access into some of the upper class Venetian homes that he doesn't. The descriptions of Venice as it would have been in the 18 century are extremely realistic. And do we ever get a realistic look into the 18 century Venetian underworld while we follow Ludovico around! It was an era of extremes. Much richness and lavishness, and much poverty and despair. And it's not always the poor people who commit terrible crimes. The rich go to extreme lengths to cover up their numerous misdeeds and debaucheries. The word "scherzo" apparently means "joke" and this book is that too. It is so colourfully written and so realistic that it's like watching a play. I loved Ludovico. We see him as a young man of 21 who has been cruelly mutilated in order that he will retain his beautiful singing voice. He is insecure and almost expects everyone to hold him in contempt, but as he works with Monsieur Arouet he matures and and becomes a man who finds his place in his madcap world. I received this book as an early reviewer book, and am so glad that I did because I don't think I would have read it otherwise. I loved it!

[kaysbooks · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Jim Williams: ScherzoWhen I was introduced to that book, I thought that it might be just the thing I liked: The story is mainly told by a young castrato singer who becomes part of a murder scheme in Venice in the late 18th century. That sounded just great but Williams apparently wanted much more of his story but also less: less opera singing, less real murder plot and less personal development of the characters. But those characters, especially young Ludovico, the poor eunuch, and the philosopher Arouet, possibly Voltaire, are just as enigmatic (or superficial) after reading 300 pages. Most parts of the story are told by Ludovico who describes his work for a nobleman in Venice and his share of the murder investigation after an important citizen of the town is brutally killed. But due to a lot of sub-stories about seduction, deduction, betrayal and whatsoever, I always lost track of the page-turning-idea of the book. As soon as things started to get interesting, Williams introduced something completely different that he might find entertaining or amusing, but – alas – I did not. So, I have to admit that I was more than relieved when I finally reached page 300 which will leave the reader mainly just as puzzled and left behind as was to be feared after the first 50 pages. I truly admire Williams’ imagination and phantasy but, well, this was definitely not the exciting or humorous read I was hoping for. What a pity.