Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

Holmes and I removed his wet clothing and again threw blankets around him. A few drops of brandy to his lips and he began to revive. I called for the young woman to heat the soup that was left for her father, when I noticed that without a word she was gone, the bottle of brandy placed on the floor near the door.

“She left as we put down our charge on the couch, Watson. Perhaps she will return. Well, we have enough to feed the old man, if he survives his ordeal.”

“How odd, Holmes. She has disappered and left him to us, complete strangers.”

“I am from Paris,” said our frozen guest in a weak voice. “She saw me slip on the ice and tried to help me up, I was too heavy. I shall always be grateful to her and to you gentlemen.”

“Do not concern yourself, Mr.—”

“Murger, Henri Murger of Paris. I am here to meet with Mr. Sherlock Homes who, if I am not mistaken, may live in this very building.”

“He does indeed live here,” said Holmes. “I know him well and will take you to him. But first, a short sleep for all of us. It is very late and we would all benefit by some rest. Monsieur Murger, please make yourself comfortable on the couch and we will see you in the morning,” said Holmes.

We left our guest in our sitting room, and I soon heard his rhythmic breathing through the partially open door. I wondered what had befallen the flower girl. It was she with whom our Gabriel had become enamoured. She, however, while she claimed to love him as well, was often seen with other, richer men. Gabriel was deeply concerned because she was ill with pneumonia but still tried to sell her flowers even in the snow.

Holmes was the first up in the morning, and I heard him as he made our tea and breakfast. Murger was sound asleep still at eight.

“Watson,” said he as he handed me a cup of tea, “I was unable to tell you last night that I am expecting two clients in just a few moments. The rain and snow have stopped and so I assume that they will not be detained. To talk with them in Murger’s presence, for reasons that I shall make clearer later, would be most awkward. And so I will use the kitchen. Our landlady is already gone for the day and will not return until late. We must be grateful for small things. Ah, there is the bell. Watson, please direct them to the kitchen where I shall hear their difficulties to them and feed them un po’ di mascarpone e una tazza di caffè .”

Holmes had told me nothing of Murger or of his two clients. I was in the dark but did as he asked. Two elegant Italian gentlemen were already at our door.

“ Prego, Dottore, noi cerchiamo Sherlock Holmes. Are you by any chance the famous Dr. Watson?”

“I am. And who shall I say is here?”

“Messrs. Puccini and Leoncavallo.”

I did not recognize their names, but led them to the kitchen where Holmes was sitting, reading the local newspaper. Holmes rose as they introduced themselves.

“Mr. Holmes,” said the taller of the two men, “ sono Puccini Giacomo e vi presento Leoncavallo Ruggiero .”

“ Molto lieto. Vi prego , please have some cheese and coffee. It is all that I have to offer you.”

The two men sat down at the old green table. I moved my chair closer so that I could hear what transpired. Puccini spoke first. He was a somewhat stout man, tall, impeccably tailored, his face carrying what appeared to be a permanent look of disdain that made him somewhat unpleasant to look at.

“You perhaps, Mr. Holmes, have heard the news or perhaps rumours concerning me and my friend, Ruggiero, who so kindly accompanied me here in order to explain his side of our problem.”

“Indeed, Signore, I spend much of my time at Piazza del Popolo, where one learns much by slowly sipping one’s caffè latte . One of you might describe your problem once again for the benefit of my colleague, the good Dr. Watson.”

“Let me then begin,” said Leoncavallo with a nod from Puccini. Taller than Puccini and more handsome, Leoncavallo carried some of the signs of his native southern Italy. His speech, though impeccable grammatically, bore the telltale sounds of his native Naples.

“Briefly, Signor Holmes, the story begins in this way, perhaps in one of the hobbies that Giacomo and I share,” he began, “which is a love of old books and old musical scores.”

“ Davvero ,” said Puccini quietly.

“I am afraid that I share the vice with you both,” said Holmes.

“It was no more than a few months ago,” continued Leoncavallo, “that I was standing in Largo Borghese, only a few minutes’ walk from here, wondering where I would find a suitable libretto for my next opera. My Pagliacci had been a great success, and I was under great public pressure to produce a sequel. I could think of nothing that produced even the slightest enthusiasm on my part. I stood as if glued to the street when it occurred to me that the stalls of old books and prints staring at me might contain some hitherto unknown jewel that would serve me. And so I began to look through the stalls. In an instant, my eyes fell on something called Scènes de la vie de bohème , a book that took as its theme the life of poets and artists in Montmartre. I took it home with me and read it through. Divided into scenes as it was, it looked like an ideal text out of which a series of operatic tableaux could be easily constructed. I was so happy with my find that the melodies for the new opera began running through my head. I rushed to the house of my librettist and told him of my good luck. Perusing the book, he thought it most suitable, and suggested that we make an immediate announcement of our intention to write an opera entitled La Bohème . I then wrote immediately to the author Murger’s publisher but received no reply. They appeared to have closed. And I had no way of finding Murger.”

“Perhaps I may inject my account here,” said Puccini. “I was in Paris when Ruggiero was here in Rome. Almost to the day on which he found the book here in Italy I found it in Paris along the Seine. I then tried to find Murger, but it was difficult to trace him, and I did not succeed. The book had been written almost fifty years before, and his fate was unknown. I sent a letter to his publisher but I too received no reply. I assumed that he was dead. Upon my return to Italy, I showed the book to Giacosa and Illica, my two chief librettists, and they both thought it would be an excellent vehicle for a new opera. Unaware of Ruggiero’s announcement—I was at my home in Lucca—we announced our intention to write an opera based on Murger’s text. It was then that the argument began. When I heard through a journalist friend that Ruggiero intended to use the same text, I replied good-naturedly, ‘Good, now there will be two.’ I meant nothing mean or critical, but always ready to report a quarrel, the press twisted my remark and Ruggiero responded strongly.”

“Word of Giacomo’s intention,” said Leoncavallo, “and what was twisted by the press into a highly provocative remark, turned our plans into a public argument. In the end, Giacomo and I, who had always been on the best of terms, met secretly at the home of a friend and tried to resolve the argument privately. We agreed that the first thing that should be done would be to maintain a salutary silence for a time, and then to see if Murger were still alive, and perhaps write an opera together. Could we do it? In any case, we agreed that neither of us would begin our work on La Bohème until all problems, both legal and ethical, had suitable solutions and our mutual agreement.”

“It was at this very moment, my dear Signor Holmes,” said Puccini, “that something extraordinary began to happen that has brought us to you. I was here in Rome at the Albergo Panteone, about to leave for Lucca, when Leoncavallo came to see me at the hotel. He was in a considerable state of excitement and accused me of abusing our friendship and of abrogating our agreement. Why? Because he had just received a package by courier containing the initial pages of a manuscript of La Bohème , purporting to be written by me. I looked at the manuscript and could scarcely believe what was in front of me: in what seemed to be my own hand were the first ten pages of La Bohème almost exactly as I might have written it. I of course had written nothing.