The Niccodemi Variations - 5. The Findings of Tristan von Aschenbach

The Story of Tristan von Aschenbach

Furio Niccodemi was a caring lover.

We spent that night in each other's arms cuddling, exchanging loving words. He loved me and let himself be loved. It was an unforgettable night that I lived in a long dream. And that was certainly a dream, but for me it was also extremely real.

Part of the night was spent by Furio telling me his story, and I wept for him and with him.

In the morning I awoke to furious banging on the bedroom door. It was my mother. She had asked the butler to open the door that I had locked from the inside. Furio had somehow locked it from the inside and had not allowed the door to be opened.

And so all that was left was to instruct one of the gardeners to break down the oak door by trying to unhinge it. The operation was not easy, but eventually the hinges gave way and the gardener entered the room first, in the rush to break down the door. Then entered my mother, her lover and secretary, and finally the butler.

I meanwhile had put on my pajamas and was waiting for them in my bed, where it was obvious I was. I feigned surprise that I had caused such a commotion.

I should add that beside me, comforting me, was the spirit of Furio Niccodemi, but they did not know that.

"Tristan," my mother shouted, "are you okay? Why did you lock the door? We couldn't open it!"

"I don't know, mother. Maybe you were using the wrong key."

The butler meanwhile had opened the curtains flooding the room with the full light of the summer morning.

"Ninetto!"

Furio had screamed in my head. He had stunned me and I brought my hands to my ears, as much as he shouted.

The gardener was a boy a little older than me, armed with an axe and a mallet. His black curls framed a handsome, regular, smiling face. I took a closer look and stared at him. That's how I found out that this boy was a stunner of beauty.

"Ninetto..." Furio meanwhile was chanting in my head. He also found a way to inform me that this boy was his Ninetto's doppelgänger. He had to be a descendant.

My mother meanwhile was making sure I was okay. She was actually trying to figure out if my hands were healthy and able to play again so that she could continue to make money on them. With her eyes she would not stop looking for traces of someone else's presence in the room. Of course, she found nothing to confirm her suspicions.

"Mother, let's stop this comedy. You have entered my bedroom uninvited and in the company of all these gentlemen. I would at least like to be introduced to those I do not know, if they are to frequent the place where I sleep!"

I had used the polished language I was accustomed to, but in a tone she had never heard, and this struck her.

"You know everybody, Tristan!" she thus tried to dismiss my request.

She wanted to appease me, but I looked at her indifferently, then went back to staring at the boy who had helped open the door.

"And the young gentleman who unhinged the door is...?" I asked in French and in an amused voice.

"Oh, this is" my mother began to say and pointed to Ninetto's doppelganger with disdain "what did you say his name was?" she asked addressed to the butler and not to the poor boy who finding himself suddenly the center of attention, was delightfully blushing.

"Ah, yes, ma'am. This is Ninetto, that is, Gaetano Tristani. He is our new assistant gardener!"

"Oh, good. At last! Thank you, Ninetto," I then said in perfect Italian surprising everyone, since I spoke hardly any of that language, "you did a good job with the door, but it wasn't your fault!" and I concluded with a laugh.

Ninetto also laughed, giving me his incredible, charming smile. I began to understand what Furio meant when he explained that he had fallen in love with the other Ninetto at the mere sight of him.

I heard Furio moaning in my head.

"Well, gentlemen. If you would now let me get dressed, I'd like to have breakfast and then go back to playing. That's my job and that's why I'm here!"

Ninetto smiled at me again and with a nod of his head took his leave before the conversation became even more complicated.

"You can't!" shouted my mother addressing me.

"Mother," my tone was icy and interrupted whatever she was about to say, "leave this room and this house immediately. I will be waiting for you for dinner. Now go and take your friend with you too!"

"Tristan, how dare you!"

"Mother, I allow myself, because I can. Don't force me to remind you who pays for all this and the whole thing! Now, everybody get out!" I repeated, without raising my voice, because my tone was authoritative enough.

It was a subject I had never dared to broach, but that day I felt invincible.

"You can't," she tried to retort, but I interrupted her. I raised my voice only slightly, but that was enough.

"Everyone leave. Now! Get out and leave me alone. You too," I said addressing the butler, "Everyone out, please!" I insisted.

They were confused and left me alone, without further discussion.

A new Tristan von Aschenbach had awakened in that bed. It was to Furio's credit that with firm discretion he had directed the conversation. I was beginning to appreciate his help.

As soon as I was decently dressed, Furio pushed me outside to go find Ninetto. The new Ninetto who was in every way the same as the boy, whom he had loved so many years before. This he told me concisely. The resemblance was incredible, he told me. I had never heard Furio stutter, but in those moments he was almost doing it.

Our new Ninetto was pruning a bush when I approached. He greeted me with another smile that I found bewitching.

I held out my hand to him.

"I am Tristan von Aschenbach," I began to say, still in flawless Italian, but Ninetto interrupted me. He took my hand and shook it gently, but also with warmth and vigor. If that were possible.

Per ovvi motivi rifuggivo le strette di mano troppo vigorose, ma quel primo contatto con la mano forte di Ninetto fu elettrizzante. Mi ritrovai a pensare che quella mano non era per niente ruvida, come me la sarei aspettata da un giardiniere.

“Ed io sono Gaetano Tristani, per servirvi, Maestro!”

“Io Tristan, tu Tristani!” balbettai.For obvious reasons I shied from too vigorous handshakes, but that first contact with Ninetto's strong hand was electrifying. I found myself thinking that that hand was not at all rough, as I would have expected from a gardener.

"And I am Gaetano Tristani, to serve you, Master!"

"I Tristan, you Tristani!" I stammered and smiled together, increasingly enraptured by those eyes, that regular face.

"But I know you already, sir. I heard you play at the San Carlo Theater a few months ago. You amazed and fascinated me. I would say you captivated me!" he said it and continued to stare at me, as if to understand everything about me. Or to explain how it was possible that someone like me could play so well. It was my usual presumption, and Furio gave me a symbolic elbow for that thought I had made.

The one who was really amazed was me. I had not expected a gardener's helper to speak in such a polished manner and attend the San Carlo Theater in Naples, one of the temples of music. It had been the most important theater in the world for many years.

Ninetto came to my rescue noticing my astonishment.

"Oh no, sir, I'm not always a gardener. I'm here now to help my father, but I study in Naples. I study drawing and painting. And I have a friend who works at the theater who lets me in sometimes. During your concert I was backstage watching your hands. I was there for that. I could see them well, they were moving and flying on the keyboard. You have beautiful hands! And you use them really well, I even drew it!" he smiled at me again.

"Thank you, Ninetto," I stammered and blushed even more. I produced one of my revealing blushes.

A charming gardener, I thought. An artist like me.

Take him with you, Furio asked me. And it was not a request. It was rather an order, even a peremptory one. Take him with you wherever you go, he ordered me. Never leave him again. You have already fallen in love with him and he already admires you. Make him fall in love with you, Tristan. Now! Fall in love with each other! Now!

And I obeyed, very happy to do so.

"Ninetto, would you like to join me in the salon for some lemonade and some music? I would love to show you my playing hands again! You would have a way to draw them more accurately if you wanted to!"

And this time I smiled at him. I can be charming when I want to be. And in that moment I think I was because Ninetto bowed his head and blushed.

My courtship was as discreet as possible, considering that I had to get results as quickly as possible. Furio demanded immediate results from my attempts to make Ninetto fall in love with me.

Bravo! You are a heartbreaker, Furio said in fact.

After all, I have already made queens and princesses fall in love with me, I answered him in my mind. I'm not sure, but I think Furio rolled his eyes.

"Master, what about the bush?" Ninetto hesitated.

"I'm sure it won't miss you, any more than I will, if you don't come, Ninetto!"

Under the disbelieving gaze of the butler and the maid we re-entered the house. I ordered that they bring us lemonade and sat down at the piano.

Ninetto leaned against the tail of the large piano for a moment, undecided where to sit, then I motioned him to come and sit beside me on the stool on which I made room for him.

"This is the best place to watch my hands move. We'll be a little cramped, but I'd love to have you close! If you don't mind!"

"I would be honored, Maestro!"

I knew what music can soften hearts and make them more vulnerable, so I played Schumann and then Chopin. Ninetto never took his eyes off my hands that seemed to hypnotize him.

"Will you draw them?"

"Of course, may I? That would be wonderful. Can I really?"

"Yes!"

I could feel that Furio was happy. It was as if he had achieved peace, that state of mind he had been seeking for fifty years. A servant brought us Ninetto's drawing pad. Who had ordered him to do it remained a mystery to everyone but me. Furio had been busy.

I played again and Ninetto began to sketch his drawing. I knew immediately that he was good. In the salons I had frequented, I had seen the greatest artists of my time draw, and Ninetto had the same touch.

Then he told me a little about his life as a student in Naples, and I told him about my life as a music nomad.

At one point, the butler came looking for him. It seemed that Ninetto's father needed him.

"Tell him that Ninetto is with me and that I need him for the day."

"Yes, sir!"

"Unless I am taking advantage of your time, Ninetto!"

"Oh no, Maestro--never!"

"Please, Ninetto, call me Tristan."

"Oh...thank you, Tristan, I'm very comfortable here in the coolness!" he said laughing.

Again that smile that drove me crazy. And it drove Furio crazy. Ask him about Ninetto. Who was he? His uncle?

I formulated the question to my Ninetto.

"Yes, I remember. I know there was a great uncle with my name. He died very young. He was my grandfather's younger brother, but he disappeared at a young age. In the family they say he committed suicide by throwing himself into the sea. It was a stormy night. They found the body a few days later. We never talk about him."

I heard Furio whimper.

"My grandfather says I look like him in everything!"

Now Furio cried, but he did not despair. He cried because of the memory and because he was happy. Happy?

Tristan, he said then, the time has come. Now I know I can go find my Ninetto.

"Will you go away? I will miss you!"

I said it aloud, it escaped me.

"What are you saying, Tristan," this was my Ninetto speaking and he sounded scared. It is not good for the person you are falling in love with to talk to himself. I could tell.

"Oh sorry. I was thinking out loud."

"Who are you going to miss?"

Ninetto had picked up on my discomfort and was concerned about it. I was touched.

"A friend who may be about to leave me."

"And you won't see each other again?"

"I don't know!"

"I'm sorry," and saying that he laid his hand on my arm. It was a jolt. The warmth of that touch, his gentleness, his thoughtfulness moved me.

I realized that my eyes were already filled with tears, and two drops escaped my eyelids, slowly trickling down my cheeks.

In a moment Ninetto was on his feet and forced me up so that he could hug me tightly.

"Don't cry, Tristan, don't cry, I'm with you!"

He rocked me for I don't know how long, until I couldn't control my emotions. Before he let me go, he brushed my cheek with his lips.

"Oh, Ninetto!"

"I will always dry your tears," he said before letting me go.

That was his promise of love.

Inside, I knew Furio was directing that scene, but I was happy to let him do it. And I was immensely grateful to him, who knows when I would find the courage to get so close to Ninetto. And Ninetto too, maybe he was shy too. At that moment he was trembling as much as I was.

We went back to sit down and, as always happened to me in complicated moments, I took refuge in music. I touched the keys and started playing again. I didn't even think about what I was going to play. It was not Furio who suggested to me what to play, it was the music that simply enraptured me and flowed enveloping us in the love that was being born between us.

I played a Liszt transcription, Isoldens Liebestod, from Wagner's Tristan und Isolde. That music at that moment described my state of mind. There was all the tenderness I felt, the hope that my life could change and become better next to Ninetto who was perhaps not yet aware of this hope of mine.

He may not know it yet, but now he will understand it, Furio told me, and I, reassured, kept playing.

Although the story of Tristan and Isolde is sad, the music that describes and tells it is of such passionate and poignant romance that any lover would find it indispensable if he knew it.

When you love someone as much as I felt I loved Ninetto at that moment, you ask for nothing more than to be able to die for him and be transfigured into his image. Exactly what Isolde does in the opera when those poignant notes sound.

Isolde's Death is a beautiful composition by Wagner, transcribed by Liszt, which to be properly rendered requires a supreme art of touch that I knew I possessed. I played with my eyes closed distinctly hearing the sounds the grand piano produced and also the quickened breathing of Ninetto beside me. I fed on those sensations.

And that was my declaration of love.

After the last chord, in which the theme of Happiness resonated, Ninetto stroked my shoulder and we hugged again. This time I was not crying out of sadness, for Furio's probable farewell, but out of joy, for having found Ninetto.

Furio waited discreetly for us to exhaust our outburst of tenderness, the discreet and modest kisses we exchanged. Then he asked me to follow him to his room. I motioned Ninetto to accompany me.

I closed the door behind me. If it was to be a farewell, I wanted it to be private and for no one to interrupt us. Ninetto watched me in curiosity, but in his eyes was always the sweetness he had reserved for me since we had first seen each other that very morning.

It was always Furio who inspired our attitudes, I was well aware, but it was so sweet and new to me to be able to love someone that I did not mind the intrusion.

Furio suggested my movements in that room. I approached the fireplace and began to probe the finely carved stone mantle. On either side were two caryatids. I managed to move the head of the one on the left. It moved slightly, as if to stare at me, but not because it was bumpy. That movement opened a small compartment that was perfectly concealed in the frieze of the wooden upright that covered the fireplace. Inside the small compartment was what I hoped in my heart would be there. I already knew it, because Furio had already revealed it to me, in his own way.

I brought my trembling hands closer to those objects. I found a bound volume; it was the score, the original manuscript of the sixteen known Variations. A small file of eight sheets of music with the number seventeen written in the upper left corner. If there were eight sheets, it was a sign that that was the completed Variation No. 17. Finally, with hands that, if possible, were shaking even more, I took another file of twelve sheets. On the first sheet a trembling hand had penned the number eighteen and the words:

"Mild und leise wie er lächelt, wie das Auge hold er öffnet." (1)

It was music paper thick with notes. I did not have to look to know that it was the manuscript of Variation No. 18 that Furio was offering me.

I collected all those precious papers, along with a few other papers that were under the others. With shaky steps I went to sit on the sofa. Ninetto joined me and hugged me. I was trembling with emotion as Furio concluded his story.

***

Furio Niccodemi's story resumes

My resolve faltered. Not with the idea of ending my useless life, but in the purpose of burning the score of the Variations. I could not destroy such sublime music. I decided to hide the score, hoping that someone would one day find it, and so I did.

I hid the original score and the thirteen sheets I had written that very day. They disappeared into the hiding place I had always used since I was a child and was unknown to anyone else alive. My grandfather had had it made, secretly from everyone. With a kind of foreknowledge he had revealed that secret place only to me. I was just a child, but I understood how important it was to keep that secret.

I dressed carefully and returned to the hall with my head held high, with the same attitude I used when I arrived on stage. My father was still there and looked at me with grim eyes. The dogs were all around him. For a moment I thought he might set them on me.

I walked toward the lodge. On the threshold I turned to stare at my father.

"You are about to lose your livelihood!" I told him trying to be mocking, but I was desperate.

I ran to the balustrade and jumped over it theatrically, repeating Ninetto's movements. I faithfully followed his path to death.

My father shouted something behind me that I did not hear.

As I fell, the wind blew impetuously. I only had time to hope that someone, not my father, would be able to find my manuscript and that my Variations would not be lost forever. Then I smashed into the rocks and from there I ended up in the sea. I remember well the terrible pain I suffered and perhaps the cold of the waves sweeping over me, then nothing more.

The oblivion that enveloped me, however, was not eternal. Death also did not come for me as it had been for Ninetto. Nor was it complete. At the first light of the sky I became conscious of myself again. I don't know if I can say that I woke up, because it was a more complex process. At first it was the feeling of absolute lightness, of incorporeality, then I regained my senses, hearing and sight. Or, at least, I thought I did. I could say that I was conscious of what was happening around me.

Meanwhile, dawn had broken and there were boats in the stretch of sea in front of the Villa. I imagined that they were looking for my corpse and Ninetto's. I was perched on the rock outcropping in front there. No one seemed to see me, although I was flailing and shouting. Then I began to understand. I may not have been completely dead to me, but I was certainly dead to the world. I was reduced to a disembodied larva wandering around in a reality that was no longer his own.

What a mockery to Furio Niccodemi, to my exalted personality.

I began to adapt to my new condition and first looked everywhere for Ninetto, hoping that he too had fallen behind like me, but fate had no such design. For me there was only despair and loneliness, for him I hoped with all my heart that there would be eternal peace.

Ninetto's naked body, naked as he had thrown himself into the precipice, was found a few days later and given a pitiful, discreet and silent burial. Everyone kept silent about the reasons and manner of his death and my death.

Since then, I spent many years weeping over his miserable grave, but I never drew any consolation from it, nor any sign that he wanted or could give me.

Where have you been, Ninetto?

My father had to wait two years, after my presumed death, because my corpse was never found. Only then did he succeed in obtaining my inheritance and ownership of the Villa, along with all my possessions. He sold my heirlooms at a high price, including the rights to the first sixteen Variations, of which printed editions already existed. He was never able to find the original score. And this pained him greatly, because it would have been of enormous value at the time. The fame of my composition remained unchanged in the early years.

My father found, I don't know how, a transcribed copy of the Unfinished Variation No. 17 and sold it at a memorable auction in Paris that earned him a lot more money. And he diligently consumed it in women and wine.

He lived until the triumph of his ineptitude, when he mistakenly loaded his rifle and killed himself. I don't know if he did it voluntarily. It happened four years after my near-death and unfortunately I was not present, but I would have liked to see him die.

Fortunately, I was not always conscious. There were periods of oblivion, even a few years long, when I was not myself. By a twist of my cynical fate, I would return to the sadnesses of the world when, somewhere, my Variations were performed. My father's heirs, relatives I had never met, enjoyed my copyrights for many years. And that bothered me a lot. In those instances I was inexplicably able to move from one place to another, and I was also able to interact, albeit limitedly, with the outside world.

I never revealed myself to anyone, I had no interest in doing so, but I enjoyed cloaking the reputation of the Variations with a negative aura, almost of evil. All kinds of accidents happened where the Niccodemi Variations were performed. They were almost always stupid things, but they served to create the negative fame to which I aspired.

My real masterpiece was the death of Werner Hoffenstein. I learned that he had also decided to perform Variation No. 17 at the close of the concert. I was very upset about that. When I found out that he was going to perform a conclusion that he had composed himself, for me it was like suffering a sacrilege. I could not allow it.

I did not directly cause his death, but I anticipated it by a little, because he was already ill. When he came to play the last known chord, I shouted all my disappointment in his head, and his heart gave out. He dropped his head on the keyboard and played the best chord he had ever played.

From that moment on, after that striking fact, no one wanted to perform my masterpiece again. The Variations were finally safe awaiting my worthy heir.

It is you, Tristan von Aschenbach.

***

Memoir of Tristan von Aschenbach

Furio closed his eyes. I understood that he was listening to something coming to him from afar, perhaps a call. It was a voice or a song, a celestial music coming from a remote place. He was as if rapt, intent on listening not to miss anything.

It is Ninetto, he said to me. My Ninetto, maybe he is calling me to himself. It's him.

Furio was excited.

But it is not yet time, he said, there is something I have to fix in this world. Then I can finally leave in peace.

My Ninetto, on the other hand, had stayed beside me all that time, silently listening to my breathing quicken as Furio's story drew to a close. He held me close, hugging me. When he realized I was getting more and more excited, he held me tighter, but he never asked me why I was so agitated.

Perhaps I was about to part with my friend Furio for good. I was going to miss him immediately.

I continued clutching the original score and the sheets of the last two Variations in my chest. Ninetto understood that something important was happening, but he was waiting for me to calm down. He listened to my breathing. He was certainly curious about what was happening. If only I could have explained it to him without sounding crazy.

I have to make sure that you are the keeper of the Variations, Furio told me, and I know how to do it! To your Ninetto you won't have to give any explanation. I'll take care of that!

I thanked Furio wholeheartedly and finally resumed breathing.

Ninetto hugged me, while I cried with contentment for finding the sheet music, but I was also so sad, because I was afraid that Furio would leave me forever.

"Ninetto, in this room there is also Furio Niccodemi," I said suddenly.

"What?" Ninetto looked at me a little strangled.

"Yes, it's his spirit."

Perhaps Ninetto wondered if he had not fallen in love with a lunatic.

"'Furio's ghost? Ah, but that's a legend," he began to say, perhaps to explain to me that that was a story that had been going around for half a century and was only meant to scare children.

Then his expression changed. I saw him smile. And it was not a smile of condescension, because Furio was speaking to Ninetto's mind and performing his miracle.

Well, now your Ninetto knows it too, Furio said after a while.

We looked at each other, Ninetto and I, and smiled at each other. Then my Ninetto drew me to him and we kissed. We really kissed each other.

"It's my first kiss," I murmured blushing, "it's my first real kiss!"

"I know," said Ninetto and went back to kissing me.

Continued from article from the Washington Globe of September 01, 2002

Sensational discovery at the Smithsonian

At this point, we feel compelled to add a brief note to the events so far narrated by Tristan von Aschenbach and faithfully reported by this paper.

The story that Tristan von Aschenbach tells is certainly difficult to accept because of its, one might say, supernatural implications.

However, this account represents an explanation of many controversial facts that have occurred since Niccodemi's mysterious death and around the brilliant piano composition of which the Italian was the author.

The sinister fame that bedeviled the first performances of the Variations after Furio Niccodemi's death here finally finds an explanation that is perhaps irrational, but congruous with the enigmatic character that Furio Niccodemi was. The very mysterious death of pianist Werner Hoffenstein on the Covent Garden stage in 1890 appears consistent with the explanation given by von Aschenbach. Or by Niccodemi himself, if what is written in the text is to be believed completely.

Next we come to the mysterious discovery of the original manuscripts. As is known, von Aschenbach found the last sheet of the Seventeenth Variation in the hiding place on the mantelpiece, as well as the unpublished score of the Eighteenth and other documents including the original manuscript of the Variations already known to the public.

The hideaway at Villa Niccodemi in Ravello really exists. We saw this for ourselves when we visited the Villa, which now houses a luxury hotel. We tried to open the secret compartment above the fireplace. The head of the caryatid still opens it. And there is no evidence of the construction of such a receptacle in more recent times. In short, this is not a fake constructed to corroborate the legend.

We may recall that at the time of the discovery, in 1920, Tristan von Aschenbach claimed to have found the sheet music and other papers following a clue he had found by carefully reading some letters written by Furio Niccodemi to the Rubinstein twins. It is admittedly true that at the time such was the sensation aroused by the discovery of the original manuscript of the Variations that von Aschenbach's statements were never seriously verified and investigated. But after almost a century we have managed to reconstruct this passage as well.

We found in St. Petersburg, where they resided all their lives, the original correspondence between Furio Niccodemi and the Rubinstein twins.

In a letter, whose authenticity we verified with expert graphologists, Niccodemi related that he had just finished composing the Variations and was particularly enthusiastic about them. He also revealed that he had entrusted the complete original score to a close friend, a person of absolute trust, to prevent his father from selling the rights to immediately monetize their enormous value. He did not speak openly of his suicidal intentions, but confided to the Rubinsteins the deep mental exhaustion that had assailed him at the end of the composition of the Variations and his absolute, uncontrollable impatience with his father.

The friend, the trusted person, named by Niccodemi was the gardener at the Villa from whom von Aschenbach reported receiving the scores. And he was indeed the grandfather of the painter and landscape painter Gaetano Tristani, who would later become Tristan von Aschenbach's special secretary and life companion.

As fifty years had passed since the author's death, there were no more copyrights to exploit. Tristan von Aschenbach immediately made all documents and scores available to the musical and artistic world. At the time, this availability of his was extremely well received and resolved all doubts.

The authenticity of the work and the autographs was never in question.

Now, in light of the new revelations, that version appears to be a fabrication orchestrated by the ghost of a man who died 50 years earlier to cover up what really happened.

If that were possible!

***

1. Mildly and gently, how he smiles, how the eye he opens sweetly. These are the words with which the 'Liebestod' in Richard Wagner's opera 'Tristan and Isolde' begins. It is the finale of the third act and of the opera.