Julian Livingston
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P. T. Barnum is looking for more attractions for his touring shows. The year is 1882 and Barnum's special agent, Henry Feder, seeks out a wonderful new violinist, Nicolaties. It is more than forty years since Europe's greatest violinist, Nicolo Paganini, died without last rites. A few people wonder why Nicolaties looks, behaves, and plays violin like that famed Paganini, but Henry Feder is starting to see an even bigger picture. There has been a struggle with Paganini's son and the church over burial of Paganini's unblest remains that strangely seems to focus on Nicolaties. Also, Nicolaties' vampire mentors do not like competition grabbing their star talent, and wonder if they should start clearing the field by converting Henry into a snack. As luck would have it one of the mentors, a female vampire finds something in that first bite she didn't bargain for, and Henry enters the fray acting more for the mentors than P. T. Barnum. Ultimately, artificial lightning crashes from the hand of a dark electrical genius, Nikola Tesla and the final battle begins.
Julian Livingston lives in Bloomington, Indiana with his wife, Mary Pat, after retirement from Bell Laboratories in 1988. This novel is the second novel about the bizarre talent searches of Barnum's special agent, Henry Feder. The couple was recently involved in a revival of Julian's opera, Twist of Treason, and both love historical investigations, genealogy, and especially mysterious unsolved ancestries. Julian continues to work on a new opera, a new novel with Henry Feder (Julian's alter ego), and genealogical projects using the scientific forefront of DNA technology.
In those days I was the Tarot naught, le mat, the empty seeker, the unsullied fool, . . . . like Wagner’s Parsifal, that virgin slayer of swans - a heedless bowman with a simpleton’s taste for easy prey. I had become absolute master of any and all behind the scenes maneuvers related to show business. Focused on inveterate crowd pleasing and circumventing the base and carnal desires of the performers, I was undaunted by any impediments to acquiring an exhibit, an artiste magnifique. I had a few personal preferences, but little that really mattered in the face of Barnum’s celestial likes and dislikes. There was only my own indefatigable zeal to get the contract signed. And so, . . an assignment to capture the attraction of the moment at the cheapest price was afoot, and my remarkable record of successes predicted a quick resolution in favor of P. T. Barnum’s pocketbook.
A five-p.m. docking at the ancient Prussian port of Danzig, a quick inquiry from a casual stroller, a short, effortless walk along streets lit by gas, sodium mantels and clockwork lighters, nevertheless bygosh, led straight to the fading, tumbledown, but ironically named, Neue Theater Musik. Capped by luck, incredible good luck, there was a single ticket left which brought me straight to a fabulous, but fated seat I currently occupied. Bravo for me, Henry Feder, representative for the peanut gallery. Speaking of peanuts, even the food situation was not all that bad. As I looked around at the gathering crowd, I quietly nibbled one of those great North German cream cheese pastries, half concealed in an inner pocket, but, of course, wrapped in layers of wax paper to protect the lining of my new great coat.
My most respected employer, P. T. Barnum, once again had sent me forth in search of a grand touring exhibit, a choice attraction, a blazing talent arcing the firmament of music. I was ready for anything, ready to sign up my latest find for Barnum’s eager, expectant crowds, all agog for fresh titillation from the borderlands of the exotic east. “Fresh” and “bizarre” were Barnum’s watchwords, and I was certainly on watch.
Not many attractions had the staying power of those outrageous curiosities, the Figi Mermaid or General Tom Thumb, but inwardly I was always hopeful that some piece of high culture would climb up the ladder to stand above those clap-trap seat stuffers. My hopes of “taste and quality” were never truly fulfilled. I could not be so selective as to force such over Barnum’s “fresh” and “bizarre.” It was obvious whose incomparable peanut taste provided my far more than peanut paycheck.
I feel I need underline there is no attempt here to fool anyone about these events. On the surface, what I have to relate is my effort to place a wonderful artist under normal and standard contract, but then the results were far closer to “fresh and bizarre” than any conceivable relation to “taste and quality.” Of course, I cannot claim infallibility, so keep your misgivings alive to some degree, but know my memory is excellent, so do not look to see the facts presented in any manner but as if perfect in recollection. Somehow, I do not think what I ultimately convey bares any question of mere concern with my memory - do I hesitate to say further? Yes, I certainly do. Perhaps you will think sanity and not memory is the better question. But, already I spin, procrastinate, dodge, and waver; let me go straight instead.
Barnum’s attention had been drawn by reports of a newly discovered musical virtuoso, and I was to hear that budding master of the violin this wet snowy evening of early 1882[1]. Fortunately for me, Barnum had been further diverted in mind with his new British discovery, Jumbo, the elephant. This left me to my own bailiwick of being in charge of searches for pseudo-artistic exhibitions that would convince the crowd they were watching high culture. Luck swelled even more as I discovered the virtuoso was to play my most beloved, Bruch G-minor Violin Concerto. Of course, Barnum had no real interest in a particular musical program. He knew little about serious music and was only interested in undoubted showmanship and crowd attractors. His idea was that surely someone of my experience could judge such music without reservation. So, my path was simple. I would depend on the published reports of overwhelming talent, outlandish image, and an impression made by a single performance of this wonderful piece to bring me to a decision. If this artist also forwarded my personal interest in real musical culture so much the better.
I continued to rattle my pastry napkin impatiently through a snappy Mozart overture followed by a longish Schumann potboiler as the Danzig Hoch Kamerata Orchestra executed its warmup performances.
[1] Tuesday, February 28, 1882
