"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You are most kind. I shall pass your accolades along to Constanzo, our chef," Roth says with a trim smile, which for him is a broad grin. Roth is the estate's butler and "the Master's gentleman's gentleman," as he prefers to be described. He is a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair and an bearing of complete and unshakable dignity. He is so familiar a part of the surroundings that you sometimes wonder whether the whole estate weren't built after your host found Roth, already in place, waiting.
"Now, I am happy to say, coffee, desserts, and a very fine port are ready in the music room. I believe you know the way, but I shall be happy to guide you, if you wish."
You take Roth up on his offer. After all, he seems to know the pedigree and history of every stick of furniture in each room, and every painting and sculpture that adorn the halls. You've made the trip from dining room to music room before, of course, but going with Roth, you get something more. A comment on the El Greco hanging at the top of the main staircase, perhaps, or an observation about how the people at Sotheby's reacted to your host's winning bid on the pair of jewelled Easter eggs that Faberge made for the Romanovs. Tonight, the topic is musical. When you come to the top of the stairs and turn into the East Wing, one of your companions remarks that there's something different about the glass case standing against the wall.
Roth nods approvingly. "Most observant, madame. There are now two violins, you see. The Stradivarius, of course, has been with us quite a while, but the Guarnieri is new. New to the Master's home, that is," he continues with that same trim smile. "As new as one may expect something more than four hundred years old to be.
"It was a challenge, that acquisition, I am told," he goes on as he leads you all around a corner. "Mister Ryjnstadt came through as always, of course. Ah! Here we are." Roth stops and opens the paneled double doors, then steps aside to let you in.
Last week, it was Bach and his organ works, but something quieter and more
contemporary is on the playbill tonight, it seems. A smooth, clean instrumental is
playing, a guitar and piano duet that is somewhere between smooth jazz and soft rock.
"New Age," the current lingo might call it. "Good conversation music"
is your host's description. And, conversation is flourishing, you realize as you enter and
look around the room. There's your host with his friend Benjamin Martin sitting near the
fire, the two
of them locked in an intense discussion of some quiet subject. To your right, across the
hard wood floors, Tom Crowe and Donald Burger are sampling and critiquing port that they
sip from Waterford. A decanter of the same crystal, holding the same dark purple promise,
rests on the Queen Anne table between them. In the far corner, near the glass-paned
cabinet housing the antique bagpipes, Jess and the Kid are locked in an intense siblings'
conversation.
Your host looks up, sees you, and makes the barest motion to Roth. "A sample of the port, my lord?" the butler asks, and when you nod, he, too, makes the slightest gesture and a servant appears at your elbow, a filled glass shining under the lights. You sip the sweet, rich wine and slowly turn, trying not for the first time and probably not for the last to find the speakers. You don't succeed, but it's of no matter. The stereo equipment behind those walls probably would make a submariner jealous, and the sound certainly rivals the finest concert halls. The guitar's chords glide effortlessly through the room, dancing with the crystalline notes of the piano. You find a space on one of the couches in the center of the room, and you close your eyes. The music envelops you . . . .
I invite your suggestions on acquisitions for the Music Room.
"The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, strategems, and spoils.
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted."
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice