A Letter from Horace Walpole, the fourth Earl of Oxford regarding Comte St. Germain
An odd man, who goes by the name of Comte St. Germain. He had been here these two years, and will not tell who he is, oor whence, but profesces that he does not go by his right name. He signs, plays on the violin wonderfully composes, is mad, and not very sensible. He is called an Italian, a Spaniard, a Pole; a somebody that married a great fortune in Mexico, and ran away with her jewels to Constantinople, a priest, a fiddler, a vast nobleman. The price of Wales has had unsatiated curiosity about him, but in vain.
Mural of music book open to the Aria Per Pieta’ bel idol mio, (Beautiful idol of mine, have pity on me) photograph by David Wrightson
When you zoom in on the photograph you can see the inscription dedicated to Comte St. Germain. On the top of the left page, the dedication reads: Co. S. Germain
I was completely fascinated by this.
.I then found the opera and listened to it while writing the remainder of the chapter on St. Germain daily. Yes, I become obsessed.
The mysterious Comte St. Germain
The first challenge I encountered was to discover if in fact the Comte St. Germain even ever existed. I was able to discover the documentation of actual letters written about those who had been in his company. The details are recounted in my book, New Orleans Vampires - History and Legend.
I was fortunate to discover a very detailed book about the Comte by author Jean Overton Fuller, who mentioned a very curious story in her book. Here is the excerpt from my book regarding St. Germain, the Musician:
It is said that the Comte St. Germain hid his secrets in musical compositions. “Secrets” most likely meaning secrets of his true existence and his magical accomplishments. Even if that is not true, the following is fantastical enough to make one wonder how this man’s genius is at all possible.
In the book History of Music, by Charles Burney, the composer of “God Save the King,” he writes:
An opera was attempted April 7th, at the little theatre in the hay-market, under the direction of Geminiani. Prince Labkowitz, who was at this time in London and fond of music, and the celebrated and mysterious Count Saint-Germain attended all the rehearsals. The opera was a pasticcio, and called L’Incostanza Delusa. But Count Saint-Germain composed several new songs, particularly Per Pieta’ bel idol mio, which was sung by Frasi, first woman, and encorred every night.
How was a man of such mysterious opportunities given this opportunity to have his original musical compositions performed, and where di he learn his craft? Perhaps he studied music under the care of the Medici family if in fact that portion of his history is true.
Johann jakob Heidegger, the manager of the King’s Theater from 1713 to 1734, purchased a very famous elaborate home, “4 Maids of Honour Row,” upon his retirement in 744. A scene painter of the King’s Theatre painted several murals in the entrance hall, which are remarkably still present to this day. The paintings were Swiss and Italian landscapes, and over the door opening to the stairwell was painted an open book of music, surrounded with a wreath of acanthus, the symbol of immortality. The book, very curiously, was open to “Per Pieta’ bel idol mio,” the most popular of Saint Germain’s arias. Why would so prominent a figure have that particular music featured on his walls, when the piece had not even been performed at the King’s theater? It was performed at a very small opera house that was the King’s Theatre’s competition.
I found this fact fascinating - and was obsessed with finding a photo of that mural. First I had to find information on the home “4 Maids of Honour Row.” I searched everywhere, and eventually found through a Realtor in England that the mansion was currently on the market. She told me that the murals were still in tact in the home, but that she could not get a photograph for me. I then contacted a historical organization in England which ultimately was also not able to help me. Finally, I was able to locate a photographer, David Wrightson, who had been commissioned to photograph the mansion some time prior.
The day I received the e-mail from him confirming that he had in fact taken the photos and that he would be honored to sell the use of his photograph for my book - I celebrated with a bottle of champagne. Now, I wasn’t just taking Jean Overton Fuller’s word for it that this mural had been painted - I had proof.