by Laura Lebow
“As I told you, I have a small book collection,” von Gerl said. He waved his hand around the room. “We have plenty of work ahead of us, Da Ponte.” He noticed me eyeing the large leather volumes. “Those are my catalogs,” he said, pulling one off the shelf and opening it. He turned the page toward me. “My travel expenses, for each day since I left home ten years ago.” He replaced the volume on the shelf and took another. “This is a list of all the animals I’ve shot on hunting expeditions. I started this when I was a boy.”
He returned the book to its place on the shelf and ran his fingers over the spines of its neighbors. “This one contains a list of every book I’ve ever read. Now this one, this should interest you.” He pulled out a volume and handed it to me. “A list of all the operas and recitals I’ve attended.”
I opened the heavy book’s cover.
“And this last one, this is a list of every acquaintance I’ve made in my travels. I’ve just started a new page since I came home to Vienna. I will add your name.” He took the book over to a desk and wrote in it.
“Come, Da Ponte. Leave that one on the desk here. You must see my scientific collection. This way.”
I left the book on the desk and followed him into the next room. Rows of empty glass display cases filled the large space. Piles of cartons sat along the walls. “I’m just getting started in here,” von Gerl said. “Let me show you some of the things I have.” He led me over to the cartons along one wall. “This box is filled with herbal specimens I collected during my travels in the east,” he explained. I looked down into the carton, which contained a number of small wooden boxes. “And over here are my stones, my playing card collection, oh, and here are my astronomical instruments. I spent a small fortune on them when I was in Italy.”
He pulled a bronze astrolabe from one of the cartons and shook his head. “I really must get these unpacked,” he said. He set the instrument aside and opened another carton. I peered into it. It was full of mismatched shoes. “I collect women’s shoes wherever I go,” he explained. He grinned. “You think it odd? Some of them are works of art!”
We retraced our steps to the central staircase and entered the large salon on its other side. “My paintings are in here,” von Gerl said.
I drew a sharp breath as I entered the room. Each wall was covered with framed paintings from floor to ceiling. My eyes took in a dark-haired, voluptuous woman reclining on a sofa, her breasts partially exposed, her lips parted to receive the kiss of her lover; the nude goddess Diana, attended by a nymph, drying her feet after bathing, her auburn hair clasped in a tiara, a delicate string of pearls in her hand; and a cozy scene of a young noblewoman, clad in a peignoir, serving coffee to the family priest in her boudoir.
“I just purchased this one last week,” von Gerl said, directing my attention to a large canvas. “I’ve been pursuing it since it was painted three years ago.” I studied the picture. A fountain of light poured through the vaulted ceiling of a ruined basilica as two cowherds led their charges through the rubble of the ravaged building.
“Amazing,” I murmured. I turned to the opposite wall. The paintings here were uninteresting, pedestrian depictions of the muses, the seasons, and the senses most likely done by students—the type of art purchased by the cartload by the newly wealthy merchants of Vienna who were decorating their homes.
Von Gerl noticed my disdain. “I know, I know,” he said. “There is nothing special about these. But when I saw them, I couldn’t help myself. I had to have them.” He gestured to the next room. “Come, there are two in here you must see.”
The long gallery contained but two paintings, which hung side by side on the right wall. The first was of a raven-haired male nude, his body stretched out on a saffron cloth, his head at the left bottom corner of the large canvas, his crossed feet at the right top. One hand rested behind his head, the other was splayed out to his side. I leaned in to study the lifelike muscles on his chest.
“Hector, the great Trojan warrior,” von Gerl murmured. “And over here, Patroclus.”
I gazed at the second painting. Achilles’ bosom friend sat on a red cloth, his torso twisted away from the viewer. “The brushstrokes depicting the muscles are amazing,” I said.
“The artist is the rage in Paris right now,” von Gerl said. “His name is David. I bought these at an auction, and I must tell you, I paid dearly for them.”
We contemplated the paintings.
“Come, the Botticellis are upstairs,” von Gerl said.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said as we climbed the wide steps to the next floor. I couldn’t imagine the expense of shipping the collections to Vienna.
Von Gerl beamed at me. “Thank you. I’m proud of it. I must confess that sometimes I worry I have gone too far, but I enjoy owning all of these things. To view a fine painting whenever I wish, to study an anatomical object, to read a great book—I love being able to do that. I am never bored!”
He led me down a long hallway on the right. “We’ll go through my chamber,” he said. We entered a large, airy room, its ceiling decorated with elegant gold and white medallions. An enormous bed, its posters swagged with red velvet, stood in the center. A large fur throw lay across the well-stuffed mattress. We passed through von Gerl’s closet, a room twice the size of my room at Madame Lamm’s. Open cupboards filled with suits of the finest fabrics lined the walls. The plumed hat sat on a bench in the middle of the room. I lingered to admire a dark blue velvet coat with golden braided trim.
“In here, Da Ponte,” von Gerl called. I continued into a much smaller room lined with waist-high display cases. I approached the one nearest to me. A collection of butterflies of varying sizes, all in shades of gray, lay pinned to the felt under the heavy glass.
“Those are just the carpet moths,” von Gerl said. “They are all local. The more interesting ones are over here.” I crossed over to him. The case held more butterflies, these in shades of blue, some with violet dusted on the edges of their wings.
“I caught these when I was in Spain.”
I tried to avoid a grimace as I studied the poor creatures, their brief lives ended so that this man could enjoy their beauty. I looked up and gestured around the room. “You’ve caught all of these?” I asked.
“Many, but not all of them,” von Gerl answered. “I’ve bought a few from other lepidopterists.” He reached for a dark leatherbound volume on a shelf underneath the nearest case. “I have them all cataloged here,” he said, showing me the pages.
“How many are in the collection?” I asked.
He flipped to the middle of the book and ran his finger down the page. “As of today, 527.” He replaced the volume. “Come, let us see those Botticellis. They are this way, in my art cabinet.”
When I entered the next room, I gasped in delight. The cabinet was long and narrow, with a low coffered ceiling trimmed with gilt. Fine light wood paneling lined the walls, which were hung with small paintings. I wandered around, looking into the glass cases that displayed small, delicate objects—boxes inlaid with amber; elaborate miniature clocks; a chess set formed from ivory; perfume bottles made of the glass blown by the skilled artisans of Murano, in my own beloved Venice; and small animals sculpted from jade and marble. In the center of the room stood a long table, its surface inlaid with an elaborate, multicolored mosaic of marble.
“I reserve this part of the collection for myself alone,” von Gerl explained. “I love to spend the evenings in here, with a glass of brandy, looking at these things.”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed.
Von Gerl opened a large, elegant wooden cabinet and pulled out a portfolio. “Here are the Botticellis,” he said, carrying it over to the table. He drew two pieces of parchment from the folder and spread them on the mosaic. I leaned over and examined the first. The illustration had been drawn in pen and ink, the lines still legible on the yellowed parchment. It showed the punishment of the heretics, from Dante’s Inferno. Small groups of men walk
ed among a field of burning coffins. In the center of the illustration, a heretic stood in the flaming lid of his bier.
“‘For among the graves flames erupted, firing them all with glowing heat—no smith could ask for hotter iron,’” I murmured. I turned to the second parchment. The lines on this one were even more delicate and painstaking than on the first, as the great artist depicted the terrace of the lustful from Dante’s Purgatory.
“‘There the bank hurls its furious flames, and a spiraling wind from the ledge reflects them and constrains their way,’” I said.
“You certainly know Dante,” von Gerl exclaimed. “I am impressed.”
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
“In Berlin. They were a gift from a grateful widow. Her husband had collected them. She had sold most of them, but had kept these two.” A wistful smile came over his face as he carefully placed the parchments into the portfolio. “Now, there is one more thing you must see. I bought these prints while I was living in Paris.”
He placed the Botticelli portfolio in the cabinet and brought out a smaller folder. Back at the table, he unfastened the ribbon on the folder. “These are the finest specimens of their type,” he said. “I share these with special friends.” He spread a number of colored drawings across the table.
I leaned over to examine them. The first showed a naked woman astride a man, her ample derriere lifted in the air as he moved to enter her. I laid it aside and reached for the second. A man, clad only in an unbuttoned shirt, sat on a bed, his hand pulling up the skirts of the woman on his lap to reveal the muff of fur between her legs. My loins stirred as I took the third drawing. A nude woman, her torso tangled in a pure white bedsheet, writhed with pleasure on a soft bed—
“There you are!”
Von Gerl and I started as Marta entered the room, wearing a simple dress. I flushed.
“What are you two gawking at?” she asked.
“Come see,” von Gerl said, flashing me a wicked grin.
She approached the table and stood next to me. My pulse raced as her hand brushed mine. She reached for the first print and looked at it. “What is—oh! Oh, my!” She turned to von Gerl. “You monster! I should have known!”
My cheeks burned, but von Gerl merely laughed. “Come, let’s go down to dinner.” He took Marta’s arm and led us back to the first floor, where a large dining salon was tucked behind the art galleries. The walls were covered with faded, flocked gold paper, and velvet draperies of the same color festooned the windows. A small platform for musicians was tucked into the farthermost wall. Otherwise, the room was empty except for a large table, three chairs, and a tall ebony clock with golden trim and a large gilt and steel face.
“That’s an astronomical clock,” von Gerl told me. “It used to belong to one of the monasteries here in Vienna.”
Von Gerl held a chair for Marta and motioned me to take the one opposite her. He took a seat at the head of the table and rang a bell. The manservant Teuber entered from a door behind his master and placed plates of fish in a white cream sauce in front of each of us. I found I was famished, and I ate the delicious dish with due speed. Marta picked at the food, occasionally glancing at von Gerl.
“Tell me about your grand tour,” I said to my host. Teuber brought a bottle of wine, opened it, poured us each a glass, and stationed himself behind Marta.
“I started and ended in Italy, where I spent a total of three years,” von Gerl said.
“There were hundreds like you there, miss,” Teuber said in a low voice as he leaned over Marta’s shoulder and poured another bit of wine into her glass.
“Where in Italy?” I asked.
“Everywhere. I saw the whole country.”
“Especially the country girls,” Teuber said sotto voce. Two red spots appeared on Marta’s cheeks. She raised her glass and sipped the wine.
“Then I went to Germany for a year, after that France. I spent most of my time in France in the capital.”
“Waiting maids, beauties of the city, countesses, he had them all,” Teuber told Marta in a loud whisper. She hissed and turned her head away from him.
“May I have some wine?” I asked him. He nodded and hurried over to me, pouring me a glass. He topped off his master’s drink, cleared the plates, and then left the room, returning a moment later with a large platter of carved pheasant. He leered at Marta as she took a portion.
“After France I traveled for a year in the Ottoman Empire,” von Gerl continued. Teuber came around the table and offered me the platter. I took a small piece of the roasted bird.
“Then on to Spain for two years,” von Gerl said.
Teuber served von Gerl, and then hurried back to Marta. I strained to hear his voice as he again leaned over her and refilled her glass. “Over a thousand ladies there—baronesses, princesses, anyone who would have him.” She waved at him to shoo him, but he merely took a step back and stood at attention behind her chair.
“I ended the tour in your home city, Da Ponte,” von Gerl said. “La Serenissima. That’s where Marta and I met.”
“Yes, last winter. He likes plump ones like you in wintertime, but in the summer, he likes them slender,” Teuber said in a low voice from behind Marta. Her hands trembled.
“But generally, anyone who wears a skirt,” Teuber said. Marta’s fork clattered on her plate. She clamped her hands over her ears.
Von Gerl looked over at his servant. “Stop that, Teuber,” he ordered. “Bring in the dessert.”
Teuber smirked at Marta, piled the soiled dishes on a large tray, and left the room. We sat quietly, sipping our wine. A few minutes later, the manservant returned with a small tray on which sat two glass goblets filled with lemon ice. He placed one in front of Marta and one in front of me, and then whispered in his master’s ear. Von Gerl nodded, stood, and placed his napkin on the table.
“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten that I have an important appointment this afternoon,” he said. “I am so sorry. Please stay and enjoy your dessert.”
“But you promised that we would speak,” Marta sputtered.
“I apologize, my dear. But I cannot stay. Please sit as long as you like. You two should discuss Venice. We will speak soon, I promise.” He turned to me and bowed. “Signore, it was an honor to meet you.”
“Thank you for having me,” I said. “I enjoyed seeing the collections.”
He smiled. “I’ll contact you about the library project soon.” He nodded and the two men left us.
Marta took a bite of her ice and put down her spoon. She stared down at her hands.
“Have you lived in Venice your whole life?” I asked her.
She looked up. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.
“I was just asking if you have lived in Venice for a long time,” I said.
“Yes, I was born there,” she said. She picked up her spoon and took another bite of the dessert.
“I lived there for many years myself,” I said. “But I was born in Ceneda, in the Veneto. Have you heard of it?”
“No, I haven’t.”
I squirmed in my seat, stifled a sigh, and transferred my attention to my own dessert. I was relieved when Teuber entered a few minutes later. He swept our half-eaten ices away.
“I haven’t finished that,” Marta protested.
“I am sorry, miss, signore,” he said. “You must go now.” He pulled Marta’s chair from the table so swiftly that she almost fell to the floor.
“But I must unpack—let go of me, you oaf!” Marta attempted to shrug off Teuber’s grasp as he hustled her out of the dining room and down the stairs. I jumped up from my chair and followed them. In the foyer, he handed Marta her cloak, then gave her valise and my satchel to me. “I’ve taken the liberty of packing your other dress, Miss Cavalli,” he said. He opened the door and pushed us out into the courtyard.
“Wait!” Marta cried.
The door slammed behind us. She pounded on it. “What is he doing? That rogue! Valentin will hear about this!
” She banged on the door again, but there was no answer. She gave a cry of frustration.
I knocked loudly on the door and called the manservant’s name. “He must have gone to the cellar, or is in the back and cannot hear us,” I said.
Marta looked around the courtyard. “Valentin will be back in a few hours, I am certain. But where can I wait? There is no place to sit out here. I’ll have to go back to the church.”
We walked out into the street. “You can’t stand around the Freyung the rest of the day,” I said. “Come, where are you staying? I’ll take you there.” A hansom cab was letting passengers off a few doors up the street. I signaled to the driver.
“I just arrived today,” Marta said.
“Shall I have the driver recommend a hotel?” I asked. She flushed. I guessed she did not have the money to afford a hotel. Besides, a hotel was no place for a young gentlewoman to stay alone.
“I don’t know. I should wait here,” she said.
“Why don’t you come with me?” I asked. “My landlady has extra rooms. She is an upstanding widow with a daughter. You’ll be perfectly safe there. You could stay there, at least for tonight.”
She thought for a moment. She glanced back into the courtyard of von Gerl’s house. “All right. Thank you. I am sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Lorenzo. Lorenzo Da Ponte,” I said.
“Thank you, Lorenzo. I’ll send a message to Valentin tomorrow.”
I handed her into the cab. Across the plaza, outside the church, the young man I had seen earlier leaned against a pillar, wrapped in his green cloak, looking at us. I gave the driver Marta’s valise and the address of my lodgings and climbed into the cab. It rumbled down the Freyung and turned left onto the Tiefer Graben. Marta gazed out the window.
“Have you been in Vienna before?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “It’s lovely. I think I will enjoy living here very much.” Her mouth curved into a smile. “The palace is beautiful, don’t you think?”