Where he resisted temptation, Jennie plunged in with both feet. While he scrupulously avoided all distractions from his career (once Jennie abandoned him), Jennie jumped ship at the first opportunity. Until her marriage, Jennie’s perfidy in matters of personal politics was almost as well established as Vogl’s reputation for loyalty.
“This current enterprise takes on the character of a philosophical debate,” Vogl told himself.
Essentially, Vogl was happy with his life choices, and Jennie seemed happy with hers. His self-denying pursuit of Truth through Art gave him satisfaction of a kind that Jennie pursued through personal gratification and the manipulation of emotion and temporal power. Which course was right? Which course—his or Jennie’s—produced greater happiness? Viewed in this light, the upcoming soirée assumed the contours of a desperate battle.
Vogl paused. Philosophy was all well and good, but the sophisticated world of Eugénie von Neulinger was no abstraction. Real people, unequipped to adjust to the whirlings of that world, faced having their lives redirected, damaged, or destroyed.
Consider her influence on him. When they met in her father’s cellar, Vogl was pursuing an honorable courtship of a diplomat’s daughter. After his tumultuous time with Jennie, Vogl wrestled his conscience into submission and was ready to try again for marriage. But by then the diplomat’s daughter was happily married to a silk merchant and pregnant with the first of her six children. Vogl was still a bachelor.
Now Vogl felt responsible for bringing two potential victims into Jennie’s world: the as-yet-untested Kunegunde Rosa and the hopelessly over-matched Franz Schubert. Vogl vowed that any associations formed between these young artists and Eugénie would remain temporary and tangential. He valued his clear conscience as much as Jennie valued her ability to emerge ahead of the rest.
He fretted more about Fraülein Rosa than Herr Schubert. Franz at least had his talent to shield him. A scoundrel like Schober might waylay him for an evening or two, but in the end, some wisp of song dragged Schubert back from whatever abyss threatened. Once the muse captured him, Franz heard no other voice.
But what of Kunegunde? She was appealing enough to attract all sorts of interest (cynics always placed the highest value on fresh blood), and Vogl had no idea where the girl’s head or heart lay. He regretted the impulse to provide a Fraülein Schikaneder for the evening, even as he reminded himself that the risks of serious trouble resulting were slight. He was on the verge of abandoning the enterprise when he returned to the theater precisely at five to escort the young lady home, according to his promise.
Vogl waited discretely in the theatre lobby and ignored Thym’s knowing leer when Kunegunde rushed to join him. A carriage awaited, but Kunegunde lived not far away, and she preferred to walk in the gathering dusk. Vogl dismissed the carriage and offered his arm. She took it.
Vogl had not escorted a young woman home in such a manner for quite a while, and the first few paces of their journey down the street felt rather awkward. Vogl, at six-feet tall, covered nearly twice as much ground per step as the girl, who did not release his arm. Muttering an apology, he adjusted his stride. With a good andante gait established, Kunegunde looked up at him.
“Herr Vogl, may I ask you something?”
“One may always ask. One may also choose not to answer.”
“Is Frau Donmeyer happy?” They walked on for several steps. “Oh, I see. You choose not to answer,” she said with a blush.
“Not precisely, Fraülein. I just don’t know what to say. Why do you ask?”
“Frau Donmeyer walked off the stage when Herr Thym missed an entrance. They say it is nothing unusual.”
“I see,” Vogl said with amusement. “How long did Frau Donmeyer stay off stage?”
“A full five minutes!”
“No more?”
“No.”
“Then rest assured, Fraulein. Frau Donmeyer was not unhappy. She is an accomplished, dedicated artiste who does not like to waste time. I assume Herr Thym apologized?”
“He did, but she said nothing. And then they sang a duet.”
“How did it go?”
“Oh,” Kunegunde said, blushing, “it was beautiful, really exquisite.”
“Then everything is all right. With an incompetent singer, her fits of pique continue for hours.”
“Good. Then I didn’t do any lasting harm.”
“You?”
“Herr Thym missed his entrance because he was talking to me.”
“Don’t blame yourself for that, Fraülein. Herr Thym knows what he’s doing.”
“He was showing me a more graceful way to manage Cherubino …”
“Cherubino. The schnauzer? Oh you poor child!” A loathsome moment in The Empress of the Common required that Katarina, on the brink of leaving the village forever, bequeath her incongruous lap dog to another maiden. Naturally, as the newest recruit to maidenhood, Fraülein Rosa was put in charge of the little beast.
“Cherubino’s real name is Rolf. In the opera they call him…”
“Schmutz. I know, Fraülein. Rolf and I are old acquaintances. The last time we met, his nickname was Pierrot, because French opera was in vogue. Rolf, like La Donmeyer, is not particularly fond of the French. He nips.”
“That’s what Herr Thym said. While showing me a surefire way to control Rolf, he missed his entrance.”
“Ah. Now I can answer your original question. Anne-Marie Donmeyer is quite happy, as long as the fauna remain in the forest and don’t upstage her. In return, Fraülein, may I ask you a question?”
“One may always ask,” Kunegunde said with a smile—a truly lovely smile.
“What draws you to the stage?”
“Why, nothing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This opera was my father’s idea. He disapproved of my hanging around the gallery all day.”
“The gallery?”
“My father manages the Oberes Belvedere Gallery. Do you know it?”
The artlessness of the question all but flabbergasted Vogl, who immediately resolved to abandon his project of letting this girl accompany his descent into espionage. The Belvedere Gallery, pride of the Habsburgs, was the envy of all Europe. Its manager was a person of consequence. Masking his disappointment, Vogl rose to the immediate occasion.
“My dear, I performed there. Afterwards the Crown Prince toured me through the collection personally.” This was not a happy memory for Vogl. His tour occurred in late 1815. He was Jennie’s invited escort, until Jennie sent him off into the sunset alone while she remained with the Crown Prince. During the ensuing seven years, Vogl avoided the Oberes Belvedere Gallery, despite the magnificence of the artwork inside.
“That was before my time,” Kunegunde said matter-of-factly. How far before caused Vogl some consternation. “Anyway, Father’s the first manager they’ve ever had, and he started his tenure only last month. We really haven’t settled in yet.”
Perhaps Vogl’s masquerade was salvageable after all.
Kunegunde continued, “Father says that the gallery is dangerous for me. He thinks I’ll meet the wrong kind of people.”
“I see,” said Vogl, not seeing at all. What sort of parent considers painters and their aristocratic patrons the “wrong kind of people”, yet thrusts his daughter into the opera world as an improvement? Obviously someone with enough egalitarian sentiment to name his child Kunegunde.
“But I think,” said Kunegunde, “Father just wants me out of the way. One of his friends from home …”
“Home?”
“Salzburg. But we were living in Prague. As I was saying, when Father learned that one of his old flames worked at the Hofoper, he asked her to find a place for me. Thus I am now Rolf’s keeper.”
“Fascinating,” said Vogl sincerely. Herr Rosa promised to be an interesting acquaintance.
“We turn here,” Kunegunde said. “Our house is at the end of the street.”
Vogl easily convinced Kunegunde’s
parents to allow him to escort her on the following evening. His name and more to the point, the von Neulinger name, carried the day. The only difficulty lay in persuading the old man not to join the party, but eventually Rosa saw the advantages of waiting until he was fully ensconced as manager of the Belvedere Gallery and in a position to return their hospitality.
So satisfied was Vogl with his afternoon’s success that he gave a sterling performance of Herr Heller’s Singspiel that evening, untainted by any other concerns. After the performance he went home, took a celebratory glass of wine and headed straight to bed feeling at ease with the world.
The sound of a marching band stirred him. It sounded like La Marseillaise, but in A-flat minor! Vogl, shivering at an open window, witnessed an odd procession. In a cart, bound together and headed for apparent execution, were Franz Schubert and Kunegunde Rosa—Schubert smiling and singing; Kunegunde weeping. Behind the cart, came Franz Schober, who pelted the two with rose petals. Schubert looked up, and catching Vogl’s eye, demanded quite distinctly, “Misha, grab my spectacles. You’ll find them in my pipe.”
On that absurd note, Vogl awoke, surrounded by silent darkness. Dawn remained hours away, but Vogl recognized the depths of his dread of the byzantine world of Eugénie von Neulinger. He slept no more.
Chapter Seven
“That’s a D flat, Misha.”
“Yes, of course. Nice touch.”
“Kind of you to say so. Shall we take that phrase again?”
“All right, perhaps with a slightly grander rallentando at the finish.”
Rehearsal progressed smoothly. True to his word, Schubert had not written anything that challenged Vogl’s voice, or from what Vogl gleaned from the sketchy scrawl on the piano’s music rack, anything beyond Schubert’s imperfectly polished pianistic ability. Musically, they would satisfy Eugénie von Neulinger’s demands. Additionally, Vogl found “Die Sonne und das Veilchen” quite to his taste.
Of course he did not share his opinion with Schubert. The composer never sought other musicians’ appraisals. When criticized, he became morose; when complimented, flustered. In either of these conditions, Schubert’s hands became hammers, imperiling his piano accompaniments. Vogl always let Schubert’s music speak for itself. His highest compliment was merely to sing the golden lines again. Schubert sought no greater reward.
“No, that’s too much,” said Schubert sharply. “Too slow.”
“But it’s the culmination of the song,” Vogl protested. “A little tenuto at the apex …”
“We are singing of violets, dear fellow, not oxen. That was too slow!” Schubert confidently asserted himself about music, at least with Vogl. Vogl generally let the little maestro have his way—in rehearsal. “Take it again, and be careful with my D flat!”
Forty minutes later, the duo deemed “Die Sonne und das Veilchen” ready for its impending public debut. Schubert and Vogl then discussed the other pieces on the program and the order of their performance. They agreed to invite Josephine Fröhlich to sing “Gretchen am Spinnrade” as a solo encore after she and Vogl performed Mozart’s “La ci Darem La Mano” duet. Throughout these mundane preparations, Vogl felt his anxieties of the night before return. When Schubert went upstairs to retrieve some additional music, Vogl revisited their source.
Paradoxically, the main problem was that nothing was amiss. Vogl saw no sinister significance in Eugénie’s new song. Innovation added zest to an evening’s entertainment, but why this particular poem? As Schubert noted, it told a simple story, rather like a folk tale, but Vogl saw no compelling moral sentiments amongst its innocuous words. Vogl tried to dismiss the issue. Schubert’s setting made the song likely to please, and that was Vogl’s only relevant concern.
But his worries persisted. Vogl’s best theory—that Eugénie, determined to present these words in the best possible light, recruited the best parlor musician in Vienna to bolster them—was unsatisfactory. Eugénie never doubted her powers. Her minions were mere adjuncts to her brilliance. She paid them little attention. Furthermore, Schubert was not Vienna’s most highly regarded composer, even excluding Beethoven, whose ungovernability and contempt for aristocratic patronage kept him totally out of Eugénie’s reach.
Vienna teemed with songsmiths; Eugénie knew, or knew of, dozens of them.
Maybe Jennie wanted Schubert precisely because she did not know him. What a terrifying thought. Schubert’s transparent innocence and unfamiliarity with aristocratic circles implied that ulterior motives loomed behind the song. Vogl hoped fervently that the only obligation for him and his small entourage was to perform the song and be done with it.
Schubert’s light tenor voice interrupted Vogl’s meditation. “Sorry for the delay, old man. I’d misplaced my pipe.” The composer’s blue-grey eyes were barely visible above a bunch of large black portfolios with paper peeking out precariously from every side. “Has Schober arrived?”
“Not yet.”
“He’s due at five,” said Schubert dropping the folders on the top of the fortepiano. “I thought to arrange this stuff as we ride over,” he explained, “but since Schober isn’t here, I’ll start now.”
At precisely that moment, Schober appeared at the door. “Disruptive as ever,” Vogl muttered. Schubert gathered up his bundle and hurried from the room.
“Franz, one moment. Will you need these?” Vogl indicated the pages of music still on the piano’s music rack, the sketches for the accompaniment of “Die Sonne und das Veilchen”.
Schubert stopped in his tracks. “Mein Gott, yes!”
“Don’t worry, I have them.”
Vogl gathered the pages and headed after his friend, retrieving en route several pages fallen from Schubert’s bundle.
“Almost a disaster,” Schubert laughed, as Vogl exchanged curt nods with Schober.
Vogl hired a coach for the evening, and the three men rode in reasonably comfortable silence—the stillness of a temporary cease-fire. Vogl sat next to Schober facing Schubert, who occupied himself by arranging his papers. Occasionally a page escaped Schubert’s grasp, and Vogl or Schober, whoever was nearest, retrieved it. When the coach stopped, Schubert jumped up.
Vogl was amused. “We are not there yet, Franz, but now that you’re up, will you change places with me?”
“Why?”
“You’ll see in a moment,” said Vogl, reaching across Schober for the door of the coach. They were at a rear door of the Schloss Belvedere. Vogl dismounted to escort Kunegunde Rosa.
She stood in the doorway, ready to go. Vogl cleared the first hurdle without difficulty. After exchanging the requisite pleasantries with her father, Vogl, his misgivings multiplying by the second, ushered her to the waiting coach.
“Herr Schubert, Herr Schober, permit me to present Fraülein Schikaneder, who will be joining us this evening.”
Schober lit up instantly. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle” he said, smiling as he offered his hand to help Kunegunde into the coach.
Schubert lit up in a different way. His face turned red as a sugar beet as he muttered, “Guten Abend,” and buried his face in his folders.
Kunegunde’s “I’m delighted to meet you, mein Herren,” was perfectly polished.
Vogl found the ensuing ten minute journey entertaining. He sat across from Schober. Kunegunde sat on his right side, back to the coachman directly across from Schubert, who continued to bury himself in his music. Kunegunde exercised all her wiles to engage Schubert in conversation while Schober fought to get the girl’s attention.
“Is that the music for this evening’s entertainment, Herr Schubert?” Kunegunde chirped. She received a grunt in return.
“Will you show it to me?” she continued.
“Don’t worry, Fraülein,” said Schober. “Once Franz finds himself a keyboard, you’ll hear it all.” Schubert looked up with a tentative smile.
“I hope you play “Erlkönig”, Kunegunde went on undaunted. “I’ve attempted it myself at home, but it’s quite difficult.”
<
br /> “No Schubertiad would be complete without “Erlkönig”, said Schober. “When Herr Vogl is not there to give it the magnificent treatment it deserves, someone always sings it.”
“Do you ever get tired playing all those octaves, Herr Schubert?” In response, Schubert looked quizzically at his right wrist. Schober tried a different tack.
“Forgive me, Fraülein, but may one be permitted to know your first name?”
“Why, it’s….”
Vogl was himself curious to hear her response. She assumed the surname of Schikaneder for the evening, but whether she planned to assume a complete alter ego remained to be seen. Vogl’s curiosity remained unsatisfied as Schober continued, “It’s not Franz, by any chance is it—or Frances?”
“Why no!”
“You see, aside from Herr Vogl, our host here, all our surnames begin with the same sound: Schubert, Schober, Schikaneder. Herr Schubert and I are both named Franz, and so I wondered if…”
Schober was finally rewarded with a blushing smile from Kunegunde. “You may call me Juliet.”
“Charming!” said Schober. “Franz, we could write a little canon,
Fortune called, so they obeyed her:
Schober, Schubert, Schikaneder!
Not a one of them stayed sober,
Schubert, Schikaneder, Schober!
“The devil! Franz, how dare you have a surname I can’t rhyme?”
Vogl completed the cycle:
“Everyone within the Stüb’ hurt:
Schikaneder, Schober, Schubert!”
Schober laughed, and Kunegunde turned her smile on Vogl. “Really, Herr Vogl, I’m surprised at you.”
“You can’t have all the fun, Herr Schober.”
Schubert remained immersed in his portfolios.
“You see, Fraülein, I’m Franz’s wordsmith. We have an opera in the works.”
“Franz,” Schubert said at last, “I can’t discuss the opera now.”
“An opera, Herr Schubert,” said Kunegunde. “What is it about? Will we hear any of it tonight?”
Kunegunde at last got what she played for, a verbal response from Schubert, an embarrassed “No, Fraülein, not tonight.”
Vienna in Violet Page 5