Schober began to regale the company with a synopsis of the turgid plot of Alfonso und Estrella, but their arrival at the von Neulingers forestalled the recitation.
There followed some debate about approaching the house. As invited guests, Vogl and Kunegunde should go up the steps to the front door. As a hireling, Schubert belonged at the servants’ entrance. Schober, as a hireling’s hireling, belonged with Schubert. Yet Vogl habitually demanded that when he and Schubert performed together they were treated as equals to each other and to the invited company, as guests. In fairness to his hosts, in those cases Vogl arrived with the guests, not in advance of them. If Vogl mounted the steps with his entire party this evening, Schober became an equal, a relationship Vogl preferred to disavow.
The final complicating factor was that Schubert, of course, had not eaten. He’d be offered to share in the meal given to the servants before the guests appeared, but time was running short. More important to the adventure was that Schubert familiarize himself with von Neulinger’s piano before playing it in front of others. Too many well-to-do patrons of the arts viewed musical instruments as sculpture, often with insufficient regard to the sounds they emitted. Both Vogl and Schubert had struggled heroically with badly-tuned instruments. If heroic measures were required to make the evening successful, Vogl wanted to be forewarned.
At last Vogl decided to drop off Schubert and Schober at the servants’ entrance, then return to the coach and take a short drive with Kunegunde in order to arrive with the earliest guests. At the last minute, Schober chose to remain in the coach with Kunegunde, promising to go straight to the servants’ hall upon his return.
“But Franz then, you’ll miss supper,” Schubert pointed out.
“Never fear,” Schober replied, “I always travel prepared with sustenance.” With a flourish, he produced a flat bottle from his coat. “Will anyone share in my repast?”
Vogl and Kunegunde both declined with good humor—in Vogl’s case, feigned—but Schubert took a swig, “To fortify myself for the coming ordeal.”
Vogl formed a new plan: escort Schubert to the front door as a guest, but dispatch him directly to the kitchen, then return to Schober and Kunegunde, take a short coach ride and come back with two additional guests.
Diederich, von Neulinger’s steward, foiled it. Standing in the open doorway, he ushered the two musicians inside and told Vogl that the countess wanted to see them. Only Vogl’s hand on Schubert’s arm prevented him from taking flight.
“How delightful,” Vogl said suavely, tightening his grip. “I’ll inform the other members of our party.” Vogl was loath to leave Fraülein Rosa alone with Schober, even for a minute. “Franz, please tell the countess that I’ll be along forthwith.”
“Michael,” Schubert stammered, but Vogl was gone.
“This way, Herr Schubert,” said Diederich.
Franz Schubert had been in aristocratic establishments before, so he was not overawed by the opulence surrounding him as he passed through the dining room into the von Neulingers’ grand salon. Only after they started up the stairs did Schubert’s knees begin to quiver. When they reached an antechamber and the servant announced his name, Schubert needed all of his will to enter.
A glittering vision confronted him. The countess, in not-quite-full regalia, sat on a horsehair divan and extended her bejeweled hand towards him. All was assembled carefully, from the delicately crossed ankles above white satin slippers up to the ever-so-slightly raised eyebrows and the slight opening of the lips. The velvety “Herr Schubert, enchantée,” coming from her throat, with imperceptible movement of her rouged lips, was equally polished.
Schubert almost fainted. His eyes focused on the outstretched hand with rings on all but the index finger and thumb. Should he take it—kiss it? What if he made the wrong decision? At the last moment he thrust his own arms behind his back and managed an awkward, silent bow.
The countess merely broadened her smile. “And where is our friend Michael?”
“Misha … Michael is telling the other members of our party where we are. He’ll be here directly.”
“Good. I so want to thank you for your extraordinary efforts. Please sit down, Herr Schubert.” The countess indicated a straight-backed chair to her left.
Schubert did not want to sit. He wanted to vanish. How could he sit? He was still wearing his overcoat, which hung down to his knees. Undressing in the countess’s presence, even if only to the extent of removing his overcoat, was unthinkable. He began, “Pardon me, your highness …”
The countess interrupted with a tinkling laugh. “Don’t tease, Herr Schubert. I am no princess, merely a countess.”
Schubert blushed, “Oh! I beg your pardon, your majesty.”
The countess favored him with an admonitory lifting of an eyebrow. Then she laughed again. But she didn’t renew her offer of a seat. “I hope my request was not too burdensome, mein Herr.”
“Not at all,” said Schubert when he realized that he was supposed to speak.
“Thank you for obliging me on such short notice. But the task is completed?”
“Yes … in effect.”
“In effect? What do you mean?”
“You see, your … frau—countess, there’s the piano part not fully copied. I can finish it before the guests arrive,” Schubert added, hoping to be dismissed.
“Can you not play it from memory? You’ve just written it, after all.”
“I can, but with people around, I prefer to have music in front of me.”
“Most interesting, Herr Schubert. I’m fascinated by the workings of the musical temperament. But the text is fully transcribed? Misha has his part?”
“Oh yes. I finished that yesterday.”
“Where is Misha?” asked the countess, voicing the question pounding in Schubert’s own head, “It is not like him to keep his old friend waiting.”
In fact, Vogl was searching for the countess at that very moment. He lost several minutes persuading Kunegunde and Schober to enter the house. Schober wanted to take a ride around the ring with Fraülein Schikaneder who, to Vogl’s dismay, did not object. Indeed, had Schober not made the mistake of partaking once too often of his flask, Vogl might not have prevailed. There was further delay at the front door, depositing the two in a sitting room and assuring that servants kept an eye on them. In an ill-considered maneuver to prolong chaperonage, Vogl reminded Diederich that he knew his way around the house and did not need an escort. Before mounting the stairs, Vogl saw with relief Kunegunde sitting at the von Neulinger’s piano. Schober retreated to his bottle, lacking the decency to ask for a glass.
Vogl went to Eugénie’s dressing room but found the door locked. Now having the choice of finding Eugénie somewhere to his left or somewhere to his right, Vogl chose incorrectly. At last he heard Eugénie’s velvet voice uttering petulant tones. “I will not have my evening ruined!”
Vogl swept into the room in his best leading man manner: “I am here at your service, Contessa! I beg a thousand pardons if I have caused any distress.” Schubert smiled at the gesture. Eugénie didn’t.
“Good evening, Michael,” she said coolly. “Are you in good voice this evening?”
“Anything less would be unpardonable, my lady.”
Eugénie softened. “So our little artistic venture has come to fruition,” she said, favoring Schubert with a smile calculated to charm, but which caused the little man to look at the floor. “The question now is, when to introduce it?”
“I’ll sing it for you now, if you wish.”
Eugénie smiled at Vogl. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll wait with the rest of my guests. However, I want the song to create an indelible impression. Should we start with it?”
“It is unwise to begin with something climactic.”
“Then how will I know which song it is? I’m afraid, Herr Schubert, that I know very few of your compositions.”
Schubert said nothing, so Vogl said, “I’ll introduce the song before I sin
g it. Permit me to decide on a suitable moment …”
“Misha, I want to know in advance. I may need to postpone the maiden voyage.”
“Then signal us.”
“That I would prefer not to do. I have it. We will have dancing. Herr Schubert, do you play dance music?”
“With pleasure, my lady. Are waltzes permitted?”
The countess let out a genuine laugh. “Natürlich! And Mazurkas too, if you have them. We are quite daring here. Michael, after you’ve sung a while, take a rest. Sing the new song fourth after the dancing.”
“A brilliant solution, Eugénie.”
“Now go back downstairs. I expect my husband at any moment.”
“Of course, Contessa.” Vogl gallantly took Eugénie’s hand and brought it to his lips. When the same hand was extended towards Schubert, he again bowed with his hands behind his back, spun on his heel, and left the room leaving Vogl behind.
Vogl caught up with his friend at the top of the stairs. “The countess Eugénie is impressive, is she not?”
“Oh, she seems very nice,” Schubert said earnestly. “Does she know how to dance the mazurka?”
“It’s best to assume that the countess knows everything.”
Chapter Eight
The flurry of activities at the von Neulingers did not prevent a normal evening from passing in the rest of Vienna. By six-thirty that evening, three new corpses had attracted official attention, one in the canal, one in an alley, and one on the edge of the Glacis military drilling ground on the city’s western side. Already one plausible perpetrator was in custody as officials scrambled to preserve the veneer of security essential to the city’s reputation as well as the morale of its more respectable citizens. Given such efficiency, most residents of the city found ways to contain their savagery, preferring to mask most lethal intentions beneath civilized words.
Indeed, a stone’s throw away from the von Neulingers, another gathering was taking place. In his own townhouse, Count Moritz von Merlinbeck hosted an improbable quartet: himself, his Countess Zdenka, and two Germans, Instruktor Jurgen Himmelfarb and Professor Johannes Barenberg. They spoke in anticipation of the impending musical soirée, to which they had all been invited.
“We are preparing for war!” Instruktor Himmelfarb asserted, “and we must keep our minds on it.”
“Surely you exaggerate,” von Merlinbeck said meekly. “After the devastation caused by the Corsican bandit, no one has much taste for such conflict.”
“Unless they are assured of instantaneous and total victory,” Himmelfarb responded.
“Impossible,” said the count.
“Not if the reports from the Urals are true. Decisive action now will alter the face of Europe forever.”
Despite being the youngest member of the group, Zdenka took charge. She spoke with authority. “Meine Herren, haste will destroy us. Tonight we go only for good company and light entertainment. Don’t expect anything of a serious nature.”
“Our time is short, and our resources are limited,” grumbled Himmelfarb.
Jurgen’s patience was the most limited resource, thought his taciturn colleague, Barenberg.
Himmelfarb was a man of action who consorted with scholars like Barenberg and other elements of civilized society, not by choice but by accident. Four years earlier, a beam fell from an entryway to a silver mine and broke his arm. The next day Himmelfarb prevailed in a debate with the person he deemed responsible for the loose beam “with his left hand,” as it were, choking the truth out of the engineer with the arm unencumbered by a sling. Himmelfarb then took over from the engineer as a supervisor, expecting to return to his regular duties when his arm recovered.
Then came Barenberg, a professor from Munich, who understood everything that connected the mathematics of mining to European politics, but nothing about practical methods of extracting metals from the earth. Certain representatives of the Prussian government sent Barenberg on exploratory missions. Barenberg, in due course, found Himmelfarb.
The association wasn’t always easy, but it functioned. Himmelfarb, fortunately and atypically, was literate and displayed rudimentary awareness of civil behavior. Barenberg, who reserved his snobbery for those who pretended to understand Leibnitz as well as he did, tolerated his associate’s not infrequent solecisms. Barenberg eventually prevailed upon his superiors at the university to employ Himmelfarb, purely in an advisory capacity.
The notion of Himmelfarb ever talking to an actual student amused some and alarmed others. Barenberg made sure that such a travesty never occurred. Himmelfarb’s title, “Instruktor,” was honorary and ironic.
The two academics’ presence in Vienna was the upshot of a sort of mining accident. While deciding how best to cross an alluvial plain on their way to a coal seam, miners in the Ural Mountains stumbled upon a vein holding vast quantities of platinum. Until that moment, scarcity of the element rendered it of interest to only a few. However, platinum cognoscienti fully appreciated its value if it ever appeared in bulk. A British scientist, Lord Wollaston, had discovered ways to make the metal malleable.
The Russians knew what they had in terms of raw material. The English knew how to transform the material into invincible weapons. Germans like Himmelfarb knew where and how the Russians were digging. Germans like Berenberg knew what the English were capable of. Hence, the race was on to scoop up the platinum first.
Rumblings from the Urals inspired the Prussian government to send Himmelfarb and Berenberg to Vienna, where an English force seemed to be gathering. The bearing and polished behavior of the Austrian aristocrats appealed to Barenberg, at least in a theoretical way, but they bothered Himmelfarb. He resolved problems by clawing through mud and dust with physical force, not by indulging in endless chatter in immaculate rooms. Barenberg’s problem-solving methods involved secluding himself for hours at a time so that numbers formed patterns in his mind. His students and colleagues were largely irrelevant distractions to him.
Although he was Himmelfarb’s superior, not only in rank but, he believed, in every other way too, Barenberg encouraged his colleague to talk for them. Himmelfarb didn’t mind; his very contempt for the power and importance of words released him from inhibitions that governed more polished negotiators. Himmelfarb said what he wanted when he wanted.
“Tonight I shall confront the British …”
“Please, Instruktor.” The Countess Zdenka stopped Himmelfarb with the shocking maneuver of placing her hand on his knee. Indomitable among workingmen, Himmelfarb lost much of his effectiveness in the company of women, especially women as attractive as the countess. He generally ignored women he couldn’t avoid, but Zdenka compelled his attention. Her light touch stopped his tongue more effectively than a beam falling on his head in a mineshaft.
“In Vienna one must arrange all the cards before playing the hand,” the countess explained. “Tonight, we’ll learn about the other players. Armed with that information, I shall guide you properly.”
Himmelfarb remained unsatisfied. “I don’t like palavering. We are prepared to make a simple offer once we get a straight answer to a simple question. Why not do it all tonight?” Encountering only silence, Himmelfarb continued, “What do you say, Johannes?”
“Would anyone else like another brandy?” the count interrupted.
Receiving muttered refusals from the others, Merlinbeck rang for a servant, who appeared, bottle already in hand.
“I trust the countess,” Barenberg said gravely, as the servant withdrew. “We’re in a foreign world here, Jurgen. The Merlinbecks are natives. Our instructions are to put ourselves in their hands. We will undoubtedly thrive under the Merlinbecks’ care.” It was a long speech for him, but the high stakes of their enterprise justified the effort.
“Herr Professor,” said the countess, turning to Barenberg, “Allow me to correct some misconceptions.” Zdenka’s means of controlling Barenberg differed from those she employed on Himmelfarb, but they were equally effective. She appealed t
o the man’s sense of reason, couching everything she said in terms of impeccable logic. Barenberg invariably succumbed.
“While my husband is dyed-in-the-wool Viennese, I come from Óbuda, a little city in Hungary.” The countess’s precision regarding detail was one of the reasons Barenberg trusted her. “Secondly, I am far from infallible. I only promise you my best efforts on your behalf. I can’t guarantee success.”
The countess’s frankness increased Barenberg’s trust. “Finally,” she added with a steady gaze from her doe-like eyes, “I prefer being addressed by name, not by title. Please call me Zdenka.” As of that moment, Barenberg’s trust in the countess crystallized.
“Another?” the count half offered, half ordered.
This time Himmelfarb accepted a second brandy to match the count’s fourth. Zdenka and Barenberg still nursed the remains of their first drink. “What shall we drink to?”
Appropriate toasts crossed every mind: “To control of the continent,” thought Himmelfarb.
“To expanding horizons,” thought Barenberg.
“To Eugénie’s damnation!” thought Zdenka.
But the honor went to the count, who said cheerfully, “To platinum.”
The word “platinum” also echoed in the residence of the British ambassador.
“This rare metal,” the ambassador explained to his retinue before embarking on the evening’s excursion to the von Neulingers, “may become vital in the defense of The Empire. Lord Wollaston of the Royal Society informs me that platinum, in sufficient quantities, will alter the military situation on the continent permanently and incalculably. Should one control it, one becomes invincible on the battlefield. It is one of the hardest substances on earth. Until recently, it was thought that there were insufficient quantities to make it useful for the manufacture of military ordnance. The Russians’ discovery in the Urals has changed all that. Thus, the safety of the Crown depends on our activities tonight. Do not let Tagili slip from our control. We must corner the market before anyone else understands the value of the material.
Vienna in Violet Page 6