Vienna in Violet

  Vogl approached the group with a hearty, “There you are, Franz. Shall we begin?”

  Kunegunde spoke then. “Thank you, Herr Vogl, for introducing me to such celebrated company. I’ve been in the city less than two months, yet I’ve heard of almost everyone. Herr Schober has been pointing the luminaries out to me. But we have a question. Is that woman over there Count Waldstein’s wife or his mistress?” She indicated a woman with two strings of pearls woven artfully into her raven-colored hair.

  “I know enough not to involve myself in wicked speculation, Fraülein, but I will tell you this much. That woman is the count’s sister. Her greatest achievement, as far as I know, is to be the dedicatee of one of van Beethoven’s piano pieces.”

  “I knew it was something like that,” said Schober.

  “Has Josie arrived?” Schubert asked suddenly.

  “All three of the Fröhlich sisters are here with their parents,” said Vogl. “Josephine will join us at the piano just before our first break.”

  “I have “Gretchen” with me,” Schubert said with a sly smile.

  “All right, Franz, I’ll ask her,” said Vogl with a smile in return. “Gretchen am Spinnrade” was one of Schubert’s best songs, but being the desperate lament of a lovelorn lady, it rarely appeared in Vogl’s personal repertoire. Josephine Fröhlich was one of the few amateurs in Vogl’s acquaintance who did the song justice.

  “And so I am resolved,” said Schubert, theatrically draining his punch and thrusting the glass towards Schober, “Lead on, Misha.”

  During this conversation, servants arranged chairs in several rows before the piano, which was placed near the center of the floor. Enough von Neulinger guests were seated that a smattering of impromptu applause broke out as Vogl led Schubert to the piano. For once he was glad of Schober’s presence behind Schubert. Schober prevented the little man from taking flight.

  The world changed the second Schubert settled behind the piano. Without preamble and, as always, forgetting to see if Vogl was ready, he started the rapid burst of G octaves that launched “Der Erlkönig”. By the time Vogl completed the song’s first vocal phrase, all traces of Schubert’s shyness were gone. It was easy for him to forget that there was any physical presence in the room. Together, Schubert and Vogl took their listeners through the terrible battle for a young child’s life during a violent thunderstorm in a dark, haunted wood. At the final cadence, the audience, completely enchanted, responded with delighted applause.

  For the next hour, the gods of music reigned. Vogl was in good voice. Ably abetted by Schubert, he assumed various identities—tortured father, moon-struck philosopher, cunning fisherman, even still-voiced Death itself—transporting his listeners over thrilling landscapes and startling vistas. Gone from the salon was the tension and suspense upon which Eugénie thrived. Private thoughts of romance, political or social advancement, even simple biological needs, receded. The inclusion of Josephine Fröhlich and a visit to Mozart’s immortal Don Giovonni, provided a lovely pinch of variety. When she went on to sing “Gretchen am Spinnrade”, several members of the audience, including Vogl himself, were moved to tears. Semi-consciously Vogl registered that first hour of singing at the von Neulingers’ as among the happiest of his entire salon-singing experience.

  The time for a break approached. Before Vogl began “Heidenröslein”, the song chosen to end the set, he submitted to audience demands and elicited a promise from Fraülein Fröhlich to sing again later in the evening. The change in fortune may have come at that moment. The benign spirit that seemed to follow Schubert whenever he performed lost its predominance.

  Between rounds of singing, as Eugénie promised, there was dancing. Schubert drifted upstairs to a second parlor and discovered another piano. Most of the younger guests followed, including Kunegunde and Schober. Vogl remained below. As efficiently as he could, Vogl pushed through the sea of compliments and commonplaces in hopes of finding more interesting conversation. In this, he was partially successful.

  “Michael, give us your opinion on this,” said Georg von Neulinger, who stood with Josephine’s father. “Does Der Freischütz stand a chance? Herr Fröhlich maintains that German is a language fit only for the salon, that only Italian belongs on the stage.”

  Vogl again was dragooned into the debate dominating the city’s cultural world. At least this time the conflict was civilized. In other corners of the city, and probably the room, the German-Italian controversy simmered close to full-scale war.

  “That’s not what I said, at least not what I meant,” said Fröhlich. “When I say that Italians flourish in our opera houses, I mean that they control what gets produced there. They won’t let an upstart like Weber challenge their authority.”

  “He has gotten this far. His opera will be performed next month.”

  “My point exactly. Someone in power here must have heard it in Berlin last summer and believes that it will fail. Otherwise …”

  “My dear Fröhlich, you have a devious mind. Vogl, do you know anything of Der Freischütz?”

  “Not really. But Weber is a dedicated artist with vast knowledge of the stage and of music.”

  “Without knowledge of Vienna, he will fail,” insisted Fröhlich.

  “He has a month,” von Neulinger said blandly.

  “A month to master Vienna? He needs a lifetime.”

  “Are we Viennese really that complex?” von Neulinger asked as Vogl drifted off in search of a glass of wine.

  He next encountered the brilliant, pale-emerald eyes of Eugénie. “Misha, magnificent singing. You deserve a reward,” she exclaimed, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder and levering herself up to kiss his cheek. “Don’t forget, your fourth song,” she whispered before letting him go.

  “I shall endeavor to please in every particular,” Vogl said, and Eugénie smiled at him.

  “Herr Vogl, may I talk with you in confidence sometime?” It was Heinrich von Neulinger speaking, giving Vogl his first real chance to assess the young man. Beneath the veneer of respectability, Vogl sensed a grimness suggesting that, in the general scheme of things, Heinrich took himself too seriously. Heinrich’s earnest gaze suggested only one thing.

  He said, “I am hoping to establish myself as a playwright;. Can you advise me?” Vogl’s suspicions were confirmed. He returned the response that served him for so many others. “Anytime.”

  Heinrich responded with a tight bow. “Not tonight, of course.” His eyes darted around the room. Vogl suspected he sought out one or both of his parents and was prepared to bolt if they saw him.

  “Of course. When you’re ready, show me what you have and we’ll discuss getting it to the stage.”

  Vogl’s kind-sounding invitation often proved the best way to rid himself of pests seeking his intercession. Over the years, dozens of self-styled playwrights had thrust their works and themselves upon him. Most of them envied their perception of the playwright’s life, but not the actual work. They usually came with a scene or speech in their pocket, but few had any inkling of what went into a full production. If the worst proved true and Heinrich offered a full script, Vogl would read it and offer suggestions for making it stage worthy. No one, not even Franz Schober, returned after learning their manuscripts’ deficiencies. Sometimes Vogl felt that guiding the talentless away from certain public embarrassment, while sparing society untold quantities of worthless poetastery, was his greatest contribution to the world.

  “I believe we have met before, Mister Vogl.” This came from Lord Bellingham.

  “Then I am delighted to make your acquaintance a second time,” Vogl responded in his labored, albeit well-pronounced English.

  “I haunted the theater, absolutely haunted it, when I was a delegate at the Congress of Vienna,” Bellingham continued. “We met after a performance of some Shakespeare nonsense, the one with the fairies in it.”

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I played Oberon.” The night he lost his Jennie.

  “Quite a spectacl
e, as I recall. Done in German, of course, so I didn’t understand a word of it. But I find the English version incomprehensible as well,” said Bellingham with an abrasive laugh. “I enjoyed the dancy bits though.”

  “The dancers in that production were most charming,” Vogl said, masking a trace of bitterness.

  “Yes, those were heady days … heady days.”

  “They say the world was remade in a matter of months.”

  “So they say, but the world is still with us. We still have a lot on our plates, I can tell you. I, for one, am glad. I never expected to see Vienna again, but after this dust-up in the Balkans …”

  “I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with the meaning of ‘dust-up’.”

  “Well, never mind, old boy. I’m sure the whole thing’s no more than a tempest in a teapot. Tell me about Vienna these days. All I hear about is this Weber chap.”

  “Von Weber?” Vogl took care to correct Bellingham’s pronunciation and smiled. “Der Freischütz does seem to occupy everyone’s attention at the moment, but if you are here two weeks from now, you might enjoy The Empress of the Common. It’s a new work—a singspiel.

  “German!” said Lord Bellingham.

  “But with wonderful dances,” said Vogl. “And the celebrated Anna-Marie Donmeyer plays the empress. You may remember her from your last visit.”

  “Donmeyer? Afraid not. I pay more attention to dancers than to singers.”

  Vogl knew that at least to be true. “Well, if you wish to see The Empress of the Common, leave word at the Hofoper. You can come as my guest.”

  “Thanks awfully, but I’d better steer clear of the whole business. Between us, old man, I don’t fancy these Germans hanging about everywhere.” Bellingham nodded towards Herr Himmelfarb, passing by with wine in his hand.

  “Perhaps they intend to prepare us for von Weber,” said Vogl, “though they don’t look as though they’re connected to the theater.”

  “Those two?” said Bellingham, again nodding at Himmelfarb, now standing with professor Barenberg next to Zdenka Merlinbeck. “I happen to know about them. They’re sniffing about for Wollaston’s plat’num. Please excuse me.”

  Lord Bellingham strode purposefully towards Herr Tagili, the incongruous Russian. For a moment disengaged from conversation, Vogl wished he were more proficient in English. What did Bellingham mean by fancy, clear steers and dirty plates? And what on earth was “Wollaston’s plat’num” aside from being odorific and unpronounceable? But more than anything, he smarted from being called an old man. True he was fifty-four years old, but he considered himself a youthful fifty-four.

  A few minutes later, the guests regathered for the second half of the concert. Things did not go well. Except to change pianos, Schubert had not stopped playing during the break, and his fingers were tired. He slipped over some of the thirds in the vivace section of “Der Wanderer,” a recently published song, chosen to open the second set. Schober’s buffoonery didn’t help. He spent the break reveling, dancing, and drinking with a little too much of the latter. He ripped the final page of “Der Wanderer” as he flipped it and started to laugh. Vogl saw Kunegunde snicker also.

  Hoping to suppress the brewing hysteria, Vogl decided to change the second song of the set, announcing the more somber “Lob der Tränen” in place of the planned “Frühlingsglaube”, forgetting how much more taxing on the pianist the “Praise of Tears” was.

  Schober rendered the entire stratagem moot by dropping all the music on the floor. Eventually the song was performed to respectful applause. Vogl, still hoping to salvage something, remembered his promise to Josephine Fröhlich and invited her back to the piano.

  New problems developed. Schubert only had “Gretchen am Spinnrade” and “La ci Darem La Mano” for Josephine to sing. Josephine was unfamiliar with most of the other songs Schubert had with him. Eventually, they selected “Geheimes”, a recently written song that Schubert thought he could play from memory. How the gods must have laughed at that moment in the song’s final verse:

  “She casts her eye around the assembly;

  But she only seeks to apprise

  ‘Him’ of the next sweet tryst.”

  Although the rendition was far from perfect—Schubert’s memory was not quite flawless, nor was Josephine’s, for that matter—it was received with delight, particularly by the hostess, if the increased sparkle in her eyes and the appreciative nod she turned in Vogl’s direction were any indication. Before Vogl could return to the fore, Lord Bellingham, who apparently was not as indifferent to female singers as he claimed, made his own contribution to chaos, a cry of “zncore!” This was taken up by Tagili, his Russian companion, then by some other guests.

  There was nothing for it but to ask Josephine to sing something else. In a flurried conference with Schubert, they settled on—again with unconscious irony—”Der Tod und Das Mädchen”. Vogl had sung the song solo in the first part of the program, but as it was a dialogue, he agreed to do it again with Josephine singing the part of the dying girl and Vogl singing the inexorable monotone of death.

  The fading D major chords at the end of the song signaled the end of Josephine Fröhlich’s contribution to the tragic fiasco that followed. She bowed gracefully to her well-deserved applause and withdrew.

  Vogl, remembering the plan he made with Eugénie, faced a dilemma. He promised to sing Schubert’s newly commissioned song as the fourth song of the set. “Death and the Maiden” pre-empted the spot. The song’s appearance in the first half suggested that no one would take its reappearance as a special signal. However, Eugénie’s exact terms were “your fourth song.” Josephine had sung the third one.

  Thus Vogl did something he later regretted.

  After smiling Josephine back to her seat, he said, “My friends, Herr Schubert and I have the pleasure to announce a special treat for you. We now perform a song prepared exclusively for this glorious occasion. With all humility, we wish to dedicate this piece to our gracious hosts, the Count and Countess von Neulinger.” Vogl paused artfully and then joined in the applause that followed. “We give you the premier public performance of “Die Sonne und Das Veilchen”.

  Schubert’s simple E-flat introduction transfixed the audience. Not that the song was one of Schubert’s best, but mingled amongst the listeners were a few who understood Schubert’s remarkable talent. More than a few shared Vogl’s conviction that the plump little man was a genius. They hung on every note. Unfortunately for the composer, except for Vogl, few of these kenners cared about the business of music. They took Schubert’s ability for granted, the right of all Viennese, citizen or transient, to have continual access to the greatest sonorities in Europe.

  As the song took its dramatic shift to C minor, Vogl found himself wondering who Eugénie’s secret recipient was. He couldn’t tell by looking. Every once in a while an audible sigh escaped a listener’s lips, or a head flew back as if propelled by inexorable force, common responses among Viennese audiences. It was important to be seen as having a special affinity for music, whether one did or not. Still, certain people behaved uncharacteristically. Georg von Neulinger, for example, took only casual notice of music and usually spent his time surveying the rooms in which it was made. But tonight he was as involved as anyone in the violet’s inevitable fate. Similarly, Vogl noticed Lord Bellingham’s rapt interest. Was his foppishness a façade? Captain Millstein’s head bounced as if the song were a march, and he became momentarily disoriented when the song’s tempo shifted. Vogl knew several military men who experienced music only in terms of the parade ground. Not all of them were fools. Some actually understood what they heard better than they chose to reveal.

  On the other extreme, Heinrich von Neulinger and Kunegunde Rosa treated the gently lyrical song as a dance. Vogl knew nothing of Heinrich as an auditor, but his behavior during this song was uncharacteristic from the habitually stiff young man. Berenberg, the German and Tagili, the Russian, provided a hint of comic relief. They remained stoically immobile, b
oth physically and emotionally throughout the performance. Perhaps Tagili’s knowledge of German was insufficient to understand the song’s simple, yet cryptic story of a violet passing beneath the sun’s benign gaze. Try as he might, Vogl deduced nothing.

  The song reached its close. Vogl approached Schubert’s pet D-flat with a ritardando a little grander than good taste indicated, and for greater effect closed his eyes and all but whispered the final phrase, “there were eight where there had been one.”

  Schubert finished the song’s tiny coda, and there followed a moment of complete silence. Then, gratifyingly, the audience burst into spontaneous applause. Bowing in acknowledgment, Vogl noticed many heads turning to the back of the room where the von Neulingers sat. Several rose from their chairs.

  Eugénie had fainted.

  Professionally, Vogl completed his bow and extended his right arm towards Schubert, who rose to accept his share of the glory. Until that moment, Schubert was hidden behind the music and had no idea what was going on. When he saw the commotion and deduced its cause he muttered to Vogl, sotto voce, “The countess is pleased!”

  Chapter Ten

  The rest of the soirée passed in a blur. Vogl later remembered few details. Fainting in rapture was a common phenomenon in those days when great artists were considered superior beings. The procedures for assisting those who succumbed—smelling salts, warmed moistened handkerchiefs—were equally familiar. Eugénie soon recovered enough to exit the salon on her own feet. Her husband remained, firmly insisting that the performers continue. Three songs later, just before Schubert and Vogl reached “Ganymed”, their customary finale, Eugénie returned, presumably fortified by some wine, looking none the worse for wear. The concert ended, and the pre-arranged “simple supper” commenced.

  Post-concert time was usually onerous for Vogl. The aftermath of the von Neulinger soirée was particularly so. The guests moved towards various tables of food. Schubert quietly withdrew upstairs to accommodate those who wanted more dancing. This was not a formal duty, but among such a fine array of society, Schubert found safety only behind piano keys. Vogl realized that unless he took a plate of food upstairs, Schubert would go hungry.