“Paisiello!” the alarmed waiter shouted to his brother.
The person who shouted, “Keep the damned Italians out of this!” is unknown, as is exactly who performed which deeds in the ensuing melee, but before the regulars in the cellar tossed all the brawlers out into the street, Heinrich’s hat was crushed, Doktor Barenberg took a face-full of beer, and considerable amounts of furniture suffered abuse as some glassware suffered fatal injury.
As Barenberg helped him stagger back to the inn, Jurgen Himmelfarb found himself picking splinters out of his bleeding skull—splinters of a verdammte Italian’s shattered violin.
The whirlwind in the weinstube was the most visible of the disruptions that blemished a typically quiet night in Hager’s Vienna. Four arrests resulted from the regrettable confusion described above. These four were soon released without serious inconvenience. Elsewhere, a proper ratio was maintained—six corpses and thirty-five arrests. Did anyone require further evidence that the forces of order remained in the ascendant?
Guilty! All suspicions confirmed! No doubt remained. The only recourse was retribution—final and immediate. Well, not quite immediate: One must allow time for the witch to fall asleep naturally in her bed before sending her off to a more permanent resting place. Satisfaction may wait that long—just a few minutes more. All that’s required now is a little patience.
Everything is still. Falling snow outside dampens everything on the street. What is the line from Shakespeare? “That this blow might be the be-all and end-all.” So be it. The end of doubt. The end of shame. The end of wickedness. It is now time. All will be well. Exit Eugénie.
Agitato e mysterioso
Chapter Twelve
At 6:30 on the morning of Friday, February 15, 1822, Franz Schubert awoke highly agitated after less than four hours of sleep. Upon arriving home the previous night he discovered that five pages of Alfonso und Estrella were missing—the crucial five pages where the unscrupulous Adolfo announces his repentance, the very pages Schubert intended to review with Franz Schober later that day. With von Weber expected in the city at any moment, the situation was critical.
Schubert tried to concentrate. At once his mind flew back to the previous evening, to the home of the aristocrat Georg von Neulinger, and his and Vogl’s soul-stirring performance. Even in retrospect, Schubert savored the presence of so many eminent people under one roof—so many beautiful women—all there listening to his music. With a sigh, he recalled the countess, a legendary beauty reputed to have been Vogl’s lover at one time. He smiled at the memory of the ever charming Frölich sisters—if only Josi had Kathi’s looks, or Kathi had Josi’s voice. Then he remembered the fascinating stranger Vogl had brought along, the red-haired Fraülein Schikaneder. Schubert shook his head rapidly to dispel these visions. He threw off his blanket and rolled out of bed.
Immediately he faced the grim aftermath of his night of enchantment. His stiff back and dizzy head offered a mere prelude. How foolish he was to accept any invitation with von Weber’s arrival so near. He had to channel all his energies in von Weber’s direction. Schubert groped for his spectacles and found them on his nightstand. Perhaps the intoxication of the previous evening caused him to miscount. Alas, a hurried shuffling of the papers on the small table that served as his desk confirmed his earlier fear—five essential pages of Alfonso und Estrella were gone. Schubert forced himself to stay calm.
The solution to the mystery—not an altogether pleasant one—appeared once Schubert realized that other music was missing as well, including the folder holding the music Schubert took with him for the soirée, his rapidly composed song, “Die Sonne und das Veilchen”. There was nothing to do but to walk over to the von Neulingers’ and retrieve the music. If he didn’t dawdle, the round trip would take less than an hour. He’d start right after breakfast.
“You are up early this morning, Herr Schubert,” said Frau Stieglitz, von Schwind’s nominal housekeeper and, effectively, Schubert’s landlady, “and you returned so late. Young Moritz was home before you last night.”
“Good morning, Frau Stieglitz,” Schubert grumbled. Accustomed to the landlady’s garrulous tendencies, he paid little heed.
Frau Stieglitz continued, “Coffee is prepared. Rolls and butter are on the sideboard.”
Schubert helped himself to three.
“So many? If this keeps up, we shall raise your rent,” said Frau Stieglitz, half in jest.
“I had no supper last night,” Schubert recalled somewhat sheepishly.
“And out so late. You artists! Moritz is the same. You with your music paper, him with his sketchbook, always scribbling.”
“There will come a time, Frau Stieglitz, when an original sketch by Moritz von Schwind will be worth more than this entire establishment. Mark my words.”
“Well, until that time arrives, give me two ducats a week. If you insist on stuffing yourself, I’ll have to charge more. Here.” In contradiction to her words, Frau Stieglitz placed another roll before him. “I’ll run to the baker for more before Moritz wakes up. I have the time.”
“I’m going out on an errand now, Frau Stieglitz. Would you like me to stop at the baker’s on my way back?”
“Certainly I’d like it, Herr Schubert, but you won’t remember. I’ll go myself, Danke Shoen.”
Her reply caused the composer a spasm of regret. Schubert loved the patisserie a mere three streets away. True, he rarely entered it, for he rarely had the wherewithal to purchase its wares, but he associated the exotic scents of vanilla, nutmeg, and similar delicacies emanating from the place with home in rather complex ways—his city, his rarely seen father and siblings, and times of earlier comfort when his mother still lived. Indeed on more than one occasion the aromas from that bakery were all that sustained him between the modest breakfasts and suppers Frau Stieglitz provided. The moment passed. The composer had other things on his mind.
“Very well. If Herr Schober shows up, tell him to wait.”
Frau Stieglitz looked at Schubert quizzically. “I’ve never seen that fellow before noon, but I’ll tell Hilda.”
“Thank you, Frau Stieglitz,” said Schubert, rising from the table and heading for the door.
“Forgive me, Herr Schubert, but are you going out in this weather without a hat?”
A hand to his head confirmed his landlady’s observation. “Good heavens, no! I’ll be right down.”
Twelve minutes later, after locating his hat and correcting some missing note stems on a manuscript, removing his coat, washing his hands, returning hatless halfway down the stairs, then, after securing his hat, retrieving his coat, stopping at the bottom of the staircase to deliberate whether to take his pipe (and deciding against it), Schubert again arrived at the front door. When he opened it, Frau Stieglitz was returning from the bakery.
“Still here, Herr Schubert?” she chirped. “Will you be dining here this evening?”
But Schubert hurried down the front steps without giving an answer.
Finding von Neulinger’s house took longer than expected. The street was just off the Heldenplatz, but in the grayish light of the morning, Schubert didn’t locate it at once. He passed the place twice before recognizing it. He was confused because two burly men stood at the door. One held a club.
Marshalling all his courage, Schubert approached. “Good morning, mein Herren. Is this the home of Count von Neulinger?”
“What of it?” snarled the unarmed guard.
“I have business here.”
“What sort of business?”
“You see, last night I left some papers inside …”
“Then, mein schatz, you are out of luck. We have strict orders not to admit anyone.”
“But I’ll be only a moment. I know just where I left them …”
“And they’ll stay there. Is there anything else?”
“Please. The papers are of no importance to anyone but myself, but I need them desperately. Could one of you gentlemen retrieve them for me?”
“Our orders are to keep pests off the premises,” the unarmed guard said. His remark caused his armed companion to snort, perhaps in amusement. Like an accidental blow on a kettledrum, it was not a reassuring effect.
“Then can you at least send for someone? You see, I performed here last night. I’m sure Herr von Neulinger, or better yet, the countess…”
“The countess? You won’t be seeing her this morning. Between us, mein schatz, you don’t want to disturb the count today. Now be off.”
The armed guard stirred slightly.
Schubert backed away in confusion. Wondering what to do next, he saw a familiar shape at the head of the street. With a look back at the guards, he trotted forward to intercept a welcome friend, Michael Vogl. “Misha! Thank God you’re here!”
Vogl looked surprised. “Good morning, Franz. They summoned you too?”
“Summoned? No, no. You see, I left some pages of my opera here, and those two men…” Schubert indicated the guards, whom Vogl noticed for the first time, “won’t let anyone in.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Vogl. He approached the guards. “Your master awaits us.”
“We are to admit no one,” the unarmed guard responded.
Unflustered, Vogl continued, “Your orders are out of date. I rode here with Herr Diederich. He’s tending to the carriage. I am to wait in the vestibule for him.”
The guards traded looks. They seemed uncertain but disinclined to move. The armed one said, “Anyone could learn Diederich’s name …” but before he could say any more the door opened behind him. Diederich himself appeared.
“Herr Vogl, enter please.” Diederich retreated inside.
Schubert, who stood gaping throughout this exchange, felt a tug on his sleeve. Quickly and quietly he slid in behind Vogl and tried to move as confidently as his friend past the suddenly deferential guards.
“But what about this other …” were the last words he heard as the heavy wooden door shut resolutely behind him.
Once inside Schubert withered under Diederich’s startled gaze. The steward paused for a moment, then accepted the fait accompli. “You will wait here, bitte,” he said before progressing upstairs.
“Thank you, Misha,” Schubert said with relief. “I’ll just pick up my scores from the music room.” Vogl grabbed his arm. “Misha, what is it?”
“Franz, something terrible has happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, but when I am waylaid on the way to rehearsal on orders from the count himself, it is not a social matter.”
“Well, it’s no concern of mine. I’ll just get my music. Why is this door locked?”
Vogl said nothing. An uncomfortable silence settled upon them. It was not merely the cheerless anteroom. The whole house was unnaturally quiet. A half-filled glass remained on the marble-topped sideboard, a remnant of the night before. No one bustled about preparing for normal daily business. Not only that, the house was cold. No one tended the fires that provided the first line of defense against February’s onslaughts. No servant other than Diederich and the guards outside was in evidence anywhere.
Vogl stood with his eyes glued on the staircase. Eventually Diederich came down. “Follow me, please. Both of you.”
At the top of the stairs Diederich stopped. “The master is in the third room on the left.”
“Eugénie’s boudoir,” Vogl half-whispered. Diederich stayed where he was. He did not again make the mistake of letting Vogl out of his sight. He observed Schubert also.
What greeted Schubert was perhaps the most appalling sight of his life—not the count looking disheveled and out of uniform or the two rather better-dressed officers standing on either side of him—it was the blood.
Spattered blood stained the count’s shirt and the leggings of all three men. Blood defaced the wall behind them. A gathering pool of blood congealed on the floor beneath Eugénie von Neulinger’s lifeless body. The countess lay sideways. Her partially severed head dangled over the side of her bed.
Schubert gasped, then gagged.
“Good morning, Herr Vogl.” Officer that he was, von Neulinger remembered his manners. “You see why I sent for you.”
Vogl mustered only a nod in reply.
Schubert fell under von Neulinger’s gaze. It was even more chilling than Diederich’s. “I did not send for that one.” While Schubert struggled to formulate some response, the count continued. “No matter. He left with you last night. He might as well stay here now. These are two of my associates, Captain Millstein and Herr Doktor Nordwalder. They are commencing an official investigation.”
More nods were exchanged. Schubert shrank back from this trio. The others, Vogl included, maintained their poise. Apparently, the count relied on disciplined formality to carry him through this ordeal. Only the rigidity with which he held his body suggested his discomfort. Millstein and Nordwalder were professionals, certainly representatives of law enforcement, the servants of the ruthless Baron von Hager. Schubert remembered them as guests at the soirée. Then, he noticed and appreciated the glitter of their medals. Now their icy formality frightened him.
Vogl avoided looking at Captain Millstein but paid close attention to Nordwalder. Sensible Viennese like Vogl treated Hager’s minions with great care when they couldn’t avoid them altogether. Though less aware of the power they wielded, Schubert experienced an animal sensation of fear. Instinctively he stepped behind his friend.
“Can you, either of you, shed light on this matter?” the count asked.
“Count von Neulinger, I am devastated …”
“I don’t want your sympathy, Herr Vogl. I demand your assistance!”
“Of course … anything.”
“When did you last speak with my wife?”
Vogl spoke slowly. “Perhaps a quarter hour before I left,” he said. “The countess …”
“Her name was Eugénie, as you well know,” von Neulinger said, displaying a trace of emotion.
“Yes, Eugénie. She wanted to speak with me about Herr Schubert’s new song.”
“What about it?”
“You see, she promised to provide an honorarium for the composer.”
“So, you initiated the conversation?”
“Why, no. But I assumed that was the reason Eugénie wished to see me.”
“And did she give you money?”
“No, she didn’t. Eugénie merely expressed her opinion of the song.”
“That was when she gave you this?” The envelope with “Die Sonne und das Veilchen” written on it appeared as if by magic. The seal on the envelope was broken.
Vogl showed no surprise. “Yes, that’s right. She asked me to leave it on the sideboard.”
“You know nothing of the letter’s contents?”
“The envelope was sealed.”
“Natürlich.” The Count spat it out as though it were profanity.
Schubert recalled hearing the word, in the countess’s effervescent voice only hours before.
A spasm of pain crossed the Count’s face. “Is there more you can tell us?”
“About the letter? I’m afraid not” said Vogl.
“That’s all,” said the count.
“One moment, please.” Doctor Nordwalder spoke for the first time. Schubert noted the man’s bass voice, fitting for his somber demeanor. A singer with his attributes would make an excellent Adolfo, perfect for his opera. “Herr Vogl, the members of your profession are trained in manipulating weaponry are they not?”
“The works of Shakespeare and others require a certain knowledge of swordsmanship.”
“Swords of all types?”
“For Shakespeare, the rapier, or rapier and dagger provide the greatest verisimilitude, as well as the most excitement for the audience.”
“But you can wield other weapons. The broadsword? The saber?”
“I have impersonated many military officers. I’ve frequently worn a saber. I have no experience with the broadsword.”
“Thank you, Herr Vogl. Forgive my intrusion, Georg.”
The count nodded in Nordwalder’s direction then turned again to Vogl. “Wait downstairs, please. Your friend will receive his honorarium.”
“Oh, never mind that.” Schubert was shocked to hear his own voice. Now, feeling everyone’s full attention, he stopped dead.
“You wish to say something?” Captain Millstein stepped in with a baritone voice, legato, pianissimo.
Schubert staggered on. “Well, no. Yes. You see … that is … the song is still here. Music room. Unless … I mean, keep it with my com … compliments. But if you don’t mind there are a few other trifling pages, which, if I might be so bold …”
“Downstairs,” said the count.
Schubert bowed and backed out of the doorway. Vogl nodded formally, turned and caught up with his friend on the stairway.
Diederich followed. “You will wait here,” he told them when they reached the bottom.
Schubert and Vogl again shared the chill silence of the anteroom. A few moments later Diederich returned, bearing a key with which he unlocked the music room door.
“Perhaps you will be more comfortable in here,” he said ushering them in. “You may sit, of course, but otherwise touch nothing.”
Diederich closed the door behind them.
Chapter Thirteen
Schubert’s eyes surveyed the room nervously and filled with relief when they lighted on his precious folder, exactly where he left it, on the floor to the left of the piano chair. Vogl’s face, too, showed relief, not from what he saw, but from the fact that Diederich had not locked the door, had not literally incarcerated them.
Vienna in Violet Page 10