Vienna in Violet

  “I forgot. We are in the presence of one who, in his day, was not unknown to the fabled Mozart,” said Schober with less than perfect grace, “but Mozart’s time has passed.” Vogl did not rise to the bait, so Schober continued, more calmly, “We can’t afford to distract von Weber once rehearsals start.”

  “Oh stop it, Franz,” Schubert said. “Weber will accept us, and then we’ll want Michael to play Adolfo.”

  “Assuming my own day hasn’t passed,” said Vogl.

  “No more pessimism from my two best friends,” said Schubert with unusual sincerity.

  “Quite right, Schwammerl,” Schober responded. “Optimism is our watchword tonight. I feel confident that Alfonso und Estrella rests, at the moment, in your capable hands. I now embark on an adventure in another venue where promised pleasure awaits. Gentlemen, please excuse me. Guten abend.” Schober finished with a distinctly old-fashioned bow towards Vogl and was gone.

  Schubert confided to his friend, “I believe the hair of this ‘adventure’ is darker than her predecessor’s.”

  “Let’s talk of something else,” said Vogl.

  “Very well. I didn’t expect to see you again today, Misha. Franz chose this spot for a secret rendezvous. How did you find us?”

  “I asked at von Schwind’s. He hadn’t seen you, so you must have avoided the Café Lindenbaum for someplace more remote.”

  “Quite clever, Michael. You have the makings of a first class investigative scholar.”

  For the second time that evening, Vogl looked vaguely insulted. “That title I dream not of,” he responded. “Have you eaten, Franz?”

  “Not since breakfast, now that you mention it. What about you?”

  Vogl went through the customary charade of claiming he was famished and ordering enough for both of them. Schubert, as always, appreciated the repast. As they reached dessert, Schubert said, “Thanks for your willingness to communicate with Weber, Misha, but we probably won’t need you. Schober is quite resourceful.”

  “I don’t question his resourcefulness. I question his professionalism. Meeting von Weber means nothing if he sees you as street urchins.”

  “One look at Alfonso will convince him that we are professional.”

  “This?” said Vogl, indicating the chaotic debris of blotted pages, spilled ink, crossed out words and measures.

  “I mean, once it’s copied. I’m doing that tomorrow.”

  “Well, I wish you every success—and Schober,” Vogl added lamely. “Shall we go, Franz?”

  “One more pipe for me. Don’t worry, Misha. Everything will be all right.”

  “I hope so. Good night, Franz.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Exactly twenty-one hours later, at 7:30 on the cold, starry evening of Sunday, February 17, a coach pulled up outside the home of Frau Helena Stahl. For once, the streets of Vienna were as calm and orderly as the authorities liked to claim they were. The day of devotion, the bitterness of the weather, and the early onset of darkness apparently quelled the sort of burning passions that produced the various human excesses the authorities fought to tamp down. All was quiet, as most citizens huddled indoors, or, if they had no shelter, in parks around whatever sources of fire they could muster, where authorities customarily turned a blind eye.

  Frau Stahl’s home, rather more brightly lit than most at that hour, emerged as a beacon. It was a well-respected refuge for visitors to Vienna, situated advantageously near the Theater an der Wien. Many theatrical artists stayed there. Thus, the two blazing torches at the doorway and the large number of candles still burning in the windows caused little curiosity. Nor was the one unfortunate ministry minion assigned to patrol the streets particularly surprised by the gathering of nearly a dozen souls across the street. These hearty souls resembled others of their kind: the males outnumbered the females; several eager hands held sketch pads and pencils.

  Nordwalder’s pawn paid no special attention to the two young men at the back of the pack. One was somewhat taller than common with an aristocratic bearing including a rakish moustache. The other was uncommonly short, wearing a frayed coat and standing alone in the crowd, without hat or scarf. The shorter man held a thick portfolio and frequently tugged at the sleeve of the taller man. The little man occasionally rose to his toes, but whether to get a better look at the street or to combat the chill was uncertain. Even in conservative Vienna, going onto relevé in public was not a crime. The ministry employee paid more attention to the arriving coach.

  When the coach stopped, excitement grew, and several people moved at once. A servant coming from the house almost collided with the man jumping down from the seat next to the driver. Both apparently intended to open the passenger door. The driver’s companion arrived first, allowing the servant to confront the small mass of people crossing the street seeking a better look at the coach’s inhabitants. “Stay back,” he ordered.

  The gaggle obeyed. A cloaked, hooded figure emerged from behind the coach, inspiring whispers among the onlookers. Is it he? Is it he? It was only the driver, descended from his perch to help two additional servants from the house unload three or four trunks and two crates. Next from the coach descended a stout man, wearing a somewhat daring fur coat with a yellowish tint and a hat too tall for the current fashion. As soon as his foot hit the ground, he marched down the street and around the corner. Clearly he was not the long-expected one.

  Almost a full minute passed. Someone murmured a profane oath. Then another figure stepped from the carriage, far less imposing than the first. Not even the black greatcoat of the most ordinary cut and fabric concealed its wearer’s gaunt frame. He relied on a walking stick and moved slowly, with a perceptible limp. At the foot of Madame Stahl’s staircase, he paused for a moment, emitting an audible cough.

  As if taking the cough for a cue, the crowd reacted, but not in unison. Along with the refrain, “Is it he?” could be heard the counter strains, “That’s the man! That’s our savior!” Two female voices began chanting, not quite in tune, “Heil dir in Siegerkranz”, that most patriotic statement of pro-German sentiments set, ironically enough, to the tune of the English “God Save the King”. Several in the crowd moved forward, although a few held back, seizing the moment to write or sketch in their notebooks.

  As those in the surge reached the coach they heard again the cry, “Stand back!” This time, they did not comply. Two or three men continued forward, as the limping figure, with the help of a servant, mounted the front steps. The crowd looked up and saw Frau Stahl herself, standing with still more servants behind her.

  “Are you Viennese, or are you jackals?” Frau Stahl asked, in a strident voice. “Control your curiosity and go home. This man is exhausted. Herr von Weber, welcome to my home,” she continued more kindly.

  Nordwalder’s minion heeded every word, but saw no cause for action.

  Weber apparently understood what the onlookers wanted. The phenomenon of artist-worship was not new to him. Rising to the occasion, he turned in the doorway and delivered a wan smile and modest bow to the crowd before being whisked inside.

  The solid thunk of Frau Stahl’s closing front door effectively signaled the crowd to disperse. Docilely, they obliged.

  Such was the arrival of Carl Maria von Weber into Vienna.

  By and large, the onlookers disbanding in the cold night, seemed surprisingly cheerful. Scraps of conversation revealed how close some had come to von Weber, or how “heroic” the composer seemed. The champion of German opera would be among them for several weeks—there was ample time to hound him.

  Two, however—the tall aristocratic young man and his short, bare-headed, portfolio-bearing friend—hung back. They withdrew more slowly than the rest and were two of the last three to leave.

  Following established procedure, Nordwalder’s man had remained aloof, never participating in any of the crowd’s activity. He said nothing to anyone during the entire hour he was there. He had not moved or been moved when the coach arrived. His employers
had no interest in von Weber or the fate of opera in Vienna, so neither did he. Following dictated instructions, Nordwalder’s man stayed unobtrusively in the shadows across the street from Frau Stahl’s until he was alone.

  This man tarried only a moment. Unhurriedly, he hunched his overcoat over his shoulders and ambled after the two parting friends. At the now deserted corner, he glanced once at the back of the taller man before proceeding, at a judicious distance a few yards behind, along the path of the shorter, hatless man.

  The next morning Doktor Ignatz Nordwalder, through his subordinate, Captain Millstein, properly briefed by his agent, Gert Timmerich, received a full, albeit unenlightening, account of Franz Schubert’s movements between 7:30 and 9:00 on the evening of Sunday, February 17, 1822.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The week following Weber’s arrival produced constant, virtually ubiquitous frustration. Midwinter conditions put dampers on everything, from commerce to crime, and the Interior Ministry faced the fewest challenges to its authority of any week in the year. This meant that incidents of intra-ministry maneuvering, such as back-biting and blame-shifting, increased alarmingly. Little poses more danger to a hierarchical society than bureaucrats with too much time on their hands.

  Private citizens with both pure and impure motives were stymied. Consider the activities of Franz Schober.

  The librettist of Alfonso und Estrella, Schober strove with intermittent valor to introduce himself and his work to von Weber. On Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, Schober appeared at the Theater an der Wien, libretto in hand. Early Monday afternoon, Weber passed within six feet of him, but was so deep in consultation with a repetiteur that interruption was impossible. On Tuesday afternoon, just before the company’s dinner break, Schober bribed one of the theater’s employees to let him into the building apart from Weber’s supporters, who were congregated outside the theater. But Schober was brusquely pushed aside moments later by that same employee whose duty was “to protect Weber from all unsolicited encounters.”

  Had the stars been in a different alignment or the temperature a few degrees warmer Tuesday night, the case of Eugénie von Neulinger would have been over, and Schober would not have seen Wednesday at all.

  It all began naturally enough, with Schober deciding to drown Tuesday’s sorrows in a place of high revelry but low reputation, a place in a part of the city not far from St. Stephen’s Cathedral that featured several temples to Aphrodite. Worshipers of all sorts, from all strata of society, found their way there every day of the week at all hours of the day and night.

  Schober was rather well known in his chosen temple, by sight as well as by a wide variety of assumed names, and felt comfortable there, especially after imbibing a quantity of spirits. A frequent visitor, he traveled among men of his own class who engaged in similar pursuits. He rarely considered his sporting ground as the home to many destitute souls who, for various reasons, could not find refuge elsewhere. When such ideas crossed his mind, he congratulated himself for his charity, for dispersing sums liberally among the more comely members of the class of the deserving poor.

  Occasionally, men received his largesse as well. Men such as the one he bumped into in the doorway of #19 on the Annagasse.

  Schober got the worst of the collision with the shabbily dressed man. He was knocked back a couple of steps. Nevertheless, he offered an apology and planned to continue inside. He was stopped by a hand to his chest.

  “Your apology means nothing, mein Herr,” the shabby man snarled.

  Schober took a moment to collect himself. There was no mistaking the malice of his new acquaintance, but Schober responded with good humor, “Then allow me to buy you a drink.”

  The shabby man’s gaze modulated from rage to suspicion. “A drink.”

  “A gentleman can do no more. If you will just let me pass …” Schober glanced down at the hand still resting on his chest and felt a spasm of horror. It was only a thumb and forefinger. The remaining digits were scarred irregular stubs. Coarse dirty brown wool covered the rest of the palm. Nonetheless he rallied. “Please accompany me as the guest of Herbert Hummel” (Schober’s hastily selected nom de guerre for the evening—it pleased him that rather than an outright lie, his self-introduction could be construed as an invitation to a co-conspirator.).

  The shabby man responded still suspiciously but without subtlety, “Gert Timmerich.”

  Gert Timmerich visited #19 on the Annagasse for different reasons than Schober. He disliked the sort of revelry practiced there and loathed the men and women who indulged in it. But one of his associates, Captain Millstein’s personal valet to be precise, often chose that address as a place to share information with Timmerich. Timmerich lived nearby and didn’t object. He would meet the valet at the appointed hour, give or take what he needed, and leave.

  This evening Timmerich, having received new instructions, was in a bad mood. More surveillance. More lurking in doorways, rapidly averting his gaze, wandering all over the city for no reason. If they wanted to dispose of someone, why waste time? All this following and reporting made his blood boil.

  The collision with the man wearing the maroon coat just increased his disaffection. Timmerich didn’t recognize the smirking fool as the person standing with Franz Schubert outside Frau Stahl’s house two evenings before. Schober meant nothing to him. All he saw was a self-centered, self-satisfied aristocrat, and Timmerich wanted nothing more than to wipe the stupid smirk off the man’s face, preferably with a carving tool.

  With the offer of a drink, Timmerich’s brain began to spin. Since receiving his head-wound at Austerlitz, alcohol had little effect on him, certainly less effect than the condescending aristocrat offering it. The white teeth, the nicely waxed moustache. Timmerich felt the urge to grab its two points and twist the rich man’s head off. Nonetheless, he let his left hand fall to his side and stepped out of the doorway.

  As the maroon coat preceded him inside, Timmerich’s right hand went into his coat pocket and curled its fingers lovingly over the whalebone handle of his favorite weapon. How nicely that maroon coat would mask any blood that happened to spill on it.

  The two men found an empty table in an alcove. “Wine or Schnapps?” Schober asked jovially.

  “Schnapps,” Timmerich grunted, the first word he’d said since entering.

  “Wait here, my good man,” said Schober patting the man on his left shoulder.

  Timmerich could barely contain himself, but he formed a plan: create a diversion—throwing over the table would serve—and in the ensuing scramble insert his knife between Herr Hummel’s ribs. Unless he was caught red-handed, there’d be no reason to connect him to the deed. One less snob in the world wouldn’t bother anyone. Dr. Nordwalder often paid him for this sort of activity. This service he’d perform for free. In fact, it would make up for the frustrations of the evening. But when he looked up, the maroon coat was out of sight. Timmerich slammed his damaged left hand down on the table in increased frustration.

  Schober’s life was saved by a charming young woman he thought he recognized, but whose name he couldn’t recall. She was standing in conversation with a female friend near a doorway at the back of the hall that led up a flight of stairs. Schober, with glasses of brandy in each hand, and the contents of two more inside him, altered his course and approached the women. “How lovely to see you again, my dear,” he said.

  Neither woman seemed to recognize Schober, but one of them answered, “Are those drinks for us, mein Herr?” sparing him the need to apologize.

  A somewhat confused colloquy ensued, the upshot of which was that the girl Schober thought he recognized went towards Timmerich’s table carrying both glasses of brandy while Schober followed her companion carrying an unopened bottle through the door and up the stairs.

  The danger passed. Timmerich decided that dispatching the aristocrat was not worth the wait. He gulped down the brandy the strange girl gave him, dashed the empty glass on the floor, shoved the startled waitress a
side, and stormed out. The remaining glass of brandy was her tip, and she downed it at once.

  Schober spent most of Wednesday recuperating from Tuesday’s adventures and avoided the Theater an der Wein. By evening, he recovered enough to dine at the home of a friend of his own station, Franz Bruchmann, whose sister Justina he found quite fascinating. Schober, in fact, had cast her as the heroine of an ambitious “adventure.” That evening his hopes for Justina remained unfulfilled, so Schober returned to his post outside the theater on Thursday morning. There, another day-long wait in the cold proved futile.

  Thus by Thursday evening, Schober was desperate. He said as much to his friend and collaborator, Franz Schubert. “Tomorrow, you must accompany me, Schwammerl.”

  “On whose piano?” Schubert said grumpily. He’d spent the first three days of the week in bed, recovering from a cold occasioned by staying out hatless in Sunday’s frigid air. Thursday evening was the first time Frau Stieglitz allowed him to leave the house.

  “You know what I mean,” said Schober. “At the very least, give me the score. Weber needs to see the music.”

  “We agreed, Franz. The score remains in my hands until it passes to von Weber.”

  “Then bring it to the theater tomorrow.”

  “I shall do no such thing.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m busy.”

  Schober was taken aback. “What business is more important than Alfonso?”

  Schubert looked a little sheepish, almost embarrassed. “An adventure,” he said.

  “Delightful!” said Schober, his mood changing instantly. “Fraülein Rosa?”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Schubert began. “My time in bed this week started me thinking.”

  “I, too, have had some of my best thoughts in bed.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. Not usually.”