Vienna in Violet

“Then hear me out, Franz. Monday and Tuesday I was too ill to work, but I thought about my profession, of those who really succeed at it.”

  “No greater way to make a mess than seeking to create success,” Schober improvised.

  “I’m serious, Franz.”

  “You’re also successful enough, or you will be once Alfonso reaches the stage.”

  “Perhaps. I’ve achieved a little, it’s true, but only on a small scale. The truly great composers, the Beethovens of this world, create on a grand scale. I manufacture cottages, they construct cathedrals.”

  “Our opera is that cathedral.”

  “Not mine. The glory goes to the singers presenting your words. I want my music to speak for itself. In any case, that’s what I thought about, and in the process, a notion for a piano piece struck me.”

  “And did you jot it down?”

  “That’s just it, Franz. For two days, I couldn’t ‘jot down’ anything. But this piece has taken root in my mind and seems to be developing in gargantuan proportions.”

  “What of it?”

  “I must write it. I’m starting tomorrow.”

  “So you mean to abandon Alfonso und Estrella? To leave your creation, our child, the fruit of the union of two faithful lovers, to the cruel machinations of fate, to …”

  A sneeze from Schubert ended Schober’s flight into melodrama. He reverted to a more direct approach. “Will you at least join me tomorrow evening at Frau Stahl’s?”

  “No one’s admitted over there. You told me that yourself.”

  “Well, Schwammerl, we must try something.”

  “All right—no, wait. I’m performing with Vogl tomorrow, I just remembered.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Misha arranged it.”

  “But you won’t forget Alfonso.”

  “Of course not, Franz. Arrange the meeting with von Weber, and Alfonso and I will go.”

  “I tell you, I need your help to arrange the meeting.”

  “Not tomorrow. In a week or two.”

  “Schwammerl!”

  “Don’t worry, Franz. Things will work out.”

  Schober sighed, accepting his defeat in the skirmish. “So, what is this monumental piano construction?”

  “I have you to thank for it, actually,” Schubert said. “You remember that page you ripped at … at the soirée?”

  “I thought we agreed not to mention that evening.”

  “Yes. But you tore a page of “Der Wanderer”. During my lassitude, I sat down to repair the page, and the oddest things started happening. The notes took on a life of their own.”

  “Ah, now I see,” said Schober. “This great and noble enterprise, this excuse to abandon your greatest creation, emerges from delirium. How wise you are, Schwammerl. Should I supply you with opium? They say it does wonders for headaches, and it accelerates the hallucinatory process almost as well as absinthe.”

  “Thanks all the same,” Schubert said with a noise halfway between a cough and laugh. “Both my monument and I are perfectly healthy now. You’ll hear it first, I promise.”

  “Then let’s toast to the success of the enterprise. Wait here, Franz, I’ll get us a bottle.” Setbacks never stymied Schober for long.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Countess Eugénie von Neulinger’s funeral took place on the morning of Tuesday, February 19. Her husband oversaw her internment in his family vault. It was a sign of the times that Eugénie became the vault’s first occupant. Her husband, like so many others, attained his place in society through valorous service in the Napoleonic wars. His ancestors were negligible. The funeral was well attended for reasons similar to those that governed the von Neulingers’ previous formal gathering. No one dared attract the authorities attention by signs of disrespect. Few members of the funeral party displayed any actual feelings. Perhaps they took their cue from the count, who observed the obsequies with unwavering stoicism.

  Ignatz Nordwalder noted these reactions carefully, but if he hoped for any incriminating display, he experienced frustration. Most of his suspects, all but three of the foreigners, were present. The bewitching Zdenka Merlinbeck was there, lacking her German escort. She stood dutifully beside her apathetic husband, occasionally letting her eyes wander over the crowd, but otherwise observing perfect decorum. When her eyes lighted on Nordwalder, he caught a gleam of recognition, nothing else.

  Another Auslander, the Russian Tagili, was absent, but the foppish Englishman Bellingham was there with two other officials of the British Embassy. Bellingham seemed more invested in the proceedings than his companions. If the stories about his adventures of 1815 were true, he had reason to be. Nordwalder saw only one quiver disturb the “stiff upper lip” of which the British were so proud. Moreover, Bellingham’s gaze remained fixed on the casket as long as it was in his view.

  Captain Millstein formed part of the honor guard escorting the countess to her final resting place, and he performed with proper soldierly sang-froid.

  Only two members of the funeral gathering gave public vent to their feelings, but in neither case did the reactions seem inappropriate to the occasion. The countess’s stepson Heinrich wept openly and, at times, volubly into a handkerchief of black crepe. The fashion of youth apparently was to wear its heart on its sleeve. Nordwalder was a little surprised to see Heinrich’s display of emotion, but if there were an ulterior motive in Heinrich’s indulgence, it was probably to disconcert his father. Perhaps Heinrich used his handkerchief only to hide his face, which still showed the traces of a diminishing bruise. Even in that case, Nordwalder saw no evidence of guilt. From that, Heinrich, through unimpeachable sources, was virtually exonerated.

  Careful tracing of young von Neulinger’s movements revealed that he visited two unlicensed taverns on the night of the murder, coming to the second after the brawl involving Himmelfarb and Barenberg. Nordwalder still smarted because descriptions of who hit whom, when, with what, and for what reason, varied even among the trained observers present on the scene. Yet all sources agreed that a violin shattered, along with numerous bottles and glasses, and that several pieces of furniture received minor abrasions. The mayhem explained Himmelfarb’s blood and Heinrich’s bruise.

  After being tossed from the tavern, the Germans disappeared into the night. Their scent was picked up at their inn. Not so Heinrich. He returned to the cellar with two companions, intent on making reparations. The proprietor accepted some of Heinrich’s money on behalf of the Italian violinist, who suffered the greatest economic loss, but he refused Heinrich and his cronies permission to stay. More confrontational chatter ensued until Heinrich—or one of the others—huffily announced that they would “take their custom elsewhere.”

  They remained elsewhere, actually unaccounted for, for approximately an hour before Heinrich and his friends appeared at another establishment presided over by an agent of Nordwalder. There they remained until some time after sunrise. At that time, Heinrich, stirring from a doze, was overheard saying, “I can’t be late.” He left with his two companions in pursuit. The trio strayed towards Heinrich’s parents’ house, but at the last minute, they veered off in another direction. Since the countess had died before dawn, Heinrich’s morning decisions were irrelevant.

  There remained the slimmest possibility that during the interval between taverns, or at some time during the night with his friends asleep, Heinrich had slipped home and slain his stepmother, but his companions swore—under some duress to be sure—that he’d stayed in their company all night.

  “With that shiner on his cheek, he didn’t want his father to see him,” one pointed out. Upon hearing that logical remark, Nordwalder repositioned Heinrich in the back ranks of his inquiry.

  Nordwalder’s attention settled longer on one more mourner, Michael Vogl, who seemed genuinely moved as the countess passed by him. Like Heinrich, Vogl dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief, but unlike the younger man, Vogl did nothing to attract attention. He stood far back in the crow
d apparently lost in his own thoughts. That Vogl was such a well-respected actor, Nordwalder admitted grudgingly, suggested innocence. If his dignified grief was an act, Vogl would plant himself in view of an audience. Instead, Vogl isolated himself. Then, unexpectedly, he left before the final prayers were read.

  Nordwalder concluded that Vogl’s sense of loss was real. Yet he consoled himself. The countess’s murder sprang from the murky depths of passion, profit, or politics. Vogl would not be the first to dispose of a friend or lover only to suffer pangs of regret from the sacrifice of his victim.

  Nordwalder watched the cortège march away from the tomb, contemplating his next move. Already his network flooded him with information. He needed to narrow, not expand, the field of inquiry. This required direct interrogations. First, Captain Millstein, whom he would send for as soon as they returned to the ministry.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Admit it, old man,” Michael Vogl ordered himself upon returning from Jennie’s funeral, “Thomas Bellingham is right.”

  A confirmed stoic, Vogl welcomed advancing age, time’s natural contribution towards mastery of the passions. His fortification against the morning’s ordeal was a strong dose of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, but the medicine proved insufficient. He set down the volume and sighed.

  Seeing Jennie pass out of his life this final time pained him almost as much as her first exit with Lord Bellingham. In the privacy of his study, he didn’t hold back tears. It was all he could do to fight down the urge to sob. But more than his immediate loss troubled him.

  Jennie brought him nothing but anguish. From the earliest torments of burning, too temporary love, through the ravages of rage and self-harming jealousy, through bitterness, hypocritical expressions of unfelt resignation and cynicism, to his current sense of dread, Jennie functioned, in a callous, insouciant way, as his muse. Vogl felt all his emotions travel with her to her tomb. With pangs of self-mockery, he admitted he was weeping for himself as much as for his long-lost love.

  The torment became subtler still. Jennie showed the world how to change with circumstances. In her manners, public and private, she always stayed in vogue. Her father’s cellar, her various chevaliers’ conveyances and opera boxes, the homes she maintained and visited, right down to this last one, all became enchanted for a moment by her presence. When she was borne into her final resting place, Vogl became utterly disoriented. He felt unbearably alone. The dignified band, the expressionless faces, the absolute stillness—these were not part of Jennie’s world.

  For a moment Vogl was transported to another time, another cold funeral. There was the multitude, there were the musicians, there had even been then, as now, flakes of swirling snow, but that ceremony lacked similar solemnity. Vienna incurred lasting, immeasurable shame at the burial of one of its brightest lights, extinguished before its time. Vogl could almost hear the echo of wailing, those hurried formalities and the race to get away from the burial of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, as if the city felt chagrin for letting the great man get away from them.

  Now they couldn’t even find his grave. How different Jennie’s memorial would be. The von Neulinger mausoleum was a permanent eyesore. Even after death, Jennie forced Vogl to consider how distant his theater-driven life was from her worldly reality.

  “A featureless entity in an unfathomable world,” Vogl muttered as he reached the nadir of his unhappiness. He felt drained, dried up.

  Nonetheless, duty called him to the Hopfoper, the long-awaited full run-through of The Empress of the Common. “Perhaps casual chaos will do us good,” Vogl declared to his hangdog face in the mirror. He forced himself to change to less funereal garb and leave the house. Vogl walked quickly and arrived five minutes ahead of time. While hanging up his hat, coat, and scarf in the men’s cloakroom, he felt the presence of someone behind him—Kunegunde Rosa.

  “Herr Vogl, will you please wait for me after rehearsal?” she asked.

  Before Vogl could frame a response, Schmidt called the cast to the stage, and Kunegunde hurried away.

  The girl’s effect on Vogl was extraordinary. All through the rehearsal, through Schmidt’s ill-tempered corrections of miscues and dropped lines, through Anna-Marie Donmeyer’s melodramatic complaints about false tempi and obnoxious woodwinds, Vogl navigated with studied grace and equanimity. He contributed his portion to the enterprise without qualm or mishap, almost without effort. Only one question interested him: what on earth could young Fraülein Rosa want with a has-been like him?

  As the others left, Vogl found Kunegunde along with his hat, coat, and scarf. “May I escort you home, Fraülein?” he said for the benefit of any onlookers. They left the theater together.

  “Now, Fraülein, what is troubling you?”

  “Father wants me to be a sprite,” Kunegunde said. “In Der Freishütz.”

  “Congratulations. You will be the envy of Vienna.”

  “But I want to stay here.”

  “Your loyalty is commendable, Fraülein, but, in all honesty, your career would be better served by joining the Theater an der Wien on this occasion.”

  “I don’t care about my career. Only father does. I want to work with my friends here.”

  Vogl took a moment to frame comments about the capricious nature of the performing arts, the importance of seizing every opportunity, the value among friends that came from any one of a group advancing. But before he began his little homily, Kunegunde spoke again. “Father has invited von Weber to the gallery for Friday evening.”

  “Really!”

  “Yes. To view the paintings. Then,” she added with a little tremor, “I am supposed to sing for him.”

  “You are to be envied.”

  “Don’t make fun of me, Herr Vogl.”

  “I’m serious. I envy you myself.”

  “Then you misunderstand. You see, I was wondering … I must obey father, but may I ask a favor?”

  “Of what sort?”

  “I want to sing some of the songs you sang last week.”

  “You mean Schubert’s?”

  “Yes, but I don’t have any. Can you get me copies?”

  “I expect so, Fraulein, but is it wise?” In her artless way, Kunegunde sent Vogl’s mind spinning every time they spoke. He sifted rapidly through a slew of conflicting possibilities. For Kunegunde, auditioning with songs she had not sung before, songs designed for the salon, not the stage, seemed foolhardy. However, Schubert might benefit if Weber heard his music.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Schubert’s songs are so fresh and lovely. My repertoire is old, and it’s all Italian.”

  “Ah. I’ll look around,” Vogl said noncommittally.

  “Oh, thank you. Herr Vogl, one more thing … about these songs … do you play the piano?”

  “Of course, and if I may say so—”

  “I can manage the singing all right, if someone keeps the beat.”

  “My dear, I’d be delighted to help.” Help she clearly needed. Vogl had no false modesty about his interpretative talents. No one was more suited to the task of guiding this foolhardy young singer through the nuances of Schubert’s melodies than he. He began with, “There is a great deal more to a Schubert song than …”

  “That takes care of rehearsal, but who’ll accompany the performance?”

  She’d stung him again. Vogl often played piano in public. True, his appearance in an unaccustomed role on a noteworthy occasion might cause comment and distract from the girl. Perhaps she had a point. But before he said anything, Kunegunde went on, “Can you recommend someone?”

  “Why not Schubert himself?” Vogl blurted out. In for a pfennig, in for a krone.

  Kunegunde blushed. “Do you … do you think he might?” she said, grabbing his arm eagerly.

  Things clarified. Fraulein Rosa was not guileless after all. Vogl appreciated the trap into which she lured him. “He might,” he said, adding, “if I asked him,” applying salve to his bruised ego.

  “Will you?�
��

  “Yes, I’ll talk to Schubert.” Vogl sighed.

  After depositing Kunegunde at the Oberes Belvedere Gallerie, Vogl set out to track down Schubert, feeling oddly uplifted.

  Even entombed, Eugénie’s mischievous spirit lived on in the unlikely form of a headstrong, impulsive young woman’s interest in a young composer and his own willingness to channel that interest in the composer’s direction. Maybe some harmony existed in the universe after all. Weber wanted to see some paintings. Schubert wanted to see Weber. Kunegunde wanted to sing with Schubert. Kunegunde’s father, who controlled access to the paintings, wanted the cachet of associating with Weber, the genius du jour. This convergence resonated in Vogl like a C major chord. Everyone gets their heart’s desire—natürlich.

  The moment of euphoria passed. Jennie’s contributions to the music of the spheres usually produced more dissonance than harmony. Having Weber, Schubert, and Kunegunde in the same place at the same time was no guarantee that Weber would consider Schubert’s opera, or that Schubert would fall for Kunegunde. This meeting, far from making dreams come true, might cause them to collapse. Vogl landed back on the solid earth of modern-day Vienna on a cold February afternoon. He started toward the von Schwind’s, the preliminary to a chase through some coffee houses, or worse if Schober found Schubert first.

  Before he reached the Wipplingerstrasse, a firm hand fell on his shoulder. It belonged to Diederich, Count von Neulinger’s servant. When Vogl turned, Diederich assumed a more formal manner.

  “Herr Vogl, will you please come with me?”

  “With pleasure,” Vogl said, insincerely. Von Neulinger’s unwelcome summons could not be denied. Schubert, Kunegunde, and Weber had to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  For most, life after Eugénie von Neulinger’s funeral quickly returned to normal. Activities in coffee houses and offices regained their accustomed rhythms. There was no notable change in the rates at which pastry, sausages, beer, and wine were produced or procured or consumed. Aside from employing a few additional broomsmen to remove the snow from the thoroughfares, the ministries had little to do.