Vienna in Violet

  “But I am not in Weber’s class. His operas are the talk of Europe.”

  “And yours will be, too, once Weber agrees to take it on. But you mustn’t appear desperate.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Von Schwind became peremptory. He stepped directly in front of Schubert and extended his hand. “Give it here.”

  For a moment, Timmerich almost respected von Schwind. He watched as Schubert reluctantly held out the folder with his precious manuscript.

  Von Schwind took it and said, “I’ll take it back to the house.”

  “I’ll take it back and stay home.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Weber is in Vienna for a month. If you don’t meet him today, you may never get another chance. Now get going. Salieri is waiting.”

  Schubert started down the Herrengasse at a pace showing more resolve than he felt.

  For the second time in the week Timmerich missed the chance to alter the course of events. From his doorway, he overheard all the meaningless gabble as he stepped from foot to foot impatiently battling the cold. When the two men at last separated, Timmerich, aware that he couldn’t avoid being seen by von Schwind hurrying back down the street, adopted the ruse of dropping a coin on the ground and stooping to retrieve it. The man never got a look at his face, even though Timmerich’s nose came within inches of the portfolio he carried. In this portfolio were the only manuscript copies of Schubert’s two most recently completed pieces, the opera Alfonso und Estrella and a little song, ““Die Sonne und das Veilchen”.”

  Aside from the occasional military march, Timmerich didn’t care for music. In any case, his instructions were clear—keep track of Schubert—his, not to reason why. Thus he let von Schwind march right past him, and the Ministry of the Interior lost its opportunity to get its hands on the material it coveted. All Timmerich felt was a twinge of relief that his quarry walked a little faster than usual. The pace helped counteract the effects of the cold.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The crowd making its way to St. Stephen’s Cathedral represented what most Viennese worshipped most—not so much the formal liturgical doctrine as the music to which it was set. Any reverence held for Saint Stephen, or any other canonized personage paled in light of reverence for Saint Franz-Joseph (Haydn), or Saint Wolfgang (Mozart—whose middle name, aptly enough was Amadeus), the true proof that the Almighty smiled on Austria.

  In the ranks of the artistically beatified stood Ludwig van Beethoven and Antonio Salieri, and perhaps the young Gioachino Rossini, three Auslanders, a German, and two Italians. No matter that in life they often made life difficult for the Viennese. Places in heaven awaited them whenever they showed the good sense to shed their earthly mantles. Other composers formed their own unacknowledged hierarchy of aspirants, cardinals, bishops, and priests—complete with all the trappings of maneuvering for advancement, longing for prestige, and all too frequent poverty, found among churchmen, especially the most devout.

  In 1822, Salieri seemed closer to ascension than his acerbic German counterpart. Neither was producing much in the way of fresh music, although continual rumors asserted that Beethoven was still working—in defiance of his deafness and diminishing public interest in him. From a musical perspective, Salieri’s influence nowadays truly meant little. But even when Schubert studied under him five years before, Salieri already was maneuvering his way out of his position as Vienna’s musical czar to become (only) the city’s most prestigious teacher. Now Salieri was, by consensus and reputation, the Grand Old Man of Viennese music, a venerable deity one could worship comfortably from afar. In reality, he was just an old man.

  It was prudent to maintain cordial relations with him, but that was all. People listened graciously to his ancient opinions and outmoded musical preferences, then promptly ignored them. Weber’s agreeing to go to a concert with him was mere diplomatic courtesy. In such circumstances, Schubert’s intrusion might be an annoyance, but “For Alfonso! For Estrella!” Schubert forced himself to knock on Salieri’s door.

  Schubert was ushered straight into Salieri’s Grand Salon, with its three pianos and multitudes of chairs easily moved to provide for any number of players and auditors in any combination. Salieri sat in the center of the room, flanked by two attendants. He was a relic in a hollow well. Once, Salieri loomed as a giant commanding a sea of imaginative sound. Now, the effect that Schubert thought so awesome in the old days seemed pathetic.

  But on Salieri’s right, next to one other guest, stood Carl Maria von Weber. A generation ago, Weber would have dreaded losing Salieri’s favor; now he looked somewhat restless, even bored.

  “Come closer, please,” said the erstwhile giant. “My eyes are not what they once were.”

  Instinctively, Schubert’s hand moved toward his glasses, which sat where they belonged. He edged forward. “Maestro, it is I—”

  “Yes, Schubert, I see you now. Come in. Come in. Have you learned to stay in one key yet?” Salieri often brought out this old pleasantry in reference to Schubert’s fondness for modulations.

  Schubert gave his habitual smiling response, “Not yet, Maestro.”

  “Well, I forgive you. Meet the rest of the assemblage.” There were only two guests. “Signor Hertzl and Signor di Weber.”

  Schubert had concentrated solely on Weber. He was completely thrown by Hertzl. He meant to deliver a little encomium about the honor of encountering a stirring modern force, but couldn’t give the speech to two people. To whom should he speak first? To Hertzl, about whom he knew nothing, or to Weber, the object of feverish preparation? Would either man be offended?

  Schubert’s sweating hands resolved the matter for him by dropping von Schwind’s hat to the floor. “Oh, excuse me,” he said to no one in particular, as he knelt to retrieve it. “It’s borrowed, you see.”

  Weber smiled. “Think nothing of it, Herr Schubert. My host tells me that you are one of the greatest composers of the age.”

  Again Schubert was thrown, more by the timbre of Weber’s voice than by his unexpected words. Though the tone was polished, the voice itself was raspy, as though someone had stuffed cotton into the bell of a clarinet.

  Hertzl saved the moment by seconding Weber. “I heard you play last month at Madame Sonnleithner’s. I’m delighted to meet you in person.”

  “The pleasure is mine, entirely,” Schubert finally responded to both men, “and, Herr von Weber, it is I who am honored to …”

  Salieri interrupted with, “We don’t want to be late, but we do have time for some coffee and cake before we go.” On cue, a servant rolled in a cart. The squeak of its wheels drowned out Schubert’s prepared remarks once and for all.

  This was the way Salieri’s meetings went these days. He followed a carefully prepared script leaving little time for others’ contributions. Of course, both the cake and coffee were excellent. All of Salieri’s guests said so. Schubert contented himself with savoring his portion and following the conversation.

  “Do you know, Signor Weber, that little Franz here studied with me?”

  “So I’ve been told,” Weber responded in that odd voice with the velvety rasp. Tactfully, he did not add that Salieri told him not ten minutes before.

  “Not very successfully,” Salieri added, smiling. “He was dutiful enough, but he had a hard time hearing two overlapping melodies. He was a soprano, you understand.” Again Salieri smiled, and his guests responded in kind. The vagaries of singers, especially those with strong high registers, who tended to equate all music with the unrestrained sounds of their own instruments, were a well-known bane to them all.

  Weber laughed. “I suppose we all pass through that stage. I sang in my youth.” The rasp in Weber’s voice made this hard for Schubert to imagine.

  “And who taught you counterpoint?” Salieri asked.

  “No one, formally, Maestro. I picked some up along the way.”

  “Then I think you’ll find the piece we hear today quite interesting. Schneider has include
d a fugue at the end of his Gloria that is quite magnificent.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Schneider is a pure craftsman, unlike this little fellow here,” Salieri said, indicating Schubert. “He’s a melodist—a modulating melodist,” he added, not unkindly. “I did what I could for him …”

  “Oh, no, Maestro. You taught me a great deal,” Schubert protested.

  “I know you tried, Franzl, but you never put your heart into the tasks I set you. Now I’ll tell you a secret. I’m glad you followed your own way. Your songs persuaded me to accept you as a pupil in the first place. Your melodies provided quite a relief from the usual fare. I hadn’t heard the like since the passing of Mozart. Are you familiar with the work of Mozart, Signor Weber?”

  “I’ve heard some pieces, of course, but I don’t claim deep familiarity.”

  “He became somewhat too fanciful for my taste, but his technique with opera seria is unsurpassed. Is your work opera seria?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  Salieri sighed. “I feared as much. What is your subject?”

  “It’s rather hard to explain, but of course, you shall attend the performance as my guest.”

  “Thank you for the offer, Signor, but I rarely go to the opera now. I find the bustle of the evening too tiring. I may still venture out of an afternoon, but I leave night life to the young, like this fellow here. I understand that you, too, Franz, have written something.”

  “Yes, that’s right! It’s…” At that moment a servant emerged to remove the cart. Again the squeak of the wheels took precedence over whatever Schubert had in mind.

  “Now we must go to St. Stephen’s,” said Salieri. “Signor Weber, will you explain your opera to me as we go?”

  The journey to St. Stephen’s was not long, but given Salieri’s infirmities, rather complicated. By the time the maestro was properly wrapped and transported into his coach and the others properly positioned around him, fatigue overtook the desire for conversation. During the ride, Weber explained that his opera centered around a shooting contest—that was all. At the cathedral, the fuss made over Salieri, escorting him to his position of honor in the front row, unwrapping him and allowing him time to acknowledge the polite overtures of those who recognized him moving ponderously to his seat, precluded any furthering of Schubert’s plans.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Schneider’s opus served its purpose, providing three hours of harmonious devotion for the devout, sufficient musical craft for the secular aesthetes, and sufficient opportunities to be seen and heard for the performers on the altar and in the audience. Schneider conducted with correctness, if not imagination.

  Throughout the performance Schubert’s attention wandered. Before the piece began he located many friends in the crowd. As promised, Schober sat prominently at the left of the transept, among a group including von Schwind and many others, ready and willing to act or react as circumstances dictated. Circumstances dictated nothing, so they remained quiet and polite. A few rows behind him, Schubert saw Vogl sitting with Fraülein Rosa and her parents. Periodically, Kunegunde turned her head and whispered animatedly to one the adults, but of course nothing said was audible to Schubert.

  Other faces struck chords in Schubert’s memory—aristocrats and wealthy citizens in whose homes he played, various fellow musicians and the like. To his great disappointment, Ludwig van Beethoven was not present, but Beethoven rarely appeared in public now. If rumors about his deafness were true, his absence was understandable. In any case, Beethoven was Beethoven, unlike most Viennese, and his failing to appear at some concert or other wouldn’t affect him or his reputation.

  Among Schubert’s immediate party, Hertzl followed the performance with the most attention. He was a factotum for the Theater an der Wien, currently assigned to assist Weber. Since his charge had no immediate needs, he competently assessed Schneider and his performers, seeking out those of unusual mettle.

  Weber himself sat stiffly throughout the performance, but frequent drumming of his fingers on his knees—drumming not always reflective of the tempo of the oratorio’s music—suggested restlessness.

  Salieri sat with his head bowed and his eyes closed. Charitably, Schubert assumed that he was listening with both care and reverence. Since he wasn’t snoring, the hypothesis was sustainable. However, when Schneider’s fugue began at the end of the oratorio’s second section, Salieri’s head snapped up and his eyes focused. When it was over, his head bowed again.

  After the fugue, during the third part of the oratorio, Schubert became aware of Count von Neulinger, standing far back in the audience, in an understated dress uniform alongside his son, dressed in simple black. Next to them, Schubert recognized Captain Millstein and Doktor Nordwalder, the Justice ministry officials who confronted him that terrible Monday morning. None of them displayed discernable interest in the music, not even Heinrich, despite his self-definition as an artist. Their eyes scanned the crowd incessantly.

  Nordwalder also scanned the audience. He attended the concert as part of his investigation, both of potential murderers and of their pursuers. All his spies had their subjects well in hand. Most were here, at St. Stephen’s, receiving some complimentary musical edification along with their charges. He often found himself observing Zdenka Merlinbeck’s elegant form as she listened with seemingly rapt attention, in contrast to her husband who valiantly waged a losing battle to keep his eyes open. Next to the count sat the two Germans, Himmelfarb and Barenberg. Neither metallurgist seemed lost in the realms of aesthetic bliss. Himmelfarb’s head kept swiveling, as if looking for an escape route. Barenberg fixed his gaze on his partner. Periodically both their heads turned towards Zdenka, only to encounter the somnolent count. It was all very amusing. Nordwalder considered discussing these matters with the countess in the future.

  Because of the sacredness of the occasion, the oratorio received no applause. All in all, it was a typically quiet Sunday afternoon in Vienna, until everyone rose to go. Great flurries of activity began. Some people rushed to beat the crowd out of the cathedral. Others struggled to capture positions from which to expostulate in regard to the “great event” that just transpired. Still others jostled for access to acquaintances to share some private conference.

  Such was the behavior of Himmelfarb and Barenberg. They weren’t trying to confer with each other. Although they still operated in tandem, each German sought for a private moment with Zdenka von Merlinbeck. Each had the same tripartite agenda. First, each wanted to find out why, despite following specific instructions to the letter, Zdenka was not available for their clandestine visits. Second, each planned to ascertain when he could try again. Third, each was desperate to learn whether Zdenka favored one of them over the other.

  Count von Merlinbeck presented a significant obstacle. Barenberg, who sat next to the count during the performance, tried to push past him. He slid his wiry frame in front of the count. Although he achieved the position he wanted—next to the countess with no one between them—he did not achieve the object of his desire. The countess reached past him to help her husband onto his feet.

  Himmelfarb, now in the spot next to the count and deserted by his partner, helped Zdenka with the count by lifting him up and pushing past him. Now he stood facing Zdenka directly, but with surprising agility, she ducked under Himmelfarb’s arm and led her husband out in the other direction. Himmelfarb and Barenberg confronted each other.

  Doktor Nordwalder observed all these maneuvers as he maneuvered himself nearer to the action. While the countess escaped without him, Nordwalder heard Himmelfarb snarl, “Out of my way, Johannes.”

  Barenberg gave a more controlled, but equally acrimonious response. “We will not let the sun set on this, Johannes.”

  Salieri’s party was among the last to leave St. Stephen’s. While his attendants wrapped him up and offered other forms of support, Schubert spoke to the guest of honor.

  “Have you written religious works, Herr We
ber?”

  “Not for a long time. The theater is my profession now.”

  Weber punctuated this comment with a small cough. Schubert noticed how frail the man was.

  Though a head taller than Schubert, he probably weighed less. He limped, and he had trouble amplifying his voice above a whisper. Even crotchety Salieri, wrestling with his servants and his coverings, seemed to have more physical vitality. Yet Weber currently enthralled all of Vienna. Schubert was no stranger to infirmity himself. He understood the sheer strength of will that propelled the true artist through the world. As von Schwind foretold, he felt himself in the presence of a kindred spirit. However, spiritual kinship did not lead to easy conversation.

  Schubert next tried, “I’m sure the stage is a demanding mistress.”

  The remark produced a perceptible reaction from von Weber—a wry grimace. “I don’t find it so. The theater consumes me, it is true, but not in that way. Neither stage nor paramour demands as much as a wife and child.”

  “I’ll remember that advice.”

  “Oh,” said Weber with a more congenial smile, “if you want my advice, become a banker. Bankers lead comfortable lives.”

  “But hardly fulfilling.”

  “Not for the banker, maybe. But artists need money like all the rest, and a banker with the right sensibilities could enrich us all.”

  “I see,” said Schubert, smiling himself, “you advise me for your benefit, not mine.”

  “Why the devil do you seek advice from me? Herr Salieri says that you write beautifully.”

  “That he does,” Salieri interrupted, “but not correctly. There is much to glean from Schneider’s work, little Franzl. I hope you paid attention.”