Vienna in Violet

  “Of course, Maestro,” Schubert lied, but Salieri was now ready to leave the church and turned his mind to other matters.

  “Vieni, Signori. My coachman needs his supper.”

  Both Salieri and Weber encountered and responded graciously to waiting stragglers. Schubert lagged behind ignored, until Schober whispered from behind him, “Have you done it, Franz?”

  When Schubert turned, Schober pushed past him and accosted von Weber on his own. “Herr Weber, it is an honor to know you.”

  “Thank you,” Weber said, as he received a similar compliment simultaneously from someone else. The exodus from St. Stephen’s was in full flight.

  Schober snapped to attention and said sharply, “Franz Schober. Schwammerl’s librettist.”

  “Enchanté,” Weber said hollowly, just as Salieri called him to hurry. Weber, despite his frailty and his limp, moved with great energy, though the effort cost him a cough or two.

  “Meet me tomorrow at Café Lindenbaum,” Schober whispered as Schubert passed. Schubert gave his librettist a nod of acknowledgement.

  During the coach ride back, Salieri again expressed an interest in Weber’s opera. Again the ride was too short for Schubert to accomplish much, despite an additional stop to let Hertzl out. The story of Der Freischütz perplexed Salieri. “A magic bullet, you say? Extraordinary. Does it sing?” were the Grand Old Man’s actual last words on the subject. His coach pulled up to his door. All three passengers disembarked; Salieri took a hurried leave and was trundled inside.

  On the street Schubert and Weber stood, each in his own way lost. Schubert felt the relief that the cessation of formalities always gave him, but he also felt vaguely embarrassed by how his two associates treated von Weber. He still wanted to broach the subject of his opera, and reached inside himself for the courage to do so. His opportunity was slipping away. At that point Weber expressed his own anxiety.

  “Herr Schubert, am I near the Theater an der Wien?”

  “Not far. Come with me. I’m headed that way myself.”

  As they started walking, Schubert ventured, “I’m impressed, Herr Weber, that after such a long day you are going back to work.”

  “Actually, I’m not. I must get back to my lodgings. I don’t know the city well, but I can find my way home from the theater.”

  “But Frau Stahl’s is nearby. You don’t have to go via the theater. We can save time by cutting through the Volksgarten. With your permission, I’ll guide you.”

  “How do you know where I’m staying?”

  For a moment, Schubert ran out of words, but Weber smiled at him. “Does the knowledge come from that man who called himself your librettist?”

  Schubert nodded.

  “I thought I’d seen him before. I feared that he was an Italian spy.”

  Schubert looked shocked. “You’re not serious!”

  “No, I’m not,” said von Weber, “but I’ve seen a lot of that man. He didn’t seem to know who you were.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He mispronounced your name.”

  Schubert understood. “Oh. Schober is who he says he is. He called me by an old schoolboy nickname.”

  “Schauspiel?”

  “Schwammerl.’”

  “And why does a mushroom need a librettist?” Weber asked with amusement.

  The moment had come. “You see, mein Herr, I—that is to say we, Schober and I—have written an opera.”

  “A finished work?”

  “Yes. That is, the writing is finished. The piece has not been produced.”

  “Now I begin to understand,” said Weber. His manner changed subtly.

  Schubert found himself facing the moment von Schwind had foreseen. Weber’s enlightenment was giving way to suspicion. After a searching glance at his companion, he asked wearily, “Is that what you have in your hand?”

  “This?” Schubert looked down at the folder, carried faithfully throughout the afternoon, and framed silent thanks to Von Schwind. “No, Maestro. These are just some of my published pieces. I … I happened to have them on me,” he finished weakly. The moment to show von Weber his collection did not seem right.

  “So where is the opera?”

  “That? Oh, I left it with a friend. I could get it for you, but I don’t want to impose. Your work is so important; you don’t have time for mine.”

  Weber apparently abandoned his suspicions. “Well, I won’t promise you anything,” he said, “I don’t have a lot of time for new projects. But I may be able to look at the work.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing!” some reflex in Schubert responded. But then he realized what Weber said. “Really?”

  For an agonizing moment, Weber said nothing. Then he asked, “What is its title?”

  “Alfonso und Estrella. It’s a romance.”

  “Interesting,” Weber said.

  For one of very few times in his life, Schubert felt that his reputation as a composer might be exuding influence.

  “We were inspired to write it after hearing about Der Freischütz in Berlin last year. In Vienna, opera has been the province of the Italians.”

  “So they say,” said Weber, “but that can change. Is this Alfonso piece your first opera?”

  “Oh no. One was produced two years ago. Die Zwillingsbrüder,” Schubert added with a trace of nostalgia.

  “Was it well received?”

  “I don’t know,” said Schubert. “Much was written about it at the time. But the more I read, the more confused I became. My friends liked it. In any case, it was a mere trifle—a one-act farce.”

  “All opera becomes farce once the critics weigh in on it,” said Weber with a cough. “Your experience didn’t embitter you, I gather.”

  “Well, I wasn’t keen on starting another, until Schober told me of your success.”

  “Schober, your librettist.”

  “Yes. He convinced me to attempt something really significant. We rejoin the road here for Frau Stahl’s.”

  There was a wine shop on the corner. “Yes,” said von Weber, “I know where I am now. Will you partake of a glass with me before you head off?”

  “Well, I—” Schubert said before halting abruptly. He was in an all-too-familiar quandary. As much as he liked talking with von Weber, and as much as he’d enjoy the refreshment, he couldn’t pay his share. Among those who knew him, Schubert was so well-liked that few begrudged buying for him, but Weber was a stranger and a potential business associate. Reluctantly, Schubert continued, “I shouldn’t take up any more of your time.”

  “Not at all,” said Weber. “I insist.”

  Miserably Schubert countered, “I have no money.”

  “Neither have I,” said Weber. “But I’ve taken two meals here this week. The proprietor will advance us a little credit.” With that, Weber entered the wine shop, and Schubert followed.

  Weber’s celebrity du jour status, reinforced by a longstanding compact between Frau Stahl and the tavern keeper in which she agreed to indemnify half the costs of any bad debts her guests incurred, assured the men prompt, polite service. They were ushered to a table near the back of the establishment and supplied with tumblers of palatable Rhenish.

  Excited by his unusual good fortune, Schubert proposed a toast: “To opera!”

  Before drinking, Weber did an odd thing: he touched the wine with his finger then touched the finger to his tongue. Only then did he lift his glass, responding in his best rasp, “To German opera!” Both composers sipped carefully, Schubert out of parsimony as he was accustomed to making one glass last several hours.

  Schubert, after sipping, attempting to act The Perfect Host, touched his finger in his wine, as he’d seen Weber do.

  Weber noted the gesture and smiled. “I should apologize for my behavior.”

  “You were not indulging in an old Saxon ritual?”

  “Hardly.” Weber laughed without coughing. “But I never drink in a strange place without first testing the waters.”

/>   “Oh?”

  “Please allow me to explain my ‘Old Saxon’ behavior. When I was a young man, I did my own engraving. Late one night, I gulped down what I thought was some leftover wine. It turned out to be etching acid. Suffice it to say that when I regained consciousness, my chance to portray Don Ottavio was gone for good.”

  “Terrible!”

  “On the contrary. Wonderful. I have devoted my time to conception rather than to performance ever since.”

  “You find this a good thing?”

  “It’s a necessary thing. Look about you, Herr Schubert. Too many musicians today rely on pure virtuosity for their livelihood. The damage they do to the art is two-fold: They create effects devoid of substance. Worse, they write things that few can play, things only other virtuosi can reproduce. Music and drama are advancing into new realms. Today composers must create new forms for common citizens to appreciate in a conscientious, playable, professional manner, not for musical athletes who perform professionally but create amateurishly. That is why I stopped writing concerti,” said Weber, pausing to take another sip of wine. “Van Beethoven showed us the way.” A flush rising in Schubert’s face caused Weber to continue. “You have met Beethoven?”

  “I have been in his presence on numerous occasions,” Schubert responded, “but we’re not formally acquainted. He wouldn’t bother with the likes of me.”

  “He didn’t respond to my request to visit him. I hear that he keeps mostly to himself nowadays.”

  “That’s true. Deafness is a terrible affliction.”

  “Yet I’m told he continues to produce.”

  “I hear that also, but there has been little actual music lately.”

  “Sometimes I think that God smites the great with infirmities just so they can rise above them.” As if to reinforce his point, Weber coughed again.

  “Are you familiar with Beethoven’s symphonies?”

  “I led orchestras through two of them.”

  Schubert became excited. “Really? How exhilarating.”

  “Terrifying is closer to the mark. Particularly the one they call Eroica.”

  Schubert confessed. “I once convinced the publisher to show me the score, but to hear it in an actual concert—”

  “Very challenging, yet inexpressibly rewarding, and most instructive. The way he manages the French horns alone validates the effort. But tell me more about yourself. Have you written any symphonies?”

  “Six, when I first chose the life of a composer.”

  “When you roamed the world as Schwammerl?”

  It was Schubert’s turn to laugh. “Not quite so long ago as that. I was a schoolmaster at the time and had students to play my compositions. Since I stopped teaching, I can’t afford decent musicians.”

  “I haven’t tried my hand at a symphony since my own salad days,” said Weber. “I lack the time and solitude the act requires.”

  “I sympathize,” said Schubert. “I started a symphony last year, but worldly concerns forced me to abandon it. But you write operas; surely they take even more time.”

  “I create dramas,” said Weber, “dramas enhanced by music. I add or subtract music as the drama demands. Much of that work occurs during the heat of battle, as it were. I no longer have the energy to work out the extended structure of a purely orchestral work.”

  The men sipped their wine. Weber broke the silence by saying, “Krautsalat.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Krautsalat.”

  “No thank you. I’ve already eaten today.”

  “No, no. You reminded me of my own schoolboy nickname. You were Schwammerl. I was Krautsalat. Thanks for the fillip to my memory, Schwammerl. Have your opera sent to me at Frau Stahl’s, not the theater, and I will do what I can for you.”

  Weber’s tumbler was empty. Schubert hurriedly drained his. Both men feeling, for reasons of their own, the inadvisability of having another, exchanged a few more pleasantries and left the wine shop. Cordially, they bade each other good night outside Frau Stahl’s establishment.

  The night was over for Weber but not for Schubert. His excursion through the Volksgarten was considerably out of his way. Given the results of his efforts, however, he undertook the long walk to von Schwind’s in high spirits.

  Eugénie’s exit should have ended everything, but life is never that simple. Prudence demands the cleaning up of loose ends. The inconvenience is unexpected, but hardly serious. Just perform a few simple actions to eradicate the last traces of dishonor, irrecoverable with the demise of their bearers.

  There is little danger. Certainly none from the unsuspecting victims, as long as they remain unaware of what they have. They must never find out. Take care of them with quick, decisive action. Just exercise modest caution. Avoid being observed.

  The victims are socially negligible, easily replaceable cogs in the mill of society, unlikely to generate much interest among the authorities. Few will mourn them. None will take up their causes.

  Here at last looms the prospect of peace and freedom, freedom from torment, freedom from doubt, freedom from shame. If Eugénie must rest in peace, let it be peace and oblivion.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Though often concerned with matters of blood, it is wrong to believe that the Viennese Ministry of Internal Affairs undervalued peaceful resolutions when state security allowed them. Hager and his minions took almost as much pride in preventing bloodshed as they did in spilling blood wisely. Consider the legendary “Demise of the Demented Duelists.” For more than a decade, no story traveled around the Ministry of Internal Affairs with more brio. The event, or rather non-event, occurred in the waning daylight hours of Sunday, February 22, 1822.

  As a matter of policy, Metternich’s repressive regime frowned upon dueling for its disruption of tight civil order. Still, dueling remained in the Ministry’s arsenal when no more efficient means of resolving a conflict developed. Some disputes between military men required blood, as did the occasional removal of social undesirables. Occasionally, civilized men could not be prevented from resorting to this venerable method of settling matters of honor, even under the most vigilant eyes.

  More often than not, these grim affairs took place virtually under government supervision. Their causes were usually open secrets, and their consequences managed with facile alacrity. The duel between two Auslanders, Johannes Barenberg and Jurgen Himmelfarb—unexpected and unsought—was a rarity. The Ministry of Justice’s modest role in the proceedings showed just how well Metternich’s system, as implemented by the industrious Baron von Hager, worked.

  The precise cause of the conflict was never determined. The matter first came to the authorities through one of Hager’s agents, employed as an ostler at the inn where the Germans resided. He overheard Himmelfarb accuse Barenberg of “complete ignorance of practical mining operations.”

  Alhough these words didn’t sound particularly incendiary, Barenberg muttered an angry response, followed by Himmelfarb’s more than audible, “You shall never have her!”

  This last suggested that a woman inspired the idea of mortal combat, but neither Himmelfarb nor Barenberg admitted such a thing later. Keeping women hors de combat proved to be almost all they knew about dueling etiquette.

  In due course, a challenge followed, though whether Jurgen challenged Johannes, or vice versa, remains a matter of debate. From then onward, the details of the conflict are more certain.

  The Germans, being strangers both to Vienna and to dueling, went off in search of seconds and weapons. Barenberg stormed into the inn and enquired of the landlord, another of Hager’s men, how to acquire weapons. Himmelfarb lumbered up to the very ostler who overheard the start of hostilities and demanded pistols.

  The ostler, a seasoned agent, understood at once that allowing harm to come to either of these guests of the city would reflect badly on Vienna’s reputation for security and acted accordingly. He immediately agreed to act as Himmelfarb’s second and to help him find weapons. From th
e arsenal at his disposal, which included some admirably lethal pistols designed for Himmelfarb’s purpose, he contrived to dig up only one rather battered specimen from under his pillow in his room at the back of the stable.

  “Your opponent must fend for himself,” the ostler somberly told Himmelfarb before explaining how his antiquated weapon worked.

  Through his mining experience, Himmelfarb knew something about explosives. The ostler was hard pressed to convince him to stick to the miniscule portion of powder he recommended for the conflict. It was a charge chosen to insure that in the unlikely event that the soft lead ball actually hit its target, it wouldn’t have the force to penetrate the heavy woolen fabric of a normal winter coat, much less a human body. The ostler prevailed by explaining that with an old weapon of this sort, there was great danger of a misfire. This he portrayed through an elaborate fiction.

  “Did you notice how Ludwig, my companion in the stable, never removes his gloves?”

  “No. What of it?”

  “He was once the most promising lieutenant in the Civil Guard, a soldier with an assured future. He had the misfortune to fall in love with a government minister’s daughter. They chose to consummate their union before legal marriage. When the father found out, my friend insisted on punishing him on the field of honor. His friends begged him to recant, but the greater the entreaty, the more determined he became to demolish his adversary.

  “The minister, a life-long civilian with no experience of combat, had no choice. His only consolation, if one could call it that, was that the choice of weapons was his. His father had left him a brace of pistols, very much like this one. They were in mint condition, but had never been fired. Ludwig accepted the weapons and despite all warnings, loaded his pistol a full charge designed for a modern piece.

  “At the moment of truth, when the distance of thirty paces was attained …”

  “Thirty paces?” Himmelfarb interrupted.

  “Of course.”

  “Is this weapon reliable at such a distance?”

  “To an Austrian it is,” the ostler assured him. In reality, a shot fired by the best marksman at such a distance with such a weapon, if it covered the range, could, with exceptional luck, occasionally brush against the broad side of a barn. “We take pride in our marksmanship. If in Prussia the standard is twenty paces …”