Vienna in Violet

  “We will shoot at thirty paces. What happened to your friend?”

  “He was not my friend at the time,” the ostler rejoined. “He was far above me in stature, until he discharged that fateful shot. In an instant, his right hand was irreparably damaged. He lost his paramour and his career. The minister, whose pistol discharged into the ground, gained his revenge.”

  Himmelfarb glanced over at the supposedly injured man.

  The ostler shook his head sadly. “Ludwig covers his agony and shame with leather to this day.”

  Inside the inn, Barenberg received similar guidance. The innkeeper, every bit as experienced and well-trained as his colleague, the ostler, also understood the need to preserve Vienna’s reputation for order. He adopted a somewhat less enthusiastic attitude than the ostler, but provided the same sort of help.

  “Everything depends on the weapons,” he informed Barenberg.

  “Where do I find them?” Barenberg responded. His experience with combat, lethal in its way, had all been through pamphlets.

  The innkeeper responded with a snort and a shrug. “Look about you.”

  Following the innkeeper’s gesture, Barenberg surveyed the walls. On three, there were sets of crossed sabers. “Those?” he said at last.

  “What else?” said the innkeeper.

  “I’ve never held a saber in my life.”

  “And your adversary?”

  “I don’t think he has either.”

  “Then you have the advantage.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Barenberg.

  “Every weapon upon the wall has been successful in an affair of honor,” the innkeeper lied. He suspected that the scrawny professor would be impressed by implied legends of enchanted swords. “That’s why we have them on display.”

  Barenberg looked reluctant, but eventually said, “All right. Those two will do,” indicating the pair on his right.

  “Two?”

  “One for Jurgen.”

  “Your opponent must provide his own weapon.” The innkeeper turned and took down one of the weapons directly behind him. It was the dullest and heaviest of the lot. “I’ll have your second burnish it and deliver it to you.”

  “I have no second,” Barenberg confessed.

  “You must have someone to protect you from treachery.”

  “I have no friends here other than Jurgen. Will you do it?”

  “I can’t. I can’t debase my establishment by condoning combat among the guests. But I am sympathetic to your cause.” Suddenly the innkeeper raised his voice. “This man needs an ally.”

  “At your service,” a voice shouted from the back of the room. He was a third employee of the ministry, responding to the code word “ally.” He bounded forward with considerable agility. “What is required?”

  “An affair of honor,” the innkeeper said, then turned away. His part in the comedy was concluded, played to perfection.

  “You, sir, have found the right man,” the stranger told Barenberg. “I was once fencing master to Napoleon’s nephew. And you know his reputation.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” Barenberg said.

  Neither had the stranger, but his boast achieved its effect. “Hans von Gulick at your service.”

  “Johannes Barenberg. You will help me?”

  “In every way I can. When do we meet them?”

  “In the courtyard, at sundown.”

  “Excellent! Are you prepared for the ordeal?”

  “My heart is ready, but I know nothing about fencing,” Barenberg confessed.

  “Then why choose sabers?”

  “Jurgen knows nothing about fencing, either. I will not have it said that I sought any unfair advantage.”

  “We have no time to lose. Meet me outside in five minutes.”

  “Turn your body to the right before you fire,” the ostler instructed Himmelfarb. “It’s important to extend your arm fully before discharging the weapon.”

  Himmelfarb did as he was told. “I can’t see as well this way,” he complained.

  “You don’t want to expose yourself as a target any more than necessary,” said the ostler. Given Himmelfarb’s bulk, he was almost as vulnerable a target standing in profile as he was standing face full front, but the ostler was confident Himmelfarb would not get hurt. Thus, he was giving the best advice he could. “Now close your left eye. Take careful aim and squeeze gently.”

  Himmelfarb fired, missing his intended target, a tree, by a foot or two. “I don’t see why I can’t practice with the weapon I’m going to use,” he said.

  “Bad luck,” the ostler informed him. “The first shot from any weapon is the best shot. Do you want to try again with the weapon in your hand?”

  “No. I want to get this over with,” said Himmelfarb, returning his practice pistol to the ostler. “Besides, it’s almost sundown. I have to meet Johannes.”

  “Fear nothing,” said the ostler. “I’m right behind you.”

  “At this moment, I close my eyes, thus insuring that as I deliver my backhand thrust, I am marshalling my inner forces to their utmost capacity,” said von Gulick.

  Barenberg, impressed by the rhetoric, did his best to imitate the complicated maneuver von Gulick had shown him. It took a lot of effort.

  “Again!” von Gulick snapped.

  Barenberg obliged. “Are you sure this will work?”

  “Your adversary will never expect it. Now let us review the entire sequence.”

  Egged on by von Gulick, Barenberg lifted his saber and performed a rather grotesque dance, lunging forward three paces, swinging the blade from side to side, bouncing backwards with four hops waving the blade up and down, ducking, spinning, and finally reversing direction to deliver his backhand thrust before a final straightforward stab. By the end of it, Berenberg was visibly panting.

  “You forgot to close your eyes,” Von Gulick informed him. “Again!”

  Barenberg ran through the sequence again and again finished by running through the uncomplaining air. “That will have to do,” he gasped before von Gulick offered any further corrections. “I need to preserve my strength.”

  “You need a restorative,” said von Gulick. “Wait here.”

  Barenberg immediately collapsed on the nearest bench and took some deep breaths.

  Von Gulick soon returned. “This should help,” he said, offering Barenberg a glass of wine tainted with only a slight dose of opium. “Take it in one gulp.”

  Barenberg did as he was told.

  “Do you feel better?” von Gulick asked.

  “A little.”

  “Good. Then let’s try those parries in tierce again.”

  “Must I?”

  “I’m saving your life!”

  Barenberg accepted three or four more passes before returning to the bench to await Himmelfarb’s arrival.

  The wait was no more than five minutes. Himmelfarb, backed by the trusty ostler, stormed into the courtyard. He towered over Barenberg, now sleeping with his head resting on his hands on his saber’s hilt, the point of the sword boring into the ground. Himmelfarb shook his colleague’s shoulder roughly, and when his eyes met Barenberg’s bleary gaze, he growled, “En garde, Johannes.”

  Barenberg was game. His eyes almost focused. “En garde!” He dragged himself up from his bench before stooping to pick up the saber that fell during his rude awakening. Only after assuming the “ready” position did he notice that Himmelfarb held a pistol. “What’s this?”

  “We agreed to pistols, Johannes.”

  “I agreed to no such thing.”

  “You’re right.” Both men in their determination to fight never specified the means. “I give you an hour to come up with a pistol,” Himmelfarb continued.

  “I won’t do it, Jurgen. This will be a fair fight.”

  “What’s unfair about pistols?”

  “You’re a large man, Jurgen, a much more imposing target.”

  “I will take my chances.”

  “I can
’t allow that. Honor demands. Get yourself a saber. There are several inside the inn.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve never handled a saber. Pistols.”

  “It’s too dark for pistols now.”

  This time Barenberg was right. Both Germans noticed an alarming number of staring faces. One or two twitched as they desperately tried to suppress bursts of laughter. Then Barenberg, emotionally drained and physically exhausted, noticed something else.

  “It’s cold.”

  “It is,” Himmelfarb agreed.

  The two Germans stared at each other, ignoring the onlookers. Finally, Himmelfarb muttered, “We’ve been here too long.” He tossed his pistol on the ground. It did not discharge.

  “We have indeed,” Barenberg admitted, dropping his saber.

  The conflict was over. Within twenty-four hours, Barenberg and Himmelfarb left Vienna, in separate coaches. Barenberg headed for his home and colleagues in Munich, Himmelfarb headed for the mountains of his beloved Silesia. Members of the Ministry of the Interior congratulated themselves, and a legend was born.

  Monitoring foreigners was only one of many duties of the ministry. Its tentacles extended throughout Vienna, and not all their machinations resolved as nicely as those that had prevented bloodshed between two lovesick German metallurgists. While that conflict was playing out, Gert Timmerich, tired and infuriated by his continued shadowing of Franz Schubert, experienced something quite different.

  After leaving St. Michael’s he tracked his quarry through the park without difficulty, but when Schubert and the thin man entered a weinstube, there were too few people inside for him to dare entering. He’d been trailing Schubert for days, and though the pudgy man never noticed him, Timmerich professionally avoided taking unnecessary chances. One of Millstein’s other agents might see him and report him. So while Schubert tarried with a glass of wine, Timmerich used the time to make other plans. It was time to finish the job.

  An hour later, as Schubert parted ways with the thin man, Timmerich knew where he was going. He had half a mind to hire a carriage, drive to his charge’s lodging on the Wipplingerstrasse, and start back for him from there. There was a nice dark side street on Schubert’s route, not far from his lodgings. Maybe wait in its shade, grab the little fool as he walked by, and cut his throat. Fear of his superiors had kept him from this sensible action for a long time, but Timmerich was now beyond fear. Cold and boredom had drained all fear out of him. Besides, he assured himself, the ministry had always taken care of him, and no doubt would continue to do so, however grudgingly. He could tell too many embarrassing stories if they turned on him.

  Timmerich decided that riding ahead was more trouble than it was worth. He’d simply adhere to his absurd instructions, follow Schubert one last time, overtake him at the alley, and finish his self-imposed assignment there. Timmerich trudged slowly, paying little attention to Schubert, anticipating with great pleasure the moment ahead. Thus the hand on his shoulder caught him by surprise. He turned, and seeing who it was, smiled.

  “I’ve come to relieve you, mein Herr.”

  “Just in time,” Timmerich added with semi-conscious irony. The fat little musician would live another day.

  “Come. You must be cold.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “This way.”

  “Would you like my report?”

  “It can wait.”

  “Of course. I’ve said all along I was on a fool’s errand. Will you permit me one question?”

  “Questions are dangerous. But go ahead.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Events have reached a critical stage. The time has come for decisive action.”

  “I am at your service for anything,” Timmerich said with enthusiasm. Now they stood at the water’s edge.

  “Gert, your services are no longer required. Auf wiederseh’n.”

  Timmerich never saw the pistol, much less heard its discharge. Mortally wounded, his last sensation was of the almost polite hand between his shoulder blades propelling him into the Donaukanal.

  Finale: Allegro, ma non troppo

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Herr Schubert, what’s wrong?” Frau Stieglitz had never seen her tenant awake so early or look so agitated.

  “My room,” Schubert said brusquely.

  He received a brusque reply. “It’s still there, isn’t it?” Six o’clock on a Monday morning was no time for games.

  “Have you been in my room?”

  “Not since yesterday’s cleaning.”

  “Well, someone has.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “Come upstairs and see for yourself.”

  Frau Stieglitz, wiping her hands on her apron, marched up the stairs.

  “See?” said Schubert.

  What Frau Stieglitz saw did not disturb her. The room looked like it often did: some candle ends mixed with bits of bedding, and a couple items of clothing on the floor amidst papers strewn everywhere. Schubert’s small tobacco jar lay overturned on the table with some of its contents spilled out, but that was all. The mattress on the bed lay half out of its frame; that was the worst.

  She shrugged. “You had a rough night.”

  “The room was like this when I came in last night,” Schubert said.

  “Is anything missing?”

  “Everything is out of order. My manuscripts—”

  “Now, Herr Schubert, I’ve never known you to be tidy …”

  “Unless you disturbed my manuscripts, someone else has been here, I tell you.”

  “Herr Schubert,” said Frau Stieglitz. “I run a respectable household. No one here would do such things as you imply. There must be some other explanation.”

  “I’d like to hear it. I haven’t slept a wink all night, I’ve been so upset.”

  Frau Stieglitz asked, “When did you leave here yesterday?”

  “Around three.”

  “And you returned…?”

  “Around eleven.”

  “Was the window open when you returned?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Frau Stieglitz had her explanation. She would confront Marie, the housemaid, but she wouldn’t chastise the girl too severely for neglecting a room that hadn’t been available for cleaning until late Sunday afternoon.

  She asked gently, “Did you leave the window open?” Sunday’s weather had been blustery.

  Schubert’s memory for such details was never good. Under Frau Stieglitz’s prompting he admitted the possibility. It was closed now, but during the night he felt hot and cold by turns and couldn’t account for all of his actions. He had moved around the dark room frequently during his restless night, stumbling over items on the floor, taking off and putting on his coat and things of that nature. Her most telling point began with a question.

  “Herr Schubert, what do you own that anyone wants? All of us here know how little you possess. What stranger passes up the rest of the house to rummage around in this wasteland?”

  Schubert succumbed to her logic. All that contradicted her was that the pages of his piano fantasie, set out for work before he left for Salieri’s, were no longer on the table—an island of order amidst the general chaos. They were scattered about the room intermixed with other papers, some of which he hadn’t touched for months. After anxious searching, all the pages of the piece, now clearly derived from “Der Wanderer” emerged from various locations at first light.

  When Frau Stieglitz left him, Schubert accepted the unlikely scenario that one of his friends—maybe a disgruntled Franz Schober—had played some idiotic trick on him. Frau Stieglitz replaced the mattress, restored the bedding, and prevailed upon him to “sleep a little,” until his normal breakfast hour.

  More than the disorder of his room or his disarranged fantasie, Schubert fretted over the fate of his opera. Before going to bed the night before, Moritz von Schwind, to whom he had entrusted the score, promised to send the music directly to Frau Stahl’s the first thing in the morning.
The way the night had gone, Schubert wished he had kept the score himself. Nonetheless, he drifted off into exhausted slumber.

  Ironically, when he came down the stairs in a more civilized manner three and a half hours later, Frau Stieglitz accosted him. “Moritz asked me to give you this, Herr Schubert, from von Weber.”

  Schubert’s heart skipped a beat as he received a few sheets of paper. When he saw the pages were not his Alfonso, his fear abated. What he held was his setting of “Die Sonne und das Veilchen”, accompanied by a terse note explaining that the sheets had been included in error with the opera score.

  Thoroughly disconcerted by this faux pas, Schubert raced upstairs to his room, grabbed his piano fantasie and attendant paraphernalia and set out at once for the Café Lindenbaum.

  “Herr Schubert, your breakfast!” Frau Stieglitz shouted after him as he disappeared into the cold. She closed the door just as a tall figure shrouded in a large cloak passed by—Schubert’s morning shadow.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Act I scene ix: Phaedrus and Marcellus enter the town. There is bustle on the street. A church bell chimes in the background. A beggar approaches.

  Beggar: Alms! Alms! Your assistance sirs, I pray.

  Marcellus: Be off with you! (Marcellus moves to strike the beggar.)

  Phaedrus: No, Marcellus, wait.

  Marcellus: Prince Phaedrus, you cannot allow this upstart, this vagabond, this vile mendicant to interrupt your day.

  Beggar: I mean no offense, sirs. If not for necessity…

  Marcellus: Silence, mooncalf! Do not speak first to a prince.

  Phaedrus: I prithee, no more, Marcellus! We must never forget the unfortunate.

  Marcellus (Unsheathing his sword): At least permit me to teach this dog a lesson. A drop of blood so that next time he will not whimper at his betters.

  Phaedrus (Grabbing Marcellus’s arm): Put up your blade, I say! We do not know the torments this man has undergone, what causes him to prowl the desperate streets. (Phaedrus produces a coin from his vest.) My friend. My worthy, destitute friend. I do not know the cause of your distress, but I would fain alleviate it. (Phaedrus gives the coin to the beggar.) May your fortunes improve from this hour.