Vienna in Violet

  “You really did speak with him.” Schober sounded impressed.

  “For a long time.”

  “May I hear about this colloquy? Or is it beyond the scope of us poor mortals?”

  “Not a bit. Von Weber is quite down to earth. He knows not only what German opera is about, but also how to present it.”

  Finally Schober asked the essential question. “How then, stands Alfonso?”

  It was a moment to savor. Leaning back in his chair, hooking a thumb into his vest, counterfeiting an air of complacency he never felt, Schubert said, “Oh, that. I sent him the score—at his request.”

  “Schwammerl, we’ve done it!” said Schober with gratifying excitement.

  “Well, he has only agreed to look at it.”

  “And to look at it is to worship it. Schwammerl, this is cause for celebration. Drink up!” Schober lifted his tumbler.

  “Ein Moment,” said Schubert. “If we drink to von Weber, we must drink in von Weber’s manner. Lower your glass, Franz.”

  Schober obliged.

  “Now observe,” said Schubert, lifting his right index finger. “I learned this from the master yesterday.”

  “The gesture of genius?” Schober mocked.

  “Just observe.”

  Several things happened at once. As Schubert lowered his finger towards his tumbler, Michael Vogl entered the Café Lindenbaum with Kunegunde Rosa on his arm. Although they were backlit by the setting sun, Schober recognized the pair of silhouettes and rose, grabbing Schubert’s arm in the process. As Schober was saying, “Isn’t that Fraülein Schikaneder?” Schubert’s finger touched his wine. He let out a small “Ach!” and as he pulled his arm back from Schober’s grasp, the wine sloshed all over the table.

  “Oh, bad luck, Schwammerl,” Schober exclaimed as Schubert hastily snatched his music from the spreading reddish stain. The flurry of activity subsided. By then Vogl and Kunegunde stood at Schubert’s table, and Schober began reestablishing social order.

  “Guten Tag, Herr Vogl, und Fraülein Schikaneder.”

  The pair returned the greeting with polite nods before turning to Schubert, who stammered, “I’ve burned my finger.”

  A pungent aroma reminiscent of burnt almonds came from Schubert’s place, prompting Vogl to ask, “Franz, what are you drinking?”

  “Franz and I were commemorating von Weber’s acceptance of our opera when this happened,” Schubert said, with a vague gesture at the mess on the table, “but please join us, Misha. We’ll have to hurry. There’s a Schubertiad at Mohr’s and…” When Schubert turned to indicate Schober, he noticed Kunegunde for the first time, and stopped in confusion.

  “Es freut mich zu gehen, Herr Schubert,” said Kunegunde.

  “Fraülein Rosa,” Schubert stammered, prompting Schober to correct him.

  “It’s Fraülein Schikaneder, is it not? Juliet, if I am not mistaken.”

  “No, Rosa—Kunegunde Rosa.”

  “I see,” said Schober, not comprehending. “Franz, does she not resemble…?”

  “I chose the name Juliet Schikaneder for a harmless masquerade, but things did not turn out that way.”

  Vogl felt the reproach implied by Kunegunde’s remark and stepped in. “We all want to put that unfortunate evening behind us,” he said. “I daresay, none of us had anything to do with the aftermath. Franz, you have not answered me. What were you drinking?”

  “Wine, but I never touched a drop. Misha, what’s the matter?”

  Vogl’s glance turned to Schober. “I know nothing, Michael. The wine was here when I arrived.”

  “That’s right,” said Schubert. “Why all the fuss?”

  “What sort of wine burns holes in cloth?” said Vogl.

  “Cheap wine, I expect,” said Schubert. “I always order the cheapest.”

  The smell of bitter almonds had dissipated, but Vogl hadn’t forgotten it. “You ordered this wine?” he asked.

  “I must have,” said Schubert. “I worked alone here all day.”

  “Worked on what?” asked Kunegunde, who wasn’t interested in Schubert’s drinking habits.

  “Just a little piano piece,” Schubert muttered.

  “Fraülein Schik … Rosa, never ask an artist about a work in progress. It’s the same as asking a vintner about his wine before it comes to market.”

  “Oh, forgive me, Herr Schubert,” said Kunegunde, blushing.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” said Schubert. “Franz is just being difficult. I’ve stopped working for the day anyway,” he finished lamely under Kunegunde’s smile of encouragement.

  “About the wine,” Vogl said half to himself but loud enough to capture the others’ attention.

  “Honestly, Misha, you’re rarely this tiresome,” Schubert said. “Schober and I were celebrating the safe conveyance of Alfonso into the hands of von Weber. I was demonstrating a most extraordinary mannerism of von Weber’s—he touches his wine before sipping it. Said he accidentally drank etching fluid once. Franz saw you, the wine spilled. Now you know all about it.”

  “Franz,” Vogl said, “Is something the matter with your hand?”

  Schubert had been rubbing his index finger distractedly during his explanation. Now he noticed the red spot.

  “Herr Schubert, you were almost poisoned!”

  Both Franzes simultaneously said something inelegant to the effect that such a thing was impossible. Kunegunde gasped.

  Schubert recovered his wits first. “Nonsense, Misha,” he said. “I have no enemies.” His eyes darted about the coffee house, seeking out a more likely candidate for poisoning. As before, Schubert recognized no one.

  Schober spoke next. “Someone could be after me, I suppose.” He probably imagined a string of men in his wake, viewing him as a threat to the honor of a fiancée, sister, or, in one case, wife, not to mention the multitudes whom Schober saw as envious of his artistic abilities. “But no. The wine was already here.”

  “Perhaps a lunatic?” said Kunegunde.

  “Good thought, Fraülein,” Schober responded. “Perhaps some fiend wants to test his methods on Schwammerl before applying them elsewhere.”

  “I assume for the moment that Franz was the intended victim,” said Vogl, again capturing everyone’s attention, “and I may know why. Franz, have you done anything out of the ordinary lately?”

  “Nothing but write music, as always.”

  “Has anything unusual happened to you?”

  Schubert remembered the scene of the night before. “Now that you mention it, I came home last night to discover my room ransacked. Frau Stieglitz convinced me that the wind did it.”

  “Reconsider,” said Vogl, unaccustomedly direct.

  “Well, my papers were in disarray. My piano fantasie was scattered about the room, but I found all the pages. Nothing was missing.”

  “What about Alfonso?” Schober asked.

  “That must be it!” said Schubert excitedly. “I was going to take Alfonso und Estrella with me to the concert yesterday, but Moritz convinced me at the last minute to abandon that idea. I gave him the manuscript. He took it to von Weber this morning. Mein Gott! We must warn him!”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Vogl. He looked at the sheets of music on the table.

  Schubert followed Vogl’s glance. “Oh, ‘Die Sonne’? That’s nothing.”

  “What is it doing here?” Vogl asked.

  “An accident. It went with Alfonso to von Weber by mistake. He sent it back. I was about to make a fair copy when Franz came along. Ach! Look, some of that blasted wine spilled on it.” There was a tiny hole surrounded by a purplish stain near the bottom of the song’s last page. “No matter. I can reconstruct it.”

  “Is that the only copy of the song?”

  “Of course. Misha, you’re becoming tiresome again.”

  Vogl remained inflexible. “Music and words?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where’s the original poem?”

  “I have no idea
. Wait a minute.” Then he reached in his right hand pocket, producing first his pipe then a crumpled folded, tobacco-stained piece of note paper. He unfolded it. “No that’s the invitation to Mohr’s. Hang on.” Schubert patted his left lapel and found Eugénie’s letter in the pocket beneath. Schubert tossed it onto the table with a flourish. “Here, Misha. Take it with my blessings.”

  Vogl picked up the paper and ran his eyes over it. When he reached the end, his head snapped up. “Fünf?” he cried, his voice a mixture of amazement and outrage.

  “Five what?” asked Schober.

  “I never sang ‘fünf,’” said Vogl.

  “Of course you didn’t!” said Schubert. “Fünf is unsingable.”

  “You altered the text, Franz!”

  “What of it? A single word, a syllable. You should thank me.”

  “Thank you?”

  “I did it for your sake! At first I thought of ‘sechs’, but I know your voice, Misha and picked ‘acht’. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you sing the “ah” vowel better than “eh” in that register.”

  “I sang eight when there were five,” Vogl muttered, no longer heeding Schubert.

  “Most expertly,” said Schubert. “But I can’t claim too much credit. Any competent composer would have done the same.”

  “That’s what Eugénie meant,” Vogl continued sotto voce. Then he recovered. “Please excuse me, I have some important business.”

  “But, Misha, you just got here, and you haven’t taken any refreshment,” said Schubert.

  “And you don’t mean to be rude to Fraülein Rosa,” Schober added.

  Vogl intended to go to von Neulinger’s without delay, but Kunegunde’s presence changed his mind. He wouldn’t involve her with the count, and he couldn’t entrust her to Schober. He agreed to one drink. When it emerged that Schubert, as usual, hadn’t eaten all day, he enacted the usual charade, and ordered food for them all. Other than placing the orders for food and drink, he allowed the subsequent conversation to proceed without him.

  Two Franzes talked mostly about their evening plans—a true “Schubertiad” at the home of Ludwig Mohr. Kunegunde became interested.

  “What occurs at a Schubertiad?”

  “We prepare nothing in advance,” Schober told her. “Some artists gather with their friends and events follow naturally. Sometimes we discuss the events of the day. Sometimes we share things we’ve read or written. Sometimes there are impromptu performances. Other times we just chatter. More often than not, Volker the Minstrel shows up, before the evening ends.”

  Schubert squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Volker the Minstrel?” Kunegunde said. “Who’s that?”

  “You’re sitting next to him,” Schober said.

  “Herr Schubert, you?”

  Schubert nodded and stammered, “Mohr owns a nice piano.”

  “No one uses his real name at a Schubertiad,” said Schober casually. “Lately I’ve become ‘Hagar’, not to be confused with the guardian of civil order,” he added hastily, when he observed Kunegunde’s shocked expression. “‘Hagar’ with an ‘a’. It’s all in good fun.”

  “Do outsiders attend a Schubertiad?”

  “There’s no formal guest list,” Schober assured her. “Mohr, or someone, sends out invitations to a few of us, and we bring whomever we like. Would dear ‘Juliet Schikaneder’ like to become one of our guests?”

  Vogl emerged from his introspection, suddenly alarmed about the direction the conversation was going. “At Schubertiads I’ve attended, the guests are generally all males,” he said.

  “Not tonight,” Schober said, “Mohr has a charming sister. In all seriousness, will you join us, Fraülein?”

  “I’d love to, but my parents expect me at home.”

  “We’ll send word that you’re with us,” Schober assured her.

  “Herr Rosa won’t like that,” said Vogl.

  “Then we can escort you home and present ourselves in person.”

  “Don’t let me delay you,” Kunegunde said.

  “No trouble at all, Fraülein. We’ll hire a coach.”

  “I must object,” Vogl said. The other three looked at him. “It’s not safe.”

  “What do you mean, Misha?” Schubert asked indignantly. “You know what goes on at Mohr’s. You go there yourself. We are all honorable men,” he concluded with a naïvèté Vogl could have predicted.

  “Surely you don’t fear for Fraulein Rosa’s honor,” said Schober with a smirk that Vogl did not find reassuring, although he personally had seen no worse behavior than immoderate drinking and a few aesthetic or linguistic improprieties at any Schubertiad.

  The remark emboldened Kunegunde. “Herr Vogl, I can look after myself.”

  “It is not you, Fraülein, of whom I am thinking. It’s ‘Volker’ there.”

  “Me?” said Schubert.

  “Have you forgotten that someone tried to kill you?”

  “Impossible. There must be another explanation.”

  “Can you think of one?”

  “Not just now, but I’m not very clever,” said Schubert. “Anyway, the attempt failed.”

  “The assassin might try again.”

  Vogl’s comment hit home. Eventually Schubert said, “What can I do about it? An unknown enemy pursues me for a cause known only to himself.”

  “The situation is not all that bleak,” Vogl reassured him. “Your assailant—”

  “If there was one …” Schober inserted.

  “If there was one,” Vogl went on unflustered, “didn’t attack you openly. He’s probably afraid to. Stay among friends, and you should be all right.”

  “I can’t do that forever,” said Schubert.

  “No one is asking you to. The danger will probably pass in a day or two.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Schubert.

  “Apparently, Franz, Michael knows more than he’s revealing,” Schober said.

  “That’s not true. I’m simply looking at the attacker’s plan—a mixture of haste and stealth. I may know the reason for the attack. If I’m right, disposing of Franz won’t help.”

  Kunegunde spoke up. “You know the reason without knowing the person? Herr Vogl, how can this be?”

  “Franz altered the text of ‘Die Sonne und das Veilchen’.”

  “Oh, come now, Misha. One simple vowel change?”

  “Your song evoked a strong response from the countess.”

  “Yes, she fainted,” said Kunegunde.

  “That’s right Fraülein, she fainted. At the time, I didn’t understand why, but it must have been because of the change.”

  “She said nothing to me about it,” said Schubert.

  “Why should she? She told me I’d ‘ruined everything’.”

  “But why blame you? You didn’t know what I did. No one knew.”

  “Except the countess,” Vogl continued, “and at least one other person who was also misdirected by the misinformation we provided—Eugénie’s killer. The killer wants the secret of ‘Das Veilchen’ to remain a secret—to die with Franz Schubert. As soon as Franz’s secret is out …”

  “I’m safe again,” said Schubert. “I’m safe now, come to think of it. Now you all know what I know, or—” Schubert’s face darkened, “we’re all in equal danger. I’m sorry, Misha.”

  “The danger isn’t great for the rest of us, or for you, either, once word about the song gets out. I’ll take both Eugénie’s version of the song, and yours, to the authorities at once.”

  “By all means, Misha,” But as he rolled up the manuscript, Schubert paused. “Shouldn’t I deliver this?”

  “No. A killer is pursuing you. Stay with Schober and go to your Schubertiad. Stay there all night, if you can. Under the circumstances,” and here Vogl turned to Kunegunde, “Fraülein Rosa can’t join you.”

  Vogl’s position proved unassailable. A few minutes later Vogl and Kunegunde traded noisy good-byes with die Zwei Franzen in the Café Lindenbaum’s we
ll-lighted doorway. Vogl stowed “Die Sonne und das Veilchen” under his cloak.

  When the quartet separated into two duos, a biting wind blew in the faces of Schubert and Schober, but at the backs of Vogl and Kunegunde. The young woman latched onto the arm of the older man as the wind drove them towards the Belvedere Gallery.

  Kunegunde asked, “Herr Vogl, is Herr Schubert’s music really connected to that horrible business with the countess?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “While you were explaining things, I started thinking back over that evening.”

  “Yes?”

  “I remember how joyful everyone was until the countess fainted, then how everything changed. I was in the back along with the count’s son.”

  “Heinrich.”

  “Heinrich, that’s right. Did you know that he is a playwright, like Herr Schober?”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes. When we were upstairs dancing. Rather,” Kunegunde said with a blush, “I was dancing, he was observing. Anyway, he told me he was a playwright.”

  “So?”

  “He said that his stepmother encouraged him, while his father disapproved. That’s all. What strikes me is how excited he was before the song and how crestfallen he became afterwards.”

  “Well, his stepmother fainted.”

  “Yes, I suppose that was it. Could the song have anything to do with his family?”

  “Fraülein, it is unwise to speculate. But I believe that the song more likely conveyed some information on a business matter, not one of the hearth or heart. Something to do with a metal called platinum.”

  “Oh. I heard about that, too. Actually, I overheard—” Kunegunde stopped for a moment.

  “Overheard what?”

  “As the guests were leaving, one of the German guests…”

  “Barenberg or Himmelfarb?”

  “Yes. One of them, I can’t remember which. The man with the longer beard, I think. He told the English gentleman that some Lord, Walls, or Wallace—I didn’t catch the name—could have it.”

  “Platinum?”

  “I suppose. I didn’t recognize the word. I don’t know English, and since the word was unfamiliar to me, I thought that the professor had attempted an English pleasantry. The Englishman did not look pleased when he heard it. It’s odd how that song affected people. Until you mentioned it, I never realized.”