Vienna in Violet Read online

  But he was wasting time. This girl no longer interested him. His devastating experience with Eugénie Schutzmacher cured Vogl’s weakness for mad infatuation, or should have. He immediately thought of half a dozen women whose charms he found more inspiring. He began an apology for interrupting her, but she interrupted him.

  “Forgive me. Are you not Michael Vogl?”

  “A piece of him.”

  “You were Pizarro.”

  “Fraülein, I assure you, I have always been Vogl.”

  “No, no! In honor of my thirteenth birthday, my parents took me to see Fidelio. You were Pizarro.”

  How flattering to be remembered. “I was.”

  “What a magnificent performance!”

  “Thank you,” Vogl said, as Kunegunde continued.

  “When Leonora held a pistol to your forehead, I was awestruck. I never envied anyone so much as I envied her at that moment.”

  Vogl could not reply.

  “Oh!” Kunegunde stopped with a blush. “Have I said something I shouldn’t?”

  “Not at all, Fraülein, not at all. Herr van Beethoven was truly inspired when he created that moment. Too bad today’s piece is a comedy. Otherwise, I’d find you a pistol to point at my head yourself.”

  “Oh, but I don’t want to … I mean, I didn’t mean …”

  The conversation ended as other ladies returned to the stage, among them Anna-Marie Donmeyer, who said with a trace of iron in her voice, “Michael, that is my spot.”

  “And mine is off left,” Vogl responded suavely. “I shall return shortly.”

  “In character,” warned La Donmeyer.

  “Delighted to be working with you again, my dear.”

  “If your tête-à-têtes are finished for the day, Herr Vogl,” Schmidt chimed in, “we will commence where we left off. Ladies, please start with the sweep to the left. Music!”

  Two or three fell swoops later, Vogl entered as the merchant with his glorious news. Schmidt’s and Donmeyer’s demands occupied him for the rest of the afternoon and permitted no further interaction with Fraülein Rosa.

  Chapter Four

  Stars were visible when Vogl mounted the steps of the von Neulinger establishment for the second time that day, precisely three minutes before six.

  “Punctuality is the actor’s chief virtue,” he muttered sanctimoniously. No one heard him. Indeed, he dared not risk the wrath of Eugénie, whose high jinks often demanded intricate timing. He was immediately admitted into the foyer, where he took a moment to catch his breath. Almost at once the front door opened, but Vogl did not encounter Eugénie. Instead, he saw the strange young man of the morning, now dressed in evening attire. Politely Vogl drew himself to his full height and uttered a polite, “Guten abend.”

  The youth dashed past him and out the door without so much as a nod.

  This breach of etiquette startled Vogl. He asked Diederich, the servant manning the door, “Is that young fellow late for the theater?”

  “I wouldn’t know, mein Herr.”

  “He certainly seemed in a hurry.”

  “The master’s son rarely stays in one place very long,” Diederich replied, before he bowed and withdrew.

  Vogl knew of Heinrich, Georg’s son from his previous marriage, but until that morning, Vogl had never seen him. Eugénie had mentioned Heinrich from time to time but always seemed slightly embarrassed when his name came up. What woman needs reminding that her husband had a life before she appeared in it? How odd that in the span of ten hours Vogl and Heinrich’s paths crossed twice.

  Vogl recalled that Heinrich studied in Heidelberg. Why Georg thought fit to send his son there was unknown. The venerable German university boasted an excellent reputation to be sure, and more than a few fathers sent wayward sons there to keep them out of mischief. Whether Eugénie’s reticence regarding her stepson derived from any dust in the young man’s attic, or from Eugénie’s own private demons, Vogl had never learned.

  Vogl considered the man’s attire interesting. One expected an officer’s son to become an officer, especially if that son attended university at Heidelberg, but Heinrich wore no uniform. “Youthful rebellion,” Vogl mused, “the Teutonic male’s one inalienable right.” From the look of him, Heinrich had reached the age to confront his father. If Vogl’s experience with his own father was any guide, Heinrich wanted to outrage the old man as much as possible—for a year or so—before accepting, in one way or another, his progenitor’s authority. That was the Austrian way.

  Perhaps the young man needed Eugénie’s help. Heinrich might well desire step-motherly intercession on his behalf, perhaps advice regarding an affair of the heart. Such diplomacy was Eugénie’s forte in pre-Metternich days.

  Of course in those days, any man entering Eugénie’s sphere, young, old, military, civilian, married or single, became her slave. Vogl still wondered whether he was fortunate or not to remain beneath Eugénie’s notice most of that time. Life at her beck and call, though not dull, was uncomfortable. But that was all so long ago. Contemporary legend claimed that Eugénie no longer prowled the slave market. As Vogl’s brain foundered in these unhelpful waters, the parlor door opened again. Diederich announced that the count awaited him.

  The antechamber Vogl entered artfully impressed the visitor with its opulent austerity. Tasteful expenditure radiated from its parquet floor through its mahogany furnishings, right up to the ceiling, still showing vague ghosts of ghastly baroque decoration under a thin coat of pale blue paint. Along opposite walls stood two sideboards. On top of the left one, a silver ornamental coffee service glistened; on the other reposed a set of crystal decanters glistening with their amber contents. Brass sconces lined the wall, and between them hung various paintings—largish still-lifes of comestibles over each sideboard, flanked by small portraits, one supposed of previous von Neulingers. Single chairs, upholstered in red and silver, flanked the sideboards, but the place was hardly a sitting room. It felt like an overdressed interrogation chamber.

  Eugénie sat in a chair by the sideboard with the decanters. Her husband stood by her side, with one hand on the back of her chair. Vogl appreciated this composition of impeccable decorum. The von Neulingers always paid exact attention to detail.

  Adopting his best formal manner he said, “I bid you good evening, Herr Count. Good evening, Countess.”

  Von Neulinger acknowledged Vogl’s words with a small bow. Vogl, as always, was impressed with the man, who radiated both confidence and self-discipline. He wore his full regalia—a uniform the color of caramel crème, with epaulettes and medals, golden frogs on the jacket, and a crimson sash. On another man such trappings might appear foolish, but the count’s face forestalled any sense of frivolity. His gray eyes revealed nothing but steely confidence. Although close to Vogl’s age, as streaks of gray in his reddish-brown hair attested, the count maintained every inch of his well-mastered military posture, refined by frequent visits to Vienna’s stables and dueling clubs. He looked considerably stronger than Vogl, himself no weakling. Eugénie’s consort was certainly no milksop.

  As for Eugénie, she displayed a dazzling array of jewels on a gown of dark blue velvet, trimmed with silver. It played nicely with the fabric upon which she perched. One glance confirmed that the von Neulingers operated among Vienna’s most important couples.

  “We are about to attend an emperor’s reception for the ambassador from Tuscany,” von Neulinger said quietly.

  His voice had a surprisingly high timbre. Vogl always felt surprise that the count was a tenor. On the stage, such a man would be played by a baritone. Regardless of tone, the count’s remark was an implied order to make his business snappy.

  “We could perhaps offer Herr Vogl a glass of wine.” Mischief was in Eugénie’s voice.

  Choosing tact, Vogl said, “If such an offer were made, I’m afraid I must decline. I’m expected at the theater.”

  “What do you perform tonight?” asked the count, his politeness metallic.

  To
cover for his little lie, Vogl began a response to the effect that his evening duties required him only to watch the performance, when Eugénie saved the situation.

  “Tonight, Herr Vogl plays the role of the messenger,” she said, “for me. Here is your missive.”

  From the sideboard Eugénie extended a sealed lavender tinted envelope. Vogl read the inscription, written in Eugénie’s elegant script with careful underlining: “To Fraülein Schikaneder - By hand.”

  A faint smile at Eugénie’s duplicity crossed his lips. She took such pleasure in artifice. Her path to the title of countess rarely displayed examples of undue circumspection or discretion. Her primary weapons were magnetic beauty and the constantly disquieting impression that she was one—only one—step ahead. The legion of men still under her command proved the strength of her stratagems.

  Vogl fell in step like the rest. “The lady will receive her invitation forthwith,” he said with his own slight bow. “And now, I must go.”

  “We will see you at Thursday’s soirée, will we not?” asked the count.

  “I would not miss it for anything.”

  “Michael is providing the evening’s entertainment,” said Eugénie. “I’m sure he’ll divert us better than this gathering at the Hofburg tonight. How I deplore these formal occasions. I much prefer quiet, intimate evenings at home.”

  A quiet evening with seventy guests, thought Vogl, but he said only, “Until Thursday, then.”

  “Come, Herr Vogl,” said the count, “we’ll walk out with you. Eugénie?”

  He offered his arm. Eugénie dutifully rose and took it. Her gesture ushered Vogl into the hallway two steps ahead of them.

  Vogl felt some misgivings at this unexpected act of condescension. Von Neulinger was not stupid. Did Eugénie believe he had no suspicions? Perhaps he simply had no illusions. Eugénie employed intrigue as naturally as Signor Rossini employed crescendi, whether or not such effects were strictly necessary.

  Vogl felt the count’s eye upon him, but fought down the impulse to dart out the door when the von Neulingers donned their outer wraps. He waited patiently. Perhaps the count wanted to show off the fur trim of his cloak. It came from an exotic mammal Vogl didn’t recognize, perhaps North American. Vogl’s fears dissipated when the von Neulingers’ mounted their coach and dashed off towards the Hofburg without offering to deliver him to the Hofoper. Now he was free to march to Café Lindenbaum, his actual destination. Schubert awaited him there.

  Chapter Five

  Alone on the street, Vogl looked unhappily at Eugénie’s envelope. The choice of addressee, “Fraulein Schikaneder,” a mere afterthought on Eugénie’s part, caused him some worry and no little pain. To her, Schikaneder was just a name, but Vogl remembered a man—a man dying destitute in a madhouse in 1812. He often spoke of the aging rascal in the time when Jennie was his.

  Vogl watched Emanuel Schikaneder create the role of Papageno in 1791. Three years later, Vogl, under Impresario Schikaneder’s watchful eye, created the role of Publius in a never-to-be-forgotten experience, introducing Mozart’s last opera, La Clemenza di Tito, to the public. Schikaneder launched Vogl towards his present fame at the very moment his own star waned. Those magnificent days were long gone. Mozart passed into legend, and Schikaneder was virtually forgotten. How sad that, to Vogl, these men remained quite real, human, alive. Vogl saw himself, like them, on the verge of oblivion.

  He shook off his melancholy aloud. “I shall not end up like Schikaneder, or Mozart either.” He, like them, served the gods of Art faithfully, but the gods did not consume him. He maintained perfect physical and mental health, and he employed a resource that neither of these great masters possessed—a sense of proper proportion. He foresaw the twilight of his stage career and saved for it accordingly, not merely financially. Not trusting popular opinion—that most fickle of friends—to sustain him, he chose better allies than either Mozart or Schikaneder ever had, a lifetime of trusted friends from the theater and elsewhere, not to mention his library.

  “Gott im Himmel!” Vogl shook himself again. “This isn’t the time to contemplate retirement,” he said loud enough to startle a passerby.

  The man’s reaction reassured Vogl. He still served his gods with great energy. Now they commanded him to fulfill a sacred duty: preserve the young genius Franz Schubert from forces of darkness such as consumed Mozart and Schikaneder. He quickened his step.

  At the Café Lindenbaum, Vogl encountered the situation he expected and feared. Schubert, camped at a table at the back, was so engaged in animated conversation that he didn’t notice Vogl’s arrival. Schubert’s companion showed only his back, but Vogl recognized from the dark, undisciplined locks just touching the dyed velvet collar of his maroon coat Schubert’s librettist, Franz Schober. Schober: third-rate poet, second-rate actor, , first-class libertine.

  Vogl considered Schober another of his great indiscretions, although not of the romantic kind. Six years before, Vogl, always one to promote youthful talent, consented to perform the role of the count in Cosi fan Tutte for a young upstart company of which Schober was a member. Schober’s role as a servant didn’t disguise his aristocratic breeding and bearing, his dashing good looks, his superbly graceful manners. Schober’s earnest enthusiasm when speaking of the great dramatic heights he hoped to achieve appealed to Vogl—then. In the first bloom of their association, which lasted several weeks, Vogl took a personal hand in the fiery, young performer’s career. Six years later Vogl regretted his good intentions.

  Vogl soon learned where Schober’s greatest talents and interests lay—the fields of self-indulgence and seduction. His off-stage antics suggested that he took the cynical themes of da Ponte’s satirical opera for his personal creed. Vogl was no saint, but he fully understood the difference between youthful exuberance and unmitigated predatory behavior.

  Vogl saw Schober use their association as a conduit into Vogl’s set of acquaintances among Vienna’s social elite, usually not for artistic support but rather for personal, often unsavory, gratification. At that point Vogl took decisive steps to distance himself from Schober’s machinations. The sequel justified Vogl’s decision. Schober’s artistic career advanced little, but scandals featuring his name grew by volumes.

  The one redeeming grace was that Schober introduced Vogl to Schubert. Five winters before, Schober dragged the reluctant, resentful Vogl home with him to introduce yet another new “genius.” Schubert, the genius in question, was hopelessly incapacitated at the meeting, barely able to stammer out how honored he was to make Vogl’s acquaintance. He was utterly unable to perform any music.

  Fortunately, Schubert’s music spoke for itself. Within weeks Vogl began to include the little man’s compositions in his own vocal recitals; within months Vogl and Schubert were performing together. For Vogl the collaboration was a joy. Schubert was everything Schober wasn’t—a genuine talent driven by immortal forces with only incidental attachment to the physical world.

  Vogl stood within earshot of the conversation for several moments, waiting for someone to notice him. From what Vogl could gather, die zwei Franze debated about how much of their opera to present to Carl Maria von Weber when he arrived in Vienna. Schober expressed his views forte, bordering on fortissimo.

  “If the third act is too long, the master will tell us.”

  “But why show him material of which we are unsure? Act two …” Schubert’s voice was no match for his friend’s in volume, but it resonated with sincerity.

  “Weber won’t touch a fragment. Give him the complete score.”

  “But the third act remains incomplete … in its soul.”

  “Schwammerl, operas have no souls, any more than women do.”

  Vogl chose that moment to intervene. He stepped forward. “Grüs Gott, Franz. Guten abend, Herr Schober.” He wanted to leave no doubt regarding which man he considered his friend.

  Both men answered at once, Schober with a cool nod, Schubert with unabated animation. “Misha, help me con
vince this donkey that two perfect acts are better than three imperfect ones.”

  Schober became all obsequiousness. “We value your opinion, Michael.”

  “Since I haven’t studied this masterpiece and I, like you, have never met von Weber, I doubt my opinion is worth very much. I’m actually here on another matter.” Vogl brandished Eugénie’s envelope.

  “My commission!”

  Schober seized the opportunity to joke. “Schwammerl in the military? Little Franz, one doesn’t need to don a uniform to attract the fair. Please reconsider.”

  The remark produced the desired effect on Schubert. He smiled as Schober hummed the first two bars of “Non piu andrai” from Figaro.

  “Herr Schober, please leave us for a while,” Vogl went on steadily. “This matter is urgent for both of us.”

  “Yes,” said Schubert. “I am Misha’s second in an affair of honor. We are to prove that the pen is not mightier than the chord.”

  “Very well,” said Schober. “I have other engagements this evening. I was hoping you’d join me, Franz. There is a certain young lady …”

  Vogl said nothing. He merely dangled the envelope before the composer who sighed. “I must decline. The muses beckon, and they demand more than corporeal mistresses.”

  “So they do,” said Schober with apparent good humor, “and that is why it is important to snub them every now and then, to keep them in their place. I can’t persuade you, Little Franz?”

  “I have promised Herr Vogl my services for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Then farewell. Guten Abend, Herr Vogl.”

  “Schober,” Vogl acknowledged with relief, but Schubert continued.

  “Franz, wait. You must witness the battle. We take the field Thursday at the von Neulingers. You shall be my guest.”

  Schober paused. An entrée into a von Neulinger event was not to be sneezed at. “Can you grant me an invitation?”