Vienna in Violet Page 4

  Of course Schubert couldn’t. Even he recognized that fact, but conventional etiquette did not supply the last word on the matter. “No. You can’t come as my guest,” said Schubert. “You must be part of my entourage; my page … turner.” He laughed. “Misha and I insist upon it, don’t we?”

  Vogl, wanting nothing of the sort, held his tongue.

  “Let’s decide the issue Thursday,” said Schober. He left the coffee house without another word.

  Vogl watched the departure. “I don’t approve of that man.”

  “Oh, Schober’s decent enough, once you get to know him.”

  “I’ve known him a long time. Decent sorts pay their tavern bills, and they stay off the Annagasse.”

  Schubert peered over the tops of his spectacles. “Oh? Have you been following us?”

  “Of course not! But I have it on reliable authority …”

  “Misha, what reliable authority?” Schubert said with feigned scorn. “You, who follow the most profligate of professions—the theater. If some actress sullies Franz Schober’s good name …” Schubert, shaking his fist in the air, broke off with a laugh. “Or do you refer to your beloved Aurelius? Now there’s reliability for you, but how a long-deceased Roman emperor comes to learn of the deeds of Franz Schober, I cannot imagine.”

  “Very well. My warnings fall on deaf ears.”

  Schubert blanched. “Never mention deafness in the presence of a musician. They say that van Beethoven is afflicted with it.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Franz. I say once more that Schober is a bad influence on you.”

  “Misha, I can take care of myself.”

  Falser words were never spoken, thought Vogl, though he let the matter drop.

  “But, come to think of it,” Schubert continued, “I may have leapt from the gate too soon regarding this Thursday. Who knows if we’ll have any pages for him to turn? Tell me about this little billet doux.”

  “At the moment, I know no more than you, Franz.”

  “Then, for God’s sake sit down, and let’s see what our adversary has in store for us.” Schubert took the lavender envelope from Vogl’s hand. “The color seems promising,” he said. Then he passed the envelope under his nose. “Hmm. Unscented. I take as a bad sign.” Schubert opened the envelope and extracted its contents. “Here we are. ‘Die Sonne und das Veilchen,’ submitted anonymously but transcribed in a very feminine hand. Do you suppose we have some sort of philosophical debate? Give me a moment.”

  Vogl took the seat vacated by Schober and watched his friend adjust his spectacles to read. Shifting attention to the detritus on the table, Vogl reflected on the degree of disorder in Schubert’s simple life. Mixed in with pages of three different newspapers were more than a dozen pages of manuscript, some with words, some with musical notations on them, many crumpled. An inkwell, two pens, and a sharpening knife sat near Schubert’s right hand, although the dried ink on one nib and the cleanliness of the other, suggested that little writing had occurred for at least the past hour. Partially buried under a broadsheet was a plate with what looked like breadcrumbs on it. Nestled behind the plate, Vogl perceived the caramel-colored bowl of Schubert’s partially filled pipe. By the composer’s left hand rested a small crystal glass with a soupçon of wine in it. It dawned on Vogl that one roll and one paltry glass of wine were all Schubert had consumed that day.

  “I’m going to have something, Franz. Would you like some more wine?”

  “Dear fellow, I thought you’d never ask,” said Schubert quickly tossing down the few drops remaining in his glass. “And could we get some bread with it?”

  Vogl summoned the waiter who no doubt had tactfully avoided Schubert’s little nest for a long time. With a few brisk instructions supported by a few gulden, the waiter replaced the newspapers with wine, bread, and some sausages.

  Dining slowed the tempo of their immediate project. Schubert’s appetite for Wienerwurst outpaced his appetite for literary disquisition. He ate rapidly, silently, barely able to maintain proper decorum with knife and fork. The young artist’s tragedy, thought Vogl. On the days when one could afford to eat, because one’s art was in demand, one forgot to eat, because one was overwhelmed with the art. At least that was Schubert’s predicament. Left to himself, Schubert would starve. Vogl considered himself a general in the army of the composer’s supporters who refused to let the calamity come to pass. Tonight, Vogl won another skirmish in the active campaign to keep Schubert’s body and soul together.

  Vogl sipped his wine, shuddering at the thought of how Schubert’s evening might have gone. True, Schober would willingly pay the bills, or rather absorb Schubert’s debt into his own, but he’d supply no food. Only wine and, almost certainly, women. Not even song. When Vogl last called upon Schubert the morning after an evening in Schober’s clutches, Schubert was incapacitated to the extent that they canceled their afternoon rehearsal and scratched out a wretched performance in the evening. A similar fiasco at the von Neulingers could destroy them both.

  At last Schubert finished the last morsel of bread and returned to work by lowering his spectacles and reaching for his pipe. “I’m now ready again to confront ‘The Violet’. Misha, do you have a match?”

  The reason Franz’s postprandial pipe still contained tobacco was that Franz habitually forgot to take any matches with him when he left home. He was too shy to ask a stranger for a light.

  During his second reading of the poem, Schubert started nodding. Then came a moment of humming. Theatrically, Schubert folded up the paper and, with a knowing wink, returned it to its envelope. Vogl asked impatiently. “What do you make of it?”

  “E-flat major,” said Schubert, smiling. “I hope you don’t find the key disagreeable?”

  “Franz stop talking nonsense. Will you set the poem to music?”

  “The problem seems quite straightforward. The meaning of the poem remains somewhat obscure …”

  “Then let me see it!”

  “But its central sentiments are clear enough,” Schubert said, depositing the envelope in a pocket behind his lapel. “Our impetuous bard includes a hazard or two in this somewhat confused allegorical narrative,” said Schubert patting his coat pocket, “but nothing insurmountable. Yes, E-flat should serve.”

  “Choose any key you like, Franz, but, if you encounter difficulties I can assist—”

  Schubert lifted his surprisingly sturdy hand from his breast. “Let’s not alter our usual arrangements. Stop by von Schwind’s tomorrow evening.”

  “I’m performing tomorrow.”

  “Well, Thursday afternoon then, and we’ll use the piano there to rehearse for the evening. I promise not to write anything you can’t sing.”

  Vogl was accustomed to accommodating artistic temperament, but he couldn’t resist saying, “I have no doubt of that, Franz, but I must know the poem’s contents.”

  “Tut tut, Misha. This is no longer a mere poem. It is my song. Until I hear from my muses, I won’t discuss it further.”

  “Just don’t write anything you can’t play, little wanderer,” said Vogl with poor grace.

  “Now Misha, don’t be upset. A little suspense will do you good. Let’s talk of something else. What have you heard of Der Freischütz?”

  “Not a word.”

  “But you will introduce me to von Weber.”

  “If I can. But Franz, you must realize that he’s preoccupied. The production of an opera is, at best, an arduous undertaking. Since Weber is doing everything, both preparing the singers and conducting the orchestra, not to mention staging the piece, he won’t receive many social calls from strangers while he’s here.”

  “Schober thought of that. We’ll delay our approach until after the performance.”

  An ugly thought passed through Vogl’s mind. “Franz, does Weber expect you to approach him?”

  “Well, no, but …”

  “Does he even know of your existence?”

  “Not exactly, but …”

&
nbsp; Vogl noisily planted the palm of his right hand on the table. “Do you expect to meet with a personage who will be more in demand than the pope while he is here, without so much as a preliminary introduction?”

  “It’s not as bad as all that…”

  “You must be mad!”

  “Misha, hear me out. We haven’t made contact with Weber directly, but we have great hopes…”

  “I have great hopes of becoming Persia’s next potentate!”

  Schubert remained unperturbed. “We needn’t meet in person. Weber only needs to see our manuscript. Salieri promised to broach the subject.”

  “I suppose that’s something,” Vogl muttered. Antonio Salieri, long retired from his place as Vienna’s preeminent opera composer, had been Schubert’s teacher. Weber was probably shrewd enough to pay his respects to the grand old man of Viennese musical life, if only to appease the Italianophilic faction of the city’s opera fanatics.

  “We have additional strategies. Schober has written a poem to honor von Weber. We will find out where he’s staying. If all else fails, we’ll wait outside until he appears. And if you help us—”

  “I thought you only wanted me to facilitate the social amenities at a pre-arranged meeting.”

  “That too. But aren’t you always welcome at the Theater an der Wien? Can’t you approach the maestro during a free moment of rehearsal?”

  “I can, and dash all your hopes at once. Franz, you know better than to interfere with an artist in the throes of creation.”

  “Well, afterwards.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” said Vogl shaking his head. Schubert’s cavalier attitude didn’t shock him, familiar as he was with his friend’s impracticality. Franz did not know how the world worked. He earnestly expected a letter from an old teacher, a flattering poem, and his acquaintance with Vogl to deliver Alfonso und Estrella into Weber’s hands. If by some miracle Weber received the opera, the odds against the piece ever reaching the stage remained astronomical. Vogl expected the next few days to provide Schubert a sobering lesson. Perhaps Weber’s inevitable snub would induce Franz to produce works that brought in some money. Vogl saw his role in the upcoming drama clearly: soften the inevitable blows.

  “Franz, what do you say to some Linzer torte?”

  “Misha, I’m honored to accept.”

  Shortly thereafter the men cordially parted. Schubert walked back to his room at von Schwind’s; Vogl found a horse-drawn cabriolet to take him back to his lodgings off the Ringstrasse. Schubert presumably sang himself to sleep with visions of sun-drenched violets; Vogl contented himself by reading a few pages of Epictetus before succumbing to dreamless slumber.

  Chapter Six

  It is not true that no work gets done in Vienna before noon, at least not in so well-managed an enterprise as the Hofoper. To prepare for the evening’s singspiel (one of Hiller’s tested war-horses that Vogl had ridden to general acclaim several times before), Vogl appeared at the unlikely hour of 10:00 a.m., to participate in a three-and-a-half hour brush-up rehearsal. Assistant manager Schmidt dismissed Vogl at noon with obligatory sarcasm, ordering him (unnecessarily) to return at 6:00 for the evening performance.

  Vogl didn’t leave. Schmidt planned to work on Act III of The Empress of the Common during the afternoon. Vogl didn’t appear in the act but he decided to wait for the start of that rehearsal in response to a thought that disrupted the tranquility of his breakfast: Who would portray Fraülein Schikaneder?

  Eugénie von Neulinger’s mysterious poem came to Vogl under the cloak of an invitation to this fictitious person. Only someone with the social naiveté of Franz Schubert refused invitations to the prominent von Neulingers. Moreover, the count was shrewd. He’d seen the invitation; he expected a response. Someone—someone not known to the count—ought to answer the call. Not without qualms, Vogl prepared to approach Kunegunde Rosa.

  The village maidens were to assemble at two, to provide appropriate choral response to Katarina’s complaints about Hernando’s effect on her turbulent heart. As Vogl hoped, Fraülein Rosa appeared well in advance of the hour. As a tyro, she wished to vocalize in advance, even for a staging rehearsal. Vogl knew he had plenty of time for his mission. The other more jaded maidens arrived at rehearsals at the last minute, and settled into the rehearsal process as situations demanded. Of course, one expected La Donmeyer to flutter in a few minutes late, to remind everyone of her importance.

  Vogl positioned himself strategically at the repetiteur’s piano and happened to be running through the final measures of “Ganymed” when Fraulein Rosa approached. Vogl finished the phrase and rose from the bench. “Guten Tag, Fraülein.”

  “Guten Tag, Herr Vogl. That’s a lovely piece. I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It’s a song by my friend, Franz Schubert.”

  “Schubert? The one who set “Erlkönig” to music?”

  “The same.”

  “Why, I love that piece! Do you know it?”

  With a trace of surprise Vogl said, “I perform it all the time. I had the honor of introducing it to the public.”

  Kunegunde’s jaw dropped. “How wonderful for you! Such exciting music! One can almost see the lightning flash and the torrents of driving rain. You say you know the composer? You are very lucky.”

  This girl certainly knew how to prick his vanity. Vogl and Schubert performed together all over Austria. Vogl always did his utmost to promote Schubert’s talent and “Der Erlkönig” in particular, but he naturally assumed that audiences came to hear him, no matter what he chose to perform. On the bright side, the girl’s lack of knowledge about his professional life boded well for his present purpose. He interrupted the flow of her words.

  “Fraülein, I can introduce you to Herr Schubert.”

  Kunegunde gasped. “Impossible! What would I say to such a powerful personality?”

  The idea of Schubert as a powerful personality caused Vogl to smile. “Have no fear on that account, Fraülein.”

  “Well, perhaps, if someday…”

  “Fraülein, Schubert and I are performing tomorrow night. Will you join us?”

  “After the performance, you mean?”

  “It’s an informal occasion. A gathering at the von Neulingers.” The von Neulinger name apparently made no impression on Kunegunde, so Vogl continued, “Please come as my guest.”

  “I doubt my father will approve.”

  “Fraülein, I’m not suggesting anything improper. I insist on meeting with your parents before we venture anywhere.”

  “I’ll ask for permission this evening. Father seemed impressed yesterday when I told him I met you.”

  “He, too, remembered my Pizzaro?”

  “Oh. He’s seen you several times. He didn’t mention any particular role. He usually sleeps through operas, or so Mother says.”

  Vogl sighed. Getting a compliment out of Kunegunde Rosa was as difficult as getting a bass note from a piccolo. He returned to the business at hand. “If you do attend the von Neulinger soirée with me, I have an additional request.”

  A tremor of fright passed over Kunegunde’s face, followed by an expression of determination. “I won’t sing with you.”

  “Nothing quite so taxing. I merely want to introduce you under an assumed name.”

  Fraülein Rosa almost giggled at the thought. “Me? Intrigue? How exciting! Do I wear a mask?”

  “Hardly, Fraülein. Just assume a different surname for the evening.”

  “What’s wrong with my own surname?”

  “Nothing. Indeed, if your surname is Schikaneder, you won’t have to change it.”

  “It’s Rosa. Kunegunde Rosa,” she added with an absurd curtsey.

  “I’m honored, Fraülein Rosa, but tomorrow I need a Fraülein Schikaneder.”

  “I’ll do it—gladly—if my father permits.”

  “Then let’s leave it at this: I’ll escort you home after your rehearsal. Will your father be available then?”

  “Oh, yes. He stays at
the gallery only half a day on Wednesdays.”

  “Then it’s settled. One thing, Fraülein. Let’s not mention our charade to your father.”

  Kunegunde favored him with a mischievous smile, the first sign that the girl was capable of flirtation. “Herr Vogl, I no longer feel compelled to tell my parents everything.”

  Noticing others arriving for the start of rehearsal, Vogl quietly withdrew. Throughout the afternoon and his dinner hour, Vogl experienced unanticipated bouts of self-doubt. He preferred life to be simple and straightforward. While he exercised a certain degree of diplomacy to advance his career, he scrupulously avoided the sort of duplicity in which he now found himself a participant—except when compelled by Eugénie.

  Vogl maintained an iron self-discipline that over time had tempered itself into steel. In the theatrical world he enjoyed a reputation for complete reliability. Though not strictly pure (in worldly terms) in his service to the muses, he never allowed sensual, financial, or romantic temptations to distract him. He saw too many who succumbed—to bottles, to cards, to lovers—and refused to let any such catastrophe befall him.

  He understood the dangers so well that his responses were a series of maxims. “Applause is the only stake worth playing for,” he warned gamblers. “Save your histrionics for the stage,” had long been his attitude toward the throes of romance.

  He had rules for stage performance, too. “Beer before Singspiel, wine before opera; and just one glass!” He usually found this libation a reliable method of focusing his artistic powers.

  However, this evening’s glass of beer was not producing the desired effect. “Women!” he heard himself mutter, meaning Jennie. Like a fool, he was embroiling himself and others in a situation of unknown complexity, for Jennie’s sake. Almost a decade after their brief, tempestuous affair, he remained under her spell. What business had he recruiting innocent youth to facilitate traffic in cryptic communications through mysterious music? Why was he protecting the secrets of a woman who quite possibly was using her wiles to draw another lover into her web? Perhaps it was because Jennie chose courses exactly opposite to those Vogl chose for himself.