Death And The Maiden

30

After returning home from the St Marxer cemetery Liebermann had written a note to Frau Astrid Abend. He had declared an interest in the music of David Freimark and explained how he had learned of her provision of flowers for the composer’s grave. Further, he had asked if she was prepared to reveal her connection with the composer. Liebermann justified this inquiry by claiming, somewhat disingenuously, to be an amateur musicologist with an interest in Freimark’s life and works. Frau Abend had dispatched a prompt reply, inviting Liebermann to her apartment in the fourth district.

When Liebermann arrived he was received by a manservant who escorted him into a cluttered parlour. Most of the surfaces were festooned with flowers and family photographs. The scratched furniture and torn upholstery suggested not poverty but, rather, the invasion — past and present — of young boys whose destructive behaviour was tolerated by indulgent parents. Liebermann noticed that a tin soldier had been hidden among the green branches of a potted plant. A rocking horse was poking its head out from behind a leather chair.

After waiting only a few minutes, Frau Abend entered the room and introduced herself. She was in her late thirties and wore a simple green dress and white blouse. Although wrinkles were gathering around her eyes, her skin had a youthful bloom and her easy smile reinforced a strong impression of gentle forbearance. Tea was served and the conversation flowed without awkwardness.

‘I am not sure that I can tell you very much,’ said Frau Abend, ‘I suspect that you probably know more about Freimark than I do.’

‘Actually, I know very little,’ said Liebermann. ‘I have only recently begun researching his life.’

‘But why Freimark? He isn’t very …’ Frau Abend rotated her hand in the air ‘… fashionable.’

‘A chance encounter. I met an elderly lady who once knew him. Frau Zollinger? Do you know of her?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘She was a patron of the arts. Freimark was a member of her circle.’

Frau Abend poured the tea. ‘“Hope” is a very lovely song, Herr Doctor. But I don’t know anything else by Freimark. Do you?’

‘Nothing else he wrote is published. What is your connection with Freimark? Are you related?’

‘No.’

‘Then why-’

‘The flowers? Because of my mother. It was my mother’s wish that I continue an existing arrangement. She is dead now — two years passed.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Frau Abend made a gesture to suggest that sympathy was not required. ‘May I ask,’ continued Liebermann, ‘your mother’s name?’

‘Carolin Fuhrmann — nee Cronberg.’

‘And what was she to Freimark?’

‘Nothing,’ said Frau Abend. Liebermann scratched his head and Frau Abend smiled, mildly amused by his perplexity. ‘I am sorry, Herr Doctor. It was not my intention to confuse. Allow me to explain in full. My mother, Carolin, had a sister, Angelika. It was Angelika who paid for the flowers originally. My aunt died almost ten years ago. However, before her death she asked my mother to ensure that the flowers continued. Naturally, my mother agreed. When my mother was dying, she, in turn, asked me to honour the promise she had made to my aunt, and I have done so to this day.’

‘Angelika. That would be Angelika Brosius?’

‘Ah, so you do know something about my family.’

‘Only that your aunt was married to Johann Christian Brosius, Freimark’s teacher.’

‘Indeed.’

Frau Abend brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.

‘Do you remember your Aunt Angelika?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Striking,’ said Frau Abend. She plucked a frame from a small table and handed it to Liebermann. ‘This photograph was taken when she was in her fifties.’ Liebermann studied the portrait: a woman with long grey hair, high cheekbones and eyes of peculiar luminosity. There was something unearthly about her appearance, detached, immaterial — a natural muse. Frau Abend continued, ‘I was very fond of my aunt, but she lacked something.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘She wasn’t a very warm person. She wasn’t like my other aunts, the aunts on my father’s side of the family.’

‘You didn’t like her.’

‘Oh, no,’ Frau Abend exclaimed. ‘You misunderstand me. I liked her very much. She took me to concerts and exhibitions and for rides on the Prater. She was a good aunt. And she always treated me like a young woman, never as a child.’

‘Did she ever talk to you about Freimark?’ Frau Abend shook her head. ‘What about her husband?’

‘Yes, she spoke about him sometimes. Although Uncle Johann didn’t die until-’ She stopped suddenly and her brow furrowed.

‘Eighteen seventy-eight,’ said Liebermann.

‘Yes. I must have been about thirteen at the time. I went to the funeral, a grand affair at the Zentralfriedhof. But I remember him well, Uncle Johann, a big, sullen man — like a bear. He smoked enormous cigars. My mother always insisted on the highest standards of behaviour when we visited Aunt Angelika. We had to be very quiet because Uncle Johann was usually in the music room, working. I thought it most unfair. We had to be quiet while Uncle Johann could make as much noise as he wanted. He used to bash the piano like his life depended on it. Well, in a way, I suppose it did. My mother told me he would become incensed if disturbed. He was reputed to have quite a temper, which might have been true, although I never saw him angry. In fact, I remember him as a rather subdued man.’ Frau Abend sighed. ‘It always struck me as a sad place. Their apartment felt like a tomb. It always felt cold, empty. They didn’t have any children. When Uncle Johann died my aunt carried on living there. She should have moved — somewhere smaller, brighter.’

‘When did your aunt die?’

‘Almost ten years ago.’

‘Can you remember if there was anything among her effects which concerned Freimark?’

‘There might have been.’ Frau Abend winced. ‘We threw a lot of things away.’

‘Letters? Papers?’

‘Yes, but I don’t remember anything specifically to do with Freimark. And there was certainly no music, if that’s what you’re looking for. All the unfinished manuscripts were by Brosius.’

‘What did you do with them?’

‘We gave them to the conservatoire. My aunt used to copy out his scores. They were very neat.’

‘She was a musician?’

‘Yes, and a good one, so my mother said. But I never heard her play the piano. Not once.’

Liebermann handed the photograph back and took a sip of tea.

‘Frau Abend, do you know how Freimark died?’

‘An accident, I believe. My mother mentioned a mishap on the Schneeberg.’

‘Did she say anything else?’

‘About the accident? No, not that I recall.’

Liebermann paused before asking his next question.

‘Why did your aunt arrange to have flowers placed on Freimark’s grave? And why was she so anxious for this to continue?’

Frau Abend looked at Liebermann with wide eyes. A certain mischievousness played around her lips.

‘Oh, isn’t it obvious, Herr Doctor?’

‘They were …’ Liebermann hesitated before adding, ‘… lovers?’

‘My mother said that Aunt Angelika would probably have left Uncle Johann had Freimark lived.’

‘Fascinating.’

Frau Abend smiled. ‘Affairs of this kind are commonplace among artists. Is it really so fascinating? I must suppose that you came here today hoping to discover the whereabouts of some lost Freimark songs or piano pieces. But I’m afraid all I can offer you is some very old gossip. If, today, Uncle Johann was held in higher regard, or if Freimark had written more, then perhaps these private details might merit a chapter in a volume of biography. But neither composer is very significant. No one is interested in them any more. Uncle Johann is sometimes mentioned as a footnote in articles on Brahms, and as for Freimark — well.’ Frau Abend sighed. ‘Perhaps, Herr Doctor, you should find a more worthy subject?’

‘I am a psychoanalyst,’ said Liebermann. ‘A disciple of Professor Freud.’ Frau Abend shrugged to show that the name meant nothing to her. ‘We psychoanalysts believe that there is much to be gained by studying small things, the things that are usually overlooked by others. I am not in the least deterred by the fact that only one of Freimark’s songs seems to have survived. Most of us live and die without leaving anything of value behind. Freimark bequeathed humanity one very beautiful song. That is sufficient reason, as far as I am concerned, to continue my inquiries.’ Imitating his friend Rheinhardt, Liebermann lowered his voice and added: ‘You have been very helpful. I am most indebted.’