Vienna Blood

10

AFTER THE MEETING HAD been brought to a successful close and the vote of thanks given, Von Triebenbach issued discreet invitations to his most trusted deputies. He was delighted to report that their distinguished guest had consented to attend an informal party, upstairs in Von Triebenbach's apartment. They climbed up the stone steps that ascended from the basement-with its honeycomb of chambers-to the ground floor, where they negotiated a further flight of stairs leading to the first floor. At Von Triebenbach's door they were welcomed by servants wearing cockade hats and were escorted through two anterooms into an impressive parlor.

A mountain of glowing coals burned brightly under the arch of a large black-marble fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a substantial clock, the intricate workings of which were visible through a glass cover. The furniture-consisting of display cabinets, a bureau, three couches, and several chairs-was early-eighteenth-century. Striped burgundy wallpaper adorned the walls, and classical figures-almost life-size-made silent music on pipes and lyres. The center of the room was dominated by a rosewood-veneer grand piano, the castors of which were buried in a thick Persian carpet.

Aschenbrandt was eager to show List his work, and as soon as the great man was settled on one of the couches, he begged the baron to introduce him. List accepted the young man's proffered hand, and Von Triebenbach-always kindly disposed to Aschenbrandt-explained that the young musician was eager to perform the overture of a work in progress: an opera based on the author's novel Carnuntum.

List graciously consented and Aschenbrandt, excited beyond measure, sat down at the Weber grand and opened his piano score.

The room fell silent.

Aschenbrandt brushed thin wisps of platinum hair behind his ears and his pale face grew solemn. He raised his hands and allowed them to fall onto the keyboard, striking three dramatic opening chords-his celluloid cuffs rattled. An ostinato bass conjured images of marching soldiers, over which an oscillating figure of open fourths and fifths suggested a brassy clarion call. The music was literal, but it was also evidently to the taste of the audience, who nodded appreciatively at the transparent programmatic references. The music ended with a triumphal theme in the relative major key, played fortissimo. Even before the showy coda had come to its predictable conclusion, Von Triebenbach was on his feet. The ovation lasted for several minutes, with List participating as enthusiastically as anyone else present. It was an endorsement that Aschenbrandt had hardly dared dream of, and when List congratulated the young composer personally, he felt as though he had been crowned with a laurel wreath.

After the concert, servants supplied guests with champagne and frosted cubes of crystallized fruit. For a short while there was a general mingling, during which Von Triebenbach circulated among his friends. Eventually the company separated into small groups-some sitting, others standing, but all engaged in animated conversation.

Von Triebenbach and Professor Foch were seated at either side of List, who was expounding his views on the writings of Houston Stewart Chamberlain-an Englishman who had made Vienna his adoptive home. Chamberlain's idea of a great northern alliance, in which all the old Germanic peoples-the Germans, Austrians, English, Nether-landers, and Scandinavians-might join forces, was indeed very appealing. Such an alliance would, as Chamberlain suggested, be invincible; however, List queried Chamberlain's inclusion of the French as Teutons-a position that he considered untenable. Even so, the Englishman's work was certainly worthy of the utmost respect.

Hannisch, Aschenbrandt, and Olbricht were standing in a close group by the piano.

“Well,” said Hannisch to Aschenbrandt, “you must be feeling very proud. What did he say to you?” The counselor's gaze darted toward List.

Aschenbrandt leaned forward to ensure privacy.

“He said that he was deeply moved… that my music had captured perfectly the heroic spirit of the Quadi.”

“High praise indeed,” said the counselor, popping a cube of sugared plum between his bright red Cupid's-bow lips. “You are a very lucky young man.”

“Indeed, and I believe, sir, that we are all indebted to you, for-”

Hannisch killed the compliment with a hand gesture and began to make dismissive puffing sounds. “Not at all, dear fellow, not at all. It was my pleasure.” He sucked some sugar from his fingertips. “Your overture reminded me a little of Rheingold,” he added. “The entry of the giants.”

“You are too kind,” said Aschenbrandt.

“And when do you think the opera will be completed?”

“In a year or so, perhaps. Now that I have the approval of the author, I feel completely inspired. I will work day and night on the score.”

“Tell me, Herr Hannisch,” said Olbricht, capturing the counselor's attention, “does the mayor intend to proceed with the Mozart memorial?”

“Yes, I think so,” Hannisch replied. “If I've understood the minutes correctly.”

“I submitted some drawings to the mayor's office…”

“Oh?”

“Unfortunately, they were rejected. Although, to be frank, I was in two minds about such a project.”

“Did you ask your patron to use her influence?”

“Yes, of course-but alas, her efforts were wasted.”

“What's this?” asked Aschenbrandt, emerging from a fog of self-satisfaction.

“The district chairman has been pestering the mayor for a Mozart memorial to be erected just outside this building.”

“Might I ask,” said Olbricht, “the name of the artist who was awarded the commission… in the end?”

Hannisch looked into Olbricht's widely spaced eyes. There was something quite pitiful about his attempt to feign indifference.

“I'm really not sure, my dear fellow,” Hannisch replied.

A servant approached and refilled their glasses, while another offered more pieces of crystallized fruit. Hannisch picked up two cubes and immediately pressed one between his lips.

“What will it look like? This memorial?” asked Aschenbrandt.

“Mmm…” Hannisch seemed to be distracted by the taste of the sweetmeat-he was clearly engaged in the important task of determining its flavor. “I beg your pardon?”

“What form will the memorial take?” said Aschenbrandt, a hint of tetchiness creeping into his voice. “What will it be?”

Hannisch swallowed.

“Well, as far as I know, it will be a fountain, decorated with bronzes that represent a scene from The Magic Flute.”

“Mozart! Mozart!” Aschenbrandt growled. “Why not Beethoven? Or Richard Wagner, for heaven's sake! We already have a Mozart monument!”

“I couldn't agree more,” said Olbricht. “And why have they chosen to commemorate the most ridiculous of his operas?”

“It is little more than an entertainment for children…,” continued Aschenbrandt.

“Yes, yes-he is a superficial composer in many respects,” Hannisch continued. “However, he is becoming increasingly popular.”

“Well,” Aschenbrandt interjected, “I blame Mahler. He's always scheduling Mozart. In fact, a new production of The Magic Flute is planned for this season.”

The three men looked glum at the prospect.

“The sooner we're rid of him the better,” muttered Olbricht.

Hannisch bit into the second cube of fruit. “They say it is a Masonic opera-The Magic Flute-full of their secrets.”

“Quite so,” said Aschenbrandt. “Mozart is supposed to have raised the ire of his Masonic brothers by incorporating many of their treasured symbols in the text and set. It was regarded as a betrayal of trust, and could have cost him his life.”

“Mmm…” Hannisch's reply was delayed by a protracted episode of mastication. “Mozart may have fallen foul of his fellow Masons on account of his indiscretion, but surely it was the composer's intention to celebrate their doctrine in The Magic Flute?”

Before Aschenbrandt could answer, Olbricht muttered, “He's probably one of them.”

Hannisch and Aschenbrandt turned to look at their companion.

“The district chairman,” Olbricht continued. “He's probably one of them-a Mason. And Director Mahler, too.”

“Well,” said Aschenbrandt. “That wouldn't surprise me in the least.”