Frank Tallis: Deadly Communion

‘Guilt — I suppose.’

‘What?’

‘That is why she gave herself up. Guilt. Like Erstweiler, her mental constitution was not strong enough to survive the emotional consequences of her own crime. When she and Erstweiler killed Bozidar Kolinsky, in a way they also killed themselves.’

Rheinhardt nodded in agreement. He took a second praline, the sweetness of which seemed to render him incapable of speech: an almost idiotic smile played around his lips. In due course he came to his senses and said: ‘So — Tristan ana holac — thank you so much for getting tickets.’

‘Well, a celebration was in order, surely — and I thought the themes apposite.’

‘The reviews have been stupendous! The dawn of a new epoch in the history of opera — so they say.’

‘I am most eager to see Roller’s sets. Apparently, his work is richly symbolic. Everything he incorporates has meaning — even the colours and small decorative details. In this respect he’s a little like a psychoanalyst …’

They continued talking about the production’s excellent reviews until the orchestra finished tuning up, the lights dimmed, and the wiry frame of director Mahler appeared on the podium.

The prelude was exquisite, emerging naturally from the preceding moment of silence and repeatedly dissolving into mute lacunae before rising in a great wave of sound which — when it broke — created an indefinable yearning, the physicality of which united the audience in a collective and audible sigh. Mahler’s genius made the score entirely transparent, a slow tempo encouraging the ear to savour every melodic line and nuance. He was like some great anatomist, wielding his baton like a scalpel, revealing mysteries that had hitherto remained beyond the reach of human comprehension.

When the curtain rose, Liebermann found himself looking down on the deck of a ship, the rigging of which stretched out towards the audience. But this was no ordinary vessel: the sea that it had crossed was not the body of water separating Ireland from Cornwall but the deeper and less fathomable ocean of the unconscious. This vessel had sailed straight out of a dream. Liebermann noticed that the deck was strewn with curious objects: a gold chest shaped like a reliquary, a couch marked with pagan carvings, and sumptuous brocaded cushions.

Unfortunately, with the arrival of the singers, the music changed — and the spell which had up to that point held Liebermann in thrall lost some of its potency. Although Liebermann was highly appreciative of Wagner’s orchestral writing, he frequently found the composer’s declarative vocal parts less impressive. Be that as it may, Liebermann was still able to enjoy the performance by focusing his attention on the statuesque figure of Anna von Mildenburg, who made an arresting Isolde. The great soprano was dressed entirely in silver-grey and wore a collar piece encrusted with semi-precious stones in a geometrical arrangement. It reminded Liebermann of Frau Vogl’s brooch …

During the first interval the two friends went outside to smoke cigars. They stood under the loggia talking about the performance and watching the carriages and trams rolling around the Ringstrasse.

‘How is Haussmann?’ Liebermann asked, suddenly recalling the last time he’d seen him: the poor boy writhing around on Sprenger’s floor.

‘I am pleased to report that he is fully recovered. In fact, he’ll be helping me with a little police business tomorrow morning.’

A beggar approached holding out a tin cup. As he advanced towards them a uniformed steward came out from behind the doors, waving his hands in the air: ‘Go on, away with you! Leave these gentlemen alone!’

Rheinhardt gestured for the steward to stand back, and dropped a coin in the cup.

‘Get yourself something warm to drink.’

The beggar bowed, touched the tin to his forehead, and shuffled off.

‘You shouldn’t encourage them, sir,’ said the steward.

‘No,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘Perhaps not …’

When the curtain rose for the second act the stage was bathed in violet light: a garden, on a hot summer’s evening. An arched doorway and steep marble staircase led up to the keep of a fairy-tale castle that was partly obscured by trees. The battlements of the castle were glowing with a soft pink hallucinatory luminescence. Beyond a low wall, decked with lilacs, violets and white roses, the garden sloped down to a glittering moonlit sea. The entire scene was constructed beneath a sky shimmering with thousands of stars. The effect was truly magical.

This, then, was the setting for the introduction of the idea of Liebestod — the love death — Wagner’s metaphysical conflation of desiring and oblivion. The orchestra surged, ecstatic and sublime, and the two lovers, Tristan and Isolde, sang of a need for each other so deep, so profound, that it would necessarily require their utter annihilation as individuals to be fulfilled.

— Thus might we die, undivided

— One for ever without end

— Never waking

— Never fearing

— Embraced namelessly in love

The voices of Erik Schmedes and Anna von Mildenburg were so full of passion and power that Liebermann felt something catch close to his heart.

Again and again the lovers sang of their longing to be free of the world, the bliss of non-existence, and the heady pleasures of communion with the night: the effect was completely overwhelming.

Mildenburg’s voice soared above the turbulent orchestra.

— Let me die.

And Liebermann too wanted to die — in love — and to kiss the face of eternity …

It was in all of them, this insane obsession with sex and death. They were all sick: Sprenger, Erstweiler, Rainmayr, Wagner, Mahler, Schmedes and von Mildenburg. And yes, he — Max Liebermann — had to include himself at the end of this list. He was just as afflicted with the very same madness.

What was wrong with the German soul?

Why were love and death so intermingled in the German imagination?

Liebermann glanced across at Rheinhardt and saw that his cheeks were streaked with tears.

We Viennese, thought Liebermann to himself. What will become of us?

Rainmayr was awakened by a loud banging sound. As he surfaced from a pleasant dream of rising above Vienna in a hot-air balloon, the artist realised that someone was bashing on his door. He rolled off the mattress and called out: ‘Who is it? What do you want?’

He did not get a reply.

Swearing under his breath, Rainmayr pulled his kaftan over his head and crossed to the window. Outside, he saw an empty cart. From his vantage point he couldn’t see who it belonged to.

The banging became more violent.

‘All right, all right — I’m coming!’ Rainmayr shouted.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to see Inspector Rheinhardt, together with a smartly dressed young man and two constables.

‘Inspector Rheinhardt? What on earth do you think-’

The artist stepped out of the way as Rheinhardt marched purposefully into the studio, followed by his companions. Rheinhardt made a sweeping gesture and the constables began to pick up Rainmayr’s sketches and canvases.

‘No!’ shouted Rainmayr. He turned on Rheinhardt. ‘You said you wouldn’t do this!’

‘I changed my mind,’ Rheinhardt replied. Then, taking a step closer to Rainmayr, he continued: ‘I have consulted the state prosecutor and the case against you is very strong. You are charged with possessing indecent images and with the seduction of young women below the legal age of consent. Possessing and supplying erotica is a serious offence which carries a maximum penalty of six months’ hard labour. The seduction of minors — you will appreciate — carries a more severe penalty.’