Frank Tallis: Death And The Maiden

‘Please,’ said Mahler. ‘Do sit down.’

He offered Liebermann and Rheinhardt two chairs in front of his desk and sat on his own somewhat larger chair behind it.

Gustav Mahler was a small man, but his large head and strong features compensated for his diminutive stature. His long sloping forehead and oval spectacles gave him the appearance of an intellectual. Yet his face had none of the analytic frigidity of a habitual thinker. It was softened by a mane of dark hair, brushed backwards in the style of a romantic poet. Liebermann saw something of his own face reflected in the director’s, a certain physiognomic correspondence, a shared intensity of expression. Unusually, both he and the director were clean-shaven.

‘I could not believe it when I heard she was dead,’ said Mahler, toying with a pen for a moment before casting it aside. ‘Ida Rosenkrantz was a rare talent. Her voice was praised by the critics for its power, but she was also capable of performances of great subtlety. The softness of her attack was unique, the way she shaped every note, allowing each pitch to grow into existence, to blossom. Her use of legato was always well judged, and in pianissimo passages her control was second to none. It will be impossible to find another singer to take her place. No one else could do justice to such a wide variety of roles: Louise, Senta, Violetta — she could sing them all. Her loss will be felt keenly, not only here in Vienna but wherever great music is loved and appreciated.’

‘Were you well acquainted with Fraulein Rosenkrantz?’ asked Rheinhardt. ‘Were you close?’

The director paused and brought his fingers together, the tips forming the apex of a steeple.

‘Inspector, I do not think I am in possession of any facts that will clarify the principal point of issue, which, as I understand it from my reading of the newspapers, relates to whether poor Ida committed suicide or died through mischance. You understand, I trust, that our relationship was strictly professional. We did not socialise. Be that as it may, I can promise you my full cooperation. I am very happy to grant you access to all areas of the opera house and to answer, within reason, any questions you may wish to ask me. However,’ Mahler grimaced, ‘I cannot give you my full cooperation today. Unforeseen circumstances have created a crisis that requires my immediate attention. If the crisis is not resolved, then this evening’s production of Rienzi will have to be cancelled and we are expecting the German ambassador to attend. And if the ambassador is disappointed …’ His sentence trailed off and he produced a nervous little shudder. ‘Would you be willing, inspector, to postpone this interview? Could we meet again — tomorrow morning, perhaps? I would consider myself indebted.’

‘May I inquire as to the nature of this crisis?’ asked Rheinhardt.

The director’s foot began to tap on the floor. An irregular burst of rhythms that he terminated with a single loud stamp.

‘Really, Inspector, the detail need not concern you.’

‘With respect,’ Rheinhardt responded, ‘I would appreciate an explanation.’

‘Very well.’ Mahler glanced up at the wall clock. ‘But I must be brief.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘The unhappy gentleman waiting outside is Erik Schmedes.’

‘We had the pleasure,’ Rheinhardt indicated he was referring to both himself and his companion, ‘of seeing Herr Schmedes sing Tristan earlier this year under your direction. It was an exceptional performance. The love duet was a revelation.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mahler. ‘And Schmedes is a very great tenor. Indeed, I had chosen him to sing the title role in tonight’s new production of Rienzi . Hermann Winkelmann was to sing the role tomorrow night.’ Liebermann noticed that the director had a small defect of speech: he could not roll the letter ‘r’ correctly. ‘As you know, court opera singers attract fanatical devotees, and my choice of Schmedes to sing Rienzi in tonight’s performance angered the Hermann-Bundler — the Winkelmann fans. They said they would demonstrate if their hero was not given the premiere and Schmedes received an unpleasant threatening letter. After much deliberation, Schmedes and I decided that it was probably best to let Winkelmann have the honour of singing the first night. I very much doubt that the threat was genuine, but Schmedes is a sensitive fellow and he was disinclined to take any risks.’

‘What was the nature of the threat?’ Asked Rheinhardt.

‘The author of the letter indicated his intention to follow Schmedes until an opportunity arose to give him a beating.’

‘Why did you not call the police?’

‘Herr Schmedes assumed that he could not expect the police to protect him indefinitely. Was he wrong?’

Rheinhardt shifted uncomfortably.

‘No … he was not wrong.’

Mahler nodded and continued: ‘Winkelmann was to sing Rienzi tonight, Schmedes tomorrow night. Everything was settled. However, about an hour ago I was informed that Winkelmann has been taken ill and that he is now unable to sing. I promptly dispatched several men to search for Schmedes, one of whom found him in a Turkish bath. He was brought here immediately. When I told him what had happened and that consequently he would now be singing in the premiere, he turned pale and started talking a lot of gibberish about having caught a cold on account of leaving the steam room too quickly. He’s not really ill, of course, he’s just frightened that Winkelmann’s followers will carry out their threat if he sings tonight.’

‘But if Winkelmann is indisposed …’ ventured Rheinhardt.

‘Exactly,’ said Mahler. ‘The Hermann-Bundler can no longer argue that Winkelmann has been slighted. The danger has passed. But Schmedes will not see reason and instead insists that he has caught a cold and cannot sing. Now, I hope that is enough explanation for you, inspector. May we conclude our business for today and resume again tomorrow?’

Before Rheinhardt could respond, Liebermann interjected, ‘Herr Director, what are you going to do with Herr Schmedes?’

‘I will urge him, in the strongest possible terms, to reconsider his position.’

‘Will that involve more shouting?’

‘I imagine so.’

‘It didn’t appear to be working.’

The director bristled. ‘May I ask, Herr Doctor, if you have had any experience of managing the internal affairs of an opera house?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Or if you have ever been responsible for ensuring that visiting dignitaries are not disappointed when they come to see new, eagerly awaited productions?’

‘No. I have never been burdened with such responsibilities.’

‘As I suspected,’ said the director, raising his voice. ‘So you will appreciate why it is that I consider your critical remark somewhat inappropriate.’

Rheinhardt threw a distraught glance at Liebermann and then tried to appease Mahler. ‘Herr Director, I do apologise for-’ He was unable to finish.

‘In this particular instance,’ Liebermann interrupted, ‘I do not believe shouting will achieve very much.’

‘But I have no alternative,’ said Mahler, thumping the desk. ‘And I have found shouting to be the most effective means of communicating with opera singers. Moreover, the Hermann-Bundler are not the only ones who can issue threats. I have a few of my own which may encourage Schmedes to be more reasonable.’ The director clapped his hands together. ‘Until tomorrow, then, gentlemen?’

‘Herr Director,’ said Liebermann, ‘I think I can be of assistance. You see, I am a psychiatrist and frequently called upon to treat patients suffering from anxiety. It may be possible to treat Herr Schmedes’s stage fright using similar methods.’