Frank Tallis: Death And The Maiden

‘A good man, eh?’ said the mayor.

His companions drank to the bodyguard’s health.

Steiner wiped the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand and said: ‘Oh, before I forget, Karl, I think you should know that I’ve received another one of those ever-so-discreet communications from the palace.’

‘About your comments?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was it from?’

‘One of the emperor’s aides, Count Lefler. He asked me to consider whether my attack on the vivisection practices at the anatomical institutes was really wise.’

‘Did he now,’ said Lueger, adjusting his necktie.

‘It was worded politely enough but it was clearly meant as a warning. He said that certain members of the medical faculty were deeply offended. You can guess who, of course.’

‘Perhaps they’re not so stupid after all,’ said the mayor. ‘Perhaps they can see where this is going?’

‘Gentleman,’ said Bielohlawek, ‘I am a simple merchant, an honest trader. I am afraid that you will have to explain.’

‘My dear fellow,’ said the mayor, ‘it’s all very simple. If we can arouse a little public feeling, a little antipathy, then the hospitals will have to accept stricter controls. In due course, if we have more say in hospital affairs, we will be able to address the other problem. That is to say, the principal problem.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Bielohlawek. ‘Them.’

‘How did this happen, I wonder?’ said the mayor.

Steiner became agitated. ‘The Jewish doctors tell the Jewish bankers, and the Jewish bankers tell the emperor’s mistress!’

‘Now, now, Leo,’ said Lueger, holding up a finger in mock admonition. ‘I can’t have you saying anything too disrespectful about the money-Jews. It was Rothenstein, remember, who allowed us to use all his land, at no cost, for the reservoir.’ The mayor’s errant eye did unstinting service for the cause of irony. ‘You will recall, I hope, my fulsome praise last year: one of the best and a true citizen.’

‘Rothenstein,’ said Steiner. ‘As if he couldn’t damn well afford it!’

The company fell silent until the mayor spoke again — more softly this time, and more serious in tone. ‘The emperor has the empire. But Vienna is mine. When will the palace realise this?’

‘death and the maiden ?’ said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann flicked through the pages of the songbook until he found Schubert’s early masterpiece, which occupied only a single page and looked easy to play. He saw octaves, minims and quavers, nothing that a beginner couldn’t tackle. Yet he knew that this simplicity was deceptive. He understood that this sparse notation had much in common with the exposed beams and empty sashes of a derelict house. There was enough space and silence here to permit the uncanny to make its presence felt. He glanced at the two beat rests and felt a thrill of anticipatory dread. The little black rectangles were like coffins: the bar lines like shelves in a vault.

The young doctor depressed both the sostenuto and soft pedals of the Bosendorfer and placed his fingers over the keys. He relaxed and allowed the force of gravity to draw his hands down. Solemn harmonies became something like a funeral march, composed with such subtle genius that its measured tread also sounded a little like a berceuse , a fateful lullaby.

Rheinhardt began the maiden’s plea on an anacrusis, and the piano accompaniment immediately became agitated.

Voruber! Ach, voruber!

Geh, wilder Knochenmann!

Away! Ah, away!

Away, fierce man of bones!

Rheinhardt leaned against the piano, as if weakened by the approach of the grim reaper.

Ich bin noch jung, geh Lieber!

Und ruhre mich nicht an .

I am still young, please go!

And do not touch me.

His voice trailed off and the four chords that followed invited the listener to step into the damp hollow of an open grave. The subsequent fermata was chilling.

When Rheinhardt sang again, he did so in the person of Death.

Gib deine Hand, du schon und zart Gebild!

Bin Freund, und komme nicht, zu strafen .

Give me your hand, you lovely, tender creature!

I am a friend, and do not come to punish.

It was barely a melody — a chant on a single note.

Sie gutes Muts! Ich bin nicht wild ,

Sollst sanft in meinen Armen schlafen !

Be not afraid! I am not fierce,

You shall sleep softly in my arms.

The final bars were peaceful, the funeral march, transposed into a major key, progressing inexorably to the second fermata and eternal rest.

After a respectful hiatus, Liebermann said, ‘I have heard it a thousand times but it still never fails to touch me. The maiden, begging for her life, and Death, like a lover, taking her in his cold embrace.’

‘Yes,’ Rheinhardt agreed. ‘And it is peculiarly epic, don’t you think, for a song of such brevity?’

‘Indeed,’ Liebermann replied. ‘A metaphysical opera condensed into forty-three bars.’

He closed the piano lid and the two men retired to the smoking room, where they took their customary places in front of the fire. Liebermann poured the brandy and they lit cigars. In due course, Rheinhardt produced an envelope and passed it across the cube-shaped table that separated the two armchairs. Liebermann opened the seal and withdrew a set of photographs.

‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, ‘That’s-’

‘Ida Rosenkrantz,’ Rheinhardt interjected.

‘She’s dead?’

‘Yes. It’ll be in the newspapers tomorrow. Because she’s a singer at the court opera we were obliged to inform His Majesty before notifying the press. Unfortunately, the lord chamberlain experienced considerable difficulty locating him. Our emperor had gone hunting.’ Rheinhardt paused before adding, ‘In Hungary.’

‘What a tragedy,’ said Liebermann, shaking his head. ‘She had such a fine voice.’ He looked again at the first image and his expression communicated both bewilderment and horror.

Rheinhardt described his arrival in Hietzing, the discovery of the dead singer, and summarised the particulars of his interviews with Doctor Engelberg and the housekeeper, Frau Marcus.

‘Engelberg was confident that Rosenkrantz’s death was accidental. He expressed a modest qualification with respect to suicide, on account of the singer having seen a psychiatrist last year for a throat condition called globus hystericus; however, she did not suffer from suicidal melancholia and the laudanum was only prescribed to help her sleep. Be that as it may, I found myself disinclined to accept his opinion. There was something about the position of the body that wasn’t quite right. You see?’ Rheinhardt gestured at the photograph Liebermann was studying. ‘The way she’s lying there, in the middle of the rug and with her arms by her sides. Engelberg insisted that there was nothing irregular about it, but I wasn’t so sure.’ Rheinhardt paused to draw on his cigar. ‘Professor Mathias conducted the autopsy and his findings confirmed that I had good reason to feel uneasy. Rosenkrantz had imbibed a significant quantity of laudanum, but not enough to cause her death. She also had a broken rib.’

‘Which one was it?’

‘The eighth, on the left side of the ribcage.’ Rheinhardt exhaled and watched the smoke from his cigar ascend and disperse. ‘There was no evidence to suggest that a struggle had taken place: no marks on her body, no rips in her garments, and no smashed items on the floor of her bedroom.’

‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz wouldn’t have retired for the evening with a broken rib. She would have called a doctor.’