Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“I finally found the way. This time, however, it was Minna who led me to the solution. In her diaries, she mentioned that Wagner spent hours preparing his music paper for his notations, that he refused to have anyone draw even the lines of the staff for him. When he could not compose, when he felt the music blocked, he would spend long hours ruling large sheets of paper in preparation for when the music rushed into his head. He had to have complete control over this aspect of his artistic life and he insisted that no one else do it for him. He experimented with a variety of pens and pencils, even finding a new kind of pencil whose lead, when mixed with water, became indelible. Finally, he had chosen a special ink made only in Dresden by a small firm called Windisch and Company, suggested to him by his brother-in-law Hermann Brockhaus. The Brockhaus Publishing Firm used the inks of this firm in their best publications. The recommendation was enough for Wagner, and he had used only these inks in the score of the Ring, Tristan , and now Parsifal . He spent hours mixing the inks carefully. What better vehicle could there be than these dusts and chemicals, ones that he insisted no one else touch? Again, how fitting, for I would be poisoning not only him, but the physical expression of the music itself. The more he wrote, the sicker he would become, for I was not anxious that he should die quickly.

“By recommendation of the apothecary for whom I worked, I was apprenticed at Windisch and Company as one who mixed the inks and had them dispatched to select customers. Because I was known to have a family relation with him—I was still known as his wife’s sister—Wagner’s orders to the firm were quickly put in my personal charge. His instructions to Herr Windisch were characteristically precise and firm: two packages per month to arrive on the tenth and twentieth, no matter where he was. It became part of my task to know his travels and whereabouts. This was done through one of the domestic servants whom Wagner instructed to notify Windisch of his plans. I myself was never in direct communication with Wagner, nor did he nor anyone in his household know that I was employed at Windisch and Company. And so, my task began. I experimented at first—”

“Strychnine, belladonna, and arsenic are obvious, but there are others,” Holmes interjected.

“There are several others, including curare, and, of course, for the last six months, the deadliest, a mixture of curare and sugar of lead.”

“Well done, Frau Planer, the last explains the sweet taste of the ink that he mentioned to me.”

“Indeed, I made it known in special instructions that the ink was even safe for him to drink in small quantities. I knew that he would drink it, because he was one of those individuals who could not resist chemicals of any kind.”

At that moment, Holmes realised that on the morning of his death, Wagner, feeling better for the first time in many days, attributed his well-being to what was indeed killing him, and probably took a small drink made from the latest shipment, the shipment of 10 February 1883, a final drink that caused his death.

“Frau Planer,” said Holmes grimly “I am not here to judge your actions, nor to report your account to anyone but my client.”

“It is all immaterial to me,” she said firmly, “for I have not acted against Wagner alone, but that he and I should enter a new life. You see, Richard and I are bound together by birth and rebirth. He is my Ananda and I his Savitri. I do not intend to live much beyond today. Over the last few months I have been giving myself the same poisons that I gave him, and I shall soon join him. . . . free from Sansara, in Nirvana!”

At this moment, Nathalie Planer, the bitter old woman, became transfigured. A strange light appeared in her eyes and she gazed into a far distance that was not contained by the walls of her small room, a trance, induced only in part, by the poisons, probably the belladonna.

We decided not to question her further. Holmes examined the room quickly. My eye was immediately caught by the photograph of a young girl on the wall, one aged about fifteen. Judging by the resemblance to her parents, I knew that it must be of her daughter by Richard Wagner. As we left, I glanced out the window, and noticed that a cab had just drawn up to the entrance of the house. Alighting from it was Mrs. Burrell of Philadelphia. We left unseen.

The following evening Holmes explained all to Liszt, who had arrived from Bayreuth after the burial at Wahnfried. He listened in rapt attention to Holmes’s account of the deeds of Richard Wagner and of the revenge of Nathalie Planer.

“How strange a tale, Monsieur Holmes. I assure you I knew nothing of this. Nathalie Planer was a mere child when I met her, and I saw her but once. Wagner never mentioned her to me.”

“We must leave Nathalie to her fate, to her karma, as she would put it,” Holmes replied, “and keep the story to ourselves. It would do no good at this point to reveal it.”

“ Così si fa il contrapasso , Monsieur Holmes. I do not understand Buddhist doctrine. It is one of the things that has separated me from my daughter. I remain a firm Christian, and my authority for retribution remains the Christian doctrine so beautifully enunciated by Dante. Cosima knows nothing of Wagner’s relation with Frau Planer, of course, and I wish to keep all of this from her. She has sworn never to appear in public again. I saw her only briefly, and I still feel that she may try to take her own life. I must tell you that Cosima once entered a ‘nirvana’ suicide pact with a friend, Karl Ritter. They were both unhappy for different reasons, she because of her marriage to von Bülow, he . . . well, he for his own reasons. They decided to drown themselves together in a nearby lake. Luckily, they were talked out of it.”

“All the more reason for us to remain silent.”

“Yes, let us keep it to ourselves.”

We said our farewells, and in two days Holmes and I were back in London.

“Remarkable,” said I as we sat in our living room. “The more I think about it the more remarkable a story it becomes. Who would have thought—”

“And it is not quite finished, Watson. Here,” said Holmes, holding out a letter. Dear Mr. Holmes, I write you because you and I are among the very few who share the same knowledge. I spoke with Nathalie Planer shortly after you did.You can understand how surprised I was to find my own picture as a young girl hanging in her room. When she saw me, she broke down in tears, and she told me everything, including her intention to kill herself.Luckily, I was able to dissuade her. She has decided that it is more important for her to continue to live since I wanted it so, but her health is seriously impaired, and she may not live long. I spent several weeks with her, trying to live with the idea of my real parentage. Upon my return to Philadelphia, my American parents confirmed the fact that Nathalie Planer was my real mother. They still do not know who my father was, and I have let it remain so for the time being. Nathalie entrusted to me all of the documents that she had concerning Richard Wagner. These were left to her by her sister, Minna, Wagner’s first wife. I hope to employ these in a biography concerning the early life of Richard Wagner, my father. If it is ever printed, I shall send you a copy.As a token of gratitude, I include a photograph of you, Dr. Watson, Franz Liszt, and Richard Wagner standing in front of the Palazzo Vendramin.Sincerely,(Mrs.) Mary Burrell

As I glanced up, I saw that Holmes had already buried himself in the day’s agony column. I stared at the photograph for a time, wondering how long it would take the young lady to write the life of Wagner.

THE CASE OF THE TWO BOHÈMES