Murder in A-Major (6 page)

As the musicians took their places to perform the Beethoven Trio, I watched Clara Schumann return to her place at the back of the room. But even there, in a relatively dark corner, she continued to be the centre of my interest. And despite the purity and beauty of the Trio, and Helena Becker's intense contribution to the performance, my attention kept shifting constantly from Clara in the rearmost row of seats to Robert and Johannes in the front row, and back to Clara.

Why, I asked myself, had she chosen to distance herself from her husband and his bashful but appealing protégé? Was it diffidence on her part? Hardly. Clara Schumann was a woman accustomed to occupying the centre of the stage. Despite mothering six children, she was not a subscriber to the popular view of German womanhood, a view that regarded females as domestic creatures whose public activities should be limited to attending church on Sundays.

Was she jealous of her husband's reputation as a composer? While all Europe acknowledged her virtuosity as a pianist, her own accomplishments at writing music had been eclipsed by her husband's, judging by critical accounts I had read. That she was serious in her efforts no one doubted, but being serious was one thing, being inspired quite another. A piano concerto she'd composed was acknowledged by critics as competent, a compliment akin to declaring that, as a chef, the woman knew how to cook a pot roast.

Putting aside for the moment what I took to be her infatuation with this fellow Brahms, was it possible that she saw in him both a formidable competitor with Robert in the area of composition, and a formidable competitor with her as a performing artist? Behind her ostensible pride in promoting the young man from Hamburg, was there a fear that he might turn out to be
too
successful before long? In the financially uncertain musical world, every commission to compose received by Brahms would be a commission Robert Schumann failed to receive; every engagement to perform as a pianist would be an engagement Clara failed to obtain. With six children to feed and clothe, every thaler counted these days.

There was another possibility: I recalled her question earlier in the evening:
Have you come to spy on us?
My impromptu answer at the time might have served to persuade a gullible person, but Clara Schumann did not strike me as one who was easily gulled. By choosing to sit as far from Brahms as she could, was she hoping to dispel any suggestion that Johannes Brahms's proximity was vital to her own wellbeing? Ever since the night of Robert Schumann's breakdown at the concert hall, the notion had been rooting itself in my brain that there were blanks in the Schumanns' marriage. Were these blanks now being filled one way or another by a young and vigorous Brahms? Call it a policeman's instinct for the suspicious; call it cynicism; whatever the reasons, I was sure the relationship between Clara Schumann and Johannes Brahms contained all the ingredients of a secret and passionate love affair, one that was bound to evolve, if indeed it had not already done so.

Applause and cries of “Encore!” were still in the air following the Beethoven piece when suddenly and rather noisily, the wide doors leading from the foyer were thrown open.

All eyes turned to the back of the drawing room.

There at last, poised like a statue, magnificent in silk top hat and long black cape, stood Franz Liszt.

C
areful not to disturb a single strand of his long, perfectly combed hair, Liszt doffed his silk top hat and handed it to a waiting servant, then waited calmly as the servant slipped the wool serge cape from around his shoulders. His manner was that of a prince accustomed to being attended in this way.

“A thousand pardons for this rude intrusion,” Franz Liszt called out. “I was unavoidably detained. Alas, when it comes to timing, Germany's railways are not as gifted as Germany's musicians.” With a helpless shrug, he added simply, “The evening train from Weimar—” Everyone in the room seemed to understand. There were sympathetic nods and the odd wise chuckle here and there.

Schumann made his way toward his newly-arrived guest, a broad smile on his face. Extending a hand, he said (a little too loudly, I thought), “My dear Franz, Clara and I are honoured to have you under our humble roof!” The two men embraced, heartily slapping one another's backs. Detaching himself, Liszt said, “I am chilled to my very bones, Schumann. A hot cup of tea or better still coffee—”

“But of course,” Schumann said, then called across the room, “Clara, my darling, would you fetch our dear Franz a cup of coffee, a slice of cake. The poor man looks starved.”

“I would be happy to, Robert dear,” Clara replied, giving her effusive husband a look that could have turned him into a pillar of salt had he glanced back at her.

As Schumann led Liszt to a front row seat that had been set aside, I had an opportunity for the first time to study the man at close range and in a setting other than a concert hall stage.

Everything about him—his outgoing charm and extreme handsomeness, his easy sophistication, the smoothness of his voice, his impeccably tailored eveningwear—everything bespoke a man of the world, a man of grace and civility.

At Liszt's insistence, the program resumed without another moment's delay. With Clara Schumann performing the piano part, Robert's Quintet would occupy the second half. In his brief introduction before the players commenced, Schumann, standing close to his wife at the keyboard, one hand laid tenderly on her shoulder, repeated what was already well-known, that he'd written the piece for Clara and dedicated it to her some ten years earlier as a kind of small concerto for the piano, one capable of being performed without all the fuss and bother of a large orchestra and concert hall.

“If the Quintet overflows with love,” said Schumann, his voice growing hoarse, “I make no apology.” At this, I expected Clara to make some equal and loving response, no matter how slight, to reciprocate. Instead, she sat at the piano with head bowed, hands folded in her lap, her expression frozen in what looked like profound embarrassment. She seemed to desire nothing more at the moment than that her husband should shut up.

A quick look across the front of the room to where Brahms was seated revealed an expression on his face that was remarkably similar to Clara's.

I was struck, too, by another odd fact: having introduced Johannes Brahms with such fanfare this evening, surely Schumann would have gone out of his way to introduce the promising young man to the titan who had just taken his seat nearby. Why did he fail to do so? Was it oversight? Was it deliberate? And granted that Brahms appeared a rather shy fellow, wouldn't he nevertheless have taken the trouble to introduce himself to Liszt? One could dine out for months afterward on such an event.
Yes, I swear before God, Liszt said he'd heard of me and insisted I look him up next time I visit Weimar
…

I had heard the Schumann Quintet played on several occasions in the past, but never with such energy and passion and sparkle as the performance at the Schumann house on this February night.

Once again my attention was drawn throughout, as if by a magnet, to Clara Schumann at the keyboard. Whether displaying her nimble technical skills in solo passages or blending with the other players in more sombre sections of the quintet, it was she who set the tone and the pace. It was she who gave the entire performance its soul.

And it was her name, shouted with admiration, that filled the room the moment the final chord sounded. “
Clara!…Clara!…Bravo Clara!…Magnificent Clara!
…”

People shot to their feet applauding, calling for an encore, in an ovation that focused on the slight figure in the emerald green gown. Behind her in the shadows stood her husband, his eyes watery, joining in the applause, looking somehow as if he'd had little to do with all of this.

In the front row stood Johannes Brahms, a soft smile on his smooth face. I have some acquaintance with that kind of smile and knew where it had its origin. If Brahms was not hopelessly in love, then my powers of perception were hopelessly failing.

I cast my eyes to another part of the front row, where Franz Liszt too had risen to his feet. But his applause? “Polite” would be a fitting word to describe it. In fact, after a moment or two Liszt ceased clapping, looked about as though he were dumfounded by the outpouring of enthusiasm that surrounded him, then resumed applauding in a mechanical fashion, the corners of his lips upturned in a patronizing smile, as though what he had just heard was music to be tolerated rather than enjoyed.

When finally it became evident that the players were too exhausted to favour the audience with an encore, Robert Schumann stepped to the centre again. Looking directly at Liszt, he said, “And now, dear friends, do we dare hope that our guest of honour, Maestro Franz Liszt, will make the evening perfect…or perhaps I should say
more
perfect…by playing for us?” Schumann gestured toward the two pianos. “These keyboards have never before felt the magical fingers of Maestro Liszt, and—” Here Schumann began to chuckle at the witticism he was about to deliver. “And it may be said, ladies and gentlemen, that a grand piano is not truly grand until it has been touched by the master himself, Franz Liszt.”

Liszt half rose from his seat to acknowledge the applause that greeted Schumann's announcement, then promptly sat down in what his host must have taken as a sign of modesty. This apparent reluctance on Liszt's part was not what I had expected. From all accounts, and bearing in mind what Clara Schumann had said about him earlier in the evening, I assumed that Liszt would not require a second invitation. Yet here he was, seemingly glued to his chair and shaking his head from side to side in a very determined refusal.

Schumann, opening his arms expansively, said, “You are too modest, my dear Liszt. The piano awaits you. Please!”

“Thank you, my dear Schumann,” Liszt called from his seat, “but I could not possibly play now. I mean, my music would be totally inappropriate after what we have just listened to…after music that is so…so very
Leipzig
.”

The expression “so very
Leipzig
”, heard clearly from one end of the room to the other, had an immediate and strange effect; it seemed to drain all the oxygen out of the place, leaving everyone momentarily speechless and immobile. Something in the way Liszt had uttered it smacked of condescension.

What followed after a split-second of stunned silence was dreadful. In a sudden, violent rage Schumann lunged at Liszt, seized him by the shoulders and lifted him from his chair with a force that was nothing short of an assault.

“How dare you speak of our work in such a demeaning way?” Schumann shouted.

As a mere onlooker, I found Schumann's actions frightening. Liszt must have found them terrifying.

Without another word, Schumann released his hapless guest of honour, swung swiftly about on his heels and stalked out of the drawing room, slamming the heavy doors behind him.

Considering the gross indignity he had just suffered, Liszt managed to regain his composure, outwardly at least, with incredible aplomb. Calmly, carefully, he straightened the lapels of his tailcoat and pulled the collar down snugly back into place. His oversized black bowtie, which had been knocked askew, was restored to its proper location and given just the right pinch at the ends to tighten the knot. With firm downward strokes, Liszt brushed the creases from his slim-fitted trousers. Once again he was every inch Franz Liszt: the perfect pianist, the perfect man-about-town.

But now he was also Franz Liszt, the imperfect guest, the man who—perhaps innocently (although I wondered about this)—had managed to transform what had begun as a brilliant evening into a smouldering ruin. Everyone in the room glared at poor Liszt as though he had just dumped a cartload of refuse in their midst. To his credit, he realized he had made a grievous mistake. He lost no time in offering an apology to his hostess. “I do beg your pardon, most sincerely, Clara. The fault is all mine. Blame it on a slip of the tongue.”

This excuse only added fuel to the fire. Clara shot back, “I would prefer that you confine your slips of the tongue to Weimar. They are not welcome in this house.”

Her anger left Liszt no choice. “I won't burden you further with my company, madam,” he said. Given that he had just been invited in no uncertain terms to leave the premises, his tone was respectful, even gracious. “May I say only this, madam: you and your husband are the only people in the world from whom I would accept so calmly the insult just handed me.”

All of us watched in deathly silence as Liszt turned and began to make his way out of the drawing-room. But as Liszt passed in front of Johannes Brahms, he paused. “Young man,” he said, “I regret that I arrived too late to hear your performance. Perhaps on another occasion. By the way, that piano—” Liszt pointed to the instrument Clara Schumann had played on. “That piano is in need of a good tuning. I have perfect pitch, and the ‘A' is at least a full quarter-tone too high.” Shaking his head, Liszt added, “What a pity.”

I
have done with him forever!” “Him” was—of course—Franz Liszt. The person making this vow for all to hear was—of course—Clara Schumann.

I had no difficulty understanding her anger. For a man with a reputation for social grace, Liszt had acted with incredible insensitivity, almost boorishness.

What
was
difficult to understand, at least for me, was Clara's apparent indifference to the whereabouts at that moment of her husband. For all we knew, he might have been in the attic attempting to hang himself from a rafter. Or he might have been in the cellar drinking himself into a stupor—something he was known to do all too frequently whenever things went badly for him. Or he might have stormed out into the night, coatless and hatless, roaring aimlessly into the uncaring February wind.

Stationing herself in the foyer, her head high, her composure restored despite everything, she bade a polite “Goodnight, thank you so much for coming” to her guests as they bundled into their heavy outerwear and, muttering awkward expressions of sympathy, filed out.

Only four persons remained now: Clara Schumann, Brahms, Helena Becker and I.

I was committed of course to escorting Helena back to her apartment, but a sense of unfinished business hung in the air, and though I had the distinct feeling that my hostess and her protégé were eager to see the last of Helena and me, I made no move to assist Helena to pack her cello in its case, nor did I don my overcoat, which the Schumanns' housekeeper had handed me. Instead, I turned to Brahms. “Tell me, sir,” I said, “was there any truth to what Liszt said to you on his way out?”

“You mean about wanting to hear me play my own music?” Brahms gave me an ironic smile. “Hardly. Our music is worlds apart, his and mine. Liszt's is the music of a swindler, a showcase of empty confections…bonbons that are hollow inside. I am proud to be called a ‘Leipziger'. As far as I'm concerned, it's the ultimate compliment.” As Brahms said this, he and Clara exchanged looks of unguarded fondness.

Pretending to be merely curious, I said, “My question had to do with Liszt's observation that the piano was out of tune. Did you agree with him?”

“Nonsense!” Brahms said.

“But he seemed very sure of himself.”

“They are always very sure of themselves, Liszt and Wagner,” Brahms said. “Both of these ‘Weimar' types regard themselves as God's gifts to the human race.”

I was anxious not to press the matter too urgently; still, the question of the piano being out of tune nagged at me.

Brahms continued to be dismissive about it. “I know something about piano tuning,” he said. ‘You see, when you play in brothels, as I was obliged to do to earn a living back in Hamburg in my younger days, you play on instruments that are a step away from the garbage heap. So I went to work always equipped with my own tuning fork and set of tools. And later, when I began my concert career, I still continued to carry all this equipment, because one never knew what kind of instrument one would encounter on tour in the backwaters. Trust me, sir; I know when a piano is in tune and when it isn't.”

“So, if the middle A was a bit off…say on the low side or the high side…your ear would have detected the flaw?”

“All of us would have noticed it immediately,” Clara Schumann interjected. “Besides, in anticipation of tonight's musicale, Robert and I naturally had both pianos tuned this afternoon.”

“Tuned by whom?” I asked.

“Our regular tuner and technician, of course.”

“And he is?”

“Wilhelm Hupfer. He has maintained our instruments for many years. Willi is almost a member of the Schumann family by now. Nobody—absolutely nobody—understands the intricacies of a piano as Willi does. On several of our major tours, Willi has accompanied us; that is how much Robert and I depend on him.”

I asked, “What time this afternoon did Hupfer complete his work?”

Clara thought for a moment. “I would say about mid-afternoon…three o'clock, maybe three thirty.”

“Oh no, Clara,” Brahms said quickly, “it was much later. It was just after five when he packed up his tools and left. You remember, don't you? Hupfer wanted you to try out both pianos, but you said there was no time because you had to attend to matters with the cook, then dress for the evening.”

“Ah yes, Johannes, you are quite right. I'd forgotten.” Then, as if to make light of this discussion, Clara said, smiling at me, “When I'm not at the keyboard, my sense of time is often less than ideal.”

“I'm curious, Madam Schumann,” I said. “What would motivate a man of Liszt's stature—a man who professes to have perfect pitch, a claim, incidentally, nobody seems to challenge—what would motivate him to remark that the piano you played on was tuned too high?”

“You must not take whatever Franz Liszt does or says too seriously,” Brahms said. He seemed in a rush to answer. “Are you aware, Inspector,” he said, “that in America there is a famous circus operated by a man by the name of Barnum, P.T. Barnum, as he's widely known. And this man Barnum, they say, has offered Liszt a half million dollars in American money to tour with the circus? Imagine, our hero Franz Liszt playing in a circus tent! Elephants dancing to Liszt's tunes, clowns doing somersaults, and the biggest clown of all, the musical acrobat himself, banging away at the keyboard! Only God in heaven knows whether or not Franz Liszt possesses perfect pitch, but I know that those pianos are perfectly in tune.”

“No, Brahms, I'm afraid Liszt was right, and you are wrong—”

The four of us turned to discover Robert Schumann coming down the stairs from the second storey of the house, taking the flight of steps slowly, one step at a time, gripping the bannister firmly as though he were afraid he might topple. “I hate to contradict you, Johannes,” Schumann said, pausing several steps from the bottom, “but the moment Clara struck middle A and the players began to tune, I realized that something was decidedly off. In fact, throughout most of the second half of the program, that middle A kept pounding away at my brain. It was as though a carpenter were hammering it into my skull.”

From where he was standing, Schumann called to his wife. “Clara, did you not try out the pianos this afternoon while Hupfer was still on the job? You know he always insists you do so before he packs up and leaves.”

Clara Schumann glared up at her husband. Then, turning her back to him, she spoke as though she no longer cared about family confidences, privacy, discretion or pride. “I am fed up, Robert…fed up and tired. I cannot be all things to all people any longer. I cannot be everywhere at once. No, I did
not
try out the damned pianos when Willi was here. And where were
you
, may I ask? Brooding as usual in some neighborhood tavern? You didn't show up until after six. I had guests to prepare for, children to feed, a thousand-and-one last-minute details to attend to. There was simply no time…
no time!
”

It was the kind of outburst that could have only one effect on any guest witnessing it—embarrassment. After a painful moment of silence, I cleared my throat a bit noisily and said, “It
is
growing rather late, Madam Schumann. I'm sure you must be exhausted. If you will excuse Fräulein Becker and me—”

Without looking at us, her back still to her husband, Clara said, “I hope you are satisfied once and for all, Inspector Preiss, that my husband is a sick man. And to make matters worse, he is not content to stumble alone into madness, but insists upon taking me with him.”

How could I possibly respond to this statement? I decided that no response was the best response.

*    *    *

Once Helena and I were settled in our carriage, I said, “I still fail to see what is so inflammatory about one composer calling another composer's music ‘Leipzig'. The policeman in me looks upon all these artistic differences as petty, even silly. I picture Schumann and Liszt engaged in a duel at dawn tomorrow, facing each other at twenty paces, armed with loaded powder-puffs.”

“Don't fool yourself,” Helena said. “These people are geniuses. Their convictions run very, very deep. So do their prejudices and their rivalries. What you witnessed tonight is far from over and done with.”

After a few minutes of silence, she suddenly said, “He was right, you know, Hermann.”

“Who was right?”

“Schumann. He was absolutely right.”

“You mean about the—”

“It was off, yes, the middle A. The second she sounded the note for us to tune our instruments, I said to myself that it was on the high side.”

“I don't understand, Helena. You are professionals. Why didn't you say something right then and there?”

“Because it would have meant that Hupfer would have to be summoned, and we would have had to wait while he re-tuned. It could have taken forever, don't you understand? Anyway, I didn't want to cause a fuss.”

“Did any other player notice?”

“I looked at the others, and yes, we all noticed it was sharp. But as you said, Hermann, we are professionals. So we simply carried on. Maybe Hupfer was not up to his usual standard this afternoon. Maybe these days the old man's got too much wax in his ears.”

“Or maybe—” I looked away, hesitant to complete my thought.

Helena said, “Or maybe what?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. An idea just flew through my brain. Really, Helena, it's too far-fetched.”

“Tell me anyway, Hermann.”

“Follow me for a moment, then. Before Brahms made such a point of correcting her, Madam Schumann said Hupfer finished his work by about three or three thirty, right?”

“Go on.”

“If she was accurate about the time—and something tells me she
was
—that would have left enough time for someone to tamper with the pianos. Someone who had the right tools and knew what he was doing. Especially someone who had a reason.” I paused. “Sometimes my imagination runs off with itself.” Then I added, speaking to myself, “But sometimes it doesn't.”

We spent the rest of the carriage ride in silence, the two of us seated close together. My thoughts, however, lingered back at No. 15 Bilkerstrasse.

When we arrived at her lodgings, I said, helping her down from the carriage, “Would you like me to come up…for a while?”

“Not tonight, Hermann.”

It was just as well. In truth my offer was half-hearted, for what was going through my mind at that moment over and over again was the name “Hupfer”.