“Then why all this elaborate fuss in honour of an artist you hold in such contempt?”
“The Italians have a saying,” she replied. “‘If you want an audience, start a fight.’ Here, in Germany, we say ‘If you want an audience, drop the name Franz Liszt.’ She reduced her voice to a whisper. “The truth is, half the people you see here this evening are only here out of curiosity to see Liszt in the flesh, to be able to say tomorrow to their friends that they were in the same room as he.”
“Please pardon a frank question,” I said, “but aren't you being-”
“Hypocritical?” She gave me a shrewd smile. “Of course.” Her smile vanished. “We don't live in a spiritual world, Inspector; we live in the real world. At least, I do. I'm not always certain about Robert.”
By this time the rooms were filling with invited guests. I recognized several persons prominent in Düsseldorfs high society. There were, to be sure, Baron and Baroness Hoffman, as close to royalty as one got in this region, a pair who, unlike their hostess, bedecked themselves with medals and ribbons (in his case) and necklaces, brooches, bracelets and earrings (in her) so that together, as they entered the foyer and moved into the dining room, they formed a gigantic human chandelier. Following after them at a slow, respectful pace was an assembly of lesser celebrities-civic officials (who knew little about music and cared less but relished an opportunity to appear cultured); Dr. Julius Illing, chairman of the local music society; a handful of writers and journalists in threadbare evening clothes, all of whom, despite their influence, looked as though they could stand a good meal and some decent wine.
In the dining room, the Schumanns’ guests fell upon the food and drink as though fortifying themselves for a stark desert crossing rather than a gentle evening of chamber music. Inwardly, I congratulated Georg Adelmann on his foresight in arriving early and getting to the buffet before the others.
But where was the guest of honour himself? It was well past the time when Franz Liszt ought to have made his appearance. To be fashionably late for an event of this sort was customary among socialites, and indeed a grand entrance was never truly grand if made precisely on schedule. But a half-hour had gone by, and still no Liszt. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Schumanns glancing at a mantel clock in the dining room and looking a bit anxious. If Liszt was to enjoy the benefits of the buffet, he would have to arrive very soon or be content with scraps.
Georg Adelmann, at last, had filled his stomach and attached himself to Helena Becker in a quiet corner of the drawing room, feasting now on the sight of Helena's figure. The peculiarities of the cello obliged Helena to wear a full skirt performing. Though such a garment ordinarily would reveal nothing about the natural contours of the player, in Helena's case there was something tantalizing about this costume, which did not fail to register on Adelmann. Splendid! I thought. I wanted the old glutton to become enchanted with my cellist friend, so enchanted that he might divulge to her information about the Schumanns that he would hesitate to divulge to a police official like me. Catching sight of me across the drawing room, Helena nodded and gave me a sweet smile. I smiled back with what I hoped was a signal of encouragement.
A full hour had now passed, and still no sign of the guest of honour. The Schumanns kept eyeing the mantel clock. Some of the men began checking the time on their pocket-watches. People were beginning to murmur discreetly, some guessing that Liszt had forgotten, although it seemed preposterous, others taking it for granted that the famed virtuoso traditionally eschewed banquets in order to maintain the lithe figure that he presented on stage. “No doubt he will show up,” Adelmann said, “offer profuse apologies, charm everyone with his pretense of humbleness, and outshine even the jewels on Baroness Hoffman's encrusted bodice.”
At nine o'clock, after exchanging worried glances, Robert and Clara Schumann summoned everyone to take their seats in the drawing room. Looking exasperated, Schumann said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the players are ready, and we are going to proceed with our program despite the absence of our guest of honour, who has probably experienced a delay in his travel arrangements. He should grace us with his presence before long. Before we present Beethoven's D-major Trio, and my own Piano Quintet, we have a very special and pleasant surprise for you. You are going to hear for the first time a young composer, who in my opinion is already a soaring eagle in the musical heaven and who will play for you two of his recent pieces for piano. Because our young genius is inclined to shyness, I will tell you that he calls the first a rhapsody, and the second an intermezzo-”
Schumann turned slightly and, looking over his shoulder, called, “Clara, if you will-”
Behind Schumann, a door opened and Clara Schumann emerged from an anteroom leading by the hand the same tall, handsome fellow I'd seen that night at the concert hall. For someone so athletic in appearance, he seemed to be taking hesitant, small steps, like a schoolboy being trotted out before a roomful of grownups to recite a poem. Letting go his hand, Clara motioned for the youthful composer to seat himself at one of the two grand pianos, her gesture gracious and, I thought, a bit too theatrical.
Nor did I fail to take note of another gesture. “Distinguished guests,” Clara said, “please welcome from Hamburg…Johannes Brahms.” Then, as she passed behind Brahms on her way to her seat, her hand brushed across the back of his neck. The touch was so slight, so subtle, that I doubt anyone in the room noticed, anyone, that is, except me. Ascribe it to the particular angle at which I was seated, or ascribe it to the fact that a detective's vision tends to be binocular, even off duty. But there was no denying: that brush of Clara Schumann's hand against the back of Johannes Brahms's neck was not accidental.
Though I am no music critic, I felt almost from the opening bars of the Rhapsody that we were in the presence of an enormously gifted musician, a man with powerful melodic ideas and the technique to give voice to those ideas. The Intermezzo, softer, more poetic, sounded to my ears like a long sigh. It was not so much an expression of passion as it was a deep sigh of yearning, of longing for someone who was just beyond reach.
The final lingering note of the Intermezzo was followed by enthusiastic applause and a few shouts of “Bravo!” Schumann strode to the piano and lifted Brahms by the shoulders, turned him about to face the small audience, then stepped back, leaving the young man, looking awkward and sheepish, to bask alone in the admiration and approval of everyone in the drawing room.
My attention wandered for a moment to the back of the room. There, standing by herself, as though isolated from the rest, was Clara Schumann. She did not join in the applause. I saw no outer demonstration of enthusiasm on her part for the performance we had just witnessed, but on her face there was a look that seemed to me to go far beyond admiration and approval. It was a look that seemed to match the mood of Brahms's second selection, that same sense of yearning and of longing for someone who was just out of reach.
By now the clock in the drawing room showed the hour as nine thirty, and our host found himself forced to offer lame excuses for the absence of the guest of honour. To rescue her husband in what was so obviously an embarrassing situation, Clara Schumann spoke out. In a cool, confident voice, she said, “You're all well acquainted with the Liszt legend, I'm sure. First he enters a room in spirit. His body follows much later.”
The room exploded in laughter. Schumann beamed appreciatively at his wife. And Johannes Brahms, who had been ushered to a chair in the front row, gazed up at Clara Schumann with an expression I can only liken to pure undisguised adoration.