“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.