Would Clara Schumann be the one supplying Hupfer with generous amounts of cash? Not likely. Every thaler this woman earned went of necessity toward feeding, clothing and housing her family. With her husband largely incapacitated, there would be no money to spare. True, whenever their eyes met, the spark between Clara and Brahms was as palpable now as when I first noticed them together, and though my questions and doubts about them had begun to run like veins through my reasoning, I could not imagine that she alone, or the two of them together, could produce the quantities of money Hupfer was spending at Thüringens jewellery shop. And so Clara Schumann's name, like the others before hers, was struck off.
This left the name at the bottom of the list: Professor Friedrich Wieck. I pronounced that name several times, and found myself each time adding the cliché “Last but not least.” Indeed, last but not least!
Another thought came to mind: Hupfer's appearance at No. 15 Bilkerstrasse while Wieck conveniently was present at the house and the Schumanns conveniently were away at Bad Grünwald…
Then something struck me-something that had not caught my attention at the time: Hupfer had shown up without his leather satchel that contained the tools of his trade. What, then, could have been the purpose of his attendance at the house? If he came unequipped, was this purely a social call? Or was Hupfer calling on Wieck to collect money?
Chapter Thirty-Two
I made it clear that my plan was to be followed to the letter, beginning with the delivery of a note by the Schumanns’ faithful housekeeper to Willi Hupfer. This was to be done precisely at twelve o'clock noon, when Hupfer-a man of unswerving habits according to Clara Schumann-would have returned home from wherever he might be working and be sitting down to his big meal of the day.
“I have to tell you,” the housekeeper reported on her return, “that he was very annoyed, Madam Schumann, very annoyed indeed. He said he was very busy, too busy, in fact. I pretended not to hear, but he definitely uttered an oath I would not dare to repeat.”
“Yes, yes,” Clara said, “but will he come?” The housekeeper threw up her shoulders as if to say “Who knows?”
One hour later, Clara had her answer. Out of breath, a scowl leaving no doubt of his annoyance, Wilhelm Hupfer was admitted to the parlour of the Schumann house. “Willi!” Clara said, springing from her piano bench, “thank God you've arrived!” Looking about him at the members of the Düsseldorf Quartet already assembled in the room, he seemed taken aback. “I did not expect to find all of you here,” he said.
“You see how important you are,” Clara said taking the man's coat, folding it, and laying it neatly over the back of a chair. “The five of us have been sitting here completely immobilized. You, and only you, Willi, have the power to rescue us.”
“You flatter me, Madam,” Hupfer said, slowly warming.
“I assure you, it's not idle flattery,” Clara said. She turned to the members of the quartet. “Whatever would we do without our technical genius!” All four players chimed in with extravagant praise.
Instead of responding with a mixture of gratitude and pride, as one, knowing him, would have expected, Hupfer indulged in an uncharacteristic show of modesty, reminding his admirers that he had always striven to do his best, but adding quickly, “Though, God knows, occasionally I do fall short because of my habit of demanding too much of myself.”
Everyone in the room nodded in sympathy with him, and Clara broke in with, “Ah, but God knows how hard you try, so perhaps your rewards will come in the afterlife.”
To this bit of optimism, Hupfer's response was a dismissive shrug. “Perhaps,” he said, “but I am not counting on it. And now, if you will excuse me, to work.”
Resuming a businesslike manner, he put down his leather satchel containing his tools next to the Klems grand piano. “I did caution you and the Maestro about this instrument, Madam Schumann,” he said, sounding like a schoolmaster chiding an errant pupil.
Relishing the fact that five very dependent souls anxiously awaited his next move, Willi Hupfer sat himself down at the keyboard of the Klems. As though he were a virtuoso about to perform, he took a minute or two to adjust the piano bench, fussing with the knobs until the height of the upholstered seat was exactly to his satisfaction. He shifted the bench, now back a little, now forward a little, until the toes of his shoes were within comfortable reach of the pedals. He rubbed his hands together vigorously to warm up the fingers. At last, he raised his right arm, brought his hand down, and played at moderate speed the C-major scale on the upper two octaves of the Klems. This was followed by a similar demonstration over the lower two octaves. He paused at this point for dramatic effect. “Well, I suppose one gets what one pays for,” he said, his lips pursed in contempt for the instrument. “At least the upper and lower ranges are tolerable.”
“Try the middle range, Willi,” Clara Schumann suggested.
“Of course,” Hupfer said, “you realize that any deviation is not my fault. A Klems is not a Bösendorfer, you know.”
“I understand,” Clara said, full of deference. “Nobody is blaming you, Willi. Could we hear middle A now? My friends here-” She nodded in the direction of the four string players sitting by attentively. “My friends were not at all happy with the pitch.”
“Oh?” Hupfer said. “And what is supposed to be the trouble with the pitch, may I ask?” There was a slight edge now in his voice.
The second violinist, Martin Stollenberg, spoke up. “Not ‘supposed to be the trouble’; there really is some trouble.”
Hupfer, peering over his spectacles at the impertinent fiddler, said, “Do you purport, sir, to have perfect pitch?”
“Not at all,” Stollenberg replied. “But I know when a note is sharp, and the middle A on this piano is definitely sharp.” Stollenberg's three colleagues muttered their agreement in unison.
Clara interjected, her eyes on a mantel clock, “Willi, we must get on with this. We have a heavy program to rehearse for this coming Sunday. Would you kindly oblige us by sounding middle A and doing whatever is needed so we can proceed.” She gave him a seductive smile.
“If you will pardon my frankness,” Hupfer said, rising from the piano bench, “I really believe you are being unfair to yourselves. The older piano is a far superior instrument. Better tone. The pins, even in an earthquake, won't loosen and throw the strings off. Why don't I-”
“But Willi,” Clara cut in, “I explained to you in my note that the Klems is far better suited to a chamber arrangement, especially in a setting like this. Remember, we are not performing in an auditorium. Please.”
Plainly reluctant, Hupfer seated himself again at the Klems. The members of the quartet brought their bows up to their strings, and waited for him to sound middle A. Hupfer's right index finger came down on the key so softly that it barely created a sound. The string players made no move to tune their instruments. The leader, Rudy von Schirach, affecting a jocular air, called out to Hupfer, “Come, come, Maestro, the note needs to be played fortissimo! Again, if you will.”
Hupfer shook his head. Quietly, he responded, “You are all making a grave mistake.”
“The A, Willi,” Clara said, her voice firm, “and louder this time.”
“This is deeply offensive to my sense of professionalism,” Hupfer said, looking her straight in the eye. Returning to the keyboard, he pressed his index finger down heavily on middle A.
“You see,” Stollenberg said, “I was right. It's absolutely sharp.”