“Ah,” Olbricht said. “I see. Yes, Herr Bolle requires a large canvas for his country house. I received the commission on account of the kind ministrations of my patron, Baroness von Rautenberg. She plays cards with Herr Bolle's wife.”
“And the subject of your new work? What will it be?”
“I haven't quite decided yet. Although, Herr Bolle has stipulated that it must be a scene from The Ring.” Von Triebenbach nodded with satisfaction. “The gods engulfed by fire, the ride of the Valkyries, or Siegfried's funeral pyre, perhaps.”
“Outrageous!” cried the professor.
Von Triebenbach and Olbricht were at first astonished, because it seemed that the professor was-quite unaccountably-objecting to Herr Bolle's aesthetic preferences. The misunderstanding was swiftly resolved, however, when Foch raised the letter he had been reading and with small, jerky movements, tore it from top to bottom.
“It is from the dean of the medical faculty,” he huffed. “I don't believe it! I have been reprimanded for my treatment of the female students.”
Von Triebenbach and Olbricht were still unsure how to respond.
“The faculty should never have allowed it!” the professor continued. “Women doctors! Who ever heard of such nonsense? I told them that women were ill-suited to the demands of a medical training, and they ignored me. Women are weak, squeamish… How can they be expected to open up a man's chest without swooning! And how can it be correct for a young woman-from a good family-to be exposed to those parts of the male anatomy that should by rights be of no concern to her until her wedding night?”
The professor quartered the letter and, rising to his feet, marched to the stove, where he posted each of the four pieces through the grill.
“I could not agree with you more, Herr Professor” said Von Triebenbach. “I would never subject myself to the humiliating experience of examination at the hands of a woman, however qualified. But for what-exactly-have you been reprimanded?”
“It has been my great misfortune,” continued the professor, “to have, in my demonstration classes, several of these new female students. They are a confounded nuisance! At the first sight of blood they become pale, distraught, and a distraction to the young men. Subsequently, I have had to insist-on no less than five occasionsthat they leave. Typically, these women-these girls-claim that they were not overwhelmed, and that I have misjudged their condition. I- a doctor for some thirty years-am supposed to be in error. And those fools, the dean and his cronies, are stupid enough, idiotic enough, to countenance this despicable calumny.”
“Appalling,” said Olbricht, “that a person of distinction, such as yourself, Herr Professor, should be treated with such little respect.”
“Damned hypocrites!” cried the professor. “In actuality, the dean and his cronies are as opposed to women being admitted into the faculty as I am. But, being spineless sycophants, they are less inclined to resist political pressure.”
“I tell you,” said Von Triebenbach, shaking his head. “This city is courting catastrophe and ruin. I pray and hope that we are not too late. Otherwise, I fear that all shall be undone.”
Von Triebenbach's words gave way to a low, thrumming sound, a hollow reverberation of increasing magnitude. Someone was descending the stairwell. As each hurried step became more distinct, the three men tensed slightly, adopting frozen, expectant postures. The latch lifted, and the door at the back of the chamber burst open, revealing a young man. He was wearing a brown suit, and a yellow-and-green checked scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair was long, swept back, and so blond as to be almost white. Under his left arm he carried a portfolio. On entering the chamber, he lifted his right arm and called out, “Heil und Sieg!”
Salvation and Victory.
In unison, the company returned the ancient greeting and battle cry.
The young man then marched aaround the pews and entered the central open area of the horseshoe. Nodding at Olbricht and the professor, he turned questioningly to Von Triebenbach and said, “Is it true? He's coming? Tonight?”
Von Triebenbach placed an avuncular hand on the young man's shoulder. “We hope so.”
Hermann Aschenbrandt raked a handful of platinum strands back from his forehead.
“That is wonderful news. Wonderful.” He looked at Olbricht and the professor. “We are most fortunate. Truly.” Then, addressing Von Triebenbach again, he added, “Herr Baron, I beg you, when the meeting is adjourned-may I play him the overture to my opera? It is based on his great novel Carnuntum. It would be such an honor. Such an honor.”
The young man's eyes were a clear powder-blue-and they positively flashed with eagerness. He was breathless with excitement.
Von Triebenbach, amused-as always-by the energy and zeal of his young favorite, threw his head back and laughed heartily.
“We can but ask him, my dear friend. And perhaps he will condescend to hear your work. He is a man of generous spirit.”
Aschenbrandt inhaled deeply, and his chest expanded. “Such an honor,” he repeated, his thin lips curling to form a slightly lopsided smile.
8
Rheinhardt tested the upper register of his voice with an ambitious arpeggio. He held the top note for a few moments and winced.
“No,” said Rheinhardt. “There's definitely something wrong. My pitch is off when I go above middle C.”
“Perhaps it is the cold?” said Liebermann.
“Cold?”
“Yes-cold. Surely the weather hasn't escaped your attention, Oskar?”
“No, it hasn't,” said Rheinhardt, again worrying his refractory high E. “Even so, I should have warmed up by now.”
“There is no instrument more sensitive,” declared Liebermann, “than the human voice.”
“I suppose you're right,” Rheinhardt muttered.
“Perhaps we should finish with something”-Liebermann allowed his fingers to find a simple C-major triad-”undemanding. Something that will be kinder to your vocal cords?”
“An die Musik?” Rheinhardt suggested.
Liebermann's expression changed: a slight, almost imperceptible tensing of the jaw that showed reluctance. This was not because Liebermann disliked Schubert's setting of Von Schober's paean to the “blessed art” of music-making-rather the exact opposite. The words expressed sentiments that he felt so deeply, so profoundly, that for him the song had the qualities of a prayer. Playing An die Musik was like a personal affirmation of faith. If Rheinhardt's voice had been affected by the cold, he didn't want to squander a performance. To do so would be almost sacrilegious.
“Very well, then,” continued Rheinhardt, responding to his friend's hesitation. “How about… Litany for the Feast of All Souls?”
This was another Schubert setting, similar in atmosphere to An die Musik, but with words by the poet Johann Georg Jacobi.
Liebermann rearranged the songbooks on the music stand and brought a Schubert collection to the front. He flicked through the volume in search of the right page.
“The Feast of All Souls…,” he said, abstractedly. “That's around this time of year, isn't it?” He could barely remember the dates of Jewish festivals, let alone those celebrated by the Catholic Church. However, he had some vague notion that All Souls fell around the beginning of winter.
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt, “it's in a few weeks, in fact. The second of November.”
“Here it is,” said Liebermann, smoothing out the page. The piano part had been annotated in pencil where Liebermann had changed some of the fingering and phrasing.
The young doctor looked up at his friend to see if he was ready, and then began. The music immediately suggested majesty and gentle progress. Rheinhardt opened his mouth and, crossing his hands over his heart, sang softly: “Ruhn in Frieden alle Seelen.” Rest in peace all souls.
The accompaniment drifted through some artful changes of harmony, making the melody more poignant. Even though the music was peaceful, the chord changes seemed to reveal the presence of an underlying aching sadness. Rheinhardt's voice became more confident, more controlled, and he accomplished the higher notes with little trouble. Liebermann was surprised by the sudden improvement of tone. He was even more impressed when Rheinhardt's baritone floated above the accompaniment and enjoyed a moment of near-unbearable sweetness-seemingly removed from all worldly suffering. But, as was so often the case with Schubert's composition, this moment of transcendent vision was all too brief, and the demands of the score forced Rheinhardt to surrender one note, then another, then another, until the descending sequence arrived at a prolonged, empty caesura. It was Schubert's genius to place a beat of chilling silence-as still as death, as cold as eternity-within the first verse.