Requiem in Vienna (17 page)

He found himself smiling at her imagined diatribe. But the fact was, she would never “pick up a few things at Gerngross,” and she also knew that he was aware of that.

Her coded message was a rebuke to him.

Hofrat Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing, chair of the psychiatry department of the University of Vienna, had a corner office on the third floor of the new Ringstrasse University building. It was every centimeter a working space: glass-fronted lawyer’s bookcases lined the walls and framed large windows overlooked the Ringstrasse. His smallish desk was piled high with notebooks, paperbound journals, and thick books, many of which lay open, and others generously bookmarked with slips of blue paper.

Of medium height, Krafft-Ebing dressed conservatively and wore his graying hair short. His beard was trimmed to a sharp V under his chin, and his eyes, as Werthen had noted at their initial meeting last year, were a gray-green that seemed to spill light.

Gross and Werthen had consulted the neuropsychiatrist on their previous case, and his researches into the etiology of syphilis had proven invaluable in that matter. Gross and he were old friends from Graz, where together they helped pioneer the field of forensic psychopathology, the study of mental disorders as put to the use of criminology.

Now, on Saturday morning, they had come to him on a different errand. In his role as hofrat, Krafft-Ebing also oversaw the direction of one of the primary mental clinics in Vienna, the Lower Austrian State Lunatic Asylum, where the composer Hugo Wolf was now housed.

After social pleasantries were dispensed with, Krafft-Ebing got to the point.

“Your message mentioned Hugo Wolf. I must admit he is one of our more renowned guests. I am not, however, sure that he is compos mentis any longer. He is in the final stage of syphilis, as I suppose you know.”

”I had no idea,” Gross said.

“Tragic case,” Krafft-Ebing said, shaking his head. “Contracted the disease as a young man. His initiation into the wonderful world of sexuality at the hands of one of this city’s legion of prostitutes. A great pity. You are familiar with his music?”

He addressed the question to Werthen, being only too well aware of his friend Gross’s taste in music—nothing later than Haydn for him.

“I’ve attended several of his
lieder
evenings at the Musikverein,” Werthen responded. “There is genius in him.”

“Was,” Krafft-Ebing corrected. “His friends and sponsors still insist on paying for an expensive room with a view of the Stephansdom. A grand piano also graces the room. All to no avail. For him, music is now ‘loathsome.’ The view out his window he thinks is a mural.”

“Nonetheless,” Gross said, “we would like to speak with him if at all possible. We shall not overexcite him.”

“Forewarned,” Krafft-Ebing told them. “Do not expect much. I will call to the administration. By the time you arrive, it should be arranged.”

The State Lunatic Asylum was located at Lazarretgasse 14, near the General Hospital in the Ninth District, Alsergrund. It was a fine day and they decided to walk there, turning off the Ring at Universitätsstrasse and passing the General Hospital first. It was there, in the Narrenturm, the fool’s tower or madhouse tower, where the insane had been “treated” until only four decades before. Such treatment included chaining the poor souls to the walls, throwing them in ice baths, and making them wear leather masks to supposedly reduce their anxiety.

The nearby State Lunatic Asylum, opened in 1853, improved the lot of these sufferers, but still scandalous occurrences took place even there. In 1865 the great physician Ignaz Semmelweis, whose discovery that simple hand washing provided valuable antisepsis in the prevention of puerperal fever or childbirth fever, was confined to the asylum after suffering a nervous breakdown. He died two weeks after being admitted, supposedly from a sepsis caused, ironically, by a surgically infected finger. Werthen, however, knew the truth from a lawyer representing the family, who had unsuccessfully attempted to sue the facility: Semmelweis had, in fact, died of injuries suffered at the hands of asylum personnel who had beaten him violently.

Passing the General Hospital, they neared the intersection with Spitalgasse, where they turned right.

Until now they had walked in silence, but suddenly Gross cleared his throat.

“Tell me, Werthen,” he said. “Am I causing undue strain by my presence in your home?”

“Whatever do you mean, Gross?”

“It is just that I sensed a certain, how shall I put it, glacial ambience last evening. Your lady-wife was not her usual self at dinner. There was no spark to her conversation. Indeed, she managed
to rearrange the peas on her plate several times. You can be honest with me. I know I am an old curmudgeon at times. The wonder is that Adele still puts up with me. But then she has to, doesn’t she? But I would understand if my presence is off-putting to your wife.”

“Trust me, Gross, it has nothing to do with you.”

“Ah, your trip to the Salzkammergut, then? She does not like to be abandoned.”

“And not that, either.”

Gross stopped walking. “Well, what is it, then? I do not mean to pry into your private business, but something is obviously bothering the both of you. If something causes you to give less than full concentration to our case, then it
is
my concern.”

“
Our
case!” Werthen felt his temper flash. “This is
my
case, Gross. I invited your cooperation, but have not relinquished control.”

“There, you see. How unlike you to lose your temper. Something is preying upon you. It affects your judgment, your usual good nature.”

Confound the man, Werthen thought. He would keep picking and prying until he had his answer. Werthen was about to charge into a further tirade, but suddenly saw the sense of what Gross was saying. He was allowing this absurd misunderstanding between him and Berthe to continue too long.

Thus he found himself confiding in Gross, telling him of Berthe’s wonderful news and the strange manner in which he had reacted to it.

“But that is only natural,” Gross said after listening patiently. “Of course you are concerned about your parents’ reaction to the news. Of course you want them to accept your wife and offspring. And I think I might have a way to ensure that. Just leave that to me, old friend. And when we return for lunch, no, when you return for lunch sans the baleful Dr. Gross, then take your young wife in your arms and tell her the truth. Tell her your hesitation
was caused not by the blessed news of the baby, but by considerations about your parents. Share your burdens, man. Marriage is about sharing.”

Werthen could not imagine Gross living in accord with such prescriptions. In fact, an intimate to the Gross ménage from his years earlier in Graz, Werthen could guarantee that Gross was the autocratic paterfamilias in his household, every bit as tyrannical in its operation as Mahler was in his. Werthen did, however, make no mention of this.

“Thank you, Gross. That is fine advice, indeed.”

“And not to worry about my missed lunch,” the criminologist said. “I am sure to find a bite somewhere.”

As if he were an urchin seeking handouts on the street. Werthen had to smile at this bid for sympathy.

“I am sure you will.”

They continued on their way, and Werthen did feel a new lightness to his spirit as a result of their little talk. He could, in fact, concentrate more fully on the matter at hand.

Spitalgasse soon intersected with Lazarettgasse and they stood in front of the imposing gray walls of the State Lunatic Asylum.

“Shoot me first, old friend,” Gross muttered as they mounted the steps to the front door. “If I go barking mad, never let them lock me up in such a place.”

A day of revelations, Werthen thought, as they entered through the large front doors past the uniformed doorman and headed for the inquiries desk.

The fat, florid offcial there was dressed in a dark blue and red uniform that appeared to be a bizarre blend of Hussar and train conductor.

“What is it?” he asked before either Gross or Werthen had a chance to make an inquiry. On the small desk in front of him lay the most recent copy of the
Reichspost.

Krafft-Ebing’s message had obviously arrived, for the man
quickly changed his aggressively unhelpful demeanor once Gross had introduced themselves.

“This way, gentlemen. Why didn’t you say so at first? The Herr Hofrath called specially in this regard.”

They followed the rotund man up the central staircase and then down a corridor marked Abteilung 2A. Muffled sounds reached them from behind closed doors. The official moved surprisingly quickly for such a large man, obviously in a hurry to get back to his edifying reading on the Jewish problem in Austria, thought Werthen.

“Here it is,” he finally said, stopping in front of a door with number thirteen stenciled over it. He did not bother knocking; instead he slipped his master key into the lock and opened it, sticking his head in the room.

“Visitors for you, Herr Wolf. You be nice now, or no strudel for you tonight.”

The man drew his head out and winked at them conspiratorially as one might after chastising a naughty child.

“He should be cooperative now. If not, I can have a stronger talk with him. . . .”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gross said. “You may leave now.”

“Most irregular,” the man said.

His official pique, however, subsided, when Werthen offered him three florins.

“Well, the Herr Hofrath himself allowed the visit, so I suppose it is all right.”

“Indeed,” Gross said, sidling past him and into the room. Werthen followed, closing the door behind him.

On the bed a slip of a man stared at them with the largest and most distant eyes Werthen had ever seen. Wolf was lean and with a brooding face that appeared more chiseled than molded. He had violet smudges under his deep-set eyes and deep lines drawing the flesh in under his cheekbones as if scarred. His beard,
sparse because of a nervous tick that forced him to continually pick the whiskers out, was reduced to a faint blur of a mustache and goatee.

The room, as promised, had a view of the tower of St. Stephen’s cathedral, Werthen noted, though it was fragmented in quadrants by the barred windows; a dusty Bösendorfer grand took up most of the floor space.

“I knew you would come.” Wolf’s voice was powerful, booming, in complete contrast to his appearance. It made Werthen jump.

“Is he gone now? Do people finally understand?”

Gross, well versed in psychology, did not miss a beat.

“Yes,” he said. “All is as it should be.”

Wolf seemed almost to brighten at this statement, wrapping his arms around his knees and pulling them under his chin. He began rocking on the bed.

“At last,” he uttered.

It was almost more than Werthen could bear to see the man so reduced. This was the great torchbearer of Richard Wagner, composer of the
Möriker Lieder
, the
Eichendorff Lieder
, the
Goethe Lieder
, the
Italian Serenade
, and the opera
Der Corregidor
, all noted for their depth of feeling, for their groundbreaking tonality. And now he was but a shell of a man.

“They can perform my opera. Now that I am director.”

His mind was obviously still on the Mahler dispute, Werthen thought, which was, he realized guiltily, to their advantage.

“Yes,” Gross agreed. “At long last.”

“He is a devil, you know.” His voice rose to almost a cry with the word “devil.” Wolf turned to stare directly at Werthen rather than Gross.

The words chilled the lawyer, but he summoned a response.

“In what way?”

“He stole my idea for a libretto. Oh, yes, stole it word for word. And I was not the only one. No. The other. The genius. The devil
stole from him, too. And he ended his days here. Just like me. Oh, he is a devil, to be sure.”

“Mahler?” Gross said. “Is he the devil?”

Suddenly Wolf threw himself off the bed, crashing into one of the walls headfirst and opening a deep gash on his forehead. Blood streamed down his skeletal face and he began laughing hysterically.

Werthen raced to the door, opened it, and called for an attendant. Heavy boots pounded along the corridor. Two burly men in long white smocks came bursting into the room, grabbed Wolf by the arms, and slammed him down on the bed. The biggest applied pressure with his knee on the composer’s frail chest to restrain him.

“Is that quite necessary?” Werthen said.

The other attendant glared at him. “You two should leave now. You’ve created enough trouble.”

Gross took Werthen’s arm. “Come. The man is right.”

True to his word, Gross left Werthen and Berthe alone for lunch, taking himself off to a local
gasthaus.
As it was Frau Blatschky’s free half day, husband and wife found themselves alone for once, and Werthen quickly told Berthe why he had reacted to the joyful news of her pregnancy with less than elation.

She took him in her arms. “Karl, Karl. Such a bright man to be so silly.”

And she led him down the hallway to their bedroom. He was amazed and somewhat bemused to see her begin to disrobe.

“Hurry,” she said. “Before Frau Blatschky returns and is scandalized.”

He joined her in the bed, holding her gently in his arms like a fragile doll. Then she rolled onto her back, pulling Werthen on top.

“I’m pregnant, not sick,” Berthe said, pressing down on the small of his back with her cool hands. “I won’t break.” She wrapped her
legs around his, digging into the backs of his thighs with her heels and lifting into him.

He soon forgot to be a gentleman, lost in the movement of his hips.

Later they lay tangled under the thin cotton summer comforter, her head nestled into his left shoulder.

“You didn’t really imagine men and women stopped wanting one another for nine months, did you?”

He hadn’t thought about it. It was not something his parents ever talked about, not something one learned at school.

Now she lifted herself up on her elbow to look him directly in the eye.