by Colin Dickey
But even with such a lax methodology, he needed a body of evidence. He needed heads—lots of them. And so Gall quickly amassed a huge collection of skulls and plaster casts of heads. By his own estimate, this collection cost 7,000 gulden; on top of that was another 15,000 guldens’ worth of preparations, a sum equal to forty times the average salary of a middle-class Viennese and over twice the value of Haydn’s entire estate.
For the most part, Gall acquired his skulls from executed criminals and asylum graveyards; if he wanted the head of someone important for his collection, he would take a plaster cast. But that didn’t stop his detractors from imputing darker motives. Pierre Flourens, a rival anatomist and one of Gall’s many antagonists, would later claim that
at one time everybody in Vienna was trembling for his head, and fearing that after his death it would be put in requisition to enrich Dr. Gall’s cabinet. . . . Too many people were led to suppose themselves the objects of the doctor’s regards, and imagined their heads to be especially longed for by him as a specimen of the utmost importance to the success of his experiments. Some very curious stories were told on this point. Old M. Denis, the Emperor’s librarian, inserted a special clause in his will, intended to save his cranium from M. Gall’s scalpel.22
This was mostly invention on Flourens’s part, as Gall, it turns out, had some trouble acquiring skulls other than those of criminals and the insane. “Men,” he wrote in a letter, “unhappily, have such an opinion of themselves, that each one believes that I am watching for his head, as one of the most important objects of my collection. Nevertheless, I have not been able to collect more than twenty in the space of three years, if I except those that I have taken in the hospitals, or in the asylum for idiots.”23
But it wasn’t for lack of trying. “If you could arrange it that any kind of genius would make me the heir of his skull, I would promise to build a splendid building within ten years,” he wrote in 1898. “Certainly it would be dangerous for Kästner, Kant, or Wieland, if I had David’s killing angel at my disposal.” As late as 1827 his desperation for the heads of geniuses was evident; after receiving a bust of the head of Goethe as a gift, he replied that, should Goethe die, “I implore you to bribe the relatives of this unique genius to preserve his head in nature for the world.”24
For the general public, this was the most disturbing byproduct of Gall’s new system, and it tapped into a larger fear that had begun to surface long before, when modern anatomists had first started to turn to the corpse as a means of understanding the body. There was a widespread belief, especially in Catholic areas like Austria, that one’s intact and naturally decomposed remains were vital for resurrection. Dissection or dismemberment represented a fate far worse than death, and it was for this reason that only executed criminals were turned over to anatomists— dissection was seen as the final form of punishment. To have one’s body cut open for science implied the damnation of one’s soul. A particularly horrific cartoon from the early nineteenth century showed a dissection lab on the day of the Last Judgment, with dismembered arms and legs reanimated and moving about, desperately seeking the rest of their bodies.
But what Catholics saw in Gall’s skull collection was something far more sinister than the doctor could have meant. Gall’s contention that the brain was the sole organ of the mind suggested a dangerous form of heresy—“materialism”—that went counter to centuries of church doctrine. The implication inherent in phrenology was that one need not consider the immortal soul because everything of consequence could be located in the brain. It was this notion that led the Austrian government, motivated by the Catholic Church, to ban all public lectures by Gall on January 9, 1802.
Gall attempted to defend himself in a lengthy retort against this and other accusations. He wrote,
It has occasioned to me infinite distress, that his Majesty has been led to entertain the unfounded apprehension, that my theory appears to lead to materialism, and consequently to militate against the first principles of morals and religion. In all ages, it has happened that truths entirely new, or even truths only better demonstrated, have appeared to threaten the existence of all previously established principles. But experience has uniformly proved, that old and new truths soon cordially combine, and mutually support each other, that opposition to them is only pernicious, and, especially, that obstacles thrown in their way tend only to promote their advancement.
He went on to argue that he did not actually believe one could determine a subject’s personality solely by looking at the bumps of a skull: It was impossible, he claimed, to distinguish the worthless from the virtuous solely through the skull “because moral, social, civil, and religious conduct, is the result of many and different concomitant causes, and especially of many powerful external influences; for instance, education, example, habits, laws, religion, age, society, climate, food, health, and so forth.”25
Ultimately, though, Gall saw the writing on the wall and was forced to leave Austria for France. He could not afford to transport his extensive skull collection, which was subsequently lost. Eventually Gall and Spurzheim made it to Paris, where they were instantly popular, having among their many clients notables such as Prince Metternich. Austria, it would seem, was free of its dangerous heretic.
But Gall’s subversive ideas had already begun to have an impact. Enterprising phrenologists quickly understood that if they were going to know the mind, they needed the skulls not just of prostitutes and murderers but of greater men and women—and, more important, that these skulls might be worth something.
Around the same time Gall began lecturing on the properties of the skull, the sexton of Vienna’s St. Marx Church, Joseph Rothmayer, undertook a rather unorthodox mission. A few years earlier he had been present when Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had been buried there, and, sensing the potential value of the composer’s skull, he had wrapped a metal wire around the corpse’s neck before it had been unceremoniously dumped into the mass grave. Now, in what Peter J. Davies has aptly described as “a moment of animated musical enthusiasm,” he dug up the communal grave and picked through the pile of remains until he found the skeleton with the wire around its neck. He removed Mozart’s head and saved it from destruction.26
CHAPTER TWO
THE MUSIC LOVER
Gall’s banishment from Vienna was the talk of the town. A month after the prohibition was first issued, a group of middle-class gentlemen gathered to discuss the events of the day. Among them was one of the few Viennese unfamiliar with Gall. Later that night the gentleman wrote, “At mid-day, Csiskowsky (the steward of the Cobenzl Berg), Eckhart and Klimbke lunched with us. We talked a great deal about Schall’s theory of phrenology.”27 It’s unclear why he got the name wrong in his diary; he may have just misheard it, or perhaps he’d conflated the doctor’s name with the German word “Schädel,” meaning “skull.” The man’s name was Joseph Carl Rosenbaum, and in the seven years between Gall’s banishment from Vienna and Haydn’s death, Rosenbaum’s relationship to phrenology would change dramatically.
JOSEPH CARL ROSENBAUM was born in 1770. His father was a house steward for the Esterhazy family, and so, although he had been born in Vienna, Joseph grew up in Eisenstadt. As was the custom, he followed his father’s footsteps by entering Esterhazy service at the age of twenty and in 1797 came back to Vienna as the controller of the accounts of the vast Esterhazy stables.
Rosenbaum was, by any measure, a capable and successful accountant and a kind and generous friend. Above all, though, he was a lover of music. He rarely went a day without attending the theater—indeed, scholars have long turned to his diaries for precise information on the dates of performances of important operas or symphonies as well as a detailed record of the major performers and the quality of their performances. He was well known throughout the musical world and was on friendly terms with Haydn and less-well-known composers such as Johann Fuchs as well as with people such as the painter Francesco Casanova (brother of the more famous Giacomo) and Constanze
Mozart, the widow of the composer whose head had lately been rescued.
Shortly after arriving in Vienna, Rosenbaum was introduced to two sisters, also from Eisenstadt, who had come to Vienna to begin a career on the stage, primarily singing Haydn’s masses. Their names were Maria Anna and Therese Josepha Gassman. Almost immediately, Therese, the younger, caught Rosenbaum’s eye.
The Gassmans’ father, Florian, had been a court composer, and the family was well known in the musical society of Austria. To commemorate Therese’s birth, Haydn had given the family a specially designed cuckoo clock that played original melodies he had composed. Both Therese and her sister were destined for music before they were even born. Just before Therese’s birth in 1774, Florian died unexpectedly, and the girls’ musical education was turned over to their godfather, Antonio Salieri. While Maria Anna’s talents were never more than adequate, Therese became one of the most celebrated singers in Vienna, in particular for her success in the difficult role of the Queen of the Night in Mozart’s The Magic Flute. One newspaper commented that “the purity, modulation, and unusual range of her voice are certainly a most admirable and rare gift of nature.” She was a personal favorite of the Hapsburg empress, Maria Therese (daughter of Maria Theresia), who once confided to her, “You sing confoundedly high, I am often frightened when you sing so high and often tremble.”28
With such a pedigree, Therese’s mother had high hopes for both of her daughters. It seemed well within the realm of possibility that the girls might marry into nobility, and with titles (not to mention money), the family’s legacy would be secured.
Rosenbaum began to pay regular visits to the Gassman household and made a point of seeing Therese whenever she performed. Her singing enthralled him; at the theater it was Therese alone who “made the hours pleasant” for him. Five months after their first meeting he made the decision to propose to her. It turned out to be a fateful decision—one that would lead to two years of dashed hopes and frustration, nearly ruin his career, threaten to ruin hers as well, and make the prince a permanent enemy.
AT FIRST THINGS seemed quite promising. Rosenbaum began his courtship by taking Therese to the ballet and the opera and to all the sights and pleasures of the city. They traded coquettish love letters, acting like giddy teenagers. But despite Therese’s obvious affection for Rosenbaum, her mother, Theresia, had not given up on the idea of a title for her daughter, and she saw that she had to take action lest her grand plan be derailed. She began to circulate all manner of rumors about Rosenbaum’s character and prospects, repeatedly trying to wreck Therese’s impression of him; in one pointed exchange Theresia told Rosenbaum loudly in Therese’s presence that he should not bother to buy the girl any more presents because once he lost his job he would have to ask for them all back. But the suitor was not deterred, and mother Gassman soon saw that her whisper campaign was not enough. She needed someone powerful to break this attraction, and so for the second time in her life she went to royalty on behalf of her daughter.
It was well known that the Esterhazy princes generally preferred not to have their employees married, fearing divided loyalties; anyone in the service of the prince needed his permission before he or she could marry. So when Therese’s mother decided that she needed to stop the marriage, it was to the prince that she went. She explained her dilemma, telling the prince that there was simply no way that one of the brightest stars on the Viennese stage—who might yet be courted by counts and barons—could be allowed to marry a midlevel clerk. The prince was swayed and made it clear to the young Rosenbaum that he was not likely to approve any marriage anytime soon.
What had seemed a sure thing was quickly slipping from Rosenbaum’s grasp, and he turned to his friends for aid. He asked for advice and support, called in all the favors to which he had a claim, even requested that the dowager princess put in a good word for him. And then he turned to Joseph Haydn.
Rosenbaum and Haydn, both members of the court staff, saw each other regularly—Rosenbaum often came to the composer on business matters and stayed to discuss Haydn’s latest work or theatrical gossip. Haydn liked the young man for his earnestness and palpable love of music. Rosenbaum had an unerring sense of taste, and his enthusiasm and sensitivity naturally endeared him to musicians like Haydn, whom Rosenbaum recognized as of a special distinction. Only a few weeks after Therese’s mother began her intrigues, Rosenbaum and Therese made separate entreaties to Haydn for his assistance and asked him to intercede; this, Rosenbaum happily reported, Haydn “faithfully promised to do.”29
Haydn was of course a great asset in one’s corner. With the court’s cultural and moral investment in symphonic music, the composer had become something like a saint in Vienna. E. T. A. Hoffman is one of many writers who singled Haydn out as the most romantic of artists in the most romantic of arts: “His symphonies lead us into a boundless, green glade amid a lively, jovial throng of happy people,” Hoffman wrote. “Young men and women swing past in round dances, and laughing children, eavesdropping behind trees and rose bushes, throw flowers teasingly at one another.”30 But even such a saint did not succeed on Rosenbaum’s behalf. On numerous occasions Haydn tried to convince the prince not to listen to the vicious rumors circulating about Rosenbaum and to persuade him of the young man’s worth. But to no avail.
For two years this courtship dragged on. Despite all the rumors and obstacles, Rosenbaum continued to court Therese, spending as much time as he could with her. A year after they first met he took her to Franz II’s wonder cabinet. Rosenbaum noted in his diary, “There are so many pretty things that one could entertain oneself very interestingly for weeks.” One exhibit in particular stood out for him: “I especially liked Angelo Soliman who stands there stuffed, next to a Moorish girl of 8.”31 There was something captivating about Soliman, this taxidermied man in a room of frozen nature. He had lived beyond death, been brought back from decay to defy time. It was an idea that would stay with Rosenbaum and grow in him in the years to come.
It’s not entirely surprising that someone like Rosenbaum would be drawn to this stuffed man. Soliman’s figure was special in part because the process of taxidermy was still in its infancy— it wouldn’t come into high demand until later in the nineteenth century, when European colonialists needed a reliable way to transport hunting trophies and zoological specimens back home. In particular, very few taxidermists had found a way to stuff a human in a realistic manner. “All the efforts of man to restore the skin of his fellow creature to its natural form and beauty, have hitherto been fruitless,” Sarah Bowditch wrote in her taxidermy manual in 1820. “The trials which have been made have only produced mis-shapen hideous objects, and so unlike nature, that they have never found a place in our collections. We have only some parts of man, either dried or preserved in spirits of wine, sufficiently entire to be recognized.”32
Either she was unaware of Soliman or judged him to be one of those “mis-shapen hideous objects” because the lone exception that Bowditch mentioned is the work of Frederick Ruysch, who was well known for his exotic and groundbreaking preparations. A hundred years earlier Ruysch had found a way to preserve “wet” specimens using a mixture of mercury oxide, blue pigment, and clotted pig’s blood, and in 1717 he sold his unique specimens to Peter the Great, who built an elaborate wonder cabinet around them. Ruysch was so famous that in 1824 the poet Giacomo Leopardi composed an operetta about him titled Dialogue between Frederick Ruysch and His Mummies, in which Ruysch’s specimens come to life for a single night to explain the mysteries of death. “What were we?” the mummies sing,
What was the bitter point called life?
Stupendous mystery is today
Life to our minds, and such
As to the minds of the living
Unknown death appears. As when living
From it death fled, now flees
From vital flame
Our naked nature
Not joyous but secure;
For to be happy
Is
denied to mortals and denied the dead by Fate.33
Ruysch’s mummies, Bowditch noted, were an exception, “and since the bony part of our body is the only one which we are able to preserve entire and in its natural position,” Bowditch recommended that the best way to preserve a human was by cleaning and displaying the skull.
ROSENBAUM’S ATTEMPTS TO gain permission to wed were stymied at every turn. Gradually his description of the city he loved gave way to bleakness. “No day can be lived to the end without there being something distressing about it,” he wrote after a particularly bitter row with Therese’s mother. The day he turned twenty-eight years old he summed up his life thus far: “We torment and vex ourselves, and do not know why; we drag ourselves along in the chains of misery—to the grave.”34
Though he was constantly beset by depression, his love for Therese never wavered, and if anything he felt the most pain at having caused her so much grief. “May she become my wife soon,” he wrote at one point, “so that I may make recompense, through fidelity and love, for her having suffered so much.”35 At no point did he think of dropping his pursuit. His only choice was to persevere and hope that his fortunes would change. But the tensions continued to mount. The longer the courtship was prolonged, the more his loathing for her mother grew, as did his enmity for the prince.
By December 1799 Rosenbaum had grown increasingly impatient and, sensing that the time was right, finally brought the prince the marriage license for his signature. The prince took the document, ominously muttering that he would “attend to it.” Rosenbaum was not sure what to make of this comment, but when he asked about it again three days later, on Christmas morning, the prince tore up the marriage proposal in front of him and, “with great hue and cry,” threw the shreds at Rosenbaum’s feet, saying that he wanted to hear nothing more about marriage.36
