Between the Thames and the Tiber

by Ted Riccardi

  “She is no longer with the firm, Dr. Watson. She became ill several months ago, and took leave. She has not returned, and I have not seen her.”

  Windisch gave us her last known address, which he said lay at the other end of town. We took our leave and went directly in search of her. There, in a dilapidated rooming house, we asked the owner to direct us to her. We were led to the third floor. The proprietress knocked on a door at the end of the hall.

  The door opened and an old woman appeared.

  “What do you want?” she asked curtly.

  “I come from the house of Richard Wagner,” said Holmes moving forward to the door. “He is dead.”

  The name made her start, and she immediately let us in. As soon as we entered we realized that we had walked into a small shrine to the dead composer. His portraits and photographs were everywhere, and his scores and libretti were among the few books that lined the walls.

  The old woman was dressed in rags. Her room was cold, and her wrists were wrapped tightly in an effort to keep warm. Her feet were bare and swollen. She moved slowly, and I saw immediately that she was very ill. Her hand shook as she motioned him to a chair. Holmes spoke to her bluntly.

  “Fräulein Planer, I shall not hide my purpose in seeking you out. My name is Sherlock Holmes. That surely means nothing to you. I am, however, a consulting detective. My colleague, Dr. Watson, and I have been engaged by a client to investigate the decline in health and now death of the composer Herr Richard Wagner. I have reason to believe that you are responsible for his death by poison gradually administered to him.”

  Holmes uttered the accusation with the utmost conviction.

  There was but a momentary surprise on her face. She sighed and looked down at the floor and remained silent for a time. When she began speaking, she made no attempt to deny Holmes’s accusation.

  “You are correct,” she said proudly. “I am, but only in an earthly sense, responsible for the death of that monster, for it is the work of God whose agent I am. You cannot know the happiness I felt when I learned of his death. He is now mine.”

  Her eyes narrowed at first as she spoke, then a smile formed on her lips.

  “Fräulein Planer,” said Holmes, “I cannot condone your actions, but at the same I am neither a representative of the police nor am I a German citizen. I am the only one who suspects that Herr Wagner did not die of a heart attack brought on by natural causes. I would encourage you, therefore, to tell me what reason you had to kill him. As to your punishment, that will come from another than I.”

  “You will hear my story and understand. I do not fear punishment, and I stand ready to receive it. It is perhaps an evil act that I have performed, but one out of which only good can come. Let me start at the very beginning, for the circumstances of my birth are directly related. I believe, with the Buddhists, that birth is the result of circumstances of which we can know nothing when we come into this world and that our life is a journey in profound ignorance. You may not know that my mother was Christine Wilhelmine Planer, called Minna, a woman who had the misfortune to become Richard Wagner’s first wife. Wagner, however, was not my father. Long before she met Wagner, Minna, at the age of fifteen, worked in a common working-class liquor shop. Extremely beautiful and in the first bloom of youth, she was seduced one night by a drunken soldier. I was the result of that liaison. To this day, I do not know who my father was. Because of her deep shame, Minna raised me as her younger sister, and her parents also maintained this version of who I was. Most people still believe I am her sister.

  “Minna met Wagner several years later, and before they were married she told him her story and the truth about me. He was the only one who knew. He was so infatuated with Minna’s beauty that he did not care what her past was, for he said that he loved only her, and insisted that they marry, which they did. I lived most of my early years with them.

  “As I grew up, Wagner was kind and gentle at times, but more often distant and aloof, and he often treated me indifferently, never harshly, despite the stormy relationship with Minna. I, myself, of course, had a very difficult time with her, who, while calling me her sister, treated me naturally as her daughter. I could do nothing without her permission, and she never let me out of her sight. I felt stifled by her. Several times she left, taking me with her. When we returned, there would be peace for a few days, then the bickering would break out again. Wagner himself often left on tour for his music, and I was left with my sister alone, who browbeat me constantly. She loved me deeply, I knew, but so stifled did I feel that I ran away twice, only to be found at the home of friends and returned to her. Though I loved her, I wanted to hurt her.

  “The stormy relationship between Wagner and Minna gradually grew worse, and on several occasions became almost violent. At these times, I would retire to my room in fright. One morning, when I was fifteen, an argument broke out before lunch, and Minna, without even packing a bag, ran out of the house. She did not return for two weeks. Wagner went after her. He searched everywhere and was gone for two days. I was alone for the first time in my life. When he returned he was in despair. Minna had disappeared without a trace. He did not know whether she was alive or dead. Two days after his return, word arrived through a friend that Minna was alive but despondent and that she had no intention of returning soon. She wanted me to join her immediately at her secret location. Having tasted freedom for the first time in my life, I adamantly refused. Wagner argued heatedly with me that I should go to stay with Minna, that he had his work and had to travel, that he could not be responsible for me, and that I belonged with Minna. I quietly refused.

  “On several nights, just after I had prepared dinner, we talked about Minna. Both of us found her so difficult. He looked at me and said tearfully that their marriage was a mistake, that they were not meant to be together, and that his true love was for someone else.”

  A look of the greatest pain consumed her face at this point. She stared directly at Holmes, as if answering his accusation.

  “It was during this period,” she said, “when we were alone together that Richard Wagner seduced me. He told me first the story that he had heard of ancient India that concerned a young maiden by the name of Prakriti and a man of fame by the name of Ananda. Prakriti and Ananda loved one another, but their love was not meant to be consummated in their lifetime. They were prevented by the girl’s mother and by the Buddha himself, who compelled Ananda to keep his vow of celibacy. Richard told me that he had decided to write an opera based on the story, that it was to be the crowning achievement of his career. Then he introduced me to the doctrine of rebirth or karma, metempsychosis, as he called it, and explained how he felt that he was the reincarnation of Ananda and that I was Prakriti, the Chandala maiden. He told me too of the distinction between the pain of this world, Sansara, as the Indians call it, and Nirvana, the Annihilation of the individual soul into the Absolute.

  “So overcome was I by his passionate eloquence that I succumbed rapidly to his advances, and for a few weeks we were happy together. Richard said now that I was his inspiration for this Buddhist opera, and that I was his everything. Indeed, he began quoting to me from one of his favorite Indian books, the Upanishads: tat tvam asi, he said over and over to me in Sanskrit, ‘That thou art,’ my All. He rapidly sketched out the opera and read it to me. He called it The Victors, and began calling me Savitri, another name of the Indian maid. I was overwhelmed.

  “We decided, at Richard’s suggestion, to keep our relationship a secret. This would protect our love until he could divorce Minna and we could live the rest of our lives together. I agreed, and could think only of following him and being with him forever.

  “In a short time, however, everything came to an end. Minna, realising that I would not go to her, came to fetch me. Upon her arrival, Richard, rather than being at all harsh with her, welcomed her warmly. I suddenly found myself pushed aside. I became hurt and angry. Richard insisted that I was being foolish and misinterpreting his actions, th
at we would gain nothing in the long run by alienating Minna. Reassured, I kept my own counsel.

  “Two weeks after Minna’s return, Richard announced that he had been invited to London to conduct a performance of Rienzi at Covent Garden and then of Lohengrin in Paris. He did not know exactly how long he would be gone, but that I should not worry. He said that I would join him at the first moment after he had settled in England, and that he would send for me, that he would ask a friend to take me to him. He would then write to Minna and explain the situation, and that she should grant him a divorce.

  “The day he left, my heart sank. Already fearful, I could only wait. I never saw him again. A month went by. I received two notes, saying that all was well, that he loved me, but that the rehearsals had taken all his time, and that it would perhaps be better if I met him after he arrived in Paris.

  “Another month passed. To my consternation, I learned that I was now carrying his child. I despaired, for I had heard nothing for weeks from Richard. I wrote him a passionate letter in secret to his Paris address. I explained my condition to him. I received no reply. Two weeks later, my letter was returned to me from France, unopened and unread.

  “One night, missing him so much, I decided to enter his room. There, surrounded by his books, his clothes, and his other possessions, I sat at his desk, looking out the window at the stars. The full moon lit the room. I began to weep. I cried as a child who had grown too quickly into adulthood. In retrospect, I realise how heinous his crimes were, for I was indeed a mere child.

  “I reached instinctively into the top drawer of his desk for something with which to dry my eyes, when I saw a letter in Richard’s handwriting. It was addressed to a Frau Wesendonck, the wife of a family friend. I shall never forget the words that he addressed to her: ‘You are my Savitri, and I your Ananda! Forever, we shall be together. Happy Savitri! You may now follow your lover everywhere, be around him and with him constantly ! Happy Ananda! She is now close to you, you have won her, never to lose her. You are my All, and I yours.’

  “Stunned by this evidence of his betrayal, my heart suddenly became as cold as ice. I vowed revenge. I returned to my room to spend the rest of a sleepless night plotting the slow cruel death of Richard Wagner.

  “In the morning, I decided that I would tell all that had happened to Minna, for I believed that, whatever her faults, she truly loved me. My trust was not misplaced. Minna at first was dismayed by my revelations, but in the end she was relieved. She now realized that she could no longer remain the wife of Richard Wagner. It was then, in the kitchen of that small house, that she told me the truth, that I was not her younger sister, but her own daughter. It was then that I learned her terrible secret. Relieved by the truth, we embraced for the first time as mother and daughter. That morning, we packed our things, notified the landlord that what remained belonged to Herr Wagner, and left. Minna was careful to take all of Richard Wagner’s letters and documents with her, including the letter that I had found to Frau Wesendonck. We went to her father’s house, where we remained until the child was born. During this time, Minna divulged nothing of my secret to anyone. Indeed, you and your companion are the first, Mr. Holmes, to know. She used the letter to Frau Wesendonck to mark publicly her break with Wagner. Of my condition, Wagner never knew anything. Only my grandmother and Minna were aware that I was to give birth.

  “The child was a girl, and Minna convinced me to give her up for adoption. She had known for many years an American doctor by the name of Jenkins, who had been many years resident in Dresden. He had originally served in the American consulate, and then, because he loved Germany so much, decided to remain in a private capacity for several years after he left government service. He and his wife were childless. Minna, without naming the father, explained the situation that, since her own health was not that good and her parents were now old and indigent, it would be best if he could help find a home. He decided on the spot to take the child in adoption himself, and to return with her to America where he and his wife would raise her as his own. He insisted that I remain under his care during and after the pregnancy, and he assisted at the birth. Except for the kindness shown by this American gentleman and his wife, I do not think that I could have lived through those few months. He also gave us a sizable sum of money, which Minna invested. Though the income was not great, it was enough for us to live frugally.

  “Minna’s parents died within a few months of each other, and Minna herself was in poor health. It was shortly after their death that Minna learned from friends that Wagner had secretly taken up with Cosima, the wife of his friend Hans von Bülow. She must still have harbored some love towards Wagner, for she took this news very badly; for her it appeared to be a particularly heavy blow. I have no doubt that Wagner’s latest treachery hastened her death. I watched her through her last illness and was with her when she died. As soon as he learned of Minna’s death, Wagner announced his intention to marry Cosima, by whom he had already fathered one child and with whom he was expecting a second. Cosima asked her husband for a divorce, and the disconsolate Hans von Bülow could only acquiesce bitterly in a situation that was already a fait accompli. The only dissenting voice came from her father, Franz Liszt, who made his feelings known quite clearly to Cosima that he regarded their liaison and approaching marriage with the greatest apprehension.

  “As her heir, I inherited all of Minna’s property, including all the letters and documents that she had accumulated through the years with Richard Wagner. It is a substantial collection, one that I have read through carefully. It is a catalogue of treachery, of vicious dishonesty to his friends and acquaintances, but mostly to the women who crossed his path. In going through these things, I found a box marked with the word “Poisons. From the apothecary Obrist.” I learned from Minna’s notes that several years before, when their dog Peps lay in his death agony, Wagner had been given some strong poisons by Obrist, an apothecary who had inherited a large number of poisons from a retiring apothecary in Zurich. They were to be used to put a merciful end to the dog’s agony. The dog died before Wagner returned, and the poisons were never used.

  “Here, then, I had my tools. There were over a dozen vials, each marked with a different poison. There was also a small pamphlet inside which explained their effects, both long and short term, and how they could be administered medically. I knew nothing of such things, and since I wished to proceed slowly and deliberately, I took a position in the shop of an apothecary in Dresden, where I apprenticed, learning all there was to learn of medicines as well as poisons and how to measure them out. I became quite expert within a few months. I now knew which ones could be absorbed through the skin, which ones could be inhaled, and which ones could be most effective through ingestion.

  “The only question that remained was how they could be delivered to him effectively and without harm to anyone else. I wished to have him suffer, to make him sick with a variety of ailments before he died, but I harbored no hatred for anyone else. For Cosima, his latest Savitri, his most beloved Isolde, I had nothing but pity, for she was given the worst in this vale of Sansara.

  “It was only fitting that, in my quest for the means by which to poison him, Wagner himself should come to my aid. Having heard nothing from him since the notes he sent from London, not even a word acknowledging the death of Minna, I received one morning a letter from him, written in Lucerne and dated 27 November 1868. It was characteristic of him that it mentioned nothing of our relationship, nor his long marriage to Minna. He wanted something, and went directly to the point:

  I have a favour to ask you today which I have kept on forgetting until now. Among the objects which remained in Minna’s household in Dresden, and which were all transferred to her at her request, is a present which Countess d’Agoult gave me and which only negligence could have persuaded Minna to regard as one of her possessions. It is a small Chinese Buddha, a kind of gilt idol, enclosed in a small casket of black wood, the doors of which used to open to reveal the small st
atue inside. God knows what Minna did with this piece: at all events, it was not right of her if she gave it away. May I ask you to endeavor to obtain the return of this piece for me: if the present owner is indelicate enough not to return this keepsake at once, in return for the above declaration, I am ultimately willing to pay whatever compensation may be necessary to ensure its return.

  “I found the piece in one of Minna’s trunks marked RW. It had not been given away, for Minna had been scrupulous about Wagner’s things. How fitting! In triumph, like some divine object, I held up this piece of cheap Oriental junk to the sky, contemplating its sacred nature, knowing that this idol would be the first vehicle of my revenge. That night, using the poisons that my mother had preserved, and protecting myself with the face masks and garments of the apothecary, I carefully covered the idol with a dust that was easily absorbed through the skin and could easily be inhaled. It was my own formula made from the poisons for his dog Peps. I wrapped it carefully and sent it to Wagner marked: “Richard Wagner. Personal. To be opened only by him.” Inside I put a note: ‘tat tvam asi.’ I left it unsigned. The piece arrived at Tribschen, the Wagners’ home, on 16 January 1869. A week later, a notice appeared in the Dresden newspapers that Herr Wagner had been taken ill with what appeared to be erysipelas and mysterious spasms of the legs that had forced him to cancel his conducting engagements indefinitely. My plan was working. The first dose was a success. But how to continue on a regular basis, until the end?

  “I finally found the way. This time, however, it was Minna who led me to the solution. In her diaries, she mentioned that Wagner spent hours preparing his music paper for his notations, that he refused to have anyone draw even the lines of the staff for him. When he could not compose, when he felt the music blocked, he would spend long hours ruling large sheets of paper in preparation for when the music rushed into his head. He had to have complete control over this aspect of his artistic life and he insisted that no one else do it for him. He experimented with a variety of pens and pencils, even finding a new kind of pencil whose lead, when mixed with water, became indelible. Finally, he had chosen a special ink made only in Dresden by a small firm called Windisch and Company, suggested to him by his brother-in-law Hermann Brockhaus. The Brockhaus Publishing Firm used the inks of this firm in their best publications. The recommendation was enough for Wagner, and he had used only these inks in the score of the Ring, Tristan, and now Parsifal. He spent hours mixing the inks carefully. What better vehicle could there be than these dusts and chemicals, ones that he insisted no one else touch? Again, how fitting, for I would be poisoning not only him, but the physical expression of the music itself. The more he wrote, the sicker he would become, for I was not anxious that he should die quickly.