by Frank Tallis
She took a step forward. Then, holding her gown at the hip, she raised it a little and stood on her toes. It was a curious, balletic movement – presumably meant to be some kind of parody of elegance.
'Do you think me pretty, Doctor Liebermann?'
Liebermann coughed uncomfortably, which reminded him that since Katherine's arrival, Miss Lydgate – or at least her dormant personality – had not coughed once.
Katherine tilted her head, clearly expecting an answer.
Liebermann swallowed before delivering his careful judgement: 'Yes.'
Satisfied but unsmiling, Katherine looked towards the door.
'Where is your friend?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Yellow hair, blue eyes – and . . .'
'I think you mean Doctor Kanner.'
Katherine did not respond. Instead, she walked towards the sink where – on catching sight of herself in the mirror – she paused to arrange her hair. Piling it up with both hands, she turned her head this way and that to study the effect from several different angles. Dissatisfied, she frowned and let it tumble down again, a cascade of burnished copper.
'I don't like him,' she said bluntly.
'Why not?'
'You are very inquisitive, Doctor Liebermann.'
Trailing her hand around the porcelain bowl, Katherine moved towards the table.
'What is this?'
'A battery.'
Katherine released the hasp and opened the box. After examining the contents, she closed the lid again.
'How is your arm?' Liebermann asked.
Katherine raised her right hand, causing the sleeve of her gown to fall and collect in folds around her shoulder. Then she examined her elbow and wrist.
'There is nothing wrong with my arm,' she replied. Then, turning, she walked back to the bed.
Pushing both palms on the mattress, Katherine lifted herself up. She manoeuvred herself into a sitting position and resumed swinging her legs. Suddenly her expression became quite vacant. It was as though, having performed a limited repertoire of actions, she was now in a state of suspension, waiting for the next cue or prompt.
Liebermann wondered whether Katherine would respond to a command. In all likelihood, 'Katherine' would not be a fully developed personality but merely a part of Miss Lydgate's mind that had become separated, achieving a degree of independence. Amelia Lydgate was still in a trance state. Therefore Liebermann deduced that Katherine might still be susceptible to hypnotic suggestion. Recovering some of his former authority, he said firmly: 'Lie down, Katherine.'
For a second or two, Katherine remained still. Then she swung her legs up and around before lying back. Liebermann sighed with relief.
'Amelia was telling me about what happened when Herr Schelling came into her room,' said Liebermann.
'Was she?'
'Yes. Were you there that night?'
'Of course I was.'
'Did you see Herr Schelling come into the room?'
'It was very dark.'
'What can you remember?'
Katherine's nose wrinkled and her mouth twisted.
'It was disgusting.'
'What was?'
'That horrible moustache – the scratching. His face was like a pumice stone. Amelia was terrified. She should have pushed him off, but she did nothing. Her heart was pounding so loud that I could hear it.' She tapped the bedstead, imitating the frantic, limping beat of a fearful heart. 'He was slavering like a dog – and grabbing, grabbing, grabbing . . .'
Katherine fell silent.
'What happened next?' asked Liebermann.
'There was a flash of lightning,' Katherine continued. 'I saw the embroidery basket and the scissors. He was so lost in his slavering and grabbing that it was easy to reach out.
Kill him, I said. Pick up the scissors and stab him in the back.
But Amelia did not move. I heard her say No – I can't.
I urged her: Come on, you must. She said again, I can't. Her arm wouldn't move. So I said, Very well, I'll do it if you won't. I picked up the scissors, but Herr Schelling moved. Lightning, another flash. He was kneeling, looking down at me. Then darkness – but the picture stayed in my mind. A silhouette-head, shoulders – the curled ends of his moustache. I sat up, and thrust out with the scissors . . . I heard him gasp. I could feel some resistance and I pushed harder. He cursed – the mattress bounced as he changed position – and then he fell off the bed. There was a tremendous crash and more cursing. The door opened and then slammed shut and . . . and he was gone. I put the scissors back in the basket and pulled the blanket up to my neck. Outside the rain was falling. I could hear it drumming on the roof and splashing on the pavement below. Suddenly I felt weak. Tired and exhausted.' Katherine yawned and covered her mouth.
'Are you tired now?'
'A little . . .'
'Then sleep,' said Liebermann. 'You are safe here, Katherine. Let your eyes close, and you will fall asleep very soon.'
Katherine's eyelids trembled, and within moments her breathing became stertorous. Liebermann sat perfectly still, watching his slumbering patient.
'Doctor Liebermann?'
His shoulders jerked back with surprise.
Amelia Lydgate's eyes had opened again.
'Doctor Liebermann,' she continued. 'Could I have a glass of water, please? I am very thirsty.'
She was speaking in German.
35
THE THIRD RECEPTION room of the von Rath residence was supposed to be more intimate than the first and second, but it was still immense by ordinary standards. The ceiling was decorated with an awesome painting in the classical style, which showed pipe-playing rustics cavorting with nymphs below a powder-blue sky. At both ends of the room were fireplaces of red marble supporting high, gilded French mirrors, and the walls were hung with old Gobelin tapestries. By a long row of shuttered windows busts of ancient philosophers and gods, mounted on malachite plinths, stared at the company with opaque and sightless eyes.
Bruckmüller lit a tree of candles and placed the stand behind his fiancée. He then signalled to Hölderlin who extinguished the gaslights. The room instantly shrank, its centre becoming a sphere of hazy luminosity in a vast enveloping darkness.
When both men had returned to the table, Cosima von Rath examined her guests. It had been several months since she had last attended Fräulein Löwenstein's circle, but none of those present looked any different – except for the Count, perhaps, whose conspicuously swollen eye was studiously ignored by everyone.
To her immediate left sat Bruckmüller, then Uberhorst – nervously locking and unlocking his delicate little fingers – then the Count and, directly opposite, Natalie Heck – whose wide-open eyes had become as black as cinder pits. To Cosima's right sat the Hölderlins: first Juno, blinking into the candlelight, and then Heinrich, his face set in an attitude of solemnity. Braun, the handsome young artist, was a notable absentee.
Cosima's ample figure cast a mountainous shadow across the polished surface of the round table. The letters of the alphabet and every number from zero to nine – all in Gothic script – were arranged in twin arcs on glazed tiles. Beneath these were four larger tiles on which could be read the words Yes, No, Possibly and Goodbye. In the centre of this arrangement was the planchette – a heart-shaped piece of wood mounted on three small castor wheels.
'Are we ready?'
The company whispered their assent.
'Then let us begin.'
Cosima rested a fat finger on the planchette, an action that was repeated by each of the company in turn.
'We are gathered here this evening to discover the fate of our friends Charlotte Löwenstein and Otto Braun. If there is a kindly spirit present who can assist us in our quest, please make yourself known.'
The planchette did not move.
Cosima's ample bosom rose and fell as she sighed. A precious stone flashed on her ankh.
'In the name of Isis and Osiris, Adonay, Elohim, Ariel, and Je
hovam we humbly beg you, great spirits, who are in possession of the most priceless Treasure of the Light. Please assist us.'
A suffocating silence followed.
'None of us have the power,' said Záborszky, with characteristic bluntness.
'My dear Count,' said Cosima, turning her flat, round face towards the eccentric aristocrat, 'None of us have Fräulein Löwenstein's special gift. Yet—'
'We need a clairvoyant,' he cut in. 'A proper one.'
'If we are sincere in our wishes,' said Cosima, ignoring Záborszky's interruption, 'then the spirits will help us.' Looking around at the assembly she added: 'Please, we must all concentrate. Think of Fräulein Löwenstein, and open your hearts to the influence of the higher powers. Come, blessed spirits, come . . .' The pitch of her voice climbed and wobbled with an emotional vibrato. 'Come spirits, come . . .'
The planchette flinched, darting an inch or so from its central position.
Natalie Heck gasped and threw a sidelong glance in the direction of Count Záborszky.
'There, you see!' cried Cosima reproachfully. 'They are here . . . the spirits have arrived.'
The Count seemed indifferent.
'Who are you?' continued Cosima. 'Who are you, oh Spirit, who has answered our call?'
The planchette moved in small circles before flying towards the first arc of letters. The narrow end of the wooden heart, which served as a pointer, stopped abruptly below the letter F. After a brief pause, the planchette visited the letters L-O-R-E-S-T-A and finally N.
'Florestan,' said Cosima, beaming with satisfaction. 'Greetings, Florestan, you who are now in possession of the Treasure of the Light. What was your profession, Florestan, when you were incarnate?'
The planchette spelt out: KAPELLMEISTER.
'Where?'
SALZBURG.
'And when did you leave the realm of material things?'
1791.
'Will you help us, Florestan?'
YES.
'Blessed Spirit – it has been two weeks since our dear sister Charlotte Löwenstein left this world. Does she wish to communicate with us?'
The planchette did not move.
'Does she have a message for us?'
Nothing.
'Can we speak to her?'
Still there was no movement.
Záborszky sniffed and said quietly: 'This Florestan is too feeble. We must summon a more potent spirit.'
'Dearest Count,' said Cosima, forcing a smile, 'we must show respect to all emissaries from the world of light.'
Frau Hölderlin, who was sitting next to Cosima, turned and whispered sharply: 'Ask again.'
'Florestan,' Cosima called, her voice still quivering, 'does Charlotte Löwenstein wish to communicate with us?'
Silence.
'Ask him what happened,' hissed Frau Hölderlin. 'Ask him what happened to her?'
'Was Charlotte Löwenstein taken by –' Cosima ventured tentatively '– a higher power?'
The planchette rolled around the table and halted close to where it had begun.
YES.
'Of the first altitude?'
NO.
'The second?'
NO.
'The third?' Incredulity had transformed Cosima von Rath's soprano into an unfeasibly high squeal.
The planchette rolled across the table to the adjacent tile.
YES.
The company began to whisper among themselves.
'But why?' Cosima wailed.
The whispering subsided and the planchette rolled towards the letters where it spelt out: SIN.
'Which sin?'
VANITY.
Cosima, her plump neck vibrating with excitement, asked: 'Did she attempt to make a higher power do her bidding?'
YES.
'For what purpose?'
The planchette failed to respond and a tidal silence washed back into the room.
'What was her purpose?' Cosima repeated.
The planchette remained resolutely still.
'Where is she?' Cosima continued. 'Where was she taken?'
Nothing.
'What about Otto?' said Natalie Heck. 'Ask what happened to Otto.'
Cosima acknowledged the request by inclining her head.
'Florestan – where is Herr Braun?'
Again, nothing.
'Was Herr Braun taken too?'
The planchette stirred and rolled gently towards an answer: NO.
'Is he still alive?'
The wooden heart rolled in several wide circles and ground to a halt on an empty patch of table, giving no discernible answer.
Uberhorst coughed to attract attention and said hesitantly: 'Please . . . I would like to ask a question.'
'Of course,' Cosima replied.
'I want to know if . . . if I should tell them?'
'Tell them? Tell who?'
'It is . . .' Uberhorst paused and then added: 'A private matter.'
'My dear fellow.' It was Bruckmüller, and his resonant voice seemed to shake the table. 'You are among friends!'
The little locksmith's pince-nez caught the light. His eyes were two ovals of flickering flame.
'It is a private matter, Herr Bruckmüller.'
The Count – who was seated next to Uberhorst – addressed him as though no one else was present. His tone was casual.
'She told you something? Fräulein Löwenstein?'
The locksmith searched the ring of faces for a sympathetic expression but was unable to find one.
'Herr Uberhorst,' said Cosima, 'if you want an answer to your question you must cooperate with the circle. We must assist the spirit Florestan with one will. This cannot be accomplished if you are guarding some secret.'
'Do you mean the police, Uberhorst?' said Hölderlin. 'Is that who you mean by them?'
Uberhorst took his hand off the planchette and began biting his nails.
'Please, all I want is . . .' The words were indistinct. 'All I want is a simple answer.' His panic was barely controlled. 'A Yes – or a No.'
The planchette moved, spiralling outwards and moving faster until it stopped abruptly among the letters.
TELL WHO?
'See,' said Bruckmüller, 'the spirit needs clarification, Uberhorst.'
'It is a matter of honour' Herr Bruckmüller, I cannot say any more.'
WHO? the planchette demanded.
'Herr Uberhorst,' said Cosima, 'Please do not deny the spirit emissary.'
Uberhorst shook his head.
'Very well, Herr Uberhorst,' Cosima continued. 'I will try on your behalf, but I do not believe that we shall meet with much success. Florestan, spirit, possessor of the Treasure of the Light: should Herr Uberhorst tell—' she paused, and raised her eyebrows. '
Them?'
Uberhorst placed his finger back on the planchette.
The device remained perfectly still.
'There you are,' said Cosima. 'I thought as much.'
The company looked towards Uberhorst. He was staring at the planchette – his gaze transfixed on the wooden heart.
'This is not right,' he said softly.
'What do you mean?' asked Cosima. 'Not right?'
'I cannot believe . . .' Uberhorst's voice was torpid, as though he was talking through a dream. 'I cannot believe that Fräulein Löwenstein was taken – removed – by some demon. She was too good a person. Too kind.'
'To you, perhaps,' said Natalie under her breath. Uberhorst looked up. He could not see the seamstress's face very well, only the large glass earring dangling from her ear.
'Herr Uberhorst,' said Frau Hölderlin, 'the spirit says that Fräulein Löwenstein was guilty of the sin of vanity. And much as I admired her, much as I was impressed by her gift—'
'She was a very vain woman,' said Natalie, helping Frau Hölderlin's sentence to its inevitable conclusion.
'But undeniably very beautiful,' said Záborszky.
'Indeed,' said Hölderlin. 'However, we must remember that possession of physical beauty can
easily weaken the moral faculty. Is it not generally the case that those whom we call beautiful are also peculiarly vulnerable to the sins of pride and vanity?'
'I'm surprised to hear you say that, Hölderlin,' said Záborszky.
'Why?' Hölderlin snapped back at him.
'You seemed to appreciate her beauty as much as the next man.'
'What on Earth do you mean by tha—'
'Gentlemen!' Cosima von Rath's voice was shrill and angry.
'Here, here,' barked Bruckmüller.
'Gentlemen, please!' Cosima blew out her cheeks and her retroussé nose, squeezed between bulging flesh, looked alarmingly like a snout. 'We must proceed.'
Frau Hölderlin squinted at her husband whose pate glittered with tiny beads of perspiration.
'Florestan,' Cosima cried. 'Florestan, is there anything we can do to help our departed sister Charlotte?'
The planchette rolled around the table top and stopped abruptly.
NO.
'Shall we pray for her salvation?'
The planchette traced another circle.
NO.
'Then what shall we do?'
Rolling from side to side, the planchette hovered in the noncommittal spaces of the table top before finally dropping and colliding with the largest of the tiles: GOODBYE.
'He has gone,' Cosima said, a note of melancholy lowering the volume of her voice.
Herr Uberhorst was the first to remove his finger from the planchette. His movement was swift and sudden, as though he had accidentally touched the hot plate of a stove. Frau Hölderlin, blinking frantically, was still staring at her husband.
Part Three
The Beethoven Frieze
36
THE CAB RATTLED off and was quickly absorbed into the steady flow of traffic: omnibuses, trams, and a veritable fleet of horse-drawn carts. The stalls of the Naschmarkt had spilled right up to the Secession building and the air was filled with noise: fishmongers, butchers and bakers – costermongers, barrow boys, and pedlars – all of their voices combining to create a disharmonious commercial chorus. Down the Linke Wienzeile, the most conspicuous building was the Theatre an der Wien, the venue where Beethoven's Fidelio had first been performed a hundred years earlier. It seemed fitting to Liebermann that the Secessionists should celebrate the great composer's genius only yards away from a site of almost spiritual significance.
