Director! I am ill.’
Przistaupinsky moved forward, ‘Herr Director?’ Mahler acknowledged his secretary, but his expression was blank and distracted. ‘Detective Inspector Rheinhardt,’ Przistaupinsky pressed, ‘and his colleague Doctor Max Liebermann. From the security office.’ He pronounced the final words with particular emphasis, to ensure that they registered.
The director blinked, sighed and focused on the new arrivals.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. You will, I trust, make allowances for my discourteous behaviour. Unfortunately, I have something of a crisis on my hands.’ He looked back at the lachrymose tenor. ‘Schmedes. Wait here. Przistaupinsky, you wait with him, and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere!’ The director opened the door wider and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Please, Inspector, Herr Doctor, do come in.’
Rheinhardt and Liebermann both stole glances at the unfortunate Schmedes as they crossed the threshold. The singer was still pressing the wall with his palm and breathing heavily. He looked pitiful.
It was widely rumoured that Mahler ruled the opera house with an iron fist. Indeed, his detractors accused him of bullying. Liebermann had always questioned the accuracy of such reports, believing them to be either exaggerations or malicious gossip. He found it difficult to believe that someone capable of composing the heavenly alto solo from the Second Symphony could possibly be dictatorial or brutish. But now, looking at Schmedes, wretched and broken, he wasn’t so sure.
The director’s office was large and illuminated by a soft grey light that filtered through high windows. An upright piano stood against one wall, piled high with musical scores.
‘Please,’ said Mahler. ‘Do sit down.’
He offered Liebermann and Rheinhardt two chairs in front of his desk and sat on his own somewhat larger chair behind it.
Gustav Mahler was a small man, but his large head and strong features compensated for his diminutive stature. His long sloping forehead and oval spectacles gave him the appearance of an intellectual. Yet his face had none of the analytic frigidity of a habitual thinker. It was softened by a mane of dark hair, brushed backwards in the style of a romantic poet. Liebermann saw something of his own face reflected in the director’s, a certain physiognomic correspondence, a shared intensity of expression. Unusually, both he and the director were clean-shaven.
‘I could not believe it when I heard she was dead,’ said Mahler, toying with a pen for a moment before casting it aside. ‘Ida Rosenkrantz was a rare talent. Her voice was praised by the critics for its power, but she was also capable of performances of great subtlety. The softness of her attack was unique, the way she shaped every note, allowingeach pitch to grow into existence, to blossom. Her use of legato was always well judged, and in pianissimo passages her control was second to none. It will be impossible to find another singer to take her place. No one else could do justice to such a wide variety of roles: Louise, Senta, Violetta – she could sing them all. Her loss will be felt keenly, not only here in Vienna but wherever great music is loved and appreciated.’
‘Were you well acquainted with Fräulein Rosenkrantz?’ asked Rheinhardt. ‘Were you close?’
The director paused and brought his fingers together, the tips forming the apex of a steeple.
‘Inspector, I do not think I am in possession of any facts that will clarify the principal point of issue, which, as I understand it from my reading of the newspapers, relates to whether poor Ida committed suicide or died through mischance. You understand, I trust, that our relationship was strictly professional. We did not socialise. Be that as it may, I can promise you my full cooperation. I am very happy to grant you access to all areas of the opera house and to answer, within reason, any questions you may wish to ask me. However,’ Mahler
Przistaupinsky moved forward, ‘Herr Director?’ Mahler acknowledged his secretary, but his expression was blank and distracted. ‘Detective Inspector Rheinhardt,’ Przistaupinsky pressed, ‘and his colleague Doctor Max Liebermann. From the security office.’ He pronounced the final words with particular emphasis, to ensure that they registered.
The director blinked, sighed and focused on the new arrivals.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. You will, I trust, make allowances for my discourteous behaviour. Unfortunately, I have something of a crisis on my hands.’ He looked back at the lachrymose tenor. ‘Schmedes. Wait here. Przistaupinsky, you wait with him, and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere!’ The director opened the door wider and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Please, Inspector, Herr Doctor, do come in.’
Rheinhardt and Liebermann both stole glances at the unfortunate Schmedes as they crossed the threshold. The singer was still pressing the wall with his palm and breathing heavily. He looked pitiful.
It was widely rumoured that Mahler ruled the opera house with an iron fist. Indeed, his detractors accused him of bullying. Liebermann had always questioned the accuracy of such reports, believing them to be either exaggerations or malicious gossip. He found it difficult to believe that someone capable of composing the heavenly alto solo from the Second Symphony could possibly be dictatorial or brutish. But now, looking at Schmedes, wretched and broken, he wasn’t so sure.
The director’s office was large and illuminated by a soft grey light that filtered through high windows. An upright piano stood against one wall, piled high with musical scores.
‘Please,’ said Mahler. ‘Do sit down.’
He offered Liebermann and Rheinhardt two chairs in front of his desk and sat on his own somewhat larger chair behind it.
Gustav Mahler was a small man, but his large head and strong features compensated for his diminutive stature. His long sloping forehead and oval spectacles gave him the appearance of an intellectual. Yet his face had none of the analytic frigidity of a habitual thinker. It was softened by a mane of dark hair, brushed backwards in the style of a romantic poet. Liebermann saw something of his own face reflected in the director’s, a certain physiognomic correspondence, a shared intensity of expression. Unusually, both he and the director were clean-shaven.
‘I could not believe it when I heard she was dead,’ said Mahler, toying with a pen for a moment before casting it aside. ‘Ida Rosenkrantz was a rare talent. Her voice was praised by the critics for its power, but she was also capable of performances of great subtlety. The softness of her attack was unique, the way she shaped every note, allowingeach pitch to grow into existence, to blossom. Her use of legato was always well judged, and in pianissimo passages her control was second to none. It will be impossible to find another singer to take her place. No one else could do justice to such a wide variety of roles: Louise, Senta, Violetta – she could sing them all. Her loss will be felt keenly, not only here in Vienna but wherever great music is loved and appreciated.’
‘Were you well acquainted with Fräulein Rosenkrantz?’ asked Rheinhardt. ‘Were you close?’
The director paused and brought his fingers together, the tips forming the apex of a steeple.
‘Inspector, I do not think I am in possession of any facts that will clarify the principal point of issue, which, as I understand it from my reading of the newspapers, relates to whether poor Ida committed suicide or died through mischance. You understand, I trust, that our relationship was strictly professional. We did not socialise. Be that as it may, I can promise you my full cooperation. I am very happy to grant you access to all areas of the opera house and to answer, within reason, any questions you may wish to ask me. However,’ Mahler
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