The schumann proof, p.7
The Schumann Proof, page 7
“What’s really bothering you?” he asked.
“I didn’t know anything was, until now.”
“Whenever you turn acerbic, I know something’s wrong. What is it?”
“Too many helping hands, I think.”
“In general, or are you talking about music?”
“Music, mostly. Would you believe the president of the Conservatory offered me a job today?”
“Which you refused.” His smile returned. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I took another drag on my cigarette and shrugged. “Not really.”
Léo didn’t take offence. We seldom discussed my ambivalence about working in music. For the most part, he acknowledged it unspoken, like an unadmitted countercurrent troubling a close friend’s love affair. Even when he’d first suggested I play at Evelyn, he’d put forth the matter diffidently, worried I might bite his head off.
A knock on the door interrupted us. He answered and held a brief conference on the other side. When he returned to his desk, I addressed the other matter I’d come to see him about.
“Do you think I could go up to Caledon this weekend?”
“Of course.”
“It’s for Evelyn’s book,” I explained. “The marsh marigolds are coming on. The shots I have aren’t good enough. The saturation’s terrible. The yellow hardly shows at all. I’m hoping it’ll be overcast on Friday or Saturday so I can try again.”
Léo straightened a pen against the edge of a leather-sided blotter. “You know, Vikkan,” he said, not looking up, “I get the feeling you could have spared yourself the trouble of coming by today. You didn’t have to remind me about tomorrow night. You hardly need my permission to go to Caledon for a visit. And you certainly don’t have to invent excuses.” His eyes strayed to the photo on his desk again. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to go back. Evelyn’s up there now.”
“I thought she was in Montreal.”
“She flew into Pearson International yesterday.”
I had planned on spending a day or two alone on Léo’s property, but on second thought, I realized Evelyn’s company would be welcome, someone to help take the sting out of memories. “Thank you, Léo,” I said. “Thanks to both of you.”
In the silence that followed, he needlessly tidied a stack of invoices. I finished my cigarette and crushed it gently in an onyx ashtray.
“How is Evelyn’s book going?” he asked.
“Fine. I found a photographer who specializes in printing onto unusual materials, everything from canvas to Formica. He says there’ll be no problem treating vellum to receive an image. But it’s going to be expensive. There could be well over a hundred and fifty plates.”
“Let me worry about that. How’s the rest progressing?”
“The written stuff? Slow but sure. It’s hard keeping the descriptions down to a single page the way I want. Words like acuminate, verruculose and galactogogue take up a lot of space.”
“Whatever they mean.” He shook his head. “Evelyn’s so excited about this, you know.”
“It’s a hell of a gift. For me, as well as her.”
A small clock on Leo’s desk said it was nearly two, reminding me that I had an appointment with Ulrike in half an hour. Something told me she wouldn’t take kindly to my showing up late, so I made apologies and got up to leave. Léo walked me to the door, his arm across my shoulders.
Downstairs, I went in search of Rosemary.
“A table for two at six?” she said, opening a maroon-bound ledger. “No problem.” I could tell from the careful way she pencilled in my name that she wanted details.
“It’s just a friend, Rosemary.”
“Of course,” she said sweetly. “Anything special from the kitchen?”
Why not? “Orange roughy in lemongrass. Rice with chive flowers. Steamed asparagus. A small radicchio salad.”
“Something light, in other words. A female friend?”
“A singer. She’s performing afterward. Hard to do that on a full stomach.”
I had some difficulty finding Ulrike’s, since the streets in her part of lower Rosedale had been laid out with an eye to whimsy, not ease of access. The address she’d given was on a keyhole-shaped cul-de-sac with a raised, circular flowerbed at the end. I drove around the gracious planting of salmon-coloured tulips and pulled up in front of a narrow brick house. An asphalt driveway, too short to park in, sloped down to a one-car basement garage. Beside it, three very tall and slender cypresses separated her property from the one on the left. To the right, trimmed yews and junipers formalized an expensively green front lawn.
Ulrike answered the door herself, mannishly elegant in tailored slacks and a long-sleeved blouse. I was a bit surprised; I’d expected her to have a maid or servant, someone to act as a buffer between her and her callers.
“This way,” she murmured, leading me down a parqueted hallway with rooms on either side. At the far end, a kitchen done entirely in black and white gave onto a landing, from which a half-flight of stairs descended into a long sitting room. Generous French doors at the far end admitted sunlight from a spruce-bordered back yard.
Mann was already there, sitting in a chair that looked as if it might be Biedermeier. “So, Vikkan,” he said, getting up, “once again you are called in to help on short notice. My fault, this time, I’m afraid. I trust you’ll forgive me when you see what we’ll be doing.”
He motioned me to a Bösendorfer hulking imperially in front of the French doors. I went over, confused. I’d been under the impression I was there at Ulrike’s request.
“You’ll have to sight-read, of course, but I promise, no transposition this time.” He winked. “I’ve spoken to Ulrike and told her she should thank you for being so accommodating on Monday night.”
His teasing brought forth a tight smile from Ulrike. “Herr Professor speaks very highly of you,” she said. “I trust you can appreciate the compliment.”
“Thank you,” I said—to Mann. “So, what are we doing?”
He gestured to a sheaf of music on the rack. “Have a look.”
I pulled out the bench and sat down. A title page in ornate Fraktur script lay on top. Robert Schumann, it said, Liederkreis über Texten von Ebert. Als Geschenk seiner geliebten Braut zugeeignet. The name of the publisher appeared at the bottom, along with a date in Roman numerals.
I began leafing through the sheets, pivoting them aside between my thumb and forefinger. The paper was yellowed and had a furrowed, sturdy texture that told me it came from a time before the brittling use of chlorine and alum. There were fifteen songs in all. I gave each a cursory glance, just enough to establish how difficult they’d be to play.
“I don’t know them,” I said, turning the stack over, thinking it would have been easier to work from a bound copy. “But I shouldn’t have too much trouble.”
Mann chuckled. “But I didn’t expect you to know them. In fact, I’d have been very surprised if you did.” He leaned over my shoulder. “Perhaps you should look at them again.” The expression on his face made me think of a grandfather encouraging his grandson to open a special Christmas gift. “Go on,” he nodded.
The title page was on top, so I reread: Robert Schumann. Liederkreis—Song Cycle—on texts by Ebert. Dedicated as a gift to his beloved fiancée.
“I was under the impression Schumann only wrote two Liederkreise,” I said. “Opus twenty-four and thirty-nine. He gave his other cycles descriptive titles, like Dichterliebe and Frauenliebe und Leben. At any rate, this one’s new to me.”
Mann’s look transformed into one of comical disappointment. “Really, Vikkan, you’re not paying attention. Check the date.”
I hadn’t bothered with the Roman numerals at the bottom of the page: MDCCCXXXIX. I started deciphering: M for one thousand, three C’s after the D for eight hundred, three X’s for thirty... Something clicked. Eighteen hundred plus thirty plus nine—a few too many X’s and one L short of a date known to every student of music history: eighteen-forty, the year Schumann first turned to writing lieder.
Mann saw my look of comprehension. “You paid attention in school after all,” he commented drily.
“You mean this isn’t what it says it is?” Unknown works resurface from time to time, but usually as manuscripts, not fully printed editions. Schumann couldn’t have published a Liederkreis prior to his famous “year of song” without there being some record. “Is it a fraud?”
“You’re still missing something,” he said, wagging his finger, his eyes twinkling. “Something obvious.”
What was he getting at? One by one, I turned the loose sheets over again, exasperated that he wouldn’t just tell me what was going on. The pages were all of slightly different dimensions, making it difficult to lift them individually. I was prising one of the narrower ones up with a fingernail when it dawned on me. The pages themselves—they’d all been cut and trimmed by hand. No trace of binding showed along the edges. The publication had no cover. And when I turned back to the title page, I saw that it had no opus number.
“These are publisher’s proofs, aren’t they?” I said, turning to Mann. “Galleys for making corrections.”
He patted my shoulder. “Very good. That is indeed what they are.”
I recalled his comment at the airport, the one about “questionable possessions” in his briefcase. Was this what he’d been talking about?
“Are you saying this is an undiscovered work?” It didn’t seem possible. A song cycle by Schumann in pre-publication form that had never made it to the history books? The composer’s writings and correspondence were amongst the best-documented of the nineteenth century. “Where did it come from? Why hasn’t anyone heard of it?”
Mann stepped back from the piano. “Later, Vikkan, later. Enough mystery and surprises for now. What I need from you is not questions, but an accompaniment. One that is complete. Ulrike and I have been over the songs, but sadly, the bass was missing a few notes.” He held up his left hand, minus its thumb and index joint.
Ulrike, who’d been seated while we spoke, rose and put a hand on his arm. “Are you sure this is right, Dieter? David knows the music already, from the copies you sent. Would it not be better to wait? I sing so much better if the pianist is...secure. Wenn es keine Fehler gibt.” When there are no mistakes.
“Ulrike, Schätzi,” he chided, “du hast schon mit Vikkan gearbeitet. Du weißt, er ist sehr begabt.” He looked over to see if I’d understood: You’ve already worked with Vikkan; you know he’s very gifted.
She carried on as if I weren’t present. “Ja, gewiß. Aber...” Yes, of course, but...
“No buts. I will be here only a few days. We may not get another chance.”
She looked extremely unhappy, but capitulated by going over to her music stand and arranging pages. It struck me as odd that Mann had provided her with copies, but was expecting me to play from the original. It seemed risky. Pages get torn being flipped one-handed in the heat of a performance.
“Begin when you like,” Mann directed, settling back in his chair. “And Ulrike—relax the tempo in the songs marked bewegt. Also where it says ziemlich rasch.”
I wondered if they’d discussed this before, or whether he was obliquely telling her to go easy on me. Bewegt and rasch are the German for allegro. Lickety-split. Hell to play at sight.
She took her time getting ready, rolling her neck and massaging her jaw, then going through facial contortions to relax her throat. Finally, she squared her shoulders and nodded. I placed my fingers on the keys and stroked out the opening chords. Four bars later, she entered:
Dämm’rung ist mir ach! so leise
Murmeln Bäume Abendweise...
The songs were beautiful. Exquisite preludes set the mood; haunting postludes whispered wordless paraphrases at the end. Seamless piano lines wove around melodies that rose and fell in perfect concord with the text. Yearning dissonances pierced the lush, poignant harmonies. Whoever the composer, he’d been touched by genius.
The poetry told a simple narrative of love—found, lost and recovered—through customary Romantic metaphors. Cypresses and lindens, forests and glades, twilight, mountains and castles abounded. But the music spoke where the cliches could not, distilling essence from the words, alchemizing them into pure gold.
Mann said nothing during the run-through. He sat perfectly still, only once shifting his weight from one side of the chair to the other during a break between songs.
Ulrike’s mastery of style and phrasing was superb. I could well understand the comparisons to Schwarzkopf; her upper notes had a similar breathtaking, maternal warmth. Just the same, I noticed some roughness in her tone, especially in the lower register. She shot small, nervous glances toward Mann whenever it showed up.
It took over an hour to go through the cycle. When we finished, I felt completely drained. Ulrike’s expressive rubato, tough enough to follow even when I wasn’t sightreading, had kept me on my toes. Mann’s intense focus on us had brought on an unaccustomed bout of nerves. I let my head slump forward, then glanced at him. He appeared lost in thought, his earlier excitement attenuated.
“Well done,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “Very well done. Excellent work, Vikkan. Eleanor’s confidence in you is not misplaced. You must be exhausted.” He looked at Ulrike, who seemed lost in her own reverie. “Ulrike? Perhaps you could offer Vikkan something to drink?”
She shook her head to clear it. “Yes. Of course. What will you have?”
“Would coffee be too much trouble?”
“How do you take it?”
“Just with milk.”
She turned to Mann. “Dieter?”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a package of teabags wrapped in plastic film. “Just bring me some hot water in a cup, please.”
Ulrike crossed the long room and mounted the steps into the kitchen. Mann unwrapped his package, sniffed the contents, and made a selection. “A tonic,” he explained. “Woodruff and blackberry leaves. Revitalizes the system. You do not get to my age without some assistance.”
“Sorry to say, I’m addicted to coffee.”
“Coffee is not good for you.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I’d been expecting him to comment on the Liederkreis, or at least tell me what was going on, and here we were discussing beverages. “Thyme and strawberry leaves with chamomile make a good tonic, too,” I offered in what sounded like a variation on nice weather we’re having.
He looked amused. “It would appear that Eleanor is right. There is no subject on which you cannot converse intelligently.”
“She’s exaggerating. It’s just that I’m working on a project these days that keeps that sort of information close to hand.”
He listened with more than polite interest while I told him about the folio I was putting together for Evelyn St-Onge.
“So there’s a touch of the mediaeval scholar about you,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “I think I understand. It’s not unheard of for musicians to become fascinated with the natural world. Father loved birds, for example. Painted them remarkably well. I wonder if it has to do with the abstractness of our art. Nothing in the natural world resembles music. We need to be reminded of things concrete, tangible, so we don’t lose our way. Ah, here are our refreshments.”
Ulrike came down into the room with a tray holding Mann’s hot water, my coffee and a tumbler inverted over a bottle of Evian.
“Well?” she asked, serving us, pouring herself some water. “Shall we go on?”
Mann spent a long time dunking his teabag in his cup. “I think, Ulrike,” he said at last, “that once through is enough, don’t you agree? For now, at any rate.”
“But I am not satisfied. There were problems in several of the songs. I was...unaccustomed...to the playing.” She turned to me and issued a command. “We will do them again.”
“Not now, Ulrike.” Mann spoke firmly. “It won’t be necessary. And besides,” he consulted a pocket watch, “it’s getting on. I have students between five and seven.”
She looked very displeased and answered him stiffly. “Of course. I understand. I, too, have students. But we will have an opportunity again before you return to Vienna?”
“Natürlich.” He sipped his tisane of blackberry leaves and woodruff. “I do not leave until Saturday.”
She still wasn’t happy and began speaking to him in rapid German, which I took as a sign she didn’t want me in the conversation. I obligingly tuned her out, sipped coffee and longed for a cigarette.
Finally, Mann made a show of drinking up. “I really must be going,” he said, setting down his cup. “I don’t want to be late for my students.”
“Do you need a ride?” I asked.
“I don’t want to be a burden, but, yes, I would be most grateful.” He stood up, stooping slightly from having sat so long. “Do you know where?”
“Yes.” A friend of Elly’s over on Palmerston donated her salon and pristine Bechstein to Mann whenever he was in town.
“Do you wish to be paid, Vikkan?” Ulrike asked suddenly. “It is unlikely that I will require your services again. I have spoken with David, and his ailment appears to be healing. For which he thanks you, Dieter,” she added with a little nod to Mann.
“Maybe we should wait,” I said. “That way, if you need me again, you’ll only have to write one cheque. And may I say,” I added, growing tired of her lack of recognition for the work I’d already done, “it’s been a pleasure working with you.”
She accepted the compliment, oblivious to any sarcasm.
Mann collected the Liederkreis from the piano, wrapped it in what looked like a chamois, and placed it in his briefcase. Ulrike accompanied us to the front door and bid him a supplication-tinged Auf Wiedersehen.
Heading for the Rover, I asked him what she’d meant by attributing Bryce’s recovery to him.
“Oh, that,” he said, waving it away. “You know—we amateur naturopaths are always full of good advice.”
