The Schweinwald Journal of Harrison Harty

Today's episode in the serialization of The Labyrinth of Klavdia Klangfarben, my latest “classical music appreciation comedy-thriller,” is the final installment of the mysterious journal kept by a young composer named Harrison Harty when he was a student at the famous Schweinwald Academy in Bavaria back in the summer of 1880. The other installments had been major parts of the previous novel in the trilogy, The Lost Chord, which largely took place at the present-day Schweinwald Festspielhaus not far from the Old Falkenstein Castle that once housed a great music school.

Since this is one aspect of the earlier novels finding continuity in the present novel, I thought I would include links to the other installments for any of you wanting to read the rest of it. The original journal was in the possession of members of the Harty Family – LauraLynn Harty and her cousin, the composer Roberston Sullivan – and passed on to Dr. Kerr following Sullivan's murder. Only then is it discovered the last few pages were missing.

Basically, it begins innocently enough as young Harrison decides to go off in search of more advanced training in music and especially composition than he can find in his hometown in what is now Northern Ireland. When he arrives there, he joins other young composers he meets and forms a close circle with Gustav Mahler (who was then 20 and had not yet begun taking his composition studies as seriously as his future reputation would imply), Hans Rott and another English composer, Ethel Smyth who, because she was a girl, had to prove to everyone that girls could be composers, too. They prepare to study with the likes of headmaster Professor Dudley Böhm, organist Rainer Knussbaum (who would later write down his recollections of Beethoven and the Immortal Belovéd), theorist Heinrich von Hammerschlag and his wife, the pianist Elisabeth von Hammerschlag, taking classes in solfege with Lotte (“Doe”) Ramey, counterpoint with Emilio Fabbro and also with the Dean of Students, Nikolai Kashcheievich Bezsmyertnikov who was offering a seminar called "Nuance and Mockery in the Critique of New Music." It had been announced that Brahms, in the area for the summer, would pay them a brief visit and that Franz Liszt, passing through the region, would offer them an impromptu recital.

The school was seriously divided along political lines – the pro-Liszt faction of Bezsmyertnikov, arch-Romantics of the Futurist Persuasion, and the pro-Brahms faction of Fabbro and Hammerschlag, intent on preserving the Classical ideals without which the Future would be mere rubbish.

Then things take a serious turn when they discover one of the older students dead in front of the statue of the Academy's founding director, Simon Sechter (a teacher to both Schubert and Bruckner), an apparent murder that is immediately brushed aside as an accident. But Harty and his friends know better and try to identify the murderer without placing themselves in danger.

At this point, Harty starts writing his journal in code which, once he figures it out, Cameron proceeded to decipher. The intrigues and in-fighting which Harty and his friends discover not only places them in danger, by the end of The Lost Chord, a valuable statue of Beethoven entrusted to them has been stolen, Ethel abducted, Harty conked on the head and Mahler, imagining himself chased through the woods by vampires, has a magical epiphany as dawn approaches.

It culminates in a great battle between the pro-Liszt faction and the pro-Brahms faction during which Hans Rott, who has been trying to get Brahms to look at his new symphony, is pushed over the steps, falling to what could only be his death. The narrative breaks off at this point in The Lost Chord but it turns out, in Installment #21 of The Labyrinth of Klavdia Klangfarben, Frieda F. Erden (the F. standing for Falkenstein) has the missing segment in her possession, and it is that which Cameron now proceeds to decipher.

You can read the previous installments of Harrison Harty's Journal from The Lost Chord by following these links:

Installment 1 (part 1) 
Installment 1 (part 2) 
Installment 2 (part 1)
Installment 2 (part 2)
Installment 3 
Installment 4 

It wouldn't take a genius to realize the whole Harty Journal is a parody of Harry Potter and his life at Hogwarts. In fact, Schweinwald – incidentally, a real place in Bavaria – is German for “Hogwood.” While I'm not sure who Mahler approximates, one could argue Hans Rott, red hair aside, is probably the Ron Weasley character and Ethel Smyth (as she probably was in real life) would be Hermione Granger. Harrison Harty's family are very much alive and he possesses no demonstrable scar. It would be easy to imagine Reiner Knussbaum as Hagrid and Professor Böhm as Dumbledore but beyond that I wouldn't look for too many similarities. One is never quite sure about Percival Porlock who is always creeping around interrupting people at inopportune moments (like the Person from Porlock who ruined Samuel Taylor Coleridge's “Kublai Khan”) so in a sense he becomes a Snape-like individual but is, instead, the chaplain rather than the Professor of the Dark Arts (though some may see a similarity).

I regret that, in the movie version of The Lost Chord, there is no reasonable role for Maggie Smith though I have, in my fantasies, imagined her playing Frieda in The Labyrinth. Now, to carry on the parodistic elements of Downton Abbey into the world of Phlaumix Court would require a whole separate post.

- Dick Strawser

The Labyrinth of Klavdia Klangfarben: Installment #28

In the previous installment of The Labyrinth of Klavdia Klangfarben, we reached a climactic point in our story as a young composer, Toni, finds out she is Frieda's great-great-granddaughter, descended from her son Will; and that Toni recognizes the photo of the young man Schnellenlauter had sent Frieda before he died was her birth-father. More surprisingly, a recently delivered letter from Schnellenlauter informs her the young man in the photograph is actually the grandson of Frieda's daughter Grace. And that means one thing: young Toni, a 13-year-old composer and child prodigy, is descended from both of Frieda's twins.

(If you've only just arrived and have no clue what's going on, you might find it easier to start with the introductory post, here. If you need some information about Harrison Harty's 1880 Journal, read this post.) 

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PART THREE

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CHAPTER SEVEN

The Old Castle at Schweinwald Academy: Summer, 1880

(being the final installment of Harrison Harty's Secret Journal written in code) (*1)

...landed on the ground with a heart-sickening thud, lying unconscious beneath the staircase. Even in the midst of all this noise, I had easily heard him, his scream a full-range glissando of anticipated agony.

"Rott, no!" I shouted louder, watching him fall, his old coat flapping uselessly like the broken wings of a dive-bombing raven, shouting as if I were not too late and could still protect him.

Everything around me had for a moment become motion nearly arrested in time, every sound muffled like a dull, distant roar. I could hardly recall anything else that happened in the pitch of battle. I saw only this mass of red hair, those usually weaselly little eyes bulging with fear, those arms flailing without hope.

I stood at the bottom of the steps and watched my friend fall, while all about me a battle was raging and no one else, it seemed, had even noticed what just happened here: the Great Dr. Johannes Brahms, still hugging this heavy-looking box to his chest, had pushed Rott aside and sent him flying.

Hans Rott, taken too soon, a young man possessed of a prodigious talent, one who died before he'd had his chance – my friend, though I had rarely called him that during our brief acquaintance.

Writing this account in the days that followed the battle I had witnessed, I recount only what others could tell me, how the attack on the sainted Schweinwald Academy, mounted under cover of darkness, led by the evil forces of the critic Bezsmyertnikov and the Dionysian Right was stalled by the logic of Professor Fabbro. The Apollonian Left could not have held out for long against the onslaught, for all its cunning and skillful military precision, swept into the fetid cesspool of music's future by sheer force and spontaneity.

Brahms pushed on, knocking me against the wall, puffing on his rank cigar, grumbling about being late for the Vienna train. I could have tripped him, I know that, and sent him flying, also. All I could think of was my friend Rott, lying on the ground, when I recalled Ethel Smyth had been abducted.

"Herr Brahms," I shouted as he scuffled past, "look what you have done," pointing at the broken body of my friend. "Where is Fräulein Smyth," I demanded, "and the statue you stole from us?"

"And do you have a symphony you want me to look at, also, you absurd little man with your English airs?"

With a snort, he turned and fled down the last few remaining steps with the box clutched tightly to his chest. Once he lurched out onto the Great Landing, Brahms screeched to a halt.

Whereupon his arrival coincided with an advance from both sides of the conflict, marching determinedly toward the monument of Simon Sechter, unruly Romanticists on the left facing a column of Classicists from the right. I could not see who it was who had hurried up to Brahms and hustled him away, quite possibly to safety.

I wasn't sure: as the most famous living composer present on the battlefield, was Brahms taken prisoner by the Dionysian Right or being forced to retreat behind front lines by the adherents of Apollo? It did not bode well for music of either faction to have so great a composer wounded in a senseless attack.

However, there were even hoarier heads than Johannes Brahms' deep among the fray – Hammerschlag among the Apollonians, Riesenblut waving Dionysus' banner – even if age limited some to standing behind the lines of heaviest artillery.

It was hard to see what happened between the darkness and the smoke as one side advanced before needing to retreat, flashes of lightening careening across the Great Landing like bursts from exploding bombs. The shouting but most especially the deafening curses tore frantically across the air, landing unspeakably in the midst of beleaguered partisans.

The Reds – as Apollo's Left sometimes called themselves – forced back the invading Blues (the Dionysian Right) who rallied under their banners until the steps became a sea of purple raging furiously back and forth. (*2)

Romanticists howled against the chants emanating from the front line of the Classicists: "Thou shalt have no parallel fifths before me!"

"Tritones! Tritones!" they shouted back. (*3)

"Thou shalt have no unresolved dissonances before me!"

"Chaotic, absolutely empty dried-up stuff!" the Apollonians shouted.

"You stink in the ear!"

"And this is what musical trigonometry sounds like...!"

The drummer for the Classicists beat mightily on his single pair of kettledrums but was severely out-flanked by the Romanticists' eight. The pristine clarity of those distinct tonic-dominant cadences was pulverized by the harmonically ambiguous clattering of hooves from four apocalyptic timpanists. The stampede that followed was decisive and immediate as blue banners pressed forward.

Brass fanfares ignited the senses but grandly unfolding fugues dulled everything before them until the stretto (*4) barreled ahead, increasing the tension. Sweeping melodies played soaringly by strings and winds rose and fell in sequence.

Nikolai Kashcheievich Bezsmyertnikov, arch-critic, leader of the Romanticists, friend of Wagner and Liszt, wielding his pen and scribbling across the air, stood on a raised platform placed to the side of the castle's foyer. From there, he commanded throngs of loyal students cheering and jeering each volley, advancing on the Great Landing, the school's center.

From a podium on the opposite side of the landing, facing the Romantics, stood the conductor Emilio Fabbro wielding his baton, overseeing an array of students defending their school and its traditions against attack.

I lost track of what happened to Brahms and even from where I stood could no longer see poor Rott's body. For that matter, where had Mahler disappeared to: a casualty or taken prisoner?

There was little to be gained standing here. Where was Director Professor Böhm? Who would bring the fighting to a halt?

Fabbro, in addition to dispensing music's most arcane wisdom in his counterpoint classes, blasted his opponents with chord after climactic chord.

Bezsmyertnikov wrote "you conduct like a little girl! You call that a sforzando?"

The Romantics pounded out a dominant C-7th chord, then, turning B-flat into A-sharp,
resolved it like a German 6th chord instead. (*5)

Once again, the Classicists, deafened by these excruciating dissonances and this unexpected resolution, fell back to the middle of the landing, regrouping behind the safety of the Sechter Memorial, resorting to their secret weapon.

As Romanticists began to cheer and blue banners streamed up the main steps, they were checked by a line of Classicists scowling fiercely, fists up-raised, stretching out quickly from either side of Sechter's statue.

On signal from one of the students, they raised middle fingers as one – "Der Vogelfinger der Weltsprache," flipping the Universal Bird!

With piercing cries of "Death to tonal ambiguity!" they stabbed their arms forward, jabbing the air like bayonets with march-like precision and strode deliberately toward the Romanticists' front line which scattered at their barrage.

I realized the storm outside the castle raged on, greatly increasing in violence: the thunder and lightening definitely inspired the Romantics.

With fists raised, they turned toward the landing and stormed up the steps, thumbs between index and middle fingers – the Fig!

Several students were yelling things that sounded like "che pasta!" and "eh, fondue!"

It was then I noticed the harried-looking Brahms, still clutching his mysterious box, led by Hammerschlag and Böhm's secretary Medusa Steindreher, escorted under a white banner to the main entrance and his waiting carriage.

"Make way for the Maestro," Professor Hammerschlag intoned, "the Count's sent a carriage."

"Ah, but that box," Bezsmyertnikov said, stepping forward.

Brahms pulled back, protesting. "This is my box, I never travel without it!"

"Then you'll let us check its contents, yes?"

I could not see what tumbled from the box, but Brahms was outraged.

"You may have won the battle but we'll see who's won the war," after reaching the safety of the awaiting carriage. "We'll see where music goes from here: into the sea – or the cesspool!"

With that, Brahms turned to leave after giving them all one last wave.

Then derisive jeers went up from the Romanticists.

A great C Major chord pealed forth from the castle's mighty pipe organ, swelling out from the academy's expansive Great Hall. Whoever had brought in this biggest of guns, it took everybody by surprise. The vibrations from the 32' diapason pedal alone plus its trumpet en chamade were more than enough to get anyone's attention.

Batons stopped beating, instrumentalists stopped playing, imprecations overall came to a decided halt, everyone dead in their tracks across the landing as all heads turned back toward the organ console in the Great Hall.

There, despite his illness, sat as usual the imposing figure of Rainer Knussbaum, shoulders and great mane hunched over the manuals.

Then we heard a loud and powerful voice bidding us to stop immediately.

But this voice which sounded vaguely familiar was coming from inside Sechter's statue, booming forth with unfamiliar confidence: it was Mahler!

"As the Master once received," another voice intoned, "Mozart's spirit through Haydn's hands, so we must combine his heart and mind.

"Very soon there shall appear one among us who embodies the Master's legacy.

"I thus present to you, my fellow devotees, the glorious Future... of... Music!"

There was a pause followed by muffled conversation.

But then, finally, there was a great rumble, the landing shaking ominously as the base of the statue slowly swung open.

I doubt anyone was more surprised than I, looking up to see Ethel.

Even more surprising was what she held in her hands – a small statue.

"How is that even possible," I wondered aloud.

It was the model of the Beethoven monument, with all its secretive implications.

The very one Knussbaum and Böhm gave us to hide in the crypt, which was then so mysteriously stolen from us.

And held now by the person who had been stolen along with it.

How had she rescued the statue – or herself?

And who the hell decided Ethel Smyth should be the Future of Music?

She stepped forward into a pool of light – the moon broke through the storm and bathed the castle in its light. The clouds and thunder retreated into the distance, leaving behind an eerie quiet.

Raising the statue as in some arcane ritual, Ethel turned side to side while Knussbaum improvised on the Ode to Joy.

One by one, combatants who, moments ago, struggled for control of the Academy now put their instruments aside and wandered away: the battle may be over if not won, its final outcome merely postponed.

Ethel continued standing there, holding forth the statue, as Knussbaum turned the Ode into a fugue and the moonlight gradually faded.

A tall, bearded figure in a dressing gown, peaked cap and familiar spectacles had appeared unnoticed beside the Great Hall's entrance.

Professor Dudley Böhm, still stately, looked like he'd been roused from deepest slumbers.

"Whatever is all this racket about," he asked, looking about him, quite bemused. Had I not seen him playing chess with Knussbaum moments before the battle, I'd assume he'd slept through the entire thing.

And for that matter, what had happened to the chaplain who brought news of the uprising to Böhm? Where was Porlock?

"Ah, there you are, Dudley," said Dr. Porlock, himself half-asleep and looking annoyed.

"Wait, what is this," he stammered, equally bemused. "What are so many students doing out of their rooms at this hour?"

"Ah," Fabbro said, saluting the director, "we were all here to give Dr. Brahms a fine Schweinwald send-off – weren't we, boys?"

Some of the students gave a half-hearted response while others ignored him completely.

"Well, it's late – or early, Professor Fabbro," Böhm said, yawning. "You, too, Bezsmyertnikov: help get everyone else back to bed, eh?"

With that, students put away their instruments and banners, cleaned up the debris and trundled themselves, grumbling, back to their rooms. Several of them appeared more dazed than wounded, shell-shocked or offended than hurt. My roommate Nokyablokhoff limped past, mumbling something unintelligible that still sounded faintly life-threatening (the end of term couldn't come quickly enough).

More importantly, Hans Rott was sitting up, very much alive, by the staircase, nursing what could only be an implacable headache.

"I get the impression Brahms doesn't like me," Rott said, rubbing his neck.

Happy to see he had survived his fall, I ran to help him when I realized Sechter's monument had already closed. Where had Ethel gone again – and the statue? And what about that voice?

Very soon, under the seemingly detached eyes of Professor Böhm and Dr. Porlock, the scene, before so chaotic, had emptied out.

For that matter, I recalled how we had discovered Gutknaben's body lying there. Was that how the boy's murderer had escaped? Had the killer attacked him, stolen the locket, then disappeared beneath the statue?

"Where does that passage go," I asked Böhm, pointing at the statue's plinth.

Feigning indifference, Böhm looked around, shaking his head.

"This castle is riddled with such passageways, Harty," Böhm said as he motioned us to follow him down from the landing.

"And perhaps not all roads lead to Rome." Porlock, yawning, turned and left.

The air was still reverberating with the remnants of Knussbaum's improvisation echoing about, though I'd forgotten it had ended long since, as the great organist himself, looking completely exhausted, joined us on the steps. When I went to congratulate him on his having single-handedly dispelled the attack, he ducked his head modestly, stroking his beard. Considering how sick he'd looked lying on his daybed earlier in the evening, the old man appeared to be greatly revitalized, but then we were all well aware of the curative powers of music.

"Yes, yes, Rainer, that was really most impressive – most impressive indeed," Böhm said and turned toward him with an appreciative nod, "though that cadenza on the minor plagal cadence did go on a bit."

"Well, I couldn't see if you were in place yet, without Porlock's cue," Knussbaum said, "but it made a nice entrance."

I was dumbfounded to discover their appearance had all been planned quite carefully.

"Well, not quite," Knussbaum muttered into his beard.

"Come now, Rainer," Böhm chuckled, "how often have you improvised on the Ode?"

The point was, Böhm explained, they needed to make it look very nonchalant rather than anything adversarial or taking anybody's side.

"If I came on too aggressively," he said, "it would ruin my reputation and somehow being mild-mannered serves me quite well."

But his delayed entrance had given him an opportunity to see something interesting.

Near the bottom step, almost invisible in the dimness of the fading moon, I saw what Director Böhm was pointing at: a small pile of broken bits of something that fell from Brahms' box.

"Whatever it was Bezsmyertnikov found and which Brahms was reluctant to leave behind, this would seem to be all that's left."

Rott and I carefully gathered up the fragments, thin pieces of twisted metal.

"What is this," I asked, "it looks mechanical."

"If I can give this back to Brahms," Rott said, "he'll forgive me!"

"I wouldn't get my hopes up, Herr Rott." Böhm then pocketed the fragments. "I doubt there's enough left to be helpful."

Then Knussbaum held his finger to his lips, not sure he'd heard something.

"We should probably return to your room, Rainer," Böhm whispered, looking around cautiously. "Besides, the others are waiting."

"Others?" I asked.

Not that it would arouse any undue suspicion had anyone been there to see two professors and two students suddenly disappear into the landing's deepening shadows behind the portrait of one of those professors. There were numerous portraits around the landing, a "who's-who" of Schweinwald's past: were there secret passages behind every one of them? As Böhm approached it, his portrait glided aside: had anyone noticed us, we might have walked right through a solid wall. As usual, I was barely through when the portrait slid back into place.

Knussbaum led the way with a candle he lit once inside the passage and we climbed after him through various twists, reminding me how much easier it had been, traveling from the opposite direction. After one turn, Böhm pointed out another passageway veering off to the right which led off to his own private apartments.

Now deep into the building, climbing ever higher, Knussbaum felt it must be safe to talk, as long as we whispered. I refrained from asking the questions I had, curious also about "the others."

"What do you think Old Brahms had in that box of his, Dudley?"

"Whatever it was," he answered, "fell and broke."

"So you don't think he'd stolen a book – or maybe a manuscript, perhaps?"

"We can't be sure he'd stolen anything, Rainer."

"He was awfully secretive about something, this visit."

"He's a very private person..."

Overall, Böhm sounded quite unconcerned about whatever Brahms tried to take with him, reminding Knussbaum that Brahms' first teacher, Eduard Marxen, had been one of the very first students when Schweinwald opened its doors. His leaving the castle in the middle of the night was one thing, but stealing something was an entirely different matter.

"But that still doesn't give him the right to go poking around here, looking for stuff that doesn't belong to him."

"There are scholars who feel research and discovery are vital to our understanding."

"Vital, maybe," Knussbaum grunted, "but we have a professional obligation to protect things that don't need being understood – that's vital, too."

When he mentioned something about a missing quartet, Böhm held up his hand.

"Shh, Rainer," Böhm said, chuckling. "We're here – the others should be back, now."

Once again, we found ourselves in Knussbaum's fireplace.

It amazed me that the whole way back, all they talked about was what Brahms had in this box of his – not about the attack led by Bezsmyertnikov in an attempt to overthrow Böhm. Yet even more amazing was to walk out into Knussbaum's crowded sitting room and find three people waiting there for us.

Ethel sat at the table with the Beethoven statue in front of her and next to her sat a grinning Mahler. But perhaps the greatest surprise was the distinguished gentleman who sat behind them.

A middle-aged man with silvering, slightly damp hair, he reminded me of someone but nobody I could recognize from the school. There was also a familiar stench of tobacco rising from his tweed jacket.

The man's identity was clearly unknown to me, prompting Ethel to speak up: "Let me introduce Count Albrecht Johann von Falkenstein."

Now I recognized him – from outside the manor house with Brahms and Fabbro: they'd been having dinner out on the terrace. What was he doing here – and once again, what was Ethel up to?

"I must apologize for knocking you out," he said, "back in the crypt. I wasn't sure whose side you were on."

"Whose side," I asked, rubbing the back of my head at the recollection, wondering how Rott must feel after his fall. "I'm afraid that's just one of many things I can't say I understand."

"What the Count means," Ethel began, "is that other people were prowling around, probably spying on his guest, Herr Brahms, and..."

"Perhaps," Böhm stepped in, "Herr von Falkenstein should explain it himself, Ethel, yes?"

Mahler and I tried to suppress knowing smiles as Ethel sat back, chagrined, realizing how much she liked to "explain" things.

"Well, yes, not only did we have a great celebrity as our guest, we were unveiling a great secret that night."

"That was the fugue-writing machine I had been telling you about," she added.

"And," the Count added, nodding, "we were concerned someone may steal my invention. Fabbro perfected it and actually built it, but..."

"But Brahms stole it himself," Rott spoke up. "It was in his box!"

Böhm placed the broken pieces of metal on the table. "Is this it?"

Looking at it, Falkenstein said, "that's the model."

The actual machine, he continued, was quite huge, filling up a large room, but after it turned out a decent fugue, he'd given Brahms the model as a souvenir, silencing Rott's jump to conclusions.

"He thought it would look fascinating on his mantle, something nobody could identify: who would imagine it was a composing machine?

"Earlier," the Count continued, "Fabbro caught sight of an intruder in the yard which he thought was his nemesis, Professor Bezsmyertnikov. Later, when I heard someone in the crypt, I thought he had returned."

"So, you thought we were Bezsmyertnikov and Carmilla, back to steal your machine? That makes sense to me, under the circumstances."

But it didn't explain what happened after that, especially with Brahms' late-night escape.

The Count brought Ethel back in the coach intended for Brahms to catch the Red Eye train leaving for Bad Ischl.

"It turned out tonight was the night Bezsmyertnikov had planned his nefarious attack, and Brahms unwittingly got stuck in the middle. So we improvised our part – nice touch, Ethel as the Future of Music..."

"But then," she said, eying up the Count, "you mentioned some silly legend, how your wife is the granddaughter of Beethoven..."

"When I saw you with the Beethoven statue, I figured they'd told you."

Böhm picked up the brooding statue and weighed it carefully in his hands.

"In fact, Ethel, it's not some silly legend."

Once Professor Böhm had told Ethel everything he'd already gone through with us – and a good bit more besides, it seemed – she too was inducted into the society of watchers known as the Unsterblichesverein.

(I have decided, quite arbitrarily, not to include further details of that here, saving that separate adventure for its own volume.) (*6)

The Count then told us about his daughter Fredericka who, having celebrated her 14th birthday, was showing some talent for composition. If Ethel kept in touch, Fredericka might find it inspiring, woman to woman.

He then agreed with Böhm and Knussbaum he should take the Beethoven statue, somehow recording on it the secret they protect in hope that, in future, younger generations would not lose sight of it.

"In fact, I'm thinking I'll add another layer to it," the Count suggested, "you know, to make the quest more challenging."

"But we still don't know who killed Gutknaben or stole the silver locket."

In addition to a lock of Beethoven's hair, the Count explained it contained the only known portrait of the Immortal Belovèd.

"We are all in danger, we who keep the Master's secret," Böhm said. "You must be careful whom you talk to."

The Count told us about a shadowy organization calling themselves the Guidonian Hand, and he suspected Carmilla Varné was its leader.

"Though we have no proof, I imagine she killed Gutknaben for the locket."

After that night, when I talked with my friends of what we'd survived, now the summer was drawing to a close, I wondered if maybe I should not destroy this journal I've been keeping.

"What if it should find its way into the wrong hands – Guidonian hands? Would it yield up too much important information?"

"What hands would ever find it in London," Mahler asked, "or especially Ireland? Who would think to look for it there?"

"Surely, you're not likely to read it again," Ethel said with dripping disdain.

Not that anyone would know what it said or what secrets it hid, written after all in code and backwards, beside. Wasn't I the only person in the world who could possibly read it?

And, Ethel was quick to point out, given such difficulties to decipher it, would anyone bother working their way through it?

Now the adventure must come to its close and the summer, its end. Carriages that brought us from various corners of Europe now took us home by way of Munich to Vienna – or London.

Poor Rott, his headaches worse after his fall, was in a sad state, sitting out the summer's final weeks in hospital.

Ethel nattered on about writing a great programme symphony to describe her adventure, thinking she'd call it "The Future of Music," full of musical references to Beethoven and Brahms, ending with a great fugue!

Mahler, for his part, had become – if possible – even more distant and thoughtful, the result of his experience in the woods, and talked about how his head was constantly full of themes and ideas.

That was a good thing, Ethel admitted, because frankly, the way he'd been, he would never make it as a composer.

For any of us, who knew what the future might hold in store, becoming the Liszts and Brahmses of our generation or being forgotten like so many names I'd read about but never heard?

I had no idea what possible good this summer might have done me but I wouldn't trade it for the world!

We parted ways, we four, and vowed to keep in touch, writing letters, and conducting each others music when success came.

But we each had our responsibilities, as well: of our secret, ever watchful.

*-*

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to be continued... [with any luck, this link should become active on Friday, August 5th, at 8am.]
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(*1) The earlier sections of Harrison Harty's journal were a major part of the previous novel, The Lost Chord. To find out more about it and links to the other excerpts, check out this post.

(*2) back and forth: In 20th Century psychoanalytical terms, the Left Brain is the side that controls logic and structure which, in music, would be the logical-minded classicists with their interests in form and harmonic rules; the Right Brain is the side that controls emotional responses which, in music, would be the Romanticists who favor content over form and a certain disdain for following the rules. In previous centuries, Apollo was the traditional symbol of classicism; Dionysus, of Romanticism.

(*3) Tritones!: One of the most hated rules theory students have to contend with is the injunction against voices moving in parallel a perfect fifth or an octave apart. To this, the Romanticists respond with rousing shouts in support of the augmented fourth, known as the Tritone which, since medieval days, has been called the diabolus in musica or "the devil in music." Much frowned upon by the classicists except in special cases, it was a favorite sonority of the 19th Century Romantics. 

(*4) stretto: in the writing of fugues, stretto refers to a passage where motives start overlapping between voices, increasing the tension; it comes from the Italian for "stressed."

(*5) German 6th Chord instead: A Dominant 7th chord built on C would be spelled C - E - G - B-flat and resolve to an F Major chord; by spelling the B-flat as an A-sharp (the same key on a piano), it however changes the resolution to a B-natural which becomes the root of a B Major chord, a tritone away from the expected! Don't understand? Don't worry...

(*6) its own volume: if he did, it has yet to be found.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

The usual disclaimer: The Labyrinth of Klavdia Klangfarben, which you've no doubt figured out by now, is a work of fiction and as such all the characters (especially their names) and incidents of its story are more or less the product of the author's imagination, sometimes inspired by elements of parody, occasionally by personal experience. Many of the places are real (or real-ish) but not always "realistically used." Other places like Phlaumix Court and Umberton are purely fictional. Any similarity between characters and real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, but then, as Klavdia Klangfarben keeps quoting a former professor of hers, "Perception is everything." Yadda yadda yadda.

©2016 by Richard Alan Strawser for Thoughts on a Train

The Lost Chord: Chapter 57

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

Previously, while Peter Moonbeam is making a gruesome discovery in the room he'd chosen to hide, the backstage area of the opera house is filling up: Kerr and his friends are trying to locate Tr'iTone who is busy confronting the bumbling Lionel Roth, in turn confronted by N. Ron Steele of SHMRG who is then confronted by the sudden appearance of Yoda Leahy-Hu and the IMP. Kerr locates the landing where Tr'iTone had thought he would find his goal only to see, once he'd pushed the door open, the villain sail over the railing. 

(You can read the previous installment of Harrison Harty's Journal here; the second installment, here; or begin from the beginning with the first installment, here.)

= = = = = = =
Chapter 57

...being the 4th installment of Master Harrison Harty's Journal, Summer of 1880
It was a miserable retreat, finding Grimgerde gone, pelted with rain and lightening under a thunderous cannonade the whole way. What could we do to rescue Ethel and get the statue back? We must report to Director Böhm immediately. Returning once again through the secret passage to arrive in Knussbaum's fireplace, we found them deep in a game, the much-improved Knussbaum holding up a hand, bidding us not to interrupt.

I had noticed the chess board before but not the individual pieces, each of them a small composer's bust. The white side's king was Johannes Brahms with Clara Schumann his queen. The black side was led by King Wagner, Bishops Liszt and Bruckner and, rather oddly as their queen, Tchaikovsky.

Before, I'd been unaware of two large portraits hanging on opposite walls: one of Beethoven looking sad, holding a letter; and Sechter with a bust of Beethoven, a letter in his pocket. While I wondered why they weren't hanging in the Academy's Great Hall, tonight they observed two friends playing chess.

Böhm looked up and awaited our report, then realized something was amiss when one more person failed to appear. Peering past our drenched forms, he counted and recounted to make sure.

Soaked from the raging storm, Mahler, Rott and I stood there meekly, not sure how best to explain this.

"No, you're right," I said, stepping forward. "You count correctly: someone's missing."

I became, in Ethel's absence, the spokesman for our band of friends now sadly reduced by her unfortunate disappearance.

Quickly I told the story, ending with how we eventually regained consciousness to the lingering stench of foul-smelling cigars.

"Yes," Rott immediately confirmed, "Wienerschwefel," – 'Viennese Brimstone' – "which Brahms was smoking earlier!"

"Whoever abducted her and stole the statue," Mahler said, "left us alive. That means they mightn't kill Fräulein Ethel."

We were quite hopeful they could, instead, be holding her for ransom.

"We don't know why they took her if they'd gotten the statue. She is," Rott added, "only a girl..."

"There are two rival factions," Böhm began, "that dominate our music today, telling you nothing that you don't already know, constantly intent on doing battle for our loyal audiences' hearts and minds. You've already witnessed the intense political flare-up following Maestro Liszt's recent recital and the difference of opinions it generated. Yet both sides find their natural roots in Beethoven, who," Böhm explained, "preserved the past while forging the new. The question is, which side here is claiming Beethoven's legacy for itself?"

"But what could be so important about some old things of Beethoven's?" Rott asked with his usual short-sighted reasoning. "If he died over fifty years ago, why are they so valuable?"

Knussbaum, squinting his eyes, looked as if he would suffer a relapse while Böhm quietly ignored my friend's irreverence.

We'd heard the story of Beethoven's hair before, how Knussbaum gave it to Beethoven's friend then how it was returned. But did this return signify, I wondered, the death of this friend? It was a part of The Master himself, a relic, after all, but was that enough to kill someone?

"Important clues are inscribed on the statue concerning the secret," Böhm explained, holding in his hands an imaginary object. "It's not the statue itself but what it will lead you to."

"Ever since The Master's death," Knussbaum said, "we have observed the proprieties, keeping alive the secret of Herr Sechter's promise. While we cannot reveal it, we also cannot let it be forgotten."

"The secrecy must be maintained" Böhm added; "the society must remain vigilant."

I wondered what secret was so important.

"The Beethoven Monument must never be removed," Knussbaum said emphatically, sitting up. "It is our duty to preserve this! If, at some future time, that happens, then we've broken Sechter's promise."

"But how can you keep that promise for generations yet to come? Monks who lived six hundred years ago would never believe," I said, "their monastery is no longer standing today."

Knussbaum and Böhm exchanged glances and appeared to reach a common decision. Böhm placed his hand on Knussbaum's shoulder.

"You see," Böhm pointed out, "Sechter and the society's other original members never considered the Beethoven Monument might be removed because they assumed the Academy would always continue to operate in perpetuity. But, as you've pointed out, the monks undoubtedly once thought the same. Everything in this world is, alas, impermanent."

Mahler, thoroughly lost in thought, looked up and wondered what would happen if no one was left to remember: "Would anyone see any reason why they should not remove the statue?"

"That," Knussbaum said, raising his right hand, pointing it toward the ceiling, "is only one issue behind the Unsterblichesverein," explaining how they had just inducted Gutknaben the night of his death. "But who will carry on our legacy, protecting it for future generations? For we must look to the future..."

"I think it's time," Böhm said quietly, "that we invest these young men into our cause, suspending the rules."

"They must be trained in the secrets: they have much to learn!"

"But first, Rainer," Böhm interrupted, "isn't there another task to be done?"

Mahler and I stepped forward, heads bowed to receive a knight's blessing, Rott stumbling back before joining us reluctantly.

"They rescue Ethel and find the statue, then we've found Gutknaben's killer – hopefully, before it will be too late!"

Knussbaum continued to explain about this society forged among The Master's friends and wondered how they'd identify new members. "We must keep Sechter's promise from being 'cruelly misused' in the future."

"Who," Böhm asked, "will carry the Society's legacy into the next generation? You must be inducted into it – immediately."

I had to admit, The Immortal Society gave it a different ring, sounding more like a Union of Vampires with Professor Bezsmyertnikov the Critic draining away the blood of the past.

"Beethoven had no idea what paths music would follow after he died, nor, I should think, would he have cared. He wanted us to form this Society to protect only one thing. The Society does not exist," Knussbaum intoned, "to decide which of these factions is the true future of music."

"Now, Professor Fabbro," Böhm explained, "tells you you must control your emotions and that first you must learn your craft. Good, I would think, for teaching counterpoint," he added with a twinkle. "Hammerschlag teaches you harmony's rules as if they were carved in stone – and woe to those who break them. But Professor Riesenblut tells you how you must taste the 'Dragon's Blood,' as Siegfried does in Wagner's Ring Cycle, so you comprehend the Universe and unleash your creativity through God-granted inspiration."

Professor Knussbaum leaned forward with great effort as if to impart something which needed great reverence to impress us. "Beethoven himself told me this – I was a lad delivering his letters. 'Every one of us, boy,' he said, looking right into my eyes, 'has something inside us we cannot understand.' It was like a set of strings – 'invisible strings', he called them – stretched between the heart and the brain. They resonate each in their own way because we are all different."

Director Böhm nodded and coughed quietly when I looked over at him. He'd told me this only earlier today.

"It's what makes each of us different," Knussbaum continued, "this reverberant chord. It absorbs what we learn and vibrates to what beauty inspires us. Or to whatever challenges the mind sets.

"Apparently, from what he said, each of us could 'hear' these strings only when we felt ourselves sufficiently moved or when played closer to one end or balanced in the middle. It's what made Mozart sound like Mozart; it gave Beethoven his voice – while others never find their individual identity. What happens when these strings are out-of-tune, no longer able to resonate to what makes us who we are? What lengths would we take," Knussbaum wondered, "to retrieve our lost chord?"

"It won't be a matter of fate, something knocking at the door like Macbeth's being greeted by the Three Witches, a prophecy of uncommon power that could transform him into Beethoven's Heir. It's not a matter of proper training or even talent," Böhm said, "to make one think it's even possible."

"Ever since The Master died, we have waited for the Next Beethoven," Knussbaum said with growing impatience. "Who? Where – When...! No, it won't be through critical acclaim or being anointed, like Brahms."

"But in truth," Böhm whispered, "it will be through Beethoven's direct bloodline..."

"Beethoven had a son!?"

"No – a daughter!"

"And we believe," Knussbaum continued, pausing slightly, "it is through the daughters Beethoven's true heir will be made manifest."

"You mean," I gasped, "this great composer – he could be... a woman?"

Without warning, we were interrupted by an ominous knock at the door, whether it might be Fate or something otherwise. We froze and looked at each other: who knew we were here? Experiencing what we had tonight – beyond Ethel's disappearance and the statue's theft – Rott understandably stepped back into the fireplace.

"Herr Director Böhm," a thin voice whispered, "they said you'd be here. If you hear me, let me in." It was the voice of Dr. Porlock: what brought him here, now?

While Böhm went to answer the door, Knussbaum cleared away the chessboard, sweeping the pieces back into the box with the clandestine gestures of one caught sneaking a draught of opium. Before Mahler and I joined Rott in the security of the fireplace, Porlock pushed his way into the study.

"Have you heard any rumblings," he asked, before spotting us standing there, then immediately stopped and rose to full height. "Ah, you're here," he said, "I mean – why are there students here?"

"Knussbaum was feeling ill," Böhm said, "they'd come by to see him."

I felt like a child caught red-handed.

"At this time of night, before sunrise? But they look wet, too. You've been outside, caught in the rain...?" Porlock looked back and forth before turning his attention entirely on Böhm.

"I must report, Herr Director, that Professor Bezsmyertnikov along with Dr. Riesenblut are gathering their followers," Dr. Porlock explained, "for the defense of Schweinwald and to save the future of music. They explain that this is not an attack on you, Herr Director, but defending you against influences from evil-doers."

Director Böhm stepped forward indignantly, sputtering incoherently, too furious for any words, as Knussbaum reached out to calm him.

"That is preposterous," he muttered, "absolutely preposterous! They're going against the rules!"

"It seems," Porlock sneered with dripping irony, "it has something to do with these young students I find here, students who are not – speaking of rules – supposed to be here, true? Someone found their wet footprints disappearing into the wall by your portrait. They think you need to be... protected?"

There was no time to lose, clearly: we must first defend Schweinwald. The rest of it would have to wait. Battle plans were quickly devised with Porlock alerting the faculty, especially Fabbro. I admitted misgivings about Porlock which, shrugging his shoulders, Böhm brushed away: "Officious, maybe, but committed to the school."

He handed us a list of names, students he knew were loyal: we must gather them on the landing. With that, Director Böhm went to change into something more impressively appropriate.

It wasn't Schumann's 'David's Club' against the Goliaths who fought the new by tossing conventions at the slightest innovation. It wasn't just the comfortable older generation trying to deny the young. More the Classicists of Apollo called to confront the Romanticists of Dionysus: somehow, compromise must be reached between them!

"Fabbro?" I thought, knowing how reluctant Ethel would be to trust him, considering she was convinced he's the Evil One. What if his machine became the object that would destroy Beethoven's Legacy?

If Bezsmyertnikov was leading the attack, however, didn't that vindicate my fears? Didn't that make his the Dark Side?

But Rott still held out for Brahms, convinced by the cigar smoke but also his attitude toward the ladies – "would anyone else abduct Ethel?" – plus there's his interest in Fabbro's Machine.

We went our separate ways, rousing the students out of their beds, walking through the hallways and knocking on doors. Each one awakened continued spreading the alarm for the defense of Schweinwald. Several, we found, were missing, no doubt already gathered with Bezsmyertnikov's forces. Carmilla had also been hard at work. Turning a corner, I ran into Nokyablokhoff, barely escaping with my head before he set off an ear-shattering war-cry. It came as no surprise which side my erstwhile roommate was on!

In a moment, I joined Mahler and Rott with dozens more students forming a barrier against the insurrection's tide. Many faculty soon joined us, particularly Old Hammerschlag who looked simply furious.

Fabbro and Bezsmyertnikov stood facing each other, hurling imprecations in various languages.

Would this be the end of music?

Even on the Great Landing, it was impossible not to be amazed looking out on this sea of lantern-lit faces between the flashes of lightening and the constant thunder shaking the foundations.

Before I got my bearings, I'd managed to lose sight of Rott who must have disappeared into the shadows.

Looking up, wondering where he'd gotten to, I noticed Brahms' familiar silhouette descending from one of the castle's towers.

"Help me, fools," he squeaked, waving his lantern. "I'm late for my train!"

Brahms, I realized, scurrying down the staircase ever mindful of his balance, was tightly clutching a small wooden box which I thought might be large enough to hold the Beethoven statue.

Suddenly, Rott stepped out and confronted him, bringing Brahms to a halt. I noticed the man was not pleased.

"At long last, Dr. Brahms," Rott said, "I have your undivided attention! What do you have in that box? Where have you hidden Ethel? When will you look at my symphony?"

Running up the steps, I called out to Rott, "Let him go!" but Brahms pushed him out of the way.

Poor Rott stumbled over the stairway's railing and fell effortlessly until he...

(At this point, Harrison Harty's journal stops. Several missing pages have been ripped out – their present location remains unknown.)
= = = = = = =
To be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a classical music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Act IV, Chapter 49

(you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, Dr. Kerr, left alone in his practice room/prison, listening to Tr'iTone's music, has heard a mysterious, distant hymn - Sir Arthur Sullivan's "The Lost Chord" - and imagines he is at his own funeral. 

(You can read the second installment of Harrison Harty's Journal beginning here and the first installment, beginning here)

*** ***** ******** ***** ***
ACT IV
*** ***** ******** ***** ***

Chapter 49

...being the 3rd installment of Master Harrison Harty's Journal, Summer of 1880
If you said we would all die then, I would not have been in the least surprised, considering our situation as Ethel tried desperately to regain control before poor Grimgerde threatened to take the remains of our carriage airborne. Slamming into a tree on our right, the back of the carriage fell off, nearly breaking a rear wheel. Careening around the next bend, we swung hard and hit a rock. We all hung on for dear life, something none of us thought we would have much longer to enjoy when without warning we emerged from under the dark canopy of trees that opened onto the gently sloping meadows leading toward the Falkenstein's home where the Director's coach entered the gate.

Also without warning, Grimgerde gave a snort and came to a halt, the carriage ready to fly over her head. Dusty and disheveled, we straightened ourselves up, just happy to be alive. We decided to hide her in the bushes beside the road, then sneak up to the house on foot. I would glance back toward the castle convinced I heard something approaching, but there was nothing to be seen. The others said I was imagining things: what could possibly be there?

"D'you think someone tampered with the horse?" Rott always looked for conspiracies.

"What, like Hannes fed her opium before he gave us the carriage?" Ethel, for her part, was always skeptical.

"I think something spooked her, something that was following us," I suggested. "There was definitely someone there. But who?"

Mahler laughed, scrambling through the undergrowth with this strange walk of his. "Perhaps it was our infamous professor of..."

"Yes," I said, interrupting him, "you know He-Whom-I-Do-Not-Wish-to-Name is on to us."

"Do you really think the killer is..." but Ethel paused more out of disbelief than any sense of fear. She couldn't bring herself to name him any more than I could.

"But it can't be him," Rott said, "he was ahead of us!"

"You mean Fabbro?" Ethel asked.

"No – Brahms!"

I was ready to correct their inaccurate assumptions when Mahler observed we were approaching the back of the sprawling house where it appeared the dinner would take place out on the terrace. Everybody was in evening dress, even Brahms, the Countess resplendent in a shimmering golden gown, her diamond jewelry sparkling. Servants bustled about with trays of drinks, while others lit the candelabra. The evening was sure to prove fine. Brahms tried to look his most attentive but couldn't hide his impatience.

"I look forward to seeing this latest invention of yours, Herr Count," Brahms said in his gruff, squeaky voice. "Professor Fabbro has spoken highly of it and it sounds most fascinating."

"Oh, I am but a mere tinkerer," Count von Falkenstein said obsequiously. "Without Fabbro's design, it would be nothing."

Fabbro, clicking his heels and bowing his head, explained he would take Brahms into the Count's basement laboratory after dinner and show him how "the machine" worked, putting it through its paces.

"Invention? Fabbro's design?" I whispered to Ethel, "is this what we'd overheard? They were talking about some mechanical contraption?"

"It will definitely revolutionize the whole concept of composing," the Count explained, "or so Professor Fabbro, here, constantly insists."

Just then, Rott unexpectedly sneezed, a mysterious hand grabbing him from behind.

We heard the hiss of a familiar voice as Rott disappeared struggling into the hedge, farther into the evening shadows.

"What are you doing here?" It was Carmilla Varné. "You'll ruin everything!"

Behind us was the unmistakable silhouette of HWIDNWTN, lurking in the camelias. He quickly made a lunge for us.

I grabbed Mahler's arm but by now Ethel was too far away, having gotten much closer to the terrace. Rott broke free from Carmilla and was soon running ahead of us.

Who else was there, I didn't know: I saw only these two. We had no choice – we'd been discovered! There was only one thing to do and that was to escape. So far, we crashed through the woods, managing to elude our pursuers continuing deeper into the dense mountain forest.

The terrain was steeper now, and full of rocks and fallen trees. The light of the moon was hardly helpful. Instead, if anything, it made things worse, turning bushes into lurid monsters. Maybe we survived the ride with Grimgerde but should they catch us, I am sure we four were doomed.

My lungs close to bursting, my heart pounding and ready to explode, I had no idea where we were. All I knew, to reach the castle, we must continue running up-hill.

Behind us I could sense the onward rush of our two pursuers. Mahler, falling even further behind, his body a mass of nervous ticks, suddenly tripped over a stone and screamed.

Was that the cry of a victorious beast I heard behind me or the blood coursing through my brain?

I was torn knowing I should go back to rescue my friend but my feet would not turn 'round. I should run for help, but wasn't it too late for that?

Rott, his chest heaving, waited for me once he reached the castle. I turned but nothing else was forthcoming once we'd left the forest and crossed the stream into the cemetery.

Mahler was lost, perhaps captured if not already killed by the evil-doers. And Ethel, poor child, was left behind.

We couldn't organize a search party to find Mahler in the darkness – considering we were forbidden to enter the forest when we were not allowed outside after dark in the first place – so we hurried back to Rott's room and sat immobilized with fear, dazed and afraid for our very lives.

Perhaps an hour went by. There was a knock at the door. Ethel flounced in, quite pleased with herself.

"What happened to you?" she asked airily. "You missed all the fun."

She proceeded to explain, before we could blurt out a word edgewise, after Rott's sneeze had given us away, how "Dr. Brahms recognized me when I stepped forward, and said, happily, 'Aren't you the young lady who writes sonatas but doesn't know counterpoint? Fabbro, here's a fine challenge for you!'

"The Count was somewhat mystified but the Countess was most delightfully intrigued: 'Imagine, a young lady who can compose music!' And with that, they invited me to join them on the terrace.

"I looked around for you, but you had fled in a panic, afraid what would happen if we're caught.

"At the table, they placed Brahms between me and Elisabetta von Hammerschlag – who'd been the concert pianist, Mlle. Muzio? – he called her 'My dearest Bessie-Mae Muzio' whenever her husband wasn't looking..."

Ethel regaled us with the witty conversation she had taken part in and I saw Rott was practically fuming after she'd said how Brahms remembered her songs "with fondness" from Leipzig.

When Brahms said "All composers are liars," Ethel responded, "that means, then, you are lying even now, Herr Doktor.

"Fabbro tried to explain that Brahms meant how all composers must learn not to be themselves when they composed, but Brahms laughed and said, 'No, dear Fabbro, she makes a joke!'

"After we finished our wine," she continued, "and Fabbro passed around these foul-smelling cigars to Brahms and the Count – oh, I so wanted one but didn't dare shock them any further – Brahms said 'And now, dear Fabbro, would you do me the honour of showing me this contraption of yours?'"

Rott and I sat up – at last! Now this was something interesting! Wasn't this what we had hoped to discover? Ethel continued, unaware our level of curiosity had suddenly increased.

"Yes – and...?"

She explained how Fabbro and the Count led the way into a dark, basement room, deep beneath the house.

Inside was this large machine, she said, as big as a room, consisting of thousands of tiny, intricate cylinders which combined together in incredibly intricate ways to weave certain musical patterns.

"'These punched heavy paper cards contain various algebraic patterns,' Fabbro carefully demonstrated, once he got the machine running smoothly, 'which, inserted here, with coded pitches, rhythms and various harmonies and textures, activated these larger cylinders here and converted them into arithmetical notation, there, then translated them into traditional musical notation.'

"You see," she said triumphantly, holding out Gutknaben's page of mathematical computations, "Fabbro's compositional contraption is like a mechanical loom, capable of weaving elaborate pieces of music with any degree of complexity. That's what Gutknaben had been working on – Fabbro had shown him how: it's a fugue written by a machine!"

We both stared at the mathematical configurations, looking like gibberish to me.

"And Brahms is interested in this, why...?"

"By the way," she interrupted, standing up and looking around, "where's Mahler?"

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

It's now the middle of the night and quite impossible to sleep with worrying about Mahler alone in the woods. A storm is brewing, I feel it, and it will be bad. The night has been a mild one with the moon nearly set. I write hoping he can return safely. I couldn't see what had happened, then – he'd fallen too far behind – and I hated just leaving him there. I know I should have gone back but I had no choice.

Father always said women have this instinctive power to perceive men's character and, to our detriment, find it wanting. Anything we'd done was open to discussion without ever changing their minds. Such was the case with Ethel tonight, and there was nothing we could do to make her think differently.

"You thought you'd heard a scream, some pathetic inhuman scream," shed argued, "and you just left him lying back there? What if he'd been caught by wolves or had broken a leg?"

I wouldn't tell her I was thinking more of vampires than wolves, much less of one vampire in particular.

"But Rott had seen who grabbed him and it was definitely Carmilla. And I definitely saw HWIDNWTN close by. What," I argued, "were they doing there? Why did they chase us?"

"So you're saying this triumphant, satanic howl was actually Carmilla's cat, Czerny? Is it possible to be so stupid?" In that tone of voice, it did, I was forced to admit. But it didn't help the current situation: Mahler was still out there. And how could we help him now?

Ethel, ever the most logical, considered the various options we could take, all of which Rott found contained flaws. Basically, there was nothing we could do, forbidden to leave the castle.

"Forbidden – really?" she scoffed, turning to leave. "That never stopped us before! What are rules but to be broken?" She stood waiting impatiently by the door till we pulled ourselves together. It was well after midnight, by now: who would even notice us? "We have to go rescue our friend!"

My resolve managed to overcome my fears until we reached the landing where not long since we'd discovered Gutknaben's body. If he were killed here, would someone try to kill us here? It didn't help, as we skirted the open area around Sechter's monument, that we heard footsteps not too distant. Holding our breath collectively, we waited nervously until the sound faded away, some professor returning late to his residence. Slipping down the stairs through the parlor, we found an unlocked door.

It creaked terribly, the castle being old, as we pushed it open, but at last we were standing outside, ready to cross the courtyard then, skirting the cemetery, enter the woods. The moon, about to set, would not help us in the forest – I could feel my resolve shrinking accordingly.

We hunkered down, hoping the smaller we appeared nobody could see us, and followed Ethel's lead across the open courtyard. The Beethoven fountain sparkled in the moonlight, its profile against growing clouds. He seemed to be looking where we needed to go, I thought. Perhaps he would protect and guide us.

That was when I noticed a figure sitting on the fountain's edge who also looked pensive and somewhat ominous.

"Dear God," I squeaked, "look! Over there, by the fountain – it's Mahler!"

He was dirty and disheveled, one shoe lost and his jacket torn, his beard and hair fairly encrusted with leaves. He looked a mess, sitting there dazed, eyes brooding over the ground. He glanced up when he saw us starting to run toward him but he shrank back as if afraid.

"Mahler, thank God," I said, "we thought... well, we don't know what..."

"I'm fine," he said, somewhat distantly, "fine..."

We led him back inside and made it safely to the room.

He told us how he had fallen, how he couldn't get up as if something sat upon his chest but yet couldn't see what it was, more a presence, cold – evil.

"I heard a scream – probably mine – answered by another one, not mine. It was then I must have fainted."

Or maybe not, he reconsidered, fainting as becoming mesmerized by it all, the sounds of the night and the darkness: owls rather than songbirds, numerous toads croaking, mice scurrying across the ground.

"I'd no idea how long I sat – sitting now on a stump. I felt calm until I looked around."

Then he saw himself appearing in the shadows just beyond the trees and immediately felt this inconsolable emotional pain, as though his double were trying to force its way into him.

After he ran past it, he found himself standing in the cemetery and there, by the stream, was a casket around which stood, as if guarding it, various rabbits, foxes and deer.

"A hunter being mourned by the hunted? How very odd, I thought. But the body lying inside – was mine!"

Mahler said he knocked the flowers over while trying to run away and stumbled against a beautifully well-kept tombstone.

"Then I looked up directly into the face of Ludwig van Beethoven!"

So relieved was he to recognize the statue on the courtyard's fountain, the castle's towers looming up behind it, he very nearly broke down and cried at the sight of it.

"I have no idea what this means, dream or reality," Mahler said, "but we must go talk to Knussbaum!"

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

But getting to Knussbaum's room was not going to be that easy, as we realized after reaching the Great Landing: for some reason – had we been seen? – the area was being patrolled. Yes, there was Carmilla Varné talking to one assistant near the steps as another assistant came down from upstairs. Was her evil cat Czerny somewhere about? (perhaps that cat wasn't named for the composer of innumerable piano exercises: wasn't chair-niy, Russian for 'black,' short for Chernobog the Black God – Satan?!)

While I peered through the darkness trying to locate the black cat, I overheard Carmilla talk to the assistants. "So, keep your eyes open – if you know what I mean, Werner."

What – or, more likely, who – was it they were out looking for? This, I thought, did not bode well.

"Wait," I blurted out, almost too loudly, "this is Director Böhm's portrait." We were standing directly in front of it. "Remember how the secret passageway led us here right from Knussbaum's studio?"

We immediately began pressing against every corner and block in our search to open it before we'd be discovered.

Suddenly, the frame began to slide out just enough to squeeze through and long enough for us to enter. It started gliding shut immediately, nearly catching Ethel's skirt as it closed.

Though not easy to follow with all its various twists and turns, we retraced our path to Knussbaum's fireplace. Across from us was an old man propped up on a day-bed. There lay Knussbaum beneath a pile of blankets, mumbling in his sleep, apologizing to Beethoven about losing his secret.

"Ach, it's you," he snorted, suddenly waking up, his eyes wide open but not surprised to see us there. "I thought you were my maker coming to fetch me," he sighed.

"Your maker?" Mahler asked him. "I thought you were talking to Beethoven."

"Well, yes, in a way, I was."

The old man leaned forward. "For many composers, Beethoven is our maker."

But then he spluttered a bit and leaned back with a chuckle. "Don't tell Professor Porlock I'd said that!"

With that, someone else entered the room, startling us with his appearance: wearing a tattered dressing gown was Director Böhm. "Ah, it's you, good," he said, nodding. "I'm glad that you've come. You see, dear Herr Knussbaum is ill, feeling very tired, he is, and possibly even dying, sad to say."

We gasped and gathered closer except for Rott who quickly stood back, not sure how to express our thoughts. Knussbaum gripped at his blankets and smiled weakly, his face deeply furrowed.

"I really ought to tell them," Knussbaum started, "don't you think, Dudley? Otherwise the secret might die with me!"

Director Böhm patted him on his forehead and smoothed back his hair.

"It won't die while I'm still alive, Rainer, you can rest assured. But perhaps we ought to tell them..."

Suddenly, our anxiety over what had happened tonight vanished with our concern for this man who has been our friend, whatever this talk of secrets and dying meant in the larger scheme.

Knussbaum nodded and smiled, his eyes closed, as he started humming something barely audible as the 'Ode to Joy.'

"You see," Böhm explained, "Rainer and I are the last at Schweinwald among those who actually knew The Master. And as Professor Sechter's pupil, I vowed to keep this legacy alive."

Naturally, even fifty-three years since Beethoven died, we could understand the power such a memory must still have for them, keeping alive the very idea of having been in The Master's presence. This is something many old people do, keeping themselves connected to the distant past, but then, this is Beethoven. The way their eyes had become misty, looking deep into their youth, would have been amusing under other circumstances, yet it made me feel I was in his presence even now.

"When I was still a young lad, I went with my teacher, Simon Sechter, to visit his friend Beethoven who at the time was already dying, a piteous sight to see. There was this mountain of a boy standing next to The Master: that was how I met Rainer Knussbaum."

At the mere mention of his name, Knussbaum smiled and nodded again as he rallied momentarily to continue the story. "He made us three promise to help look after a special friend..."

"The Immortal Belovèd," I blurted out, astounded. "You know who she is?" The story of that letter was legendary.

"Her name is not important," Knussbaum explained. "That needs to remain secret. It's her location we need to protect."

"You mean, she's still alive?"

"Ah, well, she is the Immortal Belovèd..."

As they continued their story, we learned that Sechter brought Beethoven's friend – Knussbaum referred to her as 'Rosa Kohl' – to live here at Schweinwald though they mentioned nothing beyond her death.

"We continue looking after her and fulfilling Beethoven's original request," Böhm explained, "but what happens after we are gone?"

"The secret must be kept a secret and the promise still maintained," Knussbaum said, wiping away a few tears.

Meanwhile, Director Böhm reached under Knussbaum's desk, retrieving a plain wooden case.

Lifting out a bronze model of Beethoven's statue on the courtyard fountain, Böhm said we must take this tonight and hide it in the crypt beneath the chapel at Falkenstein Manor.

"There are secrets here that need to be kept for the future, yet also kept from too-numerous prying eyes."

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Admittedly, I was not looking forward to another trip in Grimgerde's phaeton especially considering how the wind had picked up, entrusted with a secret mission or not – even to preserve Beethoven's legacy. Director Böhm had given us careful instructions and wished us all God-speed, but still I had misgivings about it. For one thing, why send all four: wouldn't one of us suffice, with fewer people knowing anything about it? – not that I'd want to go alone, but then that's just me. True, we had no idea of the significance behind this weighty statue, what secret it was meant to protect – nor what the urgency was that this couldn't have waited till daylight – but it seemed to gain in weight the longer I held it, as if I carried a terrible burden.

Flying along the dark and lonely road, I couldn't help but think how Böhm had given Gutknaben the silver locket and it wasn't long before we'd discovered poor Gutknaben had been killed. If he had been killed for a lock of Beethoven's precious hair, what danger lay in store for us? What was the significance of the statue, the markings inscribed on it or the secret it meant to protect? Having killed somebody once already, would it be worth killing for again?

Soon, we arrived without any calamitous incident and followed Böhm's explicit directions, locating the ancient chapel of the Falkensteins, all that remained of the old monastery built here seven centuries since. Why hide it here, I wondered while traversing the broad empty field, except there might be fewer prying eyes. Looking back toward the Falkensteins' spacious house across the road from us, I saw a single room lit up as if someone, suffering a sleepless night, might be watching for us.

Certainly there would be more secure locations within the massive castle itself, protected by a constant crowd of witnesses. No, some lonely place would be best, both isolated and practically inaccessible. As Böhm said, we found the altar near the chapel's far end with its carved relief of Risen Christ.

"Gently press your right hand against the up-raised left hand of Christ," Böhm had instructed us, "placing thumb to thumb. This," he said, "will open the doorway leading down into the crypt."

But Mahler, being a Jew, could not bring himself to do this, and Rott, a Catholic, thought it sacrilegious.

Impatiently, Ethel, cursing under her breath with something like "weak as water," pushed them aside and glanced quickly around before slapping her palm "thumb to thumb" against the hand of Christ.

Nothing happened, not at first. Rott thought she used too much force. Then we heard a soft, grating sigh, like stone rubbing against stone, like someone not used to being bothered. The whole front panel of the altar swung slowly back into darkness, an unwelcoming entrance leading us to – where?

"Well," Ethel postulated, "I opened the door. Mahler, you're holding the lantern. Perhaps that means you should lead the way." Reluctantly, he moved past her and so we disappeared into the passageway.

At the bottom of a steep ramp, we found the crypt's door which Mahler and Rott leaned heavily against.

It opened with another long, sad sigh. Then I smelled it: brimstone! What hit me, next, I'd no idea.

When I finally came to, both the statue and Ethel were gone.

= = = = = = =
To be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a classical music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Chapter 33 (Part 2)

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, which begins with the first portion of Harrison Harty's journal to be written in code, the idea that the possible murder of Gottlieb Gutknaben could put Harty and his friends at risk. Questions abound as to who might have done this and why, not to mention why it was covered up, but investigations only lead them to further questions. Harty's lesson with Professor Böhm in which he describes how a composer's nerves are like piano wires which vibrate to an 'inner chord,' feeding our creativity. "Losing that, you can lose everything."

= = = = = = =

Chapter 33 (conclusion: a continuation of an excerpt from Harrison Harty's Schweinwald Journal)

It was difficult applying Böhm's helpful words after I left his office – I did not feel "up to the task": if any chord vibrated inside of me, it was tuned to fear. I nearly jumped out of my chair when I'd seen Porlock's face pushing itself forward with an insinuating smile.

"Sorry to bother you, Herr Director, in the midst of a lesson," Dr. Porlock said while ignoring me completely, "but I wonder if you could join me in Dean Bezsmyertnikov's office?"

Nothing more had been said between them, setting my "Inner Chord" jangling. Böhm sighed and stood up, looking tired, and nodded an apology in my direction before he scooted me out, suggesting that I check with Frau Steindreher about finding an empty hour to reschedule my lesson, perhaps for tomorrow.

"Considering the time you were already tardy plus the time already spent," she said as she considered what was available, "it looks like Director Böhm has an unscheduled forty-seven minutes tomorrow afternoon." She wrote me in – in pencil, naturally – as my schedule was accommodating, then urged me not to be late.

"Honestly, Percival," Böhm mumbled as he straightened his tie under his beard, "what is the need for all this?" Porlock said nothing but strode on ahead, officious, stiff and ominously portentous.

As I headed toward the practice rooms to work on some counterpoint or at least write in my journal, I noticed two figures walking toward me, both of them immediately recognizable. Lost in conversation and shrouded by cigar smoke, the skinny, angular form of Professor Fabbro gesticulated with evident enthusiasm. The rotund and comparatively laconic figure of Dr. Johannes Brahms listened intently, his hands tightly clasped behind his back. Fabbro nodded almost imperceptibly as they passed, but Brahms remained completely oblivious.

"So, I'm working on this E-flat Major Piano Trio and completely stuck," Brahms was muttering half under his breath, "but you say these numbers of yours will help me get... unstuck?"

I lost Fabbro's whispered response as they moved further down the hall, wondering what foul-smelling bat-shit they were smoking.

It was a shame Liszt had left so precipitously after his recital, not even bothering to appear at the reception. Was it animosity at the little minds who booed those startling improvisations? Though I didn't like them at first – they made my skin crawl – I would have liked hearing them again. Or, since they were improvisations, after all, what more he would offer, following in the same vein as those. They were the complete opposite of anything in his usual populist vein. It would have been a good experience for a student to hear how he explained what he was thinking: how did he achieve those unusual sonorities; what was in his mind? Also interesting would have been to hear a debate with Dr. Brahms even if it became nothing but posturing.

Music was becoming so thoroughly polarized between the Modernists and the Traditionalists, there was little civil discourse between both factions, screaming and calling each other silly names in a most childish manner. Whatever constructive arguments flew amongst the students, rather than help the situation various members of the faculty worsened it. Fabbro had stood precariously on his chair and shouted imprecations at Liszt, how this "ignominious moment" marked music's death; Bezsmyertnikov whistled and stomped his approval of this "music of the future."

Later, then, today, Mahler, Rott and I sat waiting in Bezsmyertnikov's seminar, the only class he would offer this summer, which he called "Nuance and Mockery in the Critique of New Music." As this would be our first class meeting held since Liszt's recital, there was considerable anticipation in the room. It was even rumoured he extended an invitation to Brahms and Professor Fabbro to join him for today's discussion, so it was generally assumed his lateness was intentionally for dramatic effect. Rott had suggested we divide ourselves according to our own critical reactions, considering almost everyone committed themselves quite readily: those in favour sitting on the left; opposed, sitting on the right. It seemed anyone who might be uncommitted, hooted down as spineless moderates, should occupy the dangerous no-man's-land in between.

While this blustering swept back and forth, I wondered about these meetings, the ones Bezsmyertnikov was holding in his office: in addition to Porlock, were others involved than Knussbaum and Professor Böhm? Could they have been addressing this crisis for and against Liszt's recital and not discussing Gutknaben's death after all? It gave me my first opportunity to feel calmer about the day, considering how Knussbaum's paranoia ignited my own. I took out my journal and continued writing down some personal observations.

The increasingly rowdy students immediately became quiet when the door opened suddenly, all eyes turning in anticipation and curiosity but only to release an immediate and deep sigh of universal disappointment when it turned out to be merely Carmilla Varné, Bezsmyertnikov's erstwhile assistant, who apologized that the Dean was delayed. She explained he had been involved in a series of important meetings on a particularly egregious and contentious subject but chose to say nothing more as she strode about the room.

Carmilla no sooner paused beside me and looked at my journal than her long finger stabbed at the page.

"Herr Harty, please explain what exactly it is that you are writing?"

I said, "to discourage others copying my notes, I write in codes."

"Would not English be sufficient?" she scoffed.

When Bezsmyertnikov finally swept into the room, all eyes continued to wait, looking intently towards the door in eager anticipation even as the Dean stood at the podium and opened his notes. Looking up with a somewhat bemused expression, he called for our attention, coughing nervously one or two more times.

"I apologize for my delay," he said, "but it was unavoidable, unfortunately. Let us speak no more about it." This struck me as odd as nobody had spoken about it yet.

Bezsmyertnikov was, despite his clearly Russian physiognomy, a bit of a dandy, a dapper-looking gentleman compared to bearded Germans, with his pointed goatee, slicked-back hair and a penchant for French cigarettes. Like Carmilla's, the eloquent German he spoke was heavily accented in French, typical of most Russians on the Continent.

The unofficial joke about this seminar's subject – teaching composers to become critics – turned it into a thinly veiled "membership campaign," one designed to swell the ranks of critics with otherwise failed composers. A critic himself who once studied composition, Bezsmyertnikov trained primarily in Paris, most Russians being merely dilettantes until recently. But there was so little need for so many composers, he said, that even with all our advanced training it was not always possible everyone who studied would accomplish his dream.

He stressed at every class how very few of us would succeed – one, with any luck, among the near-great – though naturally each of us were convinced we would be that One. The usual comment was we must not make enemies amongst our colleagues: who might someday become an influential critic? It is always good to have such critics firmly on our side. Even if we failed to make our mark on music as composers, we might manage to influence its future.

These lectures never failed to bring me down a peg or two, directly following my confidence-boosting lessons with Böhm. Bezsmyertnikov struck me as the perpetual siren song of the Dark Side, imbuing ingrained failure with an unacceptable compromise, which I resolved to try my best to combat through prodigious application.

This lecture would not become a discussion about Liszt's strange new music nor about what he'd called its "ineluctable modality," fighting for the future of music by pitting one side against another. The professor, after taking a deep breath, perhaps remembering some distant pleasure, picked up where he'd left off before.

"I ended our last meeting," he reminisced, "talking about our poor Schumann, famous critic but composer struggling for recognition, likely otherwise forgotten but for his wife or his famous protege, Brahms.

"Herr Mahler, if you please," he said, "say you become a critic after no one will perform your compositions: you are forced to review performances of music other than your own. No doubt, you would have your own agenda regarding music and aesthetics, but how would you feel about that?"

He continued looking around the room again, not waiting for Mahler's response, and asked Herr Rott what he would do, reviewing a famous conductor who'd already refused to play his unplayable symphony. Rott, already sweating, squirmed in his seat and twisted his legs together, stammering unintelligibly before Bezsmyertnikov cut him off.

Looking at me, he scowled at length before asking a similar question, though with more edge to his voice. "Harty, someone gives you a bad review: would you resort... to murder?"

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

I remember nothing of what happened during the rest of the class after everyone desperately tried to hide their amusement. Of course, to my way of thinking, this was no idle joke. Bezsmyertnikov was letting each of us know he was 'on' to us and threatening us to be very careful. When the end of class finally arrived, he dismissed us with nothing beyond an airy wave of his hand, but reserved for the three of us a haughty yet malevolent glance. As we wandered out of the classroom, Ethel waited impatiently for us, barely able to contain her intense excitement. She looked as if she swallowed something and was about to erupt. We didn't want the explosion to happen within the hearing of Bezsmyertnikov, so we hurried her down the hall.

"Whatever is the matter," she kept muttering, "have you lost your minds," highly incensed by our brusque and ungentlemanly behaviour. We managed to get her further away before Bezsmyertnikov left the classroom. "Stop pushing me this instant," she cried until we had to stop or risk creating a possibly worse scene.

"Come," I said in a conspiratorial whisper, "we need to have privacy! Someone could easily overhear anything we say." We dodged into the first practice room that we could find empty.

What had so excited her, in fact, she began breathlessly to explain, was overhearing something she probably shouldn't have.

"There I was, standing in the hall, minding my own business, naturally."

Rott was about to make some sarcastic comment she would find annoying but I stopped him before he could.

"Then I heard their voices from around the corner where I stood. I was sure they couldn't see me."

When she paused as if for effect, I blurted out impatiently, "and...?"

Despite the noise from a near-by pianist, she crouched down and whispered, "It was Brahms talking quietly with Fabbro. Apparently there's a special dinner party at the Falkenstein's tonight, very private."

"And they immediately invited you," Rott complained. He desperately wanted to arrange a meeting with Brahms about his symphony.

To make a long story slightly shorter, given the limited time available, she reminded us she'd met Brahms in Leipzig while she was staying with his friends the Herzogenbergs, also her teachers, and it bothered her that the whole time she'd been at Schweinwald he's done nothing but completely ignore her. Regardless, he and Fabbro were talking about something very secretively, something "clandestine," but something Fabbro would "reveal" to Brahms which, for reasons of "personal security" had been "hidden in Falkenstein's basement."

That reminded me that I, too, had overheard both of them talking, probably only minutes before or after this, how Brahms, finding himself stuck, thought this would help him become unstuck.

"Something special in the basement," Mahler smiled, "like maybe a wine cellar?"

"Or water from the Fountain of Inspiration?"

Of the four of us, Rott was always the one most likely to come up with the least likely solution, an imagination completely unencumbered by the rigors of ingrained craftsmanship and training. His was a mind with only slight connections between fantasy and reality, something at times Mahler may have envied. We knew that Fabbro was the strictest disciplinarian on the Schweinwald faculty and such a fountain was entirely ludicrous. But considering the secrecy that was involved, it must be something momentous.

Since I could see no obvious connection between this and Gutknaben's murder, I had no idea why I went along with Ethel's sneaking over to the Falkensteins to spy on this dinner, but clearly something was going on beneath the Academy's placid surface implying, perhaps, in some odd way, it did. Was Gutknaben killed because he'd found out something inappropriate was going on and someone thought he should be eliminated? And wasn't it possible, I reminded her, we'd meet the same fate? Nonetheless, nothing would stop her and of course we three followed suit, standing by the front parlor's window, waiting. She had made her own arrangements and packed us a light supper. Before long, Brahms, Fabbro and the Hammerschlags got into the Director's fiacre and headed downhill in a stately manner.

We then hurried out a side door, walking quickly to the stable where the groom Hannes, apparently sweet on Ethel, waited with a rickety phaeton pulled by an old mare named Grimgerde. We were careful not to be seen – everyone else was at dinner – since we'd be breaking several significant regulations. Ethel immediately leaned over and yanked the reins out of Mahler's hands though he knew enough not to argue: her bounding over chairs, backs and all, made her an intimidating presence.

The wagon, such as it was, took off at a leisurely pace, trotting modestly down the path toward the village, our presumed goal should anyone catch us and wonder where we're going. However, it wasn't too long before we'd arrive at the Falkenstein's gate where we'd hide Grimgerde in the bushes. But something apparently spooked the horse because, no sooner under the trees, I realized the carriage was aptly named, considering Phaeton, Apollo's son, nearly crashed the Sun Chariot into the earth.

It was all I could do to keep Rott from falling out as we careened from side to side. We would soon pass Brahms in the stately fiacre, at this rate. It wouldn't surprise me that somehow HWIDNWTN knew what we were doing and we'd all fall to our demise.

= = = = = = =
To be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a classical music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014