Free Vienna Blood by Frank Tallis Page B

Aschenbrandt, excited beyond measure, sat down at the Weber grand and opened his piano score.
    The room fell silent.
    Aschenbrandt brushed thin wisps of platinum hair behind his ears and his pale face grew solemn. He raised his hands and allowed them to fall onto the keyboard, striking three dramatic opening chords—his celluloid cuffs rattled. An ostinato bass conjured images of marching soldiers, over which an oscillating figure of open fourths and fifths suggested a brassy clarion call. The music was literal, but it was also evidently to the taste of the audience, who nodded appreciatively at the transparent programmatic references. The music ended with a triumphal theme in the relative major key, played fortissimo. Even before the showy coda had come to its predictable conclusion, Von Triebenbach was on his feet. The ovation lasted for several minutes, with List participating as enthusiastically as anyone else present. It was an endorsement that Aschenbrandt had hardly dared dream of, and when List congratulated the young composer personally, he felt as though he had been crowned with a laurel wreath.
    After the concert, servants supplied guests with champagne and frosted cubes of crystallized fruit. For a short while there was a general mingling, during which Von Triebenbach circulated among his friends. Eventually the company separated into small groups—some sitting, others standing, but all engaged in animated conversation.
    Von Triebenbach and Professor Foch were seated at either side of List, who was expounding his views on the writings of Houston Stewart Chamberlain—an Englishman who had made Vienna his adoptive home. Chamberlain's idea of a great northern alliance, in which all the old Germanic peoples—the Germans, Austrians, English, Nether-landers, and Scandinavians—might join forces, was indeed veryappealing. Such an alliance would, as Chamberlain suggested, be invincible; however, List queried Chamberlain's inclusion of the French as Teutons—a position that he considered untenable. Even so, the Englishman's work was certainly worthy of the utmost respect.
    Hannisch, Aschenbrandt, and Olbricht were standing in a close group by the piano.
    “Well,” said Hannisch to Aschenbrandt, “you must be feeling very proud. What did he say to you?” The counselor's gaze darted toward List.
    Aschenbrandt leaned forward to ensure privacy.
    “He said that he was deeply moved … that my music had captured perfectly the heroic spirit of the Quadi.”
    “High praise indeed,” said the counselor, popping a cube of sugared plum between his bright red Cupid's-bow lips. “You are a very lucky young man.”
    “Indeed, and I believe, sir, that we are all indebted to you, for—”
    Hannisch killed the compliment with a hand gesture and began to make dismissive puffing sounds. “Not at all, dear fellow, not at all. It was my pleasure.” He sucked some sugar from his fingertips. “Your overture reminded me a little of Rheingold, ” he added. “The entry of the giants.”
    “You are too kind,” said Aschenbrandt.
    “And when do you think the opera will be completed?”
    “In a year or so, perhaps. Now that I have the approval of the author, I feel completely inspired. I will work day and night on the score.”
    “Tell me, Herr Hannisch,” said Olbricht, capturing the counselor's attention, “does the mayor intend to proceed with the Mozart memorial?”
    “Yes, I think so,” Hannisch replied. “If I've understood the minutes correctly.”
    “I submitted some drawings to the mayor's office. …”
    “Oh?”
    “Unfortunately, they were rejected. Although, to be frank, I was in two minds about such a project.”
    “Did you ask your patron to use her influence?”
    “Yes, of course—but alas, her efforts were wasted.”
    “What's this?” asked Aschenbrandt, emerging from a fog of self-satisfaction.
    “The district chairman has been pestering the mayor for a Mozart memorial to be erected just outside