Free Murder in A-Major by Morley Torgov Page A

mistake. He lost no time in offering an apology to his hostess. “I do beg your pardon, most sincerely, Clara. The fault is all mine. Blame it on a slip of the tongue.”
    This excuse only added fuel to the fire. Clara shot back, “I would prefer that you confine your slips of the tongue to Weimar. They are not welcome in this house.”
    Her anger left Liszt no choice. “I won't burden you further with my company, madam,” he said. Given that he had just been invited in no uncertain terms to leave the premises, his tone was respectful, even gracious. “May I say only this, madam: you and your husband are the only people in the world from whom I would accept so calmly the insult just handed me.”
    All of us watched in deathly silence as Liszt turned and began to make his way out of the drawing-room. But as Liszt passed in front of Johannes Brahms, he paused. “Young man,” he said, “I regret that I arrived too late to hear your performance. Perhaps on another occasion. By the way, that piano—” Liszt pointed to the instrument Clara Schumann had played on. “That piano is in need of a good tuning. I have perfect pitch, and the ‘A’ is at least a full quarter-tone too high.” Shaking his head, Liszt added, “What a pity.”

Chapter Eleven
    I have done with him forever!” “Him” was—of course—Franz Liszt. The person making this vow for all to hear was—of course—Clara Schumann.
    I had no difficulty understanding her anger. For a man with a reputation for social grace, Liszt had acted with incredible insensitivity, almost boorishness.
    What was difficult to understand, at least for me, was Clara's apparent indifference to the whereabouts at that moment of her husband. For all we knew, he might have been in the attic attempting to hang himself from a rafter. Or he might have been in the cellar drinking himself into a stupor—something he was known to do all too frequently whenever things went badly for him. Or he might have stormed out into the night, coatless and hatless, roaring aimlessly into the uncaring February wind.
    Stationing herself in the foyer, her head high, her composure restored despite everything, she bade a polite “Goodnight, thank you so much for coming” to her guests as they bundled into their heavy outerwear and, muttering awkward expressions of sympathy, filed out.
    Only four persons remained now: Clara Schumann, Brahms, Helena Becker and I.
    I was committed of course to escorting Helena back to her apartment, but a sense of unfinished business hung in the air, and though I had the distinct feeling that my hostess and her protégé were eager to see the last of Helena and me, I made no move to assist Helena to pack her cello in its case, nor did I don my overcoat, which the Schumanns’ housekeeper had handed me. Instead, I turned to Brahms. “Tell me, sir,” I said, “was there any truth to what Liszt said to you on his way out?”
    â€œYou mean about wanting to hear me play my own music?” Brahms gave me an ironic smile. “Hardly. Our music is worlds apart, his and mine. Liszt's is the music of a swindler, a showcase of empty confections…bonbons that are hollow inside. I am proud to be called a ‘Leipziger’. As far as I'm concerned, it's the ultimate compliment.” As Brahms said this, he and Clara exchanged looks of unguarded fondness.
    Pretending to be merely curious, I said, “My question had to do with Liszt's observation that the piano was out of tune. Did you agree with him?”
    â€œNonsense!” Brahms said.
    â€œBut he seemed very sure of himself.”
    â€œThey are always very sure of themselves, Liszt and Wagner,” Brahms said. “Both of these ‘Weimar’ types regard themselves as God's gifts to the human race.”
    I was anxious not to press the matter too urgently; still, the question of the