Across the Endless River (37 page)

M
AY 25, 1828
G
ENEVA

My Dearest Baptiste,

By the time you read this I shall be on my way to Ireland. We leave tomorrow by way of Amsterdam. My mother is not well, and she wants to be with her family in Cork. My father and I have agreed that I should go with her to see her properly settled there. Beyond that there is no telling, as it will depend on how she fares. Ireland is not where I would choose to be if such matters were in my hands.

What joy your letter gave me, every word of it! I, too, imagine your reaction to things that happen to me or people I meet, and it makes me feel closer to you. I wish you were here by my side at this very moment. Your kisses seem from another lifetime, and I crave them daily. Your touch, your voice, your smell are as present as if you had just left the room. Now I can tell you in writing how deeply you lie in my heart.

The news that you will return to America by year's end was less welcome. I cannot pretend to be surprised. We have talked about this before, and your reasons are sensible. Your world is a place I can only imagine. Your invitation to go with you is ever present in my mind, but I cannot say yet what I will do. Just now my mother needs me most terribly. That will change if her health improves. I must see how she does in the months ahead before I can decide whether to go with you to America. If the decision affected no one but me, my love, I would not hesitate for an instant. Can you understand?

I once told you that I never felt more alive than when I traveled with my father for his business. Now I must amend that:
You
make me feel more alive whenever we are together. I have met no one else who understands so deeply what it means to be from two different places and yet living between them. I long to share that as your companion.

Now I must leave you (for that is how it feels) and ask you to be patient, understanding, and—hardest of all—hopeful. If there is any way under heaven for us to meet before you leave Europe, we shall, and I will give you my answer. If it pleases you, write to me in care of my cousin, whose name and address I shall add as a postscript. She is as trustworthy as the stars, so none of the “American cousin” business is called for.

I think of you daily with the most tender affection. As ever,

Maura

T
HIRTY-NINE

J
UNE 1828
V
IENNA

B
aptiste watched the troop of mounted soldiers pass, resplendent in green-and-black uniforms with gold piping and wearing tall shakos with raven-black plumes that quivered with the horses' gait. Their mounts were tall and spirited, prancing in a double line as they moved down the boulevard. He thought of the showy display of young Sioux braves after a successful hunt, each astride his best mount in full regalia for the tribe to admire. There was something of that same prideful air here among the cavalry troops on the streets of Vienna; they knew their lordly bearing and striking uniforms made them the envy of others.

He had spent the morning on errands for Paul: delivery of two specimens to the Imperial Leopold Academy, checking on the progress of a new hygrometer with special calibrations, acceptance of a bound copy of a lengthy study on woodpeckers by a professor at the university. He had not hurried as he walked about, taking in the new sights and sounds with a keen sense of discovery.
Vienna is so unlike Paris,
Baptiste thought. The splendid regiments left him indifferent; one saw such things on the streets of Paris, too, if less frequently. But the mix of human beings who crowded the streets of the Austrian capital caught his interest. The empire's geographic and ethnic richness was on display among the passersby. National costumes were worn by many—thick embroidered capes by Hungarian tradesmen, fur-lined silk coats and broad-brimmed hats by Bohemian merchants, tasseled caps and broad pantaloons by Illyrian boatmen. Several times he had come across groups of Romany—the Gypsies he had heard so much about—and in their wariness they resembled the raffish groups of Indians he had seen in New Orleans, with the look of outsiders who did not belong in the city.

He also encountered fair and dark skin, red hair and black, Asiatic features and Nordic. Vienna was the only place where his appearance did not instantly identify him as an exotic. Twice he had been greeted by shopkeepers in Russian. When he explained in German that he was not Russian, the shopkeepers inquired no further, as if a well-dressed young man with coppery skin, chiseled features, and blue-gray eyes walked into their shops every day. The release that came with not standing out was a new sensation for Baptiste, and he savored each day in Vienna.

It felt good to be away from Mergentheim. He was staying at the Württemberg Palace, which served the kingdom as embassy, royal residence, and a showplace of Württemberg's importance. “We are part of the German Confederation,” Paul had told him, “so it is very important to have a presence in Vienna. There are also strong ties of blood, money, and politics between the Hapsburg family and our own.” Theresa had arrived that morning, and Baptiste was returning there now to meet her.

She was waiting for him in an upstairs sitting room, beneath a section of roof set with glass panes that filled the large parlor with light. Baptiste watched her from the open doorway as she sat reading. She looked younger and more serenely content than he had ever seen her. She was certainly more beautiful than when he had first met her four years before. He was happy to see her, anticipating the pleasure of finding an old friend.

Theresa looked up and laughed. “Sneaking up on me like some wild animal, are you? For shame!”

Baptiste sat beside her and told her about his journey, and of his impressions of Vienna. Before long, their conversation turned to Paul and his problems with his wife. Theresa said, “I fear that he will soon be an outsider again.”

Baptiste said, “Theresa, I don't think anything you or I can do is going to change things for Paul.” Then he told her about his agreement to help Paul with the book and return to St. Louis afterward. She took his right hand in both of hers.

“I am happy for you, Baptiste, though I would like you to stay here forever.” Her eyes were sad, but she still managed a smile and caressed his fingers.

Baptiste had not yet imagined what it would mean to leave behind Theresa and the closeness of their friendship, and now it came to him in a wave of emotion as he felt her touch.

She grasped his hand more firmly. “I shall be spending a few days at a friend's country house,” she said. Surprise registered on his face. He had thought they would spend the time together, but Theresa had made other plans. Baptiste felt a pang of jealousy, then realized he had no right to be possessive.

“On Tuesday we will have a musical evening at the Esterhazys',” Theresa continued, “and a night together before you return to Württemberg.”

Baptiste was grateful that the music would soon eliminate the need to be social. Theresa introduced him to Count Esterhazy and his wife, a tall woman whose jet-black hair stood out against the shimmering red of her dress. Theresa assumed the role of an old acquaintance, providing the details of his provenance and his connections to Paul's household as he was presented to the other guests.

The air was filled with laughter and shouts and good-natured jokes. The feeling was different from that of other parties he had attended in Paris or Berlin or at court in Ludwigsburg. Though the surroundings were sumptuous, the gathering of fifty had a warm glow that reminded Baptiste of the Chouteaus' big parties in St. Louis. All the guests knew one another well, and much of the talk revolved around music. A grand piano dominated one side of the room. Its fall board was open and the ivory glowed in the candlelight. Baptiste leaned down to read the delicate black lettering inscribed on a white ceramic plaque above the keyboard:
CONRAD GRAF
,
WIËN
.

A tall, courtly man with dark hair, graying at the temples, approached him.

“It is a beautiful instrument, is it not?” He looked at Baptiste through silver-rimmed spectacles, his face full of enthusiasm. “I am Jacob Warburg of Berlin. Do you play?”

“Yes, I do, though I am out of practice.” Baptiste stuck out his hand. “Jean-Baptiste Charbonneau of St. Louis.”

Warburg grasped it warmly and talked about the joys of the piano. “I have recently acquired a new piano here in Vienna. Mr. Graf expects to finish the cabinet before I leave for Berlin next week. It's the same model as Esterhazy's”—he inclined his head toward the grand piano gleaming in rich tones of light blond wood—“though done in cherry rather than pear.” Warburg sipped his wine and said, “What do you do in St. Louis, Monsieur Charbonneau?”

“I am in the fur business,” Baptiste said.

“Then you must know Mr. Astor and his associates.”

Baptiste was astonished that this stranger in Vienna knew anyone in St. Louis. “Mr. Astor is very seldom in St. Louis, but his partner in the American Fur Company, Mr. Chouteau, is well known to me.”

Warburg spoke knowledgeably about the price of pelts, the difficulties in transportation on the Mississippi, the changes in fashion that influenced the fur trade, and a number of details that would likely be known by only a handful of people, even in St. Louis.

Suddenly a glass was tapped loudly, the room grew quiet, and Count Esterhazy strode to the piano. Warburg turned his head and whispered, “I hope we're about to hear that Schubert will favor us with one of his creations. I hear he has been very unwell, alas.”

Esterhazy addressed his guests. “My friends, welcome to you all. It has been too long since this house resonated with such gladness, and far too long since new music was heard within these walls. We shall remedy that tonight. Herr Schubert, a dear and cherished friend, has gracefully consented to share with us the first part of the new piece he has been composing.” An excited murmur went around the room, and Esterhazy acknowledged the anticipation and continued. “Even Herr Schubert's genius does not permit him to play music intended for four hands, so he will be joined at the keyboard by Princess Theresa von Württemberg.”

There was another round of murmurs and nods, then a hush as Theresa walked to the piano, joined by a young man with a florid complexion. She looked radiant in deep green velvet. The man at her side wore a loose-fitting suit of clothes. He coughed and smiled nervously; a thin line of sweat spread along his brow. Theresa whispered something to him, and he turned to address the gathering, peering over the top of his metal-framed eyeglasses. He had a bashful air, and a flush spread across his face as he spoke.

“Princess Theresa begs me to remind you,” he began hesitantly, “that she has only this afternoon laid eyes on this music for the first time. I should point out that we are practically in the same situation, since I only scribbled this piece in the last few days.” There was laughter. “I depend upon her extraordinary prowess at the keyboard for this first reading.”

He took his place to Theresa's left on the long piano bench and organized the sheets of music on the stand. They sat perfectly still for a long moment, Theresa's earrings flashing in the light of the candelabra that graced both ends of the piano. Then they raised their hands to the keys, looked at each other for an instant and, with a barely perceptible nod from Schubert, began to play. Into the utter stillness of the room came forth the deep-toned rhythm of a burbling stream in the bass, balanced almost immediately by a haunting melody in the treble, a repeated series of six notes. Theresa played the melody, which repeated with minor variations that heightened a deep sense of urgency, as if a horn were sounding a call of entreaty across a great and empty plain. There was something poignant in the dying fall of the notes, as they faded and then sounded again. The music grew more elaborate, with ornaments and variations, but the dark refrain never entirely disappeared. The performance profoundly moved those who listened.

Baptiste watched the two faces, side by side, peering urgently at the sheets of music, with a joy that was almost intimate written on their features. Baptiste was delighted by Theresa's authority and quiet exuberance at the keyboard. Her playing was similar to her manner, he realized—confident, clear, and passionate at once. Theresa could be willful, vain, even unreasonable, but here some deeper current was touched and her intelligent generosity brought the music alive.

After several variations on multiple themes, they reached a great climax. The original melody returned with its haunting insistence as the piece closed in a quiet exchange between high and low notes that sounded like a lamentation. Then it was over, and silence descended upon the room. The listeners were spellbound. Theresa kissed her fingertips and brought them to Schubert's cheeks.
“Egregio Maestro!”
she said loudly. Schubert looked like a cherub smiling down from a church wall, he was so pleased at Theresa's praise. Then the room erupted in applause and friends and well-wishers crowded around the piano.

Baptiste watched the other guests surge forward to congratulate Schubert. Several people looked at the pages of music on the piano. Schubert gathered them in a pile protectively and cried, “No, no! It's only the merest sketch so far.” Good-natured groans of disappointment and feigned entreaties arose from those around him, but the composer held his sheaf of pages tightly as he talked to friends and acquaintances. Theresa was surrounded by her own coterie of admirers. Warburg had been among those who approached her when the last notes faded, and now he took her hand in his, a look of rapture on his face. She talked with him for several minutes, unwilling to be interrupted.