Beeblog | episode 1

The Singerstrasse in downtown Vienna was waking up to the sounds of increased activity rising from the pavement. With a sharp glance at the clock on the mantelpiece and a tug on the cuffs of his crisp shirt, Joseph Hartl moved away from the window. He paced in irritation. He disliked anything that would disturb the beginning of his neatly structured day and this morning Ebersberg was late bringing his newspapers. The young man had been with him for a little over two years. As a rule, he was punctual and eager to serve well.

A light morning collation was laid out on a side table, ready to be served. Joseph Hartl signaled for two cups to be poured and at a second wave the butler left the room. He sat down, mechanically switched the cups and spoons around as he had been in the habit of doing, and readjusted the tray. At that moment he heard his secretary’s hurried footsteps halt behind the door, just ever so briefly. He could almost see him take a deep breath before entering the room.

“Sir…”

“Be seated Ebersberg. My newspapers”, he ordered dryly.

“Please excuse my tardiness. Lady von Luchsenstein stopped me on my way in and enquired about next week’s lessons.”

“Certainly. And about the young lad’s progress I suppose. Have him do more calculus, it will sharpen his mind.” He hesitated, but continued: “Elisabeth? Up at this hour?” Maybe his wife had gone to church. The fact nevertheless unsettled him. His eyes, topped with a vague frown, twitched almost imperceptibly. Joseph Ebersberg didn’t answer, the question didn’t seem addressed to him. Von Luchsenstein himself would subtly interrogate several members of the staff later in the day.

Joseph Hartl, Edler von Luchsenstein (von Hartl as he demanded to be addressed) picked up the top of the papers laid on the table in front of him. With a swift movement he went over the first few pages of the Wiener Zeitung, Vienna’s main daily.

“Let’s see what we can achieve on this 22^nd of June” he said to Ebersberg demonstratively, indicating he was ready. He usually called this day of the week his lucky Saturday: while many others were planning parties, theatre attendance or country outings, he liked to lay out his moves. Even when urgent business took him away from the capital he would precisely accommodate his schedule around this moment.

The newspaper opened with the arrival in town of Archduke Rudolph, archbishop of Olomouc, two days ago, of which he was already aware. Indeed, it had been brought to his knowledge on the day itself, when the lodgings were being prepared with urgency for the archbishop’s imminent arrival. He had not anticipated this visit and had immediately postponed his planned business trip to the south. It seemed the wise and sensible thing to do. Ebersberg reported on the talks in town and a some minor exchanges which he had happened to overhear. Von Hartl always welcomed a few extra ears and accorded him an intense look, but he refrained from comment.

His impatience grew noticeably again over the general tone of the daily’s main articles. They filled the pages and seemed to ramble on. One could feel the lightness of summer settling in, together with a want for gossip clinging to it. Carrying on, von Hartl was nevertheless reminded of the changes in custom regulations announced by the Bavarian king and that he should ask Ebersberg to collect the necessary information for a detailed report. The Russians too had earlier this year, at the beginning of 1822, issued a new series of measures geared towards protecting their own industries. He was certainly not short of interests to protect and would need to decide on how to shape his advice for the benefit of the Austrian market.

The secretary, as always looking to place a well-informed but partially obscure remark to test the waters, referred in passing to news from Egypt. According to a good source he believed, Mehmet Ali was starting to increase his naval fleet, which until now hadn’t been significant. Von Hartl didn’t acknowledge that Ebersberg had said anything. As if since Napoleon Bonaparte’s death the year before, this type of news was deemed less relevant?  Instead, he reflected on the death of His Royal Highness Albert von Sachsen-Teschen, remarking on his impressive collection of engravings.  Ebersberg jotted down a few names and reminders.

“Leave that Ebersberg, just don’t.” Von Hartl exploded. “Tear up those last notes!” The secretary was startled by this sudden outburst.

“Remember what I’ve told you about writing things down” von Hartl added. He didn’t elaborate further. An abrupt and painful silence made itself felt while Ebersberg tried to recover his composure.

Joseph S. Ebersberg had alternated several positions as private tutor supervising the education of a number of unruly children in well-to-do families, then landed a temporary position as a banking clerk which he held for no more than a couple of months. Observing the rich and powerful go about their business and handling money and valuables on a daily basis, had soon made him want to get into bigger things himself. He started to wheel and deal privately in small sums, banknotes as well as gemstones, and zealously offered his assistance in all matters. Joseph Hartl von Luchsenstein who on occasions demanded a helping hand, said he recognized his talents. He offered to take him into his employ as a secretary as well as teacher to his grandson, just at the right moment.

The men proceeded onto the financial reports, for which they shared a preference. The secretary proudly took out the list he reworked daily and even spent hours on at night. It was a breakdown and analysis of the latest holdings, the personal ones as well as an overview of several other funds which stood under von Hartl supervision. He slipped it to his employer. The latter took the sheet of paper with a renewed surge of irritation – what did he stress just a second ago?  But a brief quietness came over him as he took a moment to savour the numbers, quite satisfied with the results of his brilliant mind.

“With less than eight days before the end of the quarter, you should start to transfer funds as of Monday,” von Hartl instructed. “Apply the usual percentage, and of course respect the same distributions. No need for a detailed report before summer recess, we’ll expedite the meeting and move things along quickly this time, instead of drowning the members of the committee in details. I don’t expect any questions except the pro forma and uninformed inquiries of our most senior member. Are all of the directives clear?”

He went on without interruption. “As for the Welfare Fund for Disabled Military, have you finalized the draft of the statute amendment we discussed together yesterday?  I will introduce it as extra point requiring immediate voting. I will have enough members backing the vote before Thursday, but I must review the text tomorrow morning so that we can aim to have the definitive wording ready by Monday. And have copies printed with the new text for everyone by Wednesday.”

It was business as usual.

There was a slight knock and the door to the salon opened without hesitation. The major-domo entered to deliver a note and mentioned several wooden cases which had just been delivered.

“Ah, champagne, I presume.”

Von Luchsentein slid his finger to open the impressive wax seal he knew so well. After a quick glance at its content he turned in Ebersbergs direction, although the latter felt as if his employer was staring right through him.

“Sir…” He paused. “There is also a request from Herr Steiner, who wishes to meet with you as soon as possible. I believe he wants to discuss a matter related to the Court Theatre publishing rights.”

The name was enough to regain his boss’ attention. Sigmund Anton Steiner and von Hartl’s relationship was a long-standing one. Their common history went back to times when Steiner himself served as von Hartl’s secretary, now more than twenty years ago. Presently occupying a similar position, young Ebersberg couldn’t help letting his mind wander, fantasising and imagining details of a glorious future. Steiner had become a most powerful man in Vienna: he was president and treasurer of the booksellers and printer’s council, and also owner of a publishing company carrying his own name, with a specialty in music scores. Apparently he also oversaw some real estate business.

“Let Anton know to join me sometime this evening, when it is quieter, preferably after eight.”

Ebersberg addressed von Hartl’s schedule for the following week, and they discussed the various documents to prepare for the bureau of the National Bank in view of the next shareholder meeting. Von Hartl had not had time to finish his thought, when the door opened again, this time without the customary knock. A man in his mid-forties barged in and interrupted the conversation. He had a big and still boyish face, strong elongated features, large grey-blue eyes giving him a frank look and the demeanour of one seemingly accustomed to letting himself in in high places. Or so he pretended.

“Kuffner.”

Von Hartl’s voice was flat and precise, but one could nevertheless feel the tension.  Maybe it was something else? Finding himself within the confined walls of his city palace, he didn’t bother to hide everything. He seemed plainly displeased.

The newcomer was very agitated as he skipped the formality of greeting, even though von Hartl clearly outranked him in every respect, age, wealth and stature.

“I don’t understand why this was necessary?” Kuffner cried out loud. “After the recent interference, they are going to believe I had something to do with it. This is too complicated. It is not…”

The man was alarmed, his mind racing out of control. Von Hartl cut him short with a tone that would prevent any more unfounded details to fill the air between them. With his left hand digging hard into his shoulder he pressed the man onto the chair closest to him. His other hand ordered his secretary out of the room.

“Christoph, quiet down. You are totally mixed up.”

The door was shut. Von Hartl lowered his voice and added slowly and distinctly:

“It’s extremely unfortunate, yes. But these things happen. Don’t start spreading any wild ideas, that’s how you get involved and before you know you will be in it up to your neck. Up to your neck. You know how it is. For your own sake, shut up.”

Christoph Kuffner kept his eyes locked on Von Hartl, trying to sense how he should continue, but the gaze the older man returned froze him to the bone. He said no more.

“You can look at it this way. It is God’s will. We can only hope his justice serves as a lesson. I believe this will control the unruly.” Von Hartl stressed. “My advice to you is: stick to your books and enjoy your privileged position. There are so many young upcoming authors out there whom you can keep on the right path. The censorship division needs your committed and trained eye. It is a rewarding task. Besides, you have a sound literary career with corresponding ambitions. I know you will not disappoint us.”

“And Christoph, let me remind you of your father,” he pursued. “Even if you do not want to remember who he was, and certainly not have his name pronounced in the same breath as yours. Whatever occurred and however disturbing the turn of events may be, it gives me a profound sense of closure.”

Joseph von Hartl terminated their private talk. The last comment hovered. In Christoph Kuffner’s mind it took the shape of a threat.

Moving to regain control over this tumultuous morning von Hartl allocated some extra time to his secretary, sensing he should continue to protect the still precarious trust and confidentiality he had secured with him a year and a half ago. He also had a talk with his major-domo. Later, after a quiet meditative lunch he employed his afternoon with a number of essential house calls, none of them however dictated by the earlier disturbance.

The café on the Singerstrasse at the corner of the Blutgasse, just a block away from the Stephansplatz, had become a busy late afternoon meeting point. This Saturday was no exception, the sound of laughter and buzz of the mixed conversations greeted new arrivals. Behind one of the large windows a man sat at a table, sipping black coffee, holding his newspaper in such way that he could admire the imposing façades on the main artery, even though he was on one of his customary visits. He watched as a carriage stopped diagonally across the street in the midst of the bustling afternoon circulation. He could confirm that Joseph Hartl, Edler v. Luchsentstein had indeed remained in Vienna and returned at his majestic city residence at 16:35. One hour later, a young apprentice rang the door bell at house number 895 and delivered a large hat box with a small parcel wrapped to match, clearly as instructed on his order slip.

The trip he had planned to make to the region of Styria in the southern part of Austria had been cut short by the Archbischop’s arrival; von Hartl had made no alternative arrangements for the evening. After an early meal he retreated to his study to read. Herr Steiner, having received the message through the secretary, was let in discreetly shortly after eight o’clock. The men greeted each other as old friends. Their relationship had started off on other terms just over twenty years ago, but time had erased a few differences.

Joseph Hartl was son of a Viennese tradesman who for many years ran a business on a prominent location on the bustling Graben in the center of Vienna and was a member of the imperial board of commerce. And so it happened that Joseph became a civil servant and did not follow in his father’s footsteps. Being appointed as imperial court agent he went into state employment at the Department of Finances. But clearly the astuteness of the businessman continued to run through his veins as he demonstrated that he had an incredible flair for identifying new opportunities. Above all, blessed with a sharp mathematical mind, he knew how to make his keen sense of numbers work in his favour.  A well-placed protector intervened on his behalf as he was graced with the noble title of Edler v. Luchsenstein by Emperor Franz II, at the beginning of 1799. From that moment forward, his career had wings. His current secretary was still trying to figure out how exactly it had all come about.

Von Hartl had strengthened his ties with Steiner at a moment in time when he was closely following the development of a new printing method called lithography, for which he was made to see the extremely diverse practical applications. Lithography was devised as a printing process using the etching and print transfer possibilities of limestone. Looking into the future, the new method would prove itself to be a more cost effective printing process. With trials and additional development, it would come to replace the printing from engraved copper plates. But let us not become too technical here and just say it proved to be a grand invention and an absolutely revolutionary concept.

As von Hartl was always on the lookout for gifted men who were willing to follow in his stride, he had engaged Anton Steiner, then earning a clerk’s salary at a law firm, as his private secretary. Taking the lead in the initiative undertaken by Alois Senefeld, inventor of this lithographic process, he convinced the imperial authorities in 1800 to grant patenting and to provide the necessary permissions which would allow them to set up a business for the development of lithographic printing in Austria. With all authorizations in place, the Chemische Drukkerey (Chemical Printing Company) opened for business with of course the collaboration of Senefeld. Steiner was put in a managing position and through von Hartl’s generous financial help he was able to acquire the company around the year 1804. After Sigmund Anton Steiner officially obtained his Viennese citizenship, the company continued under the firm name S.A. Steiner.

Having bonded, the two men had certainly helped themselves and each other, and they were both acutely aware of what they meant to each other. They respected each other’s position and valued their respective skills. It had also become good practice between them to keep important exchanges out of the limelight. Tonight Steiner’s visit nevertheless fitted the context of the dramatic event of three days ago and would not seem abnormal in any way. The reason provided by Steiner when he requested the meeting would be one of the topics of their extended conversation that evening, yet in no way did it cover the many subjects they needed to discuss. The chandelier in von Hartl’s evening room burned into the late hours of the night.

Midnight showers gave way to an overcast Sunday morning sky. Joseph von Hartl was still in his robe enjoying the early quietness of his private quarters for as long as he could, reading, pacing, reading some more.  If notes were taken, they would be intricately and precisely trusted to a leather bound book of the finest writing paper tailored to his needs with monogram and emblem applied in a subtle translucent watermark. Yet no one, not even the members of his house staff, ever saw him write anything down. Maybe the notebook didn’t exist at all.

The family would attend Sunday mass together. He could perceive that the household was emerging from its restful hours; subdued sounds of increasing movement and doors opening or closing came from the floor above him. It was time he got dressed. He called in his personal servant as he moved toward the dressing room. He had approximately an hour in front of him.

Fully dressed in a light summer combination von Hartl stood still in front of the large mirror. His man servant gave his overcoat a last gentle brushing, readjusting here and there. Von Hartl was just over sixty now and far from handsome. To compensate, he spent extravagant amounts of money on his wardrobe, which translated into the choice of the finest cloths. This had the added advantage that his lavishness wasn’t one that caught the eye immediately. He knew exactly when and how to show his success, in perfectly measured doses.

“Sir, a new hat and gloves which you ordered arrived yesterday. I left the packages out on top of the dresser. Will you wish to see the items before I put them away?”

Von Hartl had picked up his pocket watch from the table in his bed chambers where a breakfast was waiting for him. He was about to try one of the small sweet rolls he couldn’t really resist. It would be sufficient until he sat down for an extended Sunday meal.

He had indeed recognized the parcels on the dresser. This evening he and his wife would be attending the vigil mass held at the Saint Stephan Cathedral on the eve of the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist. As a devout catholic, he would normally attend. With the archbishop’s presence in Vienna, it would be the place to be and to be seen. Having decided to remain in town, von Hartl had chosen to order a new hat as well as a pair of kid gloves to match one of the new summer waistcoats and slacks he recently had tailor-made but not yet worn.  He would wear a dark grey overcoat with a waist jacket made of the most exquisite pashmina cloth in a beautiful shade of light silver grey, which would suit the occasion perfectly.

“Unwrap them, Heinrich. They were ordered in a hurry. I should try them on now.”

He put down the breakfast delicacy and walked back to the dressing room. The high hat matched his ensemble; he paused to admire the contrasting grosgrain silk trimming and brushed the inner rim to appreciate the quality and the hat maker’s characteristic signature. With a slight pressure he confirmed the fit was indeed to his entire satisfaction. Von Hartl then slid his hand into a thin silver grey glove, adjusting the fabulously soft kidskin, neatly pressing and stretching the buttery leather to fit around each one of his fingers. He was handed the second glove which slid tightly onto his right hand and he went through the same motions. He judged the preciseness of the stitching, noticing the craftsmanship, then moved his hands around to indulge in the perfect snug fit.

“You can leave them out for tonight,” he said as he handed them to his servant.

Still intending to satisfy his craving, von Hartl returned to the platter of sticky sweetbread. He had another twenty five minutes; the ladies would not be ready yet. He would even have a second one.

Tomorrow would be the 24^th of June, a Monday. The nativity of Saint John the Baptist. Six months to Christmas. His wife Elisabeth would most certainly also attend the day’s celebrations. It was the beginning of summer, but days would start to shorten again. 191 calendar days till the end of the year. What time is it? He would leave the city early Monday, in order to be back before dusk the following day. This would give him just enough time to settle a conflict at the institute, and then pay a visit to the cotton yarn-spinning plant on the way back. Sixty six days to the celebration of Saint John’s death. The numbers danced feverishly in front of his eyes, onto the draperies, then across the large painting looking down from the wall facing him.  The light changed. Joseph Hartl Edle v. Luchsenstein was mentally going over his week agenda when his pulse quickened. He should join his party in the central hallway. He stood up from his chair with a jolt, his vision blurred; he rubbed his eyes, his coat felt incredibly tight. He was suddenly taken by an immense, near to violent anger. A wave of nausea engulfed him and horrendous contractions made a suffocating heat rise to his temples. It was disorienting. His head… he reached for his head with both hands and collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.

It took his wife another fifteen minutes to realize he was late coming downstairs. When Heinrich called out loud that his master was unwell, she sent for a doctor. Her husband was transferred to the nearest sofa, more dead than alive. The ladies rushed to church where they would pray for his rapid recovery. Barely ten minutes later the doctor arrived, to find a corpse: Joseph von Hartl had passed away in his residence, alone. The report spelled out Nerven Schlag, as German practitioners tend to qualify these sudden illnesses for which there seemed to be no prior condition but an easily irritable temperament: unmistakably a nerve-induced seizure which affected his brain.

Copyright © 2018 Birgitta Arts.  All rights reserved.