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Beeblog | episode 2


BeeBlog by Birgitta Arts

Back to Episode 1

 

Vienna’s daily the Wiener Zeitung reported the death of Joseph Hartl Edler von Luchsenstein on Thursday 27th of June. His name was listed in the dedicated section, among those who on the same date had encountered a similar fate.

 

It was Joseph Ebersberg who took it upon himself to write a wordier obituary. The feature appeared on the front page of Der Wanderer (the Wanderer), another local paper, just over a month following von Hartl’s death: thirty three days later to be exact. One cannot help but wonder why it appeared so late. Had Ebersberg waited for the family to write the piece and finally, faced with a lack of response, decided to take the matter in hand?  Was it a difficult text to write and had he needed this time to carefully craft his sentences? Or was he naturally slow in finding the appropriate words? This last possibility seems very unlikely. Joseph Ebersberg was a teacher with the von Hartl family. He had also written a first play which, sponsored by his employer, had made its debut in the theatre. It hadn’t made a lasting impression, but all beginnings are difficult, he acknowledged. Also, several years after leaving the von Hartl household, Joseph Ebersberg would publish his first educative handbook for the youth as well as launch Feierstunden, a weekly magazine.

The obituary focused on von Hartl’s great significance for industry and employment in Austria as well as the many philanthropic activities in which he had invested much of his life’s efforts. Had Joseph von Hartl given instructions on how he wished to be remembered? Some people will dedicate themselves to meticulously paint a personal version of their life’s accomplishments with the required superlatives long before their last hour is announced, and do everything to ensure it is passed on as the only true story. When other types of testimonial are scarce, what is omitted will often be forgotten or buried in the annals of history. Taking into account von Hartl’s carefully precise mind, it might not be strange to suspect something of the sort. The list of functions and awards, titles and hats Joseph von Hartl bore was impressive. Despite his young age but true to his time, Ebersberg thought best to walk the fine line between truth and reality. He would not mention von Hartl’s wife or children by name which, given his role as secretary and tutor, surprised acquaintances when the obituary was published. And a couple of obvious omissions told the advised reader that he too had a future to safeguard. The critical voice which Joseph Ebersberg developed later in his writing career did however manage to transpire. Throughout the text, in small details and turns of phrases, he hinted at another version of the facts.

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Listen to a Song by Franz Schubert: Der Wanderer, D 489, based on a poem by von Schmidt von Lübeck.

“There where you are not, there is my happiness”, Elisabeth von Hartl hummed to herself, adding a personal touch to the last verse of one of Schubert’s songs called The Wanderer.  The lyrics popped in her head as by some peculiar association of ideas. She had repeatedly heard them sung by von Hartl’s stepdaughter Nina, who in a haunting contralto voice had spent many evenings studying the contrasts in tempo of the melancholic C# minor melody.  After several journeys to Italy and — according to some of her acquaintances — a short romance with the poet Friedrich Schlegel, Nina had left the von Hartl home definitely. This was almost five years ago. The young woman now lived in Rome with her husband, the painter Friedrich Overbeck.  Elisabeth’s mood was very different yet the words remained strangely significant to her. She felt relief.

She quickly resumed her daily life and adapted rather effortlessly to her new situation. She wasn’t pressed to remarry for need of money, nor for power. As an offspring of the influential von Czernin family, Elisabeth had brought a certain status to the marriage in the form of social position, as well as the real estate on the Singerstrasse. Von Hartl had provided the respectability she needed after she gave birth to a daughter out of wedlock. Their marriage had indeed been one of good mutual convenience, as she liked to describe it, with a patient but not unsatisfied smile on her face. Her husband had considerably augmented their fortune and established a will to go with it. He had made the necessary provisions therein. She would soon gain control over the shares he held in the Pottendorf cotton yarn-spinning plants and become shareholder in her own right. She would also find some form of compensation from her husband’s participation in several notable financial institutions. And the real estate remained listed in her name, as it had been during their married life. She could therefore continue to hold on to the property for more than a decade.

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Frau von Hartl left Joseph in charge of tidying up her husband’s office. Less than one week after his death she gave him instructions to clear out personal effects and some of the books, as well as classify the remaining correspondence and miscellaneous documents. It seemed pretty straightforward to Ebersberg, the task wouldn’t take long. As secretary he had always dealt with most of the important files on a timely basis, having destroyed them, or distributed and archived others off site.

The windows had been opened early afternoon to let in the mild breeze of the first days of summer. The room had not yet been dusted nor otherwise cleaned since the fatal Sunday. Things were just ever so slightly out of place, Ebersberg observed. Frau von Hartl had evidently done a systematic check and taken what she thought she needed. He closed the windows and spent an hour or so glancing at headlines and reading diagonally to shift the disposable tracts from the useful materials. The mail just revealed a couple of messages delivered on Monday, one from Hofagent von Bogner to suggest a date for a meeting, the other from Franz Karger, another court agent who wished to recommend someone. Ebersberg suppressed a slight disappointment and turned to the bookshelves. His employer only kept a small library in this room, mainly filled with a collection of books of general reference, such as almanacs, directories and yearbooks. Frau von Hartl wanted to preserve the dictionaries and an encyclopedia. Ebersberg could take some works for his own use if he fancied, she had said, as long as he disposed of the rest.

Quite decided to make a swift selection, Joseph started to remove books, judging titles or paging through the ones he thought he might like. He ordered them in stacks on the table closest to him. The highest two shelves were probably just as well left alone for general adornment, he thought, as they couldn’t be reached easily. But curious as he was, he would give them a quick look. Perched on a stool he recognized the names of several authors, the books seemed to be mostly works for theatre, plays of relatively recent date. He wasn’t too impressed, good for decoration indeed, probably nothing worth having.  His finger followed the leather spines and his eye nevertheless rested on a collection of six volumes, similarly bound.  Sämmtliche Werken…he couldn’t see very well and pulled one of them out, at random. The book in his hands opened up almost by itself, revealing a few loose leaves, handwritten. They seemed to be letters, maybe two, neatly flattened and tightly inserted between the pages of the book but a little too thick to keep the book from giving them away. Could they have been used as a bookmark? They seemed out of place; von Hartl was not one to leave correspondence behind carelessly. Joseph Ebersberg got off the stool and sat down to examine the book and its contents more carefully.

The sheets had been inserted just before a section page bearing the title Bianca della Porta. A play in five acts, a classic tragedy most probably. The handwriting was in German, the lettering rather irregular. “Ich bitte sie lieber Freund, da sie sich wohl jenes Billets erinnern werden, welches sie mir geschrieben, als ihnen H. v. Hartl den Auftrag wegen der Academie…” Ebersberg had automatically started to read from the beginning but was soon very confused. It wasn’t a letter addressed to von Hartl. It was a letter about a letter, and about von Hartl. He turned to inspect the pages, and found it signed Ganz Ihr, Beethoven. Yours sincerely, Beethoven!  Had he stumbled on a letter written by Ludwig van Beethoven? Why was it left in the book? On the spur of the moment, overwhelmed with curiosity, Ebersberg decided to take all six volumes with him, of course including the documents. He didn’t waste any more time; he quickly filled the empty space left on the shelf with some books of comparable size, which he had planned to give away anyhow. He was done here for the day.

The evening hours gave Joseph Ebersberg the privacy to study his bounty. The volumes were the complete works of H. J. von Collin. Of course he was familiar with the von Collin name!  The Viennese playwright was famous for his play Coriolan, he remembered. During his years of study some of von Collin’s other plays were compulsory reading, but to his father’s dismay Joseph had not always paid much attention in those formative years. Even though he had ambitions for drama-writing and was always looking for examples to emulate, he was still working down the list of must-reads. And Heinrich von Collin’s plays could be a little hard to digest. Ebersberg knew more about Matthäus von Collin, the younger brother of the playwright, a poet and respected university lecturer. He was currently in state employ as Hofkoncipist, a writer for the department of Finance. Ebersberg recalled he had even seen him once with von Hartl, who had mentioned en passant that the gentleman was also tutor to the Duke of Reichstad, the title by which he referred to the son of Napoleon who resided at the Schönbrunn palace. The dedication in the first volume indicated that it was he, Matthäus von Collin, who was responsible for the posthumous publication of his brother Heinrich’s entire oeuvre.

And the letter? It was addressed to Herrn von Collin Hof-Secretär and at first Ebersberg believed it to be a letter to Matthäus von Collin. But he soon had to conclude that it was in fact directed to Heinrich. How did it find its way into von Hartl’s bookcase? The playwright had died ten years ago, therefore the letter wasn’t recent. Ebersberg read attentively. Ludwig van Beethoven was referring to a note he had received from von Collin, which he indicated he had misplaced. According to the composer, von Collin had sent him a note saying that von Hartl was granting Beethoven the authorization to give an academy concert once a year at the Theater an der Wien if he complied with certain conditions. He, Beethoven, would have to provide a few important compositions that would be played at a concert to benefit the theatre’s charity fund. The composer would also be asked to direct the concert himself. Reading on, the story became more convoluted. Beethoven pleaded with von Collin, asking him if he would write the same promise to him again and leave it undated. The composer would use the note to press von Hartl to grant him a date for a yearly academy concert at the mentioned venue. Ebersberg wasn’t sure if he understood the letter entirely. Why would Beethoven want a note from von Collin stating von Hartl’s promise if he planned to go to with it to von Hartl himself? There was certainly a play on words and a significance which eluded him right now.

Ebersberg was aware of the fact that Joseph Hartl von Luchsenstein had indeed become the managing director of the Viennese theatres around 1807 and remained in this office throughout the troubled war years.  Had von Collin been appointed as his secretary or assistant during that period? Ebersberg wasn’t entirely sure about the details. He was barely eight years old at the time, his mind occupied with very different things and above all he didn’t live in Vienna then. His information wasn’t first hand; all he could sum up were a couple of facts: Beethoven had written his Coriolan overture to von Collin’s 1802 play, which had consequently had a one-off Vienna revival in the theatre in 1807.  The composer had also held a huge concert in December of 1808, whereby he presented his Choral Fantasy as well two important new symphonies.  There was obviously a link here, but Ebersberg was suddenly overcome with a feeling of unease. There was more to these facts than meets the eye, he reflected. He sensed a vaster secret and was suddenly determined to find out what it was. In hindsight he would describe this moment as a turning point in his life.


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