The Case of the Successful Hint

 

I adore the Austrian pianist Alfred Brendel.

It all began in 1975 when I bought my first vinyl before CDs had been invented. On my Philips recording Brendel plays Beethoven’s major piano sonatas: the Pathétique, the Moonlight, and my absolute favourite, the Appassionata. Its first resounding chord in pianissimo establishes the principle theme. Through a build-up of virtuosic waves, the leitmotif reaches its crescendo in ever bolder movements soaring into cascades that evoke a sense of longing and striving. Brendel’s interpretation sends shivers down my spine and lifts me into a different universe where issues that cause me stress, like the current COVID 19 lock down, fade away. I reflect on Beethoven’s tragedy of losing his hearing. I reflect on my fortune of having lived past the age when so many musical geniuses like Mozart and Schubert had already died. Listening to Brendel playing puts my life into perspective. I still relish the thought that I was once within centimetres close to my pianist idol. It happened a few years ago when overseas travel was easy and possible.

One steamy hot and lazy Brisbane December afternoon, the ABC FM-classical radio announcer had broadcast a programme recorded during the Schubertiade in the ‘city’ – his words - of Schwarzenberg. Now, Schwarzenberg is not a city: it is a village, inhabited by approximately eighteen hundred people whose usual auditory pleasure integrates a myriad of gently tinkling cow bells. Loosely translated as black mountain, Schwarzenberg has a fountain in its centre, a church with a surrounding cemetery to its right and its oldest guest house, now converted to ‘Hotel Gasthof Hirschen’ (guest house deer), to its left.

Until the inception of its annual Schubertiade Festival, Schwarzenberg had been quite unknown and hidden in the mountains of Austria’s north western tip. A hamlet, close to the Bodensee, known to English speakers as Lake of Constance, it is nestled between the snow-capped Vorarlberg massif, dark tall forests, and juicy green meadows. Farmhouses scatter up the high side of the mountains and healthy cows produce their tasteful milk for local gourmet cheeses.  

Why am I so enthused about this place? Because I was born there. Just born, I did not grow up there.

The Schubertiade, is a phenomenon of recent times. At the time of my birth it was an unknown notion. The concept to hold a festival featuring Franz Schubert’s works in the vein to those celebrating Mozart and Beethoven, was conceived by the renowned German baritone Hermann Prey in 1974. He met with the community of Hohenems, located about one hours’ drive south west of Schwarzenberg. In 1976 Prey performed at the first Schubertiade in Hohenems. This newly created Festival soon turned into one of the best known and favoured annual events for international artists and audiences alike. In 1983 the New York Times reported that amongst all the musical festivals in the world, of which there are thousands, Hohenems is ‘the purest and most wholesome.’ During that year Dietrich Fischer-Diskau and Nikolaus Harnoncourt performed also.

In Schwarzenberg, the Angelika Kauffmann Museum and the magnificent eponymous concert hall are within minutes’ walk from the midpoint fountain. These venues derive their name from that famed painter, whose father had been a local. Angelika was born in 1741. After training at the academies of Bologna, Florence, Rome, and London, she became a founding member of the Royal Academy. One of two female artists. She settled in Rome where she become a close friend of Goethe and where she received leading figures in the world of the arts, literature, and science. Her paintings hang in galleries all over the world. You can admire thirteen of her frescos in the church of Schwarzenberg. Closer to home the Queensland Art Gallery also has a painting, ‘The deserted Costanza’, occasionally on display.

In 2001 the Schwarzenberg Angelika-Kauffmann-Auditorium underwent extensive renovations and became the main arena for the Schubertiade. Its acoustics have been praised as being amongst the world’s three best chamber halls, the other two being the Mozart-Hall of the Vienna Konzerthaus and the Salzburg Mozarteum. On average about ninety-nine performances are staged annually with over fifty thousand patrons attending. In 2017 Australians from fifteen different cities were recorded as visitors. The Festival has become a recognised world-wide event where within a short time frame the best performers of song, chamber, orchestra, and piano concerts render their talent. This is intermingled with lectures and master classes.

Today the Schubertiade is spread across the two locales of Schwarzenberg and Hohenems. As a lover of classical music, and Schubert in particular, where do you go to? To Schubert’s birthplace in Vienna? To the festivals in Salzburg, to concerts in Munich or Berlin? Sure, you might go to these well-trodden places, but why not go to Schwarzenberg, which offers the Schubert aficionado an exquisite ode to his music.

After listening to that ABC FM radio programme, I googled the Festival, which is staged during the European summer, close to my birthday in June. On that day Michael Volle was to sing Schubert Lieder, accompanied by Helmut Deutsch on the piano at four o’clock. Pianist Marc-André Hamelin was scheduled to play sonatas and impromptus by Mozart and Schubert at eight o’clock. What a feast. But that was not all! The next day Peter Gűlke was in conversation with Alfred Brendel on the topic of Schubert’s last year. Wow, even though my hero no longer gives public performances, at least you could see and hear him on stage.  

On impulse I said to my husband Geoff, ‘It’s on my bucket list to spend one of my birthdays at the Schubertiade in Schwarzenberg.’ I provided him with the programme details. He expressed his disappointment that Brendel’s discussions would not be in English.

‘But it will most likely be translated,’ I said, ‘you know, like the subtitles in the movies.’

Geoff said, yes, he did: ‘See if you can get tickets!’

For a nano-second I was floored. He had taken my hint seriously. His credit card in hand, I leapt onto the computer, and got tickets for my birthday.

With vigour and great excitement, I started planning and booking the rest of our European trip for that year. Emboldened by my success thus far, I sent an email to ‘Hotel Gasthof Hirschen.’ They were booked out, unfortunately. Rousing my latent terrier instinct, I explained my connection due to my birth there, my desire to spend that day and a few more in their establishment, and our attendance at the Festival. Luck had not left me; I got a booking in the newly built annex.

While being in that corner of the globe, still with Geoff’s credit card in hand, why not venture from small to big, why not book tickets for La Scala in Milano? So, I did, and got tickets for Der Rosenkavalier with Zubin Mehta conducting and Gűnther Groissbőck as Baron Ochs.

Time flew planning all the details for our trip and we soon boarded our flight. We started with a guided tour through Spain and Portugal. Then flew into Rome from where we diverted to Naples and the isle of Capri.

 On Capri we love to visit Axel Munthe’s villa of San Michele. This amazing doctor, hailing originally from Sweden, published his memoir ‘The Story of San Michele’ in 1929. He describes vignettes from his life with wit and humour. Munthe rebuilt one of the ruins of Roman Emperor Tiberius’ villas with the help of four locals using a roughly drawn charcoal sketch. Sitting high up on the rocky ledges of Anacapri the villa houses superb antiquities that Munthe had collected during his travels. A quaint restaurant above the stunning garden serves delicious lunches with a view to die for.

No visit to Capri is complete without a chair ride into heaven. Not far from Munthe’s villa the lift takes you up onto the mountain of Monte Solaro. Individual chairs, spaced at a distance of about ten metres, rotate continuously from the bottom, where gorgeous Italian males slide you into your seat. Sitting in your chair you glide over the gardens below and the swaying treetops as the sky melts into the azure blue sea. An awe-inspiring stillness surrounds you that is complemented by the warbling of birds. The horizon widens. For over ten minutes you are in paradise until you reach the top from where the equally gorgeous but different crew grab you under the arms and assist you out of your chair. Here a panorama of incredible beauty awaits.

From a soaring 589 metres above sea level different shades of blue stretch all the way to the Bay of Naples with the phenomenal backdrop of Mount Vesuvius. You follow the Amalfi Coast as far as the distant mountains of Calabria. On the island below a road snakes up the craggy slopes of the mountainous terrain. Toy sized houses are nestled against rocks or grouped around a square or a church. The sea in front of Capri reveals stony islands, grottos, and tiny boats that leave long white trails behind. From nowhere clouds magically appear and disappear. One moment you catch sight of Tiberiuses Villa Jovis on Monte Tiberio, the next it is engulfed in mist. It is magic at its best.

That was not the last of our stay in Capri. On a previous trip the image of a Capri watch surrounded by coloured Swarovsky crystals had caught my eye. I had been lusting after it since our visit the year before. Determined to have my stylishly essential keeper of time in Australia, as well as a sempiternal souvenir, I guided Geoff to a café in Via Camerelle where we ordered Limoncello, as you do when in Capri. Being thirsty and on a secret mission I gulped my drink and left him to savour his, and to read the latest ABC News on his precious iphone. I ventured into the Capri Watch shop. After salivating over all the different models, I settled for a white one. With my birthday coming up I felt at ease with my decision to spend the money that I did and returned to Geoff with my cherished box stashed into my handbag.

Back in Rome we revisited the usual places we go to, Villa Borghese, Colosseum, Pantheon, Campo de’ Fiori, museums, and galleries galore. We had finished our lunch at the National Gallery of Modern and Contemporary Art, where we always love to linger over Vittorio Matteo Corcos’ ‘Dreams’ and headed towards the exit. On impulse I decided to have a look in the gift shop. ‘I’ll meet you at the entrance in half an hour’ were my parting words to Geoff. I did what you do in a gift shop, perused what I was interested in, bought a few things, little things, and approached the entrance. No Geoff in sight! Typical, where is he now? I should have taken my phone; I am forever losing him. I waited and waited. I went to the restaurant exit; I went to the front again. I’ve been waiting for more than an hour. Should I go home? How will I go home? Which route will I take? My legs are killing me! Oh, where is he? People are looking at me as if I am a loiterer! Finally, he appeared from around the corner! ‘Where have you been?’ came out of our mouths in synch. Apparently, he was waiting at the other entrance. He thinks there is a difference between the front entrance and the side entrance. To this day it remains a mystery to me as to which entrance that was!

We left Rome and continued northward to Milano. Again, we went to galleries like the Pinacoteca di Brera. There I love to immerse myself in Guiseppe Pellizza’s Human Flood, which he finished in 1902 depicting the demands of the proletariat. From this canvas emerges an image of Gerard Depardieu and Stefania Sandrelli leading the peasant revolt in one of my favourite films: Bertolucci’s ‘1900’. When I stand in front of that actual painting, I can hear Ennio Morricone’s haunting soundtrack and recall so many memorable scenes from that movie.

Going to La Scala was awesome, even though our seats were so close to the domed ceiling that the chandeliers almost touched the tip of our heads. We sat, bodies mostly turned forty-five degrees to the left, looking down on a stage the size of my granddaughter’s dolls house. Nonetheless, soaking up the history and being in the sphere where in 2008 Alfred Brendel gave his farewell piano recital that brought the house down, was amazing. The staging of Der Rosenkavalier was spectacular and though I had never heard of Gűnther Groissbőck, I enjoyed his voice and performance.

Unstoppable, like the Romans on their invasion of Germania, we kept moving north. We spent a few days in Konstanz, where I had lived for some years during my childhood. Konstanz had hosted from 1414 till 1418 the greatest congress of the middle ages, making it Europe’s scientific and cultural hub. The Konzil of Konstanz, a building still standing prominently and in use today, housed the election of Pope Martin V. in November 1417 and thus ended the Western Schism. Less proud is the town’s burning at the stake of the reformers Jan Hus in 1415 and Hieronymus of Prague in 1416. Fortunately, because of its proximity to Switzerland, Konstanz was left unscathed by the bombing of the Second World War.

Today Konstanz offers the visitor a picturesque lake, a vista of the Säntis mountain that dominates the Alpstein massif of north eastern Switzerland, nearby forests and historical castles across the lake, like Meersburg which was built in 630 by the Merovingian king Dagobert I. From 1841 until her death in 1848 Annette von Droste-Hülshoff, acknowledged as the greatest female German author of the 19^th century, lived in that castle. We took the ferry to Meersburg and visited the rooms in which Annette wrote her poems and novellas. Apart from being in awe of feeling the writer’s presence, the view across the lake against the mountainous landscape, and the surrounding vineyards below left us speechless.

After a few days we crossed the Bodensee by ferry to arrive in Bregenz/Austria. Capital of the state of Vorarlberg, this town is located at the eastern end of the Lake. It is known for its annual Festival incorporating opera and music performances on the lakeside floating stage. We had just missed out on a concert. So, we did the next best thing and took the Pfänderbahn, which is a cable car that connects the valley at 419 metres above sea level with the 1022-metre-high mountain station near the Pfänderspitze. This cable car is different to the one in Capri. Instead of sitting in your own chair, you enter a cabin. Instead of handsome Italians standing ready to assist, you manoeuvre the entry and exit yourself. Instead of being immersed in nature by yourself, you share this experience with fellow travellers. From the top you have a spectacular view of the lake, the Swiss mountains, the forests, and the valleys below.

Fortified after consumption of authentic apple strudel and strong coffee, we made the healthy decision to amble down the pathway instead of taking the cable car back. It was a splendid idea, we thought, for a while! Initially the track was concreted, easy enough to descend. After a short decline, the path changed to earth. That was alright, in the beginning. You see, just before our arrival the area had had torrential downpour and the further we ventured, the soggier the ground became. Descending became not unlike Paul Simon’s Slip Slidin’ Away, so much so that at one stage I just managed to hold onto the exposed root of a tree, to stop me from sliding all the way downhill. By now the creek traversed the track, water was gushing down, water was dripping out of the cutting, water was dripping out of our clothes, and by now, it was too late to return. We just had to slither on and get muddier and muddier. Hours later, when we finally reached the bottom of the mountain’s 1022-metres, people who crossed our path averted their gaze, hoping not to be begged for alms by two itinerants. I prefer not to recall our reception back at the hotel. Mortified is closely related to this whole episode. If only we had used the return ticket for the cable car!

The next day we stepped from Bregenz into the post bus. After a forty minutes ride into the mountains it dropped us right in front of our hotel in Schwarzenberg. The stimulus for this trip came to fruition. It started with a good omen. The lady who looked after our room wore a tag with my name on it, which is not uncommon in the region. How I enjoyed my wholehearted ‘Guten Tag, Herlinde’ every time we passed.

We visited the Angelika Kauffmann Museum which had been refurbished in 2007. Equipped today with advanced technology and structural steel blocks it is built onto a residential wing from 1556 of which the walls and furniture are made of untreated silver fir wood. The exhibit displays Angelika’s paintings and sketches. I bought a big book about her art and life, much to Geoff’s fruitless comment: ‘I’m not carrying it in my luggage!’ It is an unfortunate habit of mine to buy books during my travels, and yes, they are usually big and heavy. But I am glad to have them when I am back home.

A sombre exhibition was held in the adjoining rooms of the Museum. It documented the dispatch of Schwabenkinder, regional five to fourteen-year-old children who were sent on long walking treks to work as maid or farm servants in Southern Germany. This custom had developed in the 16^th century, reached its apogee in the 19^th century, and was finally abolished in 1921. The reason was poor farm production in the Alpine regions, extreme poverty and parents who were unable to feed their numerous children. It is estimated that yearly five to six thousand children were sent to markets where the price for their labour was negotiated in slave market like fashion. It is a sad and moving chapter in the history of the area. Today prosperity is assured through tourism, winter ski seasons, health retreats, and summer concerts.

On my birthday I opened my box containing my Capri watch and took pleasure saying to myself ‘Happy Birthday Herlinde.’ In the afternoon we went to the Angelika Kauffmann concert hall which is furnished in light coloured timber with big clear glass panels that frame the beauty of the surrounding landscape. So magical. The concert hall started filling. Many women wore their Dirndl and their partners were suitably attired in traditional mountain jackets. Full of anticipation we took our seats. An announcement was made that Michael Volle was indisposed. However, Gűnther Groissbőck had flown in from his performance of the Rosenkavalier in Milano to make his debut at the Schubertiade. What a treat. I was convinced he had flown in just for me. Was he stalking me? He sang the lieder with such sensitivity. The evening recital was just as mesmerising. Almost all my dreams had come true. But not quite!

Enjoying our breakfast of homemade cheeses, hams, jams, wonderfully crispy rolls, and so many other delicacies, we recounted moments from the previous day and evening. How well Gűnther sang, how wonderful the acoustics were, how appreciative the audience was, how lucky we were. I lifted my gaze from what was on my plate, looked past Geoff and comprehended what I saw. I instantly forgot what I was saying mid-sentence. I swallowed my thickly laden dark cherry jam bread roll bite, lowered my head and voice, and murmured, ‘don’t turn around now, but you won’t believe who is sitting behind you.’

His eyes lit up. ‘Kylie Minogue?’ I rolled my eyes. Oh, not again. Give me strength. I should have known. Silly old fool. It wasn’t Kylie; it was my hero! My birthday! There he sat, so close, so touchable, all by himself.

He looked distinguished, with his trademark heavy framed glasses and still full and wavy hair, now turned grey. Of course, we had tickets for his talk at eleven o’clock. Where else would he stay but in the only hotel of the township. I tried not to gawk, but my eyes moved compulsively past Geoff’s right ear. The maestro delicately manoeuvred his knife. In a fit of braggadocio I thought of telling him how I had adored him for years, how his playing affects me, that I can’t believe he is sitting here, that I came 16123 kilometres all the way from Kelvin Grove, Brisbane, Australia to hear him, that I think he is wonderful, gush gush and gush. Stop it! You are in a very refined, subdued atmosphere, white starched tablecloth, quiet waiters and waitresses, discreet service, the privacy of luminaries is respected! Decorum is maintained! You must uphold that tradition! And, well, yes, I did, adoringly from only two hundred and twenty-four and a half centimetres’ distance.

During the eleven o’clock conversation, the audience sat, listened, and absorbed every morsel of wisdom coming out of the virtuoso’s mouth. It was very insightful and informative to hear Mr Brendel’s take on the tragic last year of Schubert’s short life. The music lovers responded with rapturous applause. I was still star-struck.

Eventually I turned my head towards Geoff. Since he does not understand German, the pleasure of listening to Alfred Brendel was, after all - completely mine.