The Silence vm-3 Read online

  Fourteen

  Later that afternoon, Werthen was in attendance for the free weekly public lecture at the Museum of Art and Industry on the Stubenring. Today’s guest speaker was the director of the State Trade School, the architect and city planner, Regierungsrat Camillo Sitte. The title of his lecture: ‘Uncontained Urban Growth: Progress or Abomination?’

  Werthen was no fan of such rhetoric; the very phrasing of the question presumed the answer. But he was here with a purpose, for Adele Gross — commissioned to the task by Berthe — had met with Rosa Mayreder’s brother, Councilman Rudolf Mayreder. The city council member had little to relate about the deceased Steinwitz in terms of friendships and allegiances. However, he had presented one piece of interesting information: Councilman Steinwitz was latterly in consultation with Regierungsrat Camillo Sitte.

  Werthen intended to find out what sort of consultations the two had.

  Sitte soon made his way on to the stage of the small auditorium, a short, stocky man, with a frosted beard grown long in front, and wire-rim glasses framing a cherubic face. He wore a morning coat and floppy, bohemian-style beret. Sitte seemed an odd figure upon the stage, approaching the lectern rather reluctantly, adjusting a sheaf of notes, his head lowered, so that all the audience could see of him now was his incongruous beret.

  A man of about Otto Wagner’s age, he was also a theoretician of urban planning. His City Planning According to Artistic Principles appeared in 1889 and caused something of a stir. In fact, Sitte and Wagner were polar opposites in their view of city development. For Wagner, a city had to be utilitarian, built in grids for the easy flow of commerce and traffic. Its architecture should be functional, unadorned; its vistas unbroken. For Sitte, however, the baroque square or plaza was the apex of urban design. He favored such intimate squares and meandering lanes. Not for him the Haussmann-like boulevards of Paris.

  The audience this Friday afternoon consisted of a jumbled assortment of students in rumpled suits and short-haired, earnest-looking types who were most likely architects or architectural critics, as well as a flock of older women, as out of place here as Sitte’s beret, who seemed to have thought they had come to a lecture on flower arrangement. One young man, ruddy-faced with a dapper moustache and well-tailored suit, sat apart from the others, as did Werthen. The Advokat thought he had seen this man before, but would not swear to it. Werthen had no idea if this was a large or a small number for such public lectures.

  His attention now went back to the stage. A tall, gaunt-looking fellow in a charcoal suit came on to the stage after Sitte, looking as concerned as a mother duck. He turned out to be the director of lectures at the Museum of Art and Industry and quickly made an introduction of the architect and urban planner. Thereafter he left the stage to Sitte, who suddenly remembered he was wearing the beret, and took it off, stuffing it into one of the pockets of his jacket. He cleared his throat and immediately boomed out in a resonant bass voice, without preamble, ‘Modern systems! Yes, indeed. To approach everything in a strictly methodical manner and not to waver a hair’s breadth from preconceived patterns, until genius has been strangled to death and joie de vivre stifled by the system — that is the sign of our time.’

  Sitte at once caught the attention of those thirty people and for the next three-quarters of an hour ploughed on through his topic, here extolling the virtues of crooked streets and an organic tangle of lanes and alleys that promoted human discourse and interaction, there deprecating the inhumanity of the eternal, infernal right angle in city streets — the geometrization of the urban. He touched on topics from the importance of the enclosed medieval square in creating a cityscape of human dimensions to the prevalence of the newly diagnosed neurosis, Platzscheu, or agoraphobia, a fear of crossing vast urban spaces, such as those the architects of the Ringstrasse had necklaced Vienna’s Inner City with.

  ‘A square should be seen as a room,’ he intoned. ‘It should form an enclosed space.’

  The great enemy to urban development was the grid system, he declared, whereby planners, such as Otto Wagner, took utilitarianism to the extreme.

  ‘A city is not only about the smooth flow of traffic, nor is it solely to do with commerce. A city should also touch the deepest sense of the aesthetic in each of us. It should be, as another much better known Wagner, the master of Bayreuth, has stated, a Gesamtkunstwerk, a total work of art.’

  Werthen’s ears pricked up at these mentions of Otto Wagner, but he soon found himself focusing on other considerations as Sitte went on to praise the importance of parks and areas of greenery in and around a city:

  ‘The large open areas in metropolises, especially when laid out as parks and perhaps supplied with expanses of water and with waterworks, form the air pockets essential for breathing in the city. They have appropriately enough been called its lungs.’

  For Sitte the city, and Vienna in particular, had limits. The green belt of the Vienna Woods was, for him, a means for the city to renew itself not only physically, but also spiritually.

  ‘One has only to stand in the midst of one of our city streets and gaze upon the nearby gently undulating folds of the Woods to feel a certain spiritual weight lifted from one’s shoulders. Beware, for the despoilers are busy at work even now, the speculators, the propagandists for growth and the increase of commerce at any cost. You must all take this message with you tonight: Demand city leaders to go beyond blind obeisance to the impudent drumbeat of progress, progress. Beware those who declare, “Necessity is art’s only mistress.”’

  The last bit was a specific dig at Wagner, Werthen knew, for that was the Oberbaurat’s artistic creed.

  The audience broke into spirited applause as Sitte moved away from the lectern. Werthen found himself standing and applauding with the others. He only now realized that Sitte had not once consulted the papers lying before him.

  The tall, gaunt director of lectures returned and announced a period of questions and answers. There were the usual few students, probably from the State Trade School itself, who played the sycophant, asking questions that were in essence abject flattery tagged with a question mark. There was also a pair of questions from one of the fellows whom Werthen had falsely assumed to be architects or critics. The man in fact turned out to be a stockbroker from the Borse, or stock exchange, accusing Sitte of being out of touch with the times, of hampering progress and the growth of industry. Sitte brought a hoot from the student section when he replied:

  ‘No, sir. It is you who is out of touch with your soul.’

  And the women Werthen suspected of having got into the wrong lecture were actually members of a committee of concerned citizens who hoped to preserve the Vienna Woods from any development. Their leader, a heavily powdered matron, wanted to know what Sitte thought of rumors going about City Hall regarding a proposed sell-off of the Woods.

  Sitte answered: ‘I shall have more to say of this rumor in the very near future, my good madam.’

  A small group gathered near the stage to exchange final pleasantries with the urban planner, and Werthen joined it, hat in hand. He waited patiently until the others had their say and drifted away in ones and twos. Sitte’s eyes occasionally focused on him, as if wondering what this stranger might want. Finally left alone, Sitte nodded at him.

  ‘A wonderful lecture, Herr Regierungsrat,’ Werthen said. ‘It has given me much to think on.’

  ‘You are no fan of the modern city, sir?’

  ‘To be honest,’ Werthen said, ‘I no longer know. There is much to be said in favor of your arguments. But can we actually go back in time to the medieval city?’

  ‘Ah, you misconstrue my argument, Herr. .?’

  ‘Werthen.’

  Sitte looked rather surprised at this.

  ‘Advokat Werthen?’

  Now it was Werthen’s turn for surprise. ‘Yes. You have heard of me?’

  ‘We have a friend in common, I believe. The conductor, Hans Richter. He mentioned you as regards a case involving our estee
med Court Opera Director, Herr Mahler.’

  Werthen had indeed made the acquaintance of Richter while working on a case involving Mahler. He was surprised that the man should remember him, however, for their intercourse had been brief enough in that instance.

  ‘We were schoolmates at the Piaristen Gymnasium,’ Sitte explained. ‘Herr Richter is sadly missed, however, living as he now does in London. But he did speak highly of you and the manner in which you deported yourself in the Mahler affair.’

  One more proof, if any were needed, that Vienna was an overgrown village where everyone was connected to everyone else in some manner or another.

  Werthen made no immediate reply to the compliment, and Sitte filled the silence.

  ‘Does official business bring you to my lecture or are you actually a concerned citizen?’

  ‘A little of both,’ he replied honestly, for he could see that subterfuge was not the appropriate tack to take with this man.

  ‘And you must know Olbrich,’ Sitte said, looking over Werthen’s shoulder. Turning, Werthen saw the ruddy-faced young man he had earlier noticed.

  ‘Olbrich,’ Sitte said, catching his attention. ‘Meet AdvokatWerthen.’

  Olbrich approached and extended his hand. ‘Herr Werthen.’

  Werthen was pleased by the man’s grip; neither too limp nor bone-crushing. Josef Maria Olbrich was the architect of the Secession gallery. They had briefly met when Werthen was employed on his first case involving Klimt, leader of the Secession.

  ‘We have been introduced before,’ Werthen said. ‘Though you may not remember me.’

  ‘Why of course he does,’ Sitte said.

  Olbrich smiled at Werthen. ‘Of course I do. Klimt still speaks most kindly of you. Though I see little of him these days. I shall have to return to Germany tomorrow.’

  Werthen now remembered that Olbrich had recently been wooed away from Vienna by Grand Duke Ernst Ludwig of Hesse-Darmstadt, where he had been commissioned to build an artists’ colony for the duke. Before that, the young architect had been allied with Otto Wagner in the building of the Stadtbahn. Olbrich had, in fact, been responsible for many of the design flourishes of the stations of the railway which those not in the know credited Wagner with.

  ‘I am rather surprised you two know one another,’ Werthen now said, meaning Sitte and Olbrich, for they would seemingly be on opposite sides of the great artistic-architectural divide in Vienna.

  ‘Easily explained,’ Sitte said. ‘Olbrich here was my student not long after I assumed the directorship of the school. A most promising young boy he was. I believe I gave you an “excellent” for your final grade.’ He clapped Olbrich on the back. ‘I do not hold it against you that you later studied under the esteemed Otto Wagner at the Academy of Fine Arts, nor that you went to work for that urban despoiler.’

  ‘Hardly a despoiler, Herr Sitte,’ Olbrich protested. ‘Let us not go down that cul-de-sac again.’

  Werthen smiled at Olbrich’s witticism, for it was Sitte who actually coined the phrase and developed the concept of a cul-de-sac or dead end street.

  ‘Herr Sitte,’ Werthen interrupted, ‘you mentioned in your talk rumors of the Vienna Woods being in danger.’

  Olbrich rolled his eyes at this, and Werthen assumed that he had once again stumbled into controversial territory.

  ‘Most dire,’ Sitte said, sounding like a doctor at a deathbed.

  ‘Do you actually know of plans under way to sell the Woods?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘Herr Sitte sees conspirators behind every door at City Hall,’ Olbrich said archly. ‘But if you will both forgive me,’ he said, ‘I really must be going. Splendid lecture, Camillo.’

  ‘Many thanks for coming to hear this old man prattle on.’

  Olbrich smiled at this, again shaking Werthen’s hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you once again.’

  After he departed, Werthen asked Sitte about Councilman Steinwitz and their meetings.

  ‘Why the curiosity? Do you suspect foul play?’

  The man’s eyes lit up at the use of this dramatic term.

  Werthen sidestepped the question. ‘What were you consulting him about?’

  ‘A most stubborn Advokat you are. Very well, your question first. Councilman Steinwitz had me in to offer a different view to the Rathaus on urban development. The councilman had been swayed, it seems, by my little book about city planning. We met three times in all. Not an overly intelligent man, I must confess, but one, once he had a bit of leather between his teeth, not to let it go. Steinwitz felt that our mayor, Herr Lueger, was rather too much under the artistic sway of Otto Wagner. He wished to change that situation.’

  ‘Did he tell you of a scheme to sell off the Vienna Woods?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What I don’t understand is the legality of it. I thought that was all settled decades ago.’

  ‘With Josef Schoffel, you mean? One would have hoped so. That man almost single-handedly took on a Salzburg consortium ready to buy the woods. You may remember that our great empire was in dire straits in the early 1870s. We had lost wars to the Italians in 1859 and to the Prussians in 1866. The economy was at breaking point. And then a group of corrupt officials decided they would sell off the lovely forest and meadowland of the Vienna Woods to speculators, men who would cut down the magnificent beech trees for mere lucre. Schoffel, a retired military man, banded together with the journalist Ferdinand Kurnberger to expose those knaves. Yes, they saved the woods. But that was almost thirty years ago. A motion was propagated, not an ordnance. There is no official law protecting the Vienna Woods.’

  ‘What did Steinwitz have to say about it?’

  ‘He mentioned that he was considering making public the fact that members of City Hall were planning to sell off a vast tract of land in the midst of the Vienna Woods.’

  ‘Did you know he was talking with a journalist about the Woods scheme?’

  ‘No. I rather thought he was looking for arguments initially to present to our most noble mayor to make the man change his mind.’

  ‘Did he mention Lueger directly?’

  Sitte thought about this. ‘No. I do not believe he did. The implication, however, was clear.’

  ‘The journalist was later murdered.’

  ‘Come now,’ Sitte said. ‘We are all civilized people here. We do not go about murdering those who disagree with us.’

  Werthen wondered if he should inform Sitte of the obvious. Indeed people did kill those they disagreed with and who could ruin a lucrative business deal. Sitte was in fact lucky to still be alive.

  But the town planner was no naif.

  ‘In other words, I could be next.’

  ‘Doubtful now. Too many know of the scheme.’

  Sitte considered for a moment. Then, ‘You should speak with Taylor Remington.’

  ‘The American impresario?’ Werthen remembered that Fraulein Metzinger had mentioned interest in seeing the man’s Wild West Show with Huck. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Steinwitz was convinced Remington was the one buying the Woods parcel. I assume he would have the most to lose if the deal collapsed for some reason.’

  They were dining together, the better to review the day’s happenings. Doktor and Frau Gross sat on one side of the Biedermeier table, the von Werthens on the other, and Berthe and Werthen at either end.

  There were no complaints from Frau Blatschky, despite the extra work these added guests at table made for her. In fact, she seemed in absolute bliss, bustling about ‘her’ kitchen with real delight. Tonight she had outdone herself, bringing compliments even from Frau von Werthen. It had begun with a Wiener Suppentopf with bits of beef, sausage, noodles, and turnips in a clear bouillon. This was followed by a Lungenbraten, a tenderloin filet floured and cooked in butter with onions, mushrooms, and parsley, accompanied by a green bean salad in oil and vinegar with just the right amount of dill and diced onion. Now they were lingering at the table over coffee and Kaiserschmarren, a sugared crepe with raisins.


  Over the soup daily pleasantries were passed — Frieda had missed one of her naps, suffering from an acute case of hiccoughs; Frau and Herr von Werthen had spent much of the day at the Imperial Natural History Museum indulging one of Emile von Werthen’s few hobbies: lepidoptera. In particular, they had examined a new addition to the collection, a birdwing, or Ornithoptera alexandrae, the largest known butterfly. Discussion of this specimen took them on into the meat course, by which time Werthen had begun to detail their interviews with Wagner and later with Sitte.

  ‘Sounds like an odd duck to me,’ Herr von Werthen said following his son’s description of Camillo Sitte.

  ‘Happily so,’ Berthe said, for it turned out she had read his City Planning According to Artistic Principles, and was a believer in his theories of urban growth.

  Emile von Werthen eyed his daughter-in-law as if demanding an explanation of her comment.

  She obliged.

  ‘Just because we are in a new century does not mean we are bound to the idea of progress at any cost. Unbounded urban growth as some call for will create miserable lives for the vast majority. Now in Vienna half the area is taken up by the Woods and by parks and gardens. I for one would like that to continue so that Frieda and other children can grow up in a city that is habitable.’

  ‘I second that,’ Frau Gross said.

  ‘But surely you would not let a tree stand in the way of a new business,’ Herr von Werthen said, aghast at the idea. ‘Think of the work created. You have sympathies for the workers, as I understand. Would you pit their welfare against the life of one tree?’

  Werthen chuckled at the analogy. ‘Papa, I do not think we are talking about one tree here.’

  Werthen glanced at Gross, who nodded his assent. They had not yet shared the most volatile nugget of information gleaned today: the scheme to sell off a vast tract of the Vienna Woods, as detailed in Hans Wittgenstein’s diary. After Werthen divulged this plan, there was a prolonged silence.

  Finally Emile von Werthen exploded: ‘The blackguards!’