Read Online The Empty Mirror by J. Sydney Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: J. Sydney Jones
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symbol of burgher wealth. Here in front of him was the Burgtheater with its lyre-shaped auditorium that was intended to recall the Greek origins of drama. Great on symbols were the Viennese.
The Burgtheater was one of the most egregious monstrosities of the Ring, Werthen thought. Sixteen years in the building, with continual cost overruns spiraling the initial assessment, the Burgtheater or Court Theater-with decorative ceiling paintings by Klimt, among others-opened in 1888 to great fanfare, with four thousand electric lightbulbs illuminating the exterior. Though even now, a decade later, electrification of the city was still a long way off. The night continued to be illuminated by gas, unlike in other European capitals, where electricity was fast becoming the norm. The lyre shape of the theater created a space, according to an actor and critic for the
Neue Freie Presse
, that was an “ornamentation-choked mausoleum which makes performing a misery for me as well as for my colleagues.” Speech could not be heard nor actions seen in this performing arts theater. To top it off, the designers had even gotten the symbol wrong: It was not the lyre, but the reed pipe or
aulos
that symbolized the origins of Greek theater. In the event, the acoustics and the sight lines were not improved until just two years ago.
Werthen put such thoughts aside as he followed Gross wordlessly round to the side stage entrance. Here the criminologist presented his letter from the Police Presidium to a skeptical doorman who’d seen every trick in the book employed to get in the stage door to secure autographs from one of the stars.
“Herr Girardi, if you please,” Gross said to the man. “Official business.”
It didn’t help that their business was with the star of the day. The doorman, muttonchopped and flatulent, annoyed that his afternoon wurst break had been interrupted, squinted hard at the card.
“Be quick about it, man,” Gross said impatiently, employing his hectoring, prosecutorial tone. “If you don’t believe me, you can ring up the Police Presidium. I suppose you do have a telephone here?”
The doorman grunted something unintelligible in their direction, then waved his hand down the hall to the left, obviously indicating the direction of Girardi’s dressing room.
The newspapers, Werthen knew, claimed that Girardi was, next to the emperor himself, perhaps the most famous person in all of Vienna at the moment. However, if you personally asked the man or woman in the street whose autograph they would rather have, you might well find nobility coming in a distant second to the stage. A master of dialect, a fine comedian and actor both in drama and operetta, Girardi was something of a phenomenon. His way of dress had infected the city and even saved him from incarceration in a lunatic asylum. Gossip had it that he and his former wife, a volatile actress, had a fearsome marriage, locked in mutual hatred. She had tried to get rid of him by having a doctor, sight unseen, pronounce her husband insane. When the attendants had come to take him to the asylum, they had mistaken a fan lurking outside the actor’s house for Girardi himself, for the man was dressed exactly like the actor, right down to the signature straw boater. Known as a folk actor for his roles in popular drama and comedy, Girardi was making his debut at the fustier Burg in a Raimund production. This was a special royal presentation for the emperor, family, noble friends, and visiting Prince of Wales from England, as the Burgtheater and other theaters and concert halls of the city were normally closed from July to September.
Girardi had, like a star in the firmament, his own field of gravity. Even Gross, in Graz, had, apparently, heard of “Der Girardi.”
Gross rapped on the star’s door.
A voice from inside called out in French,
“Entrée.”
Gross swung the door open wide revealing what appeared at first sight to be the interior of a glasshouse. Flowers
The Burgtheater was one of the most egregious monstrosities of the Ring, Werthen thought. Sixteen years in the building, with continual cost overruns spiraling the initial assessment, the Burgtheater or Court Theater-with decorative ceiling paintings by Klimt, among others-opened in 1888 to great fanfare, with four thousand electric lightbulbs illuminating the exterior. Though even now, a decade later, electrification of the city was still a long way off. The night continued to be illuminated by gas, unlike in other European capitals, where electricity was fast becoming the norm. The lyre shape of the theater created a space, according to an actor and critic for the
Neue Freie Presse
, that was an “ornamentation-choked mausoleum which makes performing a misery for me as well as for my colleagues.” Speech could not be heard nor actions seen in this performing arts theater. To top it off, the designers had even gotten the symbol wrong: It was not the lyre, but the reed pipe or
aulos
that symbolized the origins of Greek theater. In the event, the acoustics and the sight lines were not improved until just two years ago.
Werthen put such thoughts aside as he followed Gross wordlessly round to the side stage entrance. Here the criminologist presented his letter from the Police Presidium to a skeptical doorman who’d seen every trick in the book employed to get in the stage door to secure autographs from one of the stars.
“Herr Girardi, if you please,” Gross said to the man. “Official business.”
It didn’t help that their business was with the star of the day. The doorman, muttonchopped and flatulent, annoyed that his afternoon wurst break had been interrupted, squinted hard at the card.
“Be quick about it, man,” Gross said impatiently, employing his hectoring, prosecutorial tone. “If you don’t believe me, you can ring up the Police Presidium. I suppose you do have a telephone here?”
The doorman grunted something unintelligible in their direction, then waved his hand down the hall to the left, obviously indicating the direction of Girardi’s dressing room.
The newspapers, Werthen knew, claimed that Girardi was, next to the emperor himself, perhaps the most famous person in all of Vienna at the moment. However, if you personally asked the man or woman in the street whose autograph they would rather have, you might well find nobility coming in a distant second to the stage. A master of dialect, a fine comedian and actor both in drama and operetta, Girardi was something of a phenomenon. His way of dress had infected the city and even saved him from incarceration in a lunatic asylum. Gossip had it that he and his former wife, a volatile actress, had a fearsome marriage, locked in mutual hatred. She had tried to get rid of him by having a doctor, sight unseen, pronounce her husband insane. When the attendants had come to take him to the asylum, they had mistaken a fan lurking outside the actor’s house for Girardi himself, for the man was dressed exactly like the actor, right down to the signature straw boater. Known as a folk actor for his roles in popular drama and comedy, Girardi was making his debut at the fustier Burg in a Raimund production. This was a special royal presentation for the emperor, family, noble friends, and visiting Prince of Wales from England, as the Burgtheater and other theaters and concert halls of the city were normally closed from July to September.
Girardi had, like a star in the firmament, his own field of gravity. Even Gross, in Graz, had, apparently, heard of “Der Girardi.”
Gross rapped on the star’s door.
A voice from inside called out in French,
“Entrée.”
Gross swung the door open wide revealing what appeared at first sight to be the interior of a glasshouse. Flowers
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