Hungarian Heritage Review, 1988 (17. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1988-01-01 / 1. szám
shabby and dilapidated, with its front windows nailed over with wood panels. The door was locked, the bell apparently not working. We kept knocking on the door with our half-frozen fists until a tall, elderly man came from behind the building. “Are you the editors from Salzburg coming for Maestro Lehar?” he said. “Please follow me.” He led us around the house to a small entrance, and into a dark hallway. “Better keep your coats on,” he warned us. “The house is rather cold.” Then he yelled up the staircase, “Franz, Franz, your visitors are here.” We could barely hear the weak response: “Let them come up.” Shaking the snow and grime from our boots, we climbed the rickety stairs and entered a room where, on a huge bed piled with blankets, comforters and pillows, was seated Franz Lehar. Under his flannel morning coat was a ski sweater. On his head was a wool nightcap. “Come in, come in,” he greeted us. “I’m not sick. It’s just that it’s so very cold and I have to save on fuel, so we just make a little wood fire at night.” What a contrast! I had visualized Franz Lehar as the dashing military bandmaster, adored by women throughout Europe. This was the man who had composed a song in which a bon vivant sings that he is going to Maxim’s, the happiest, liveliest place in Paris. The popularity of the song converted a second-rate place at No. 1 Rue Royale into one of the world’s most celebrated French restaurants. And here he was, shriveled like a prune, in bed among a scattering of newspapers, music notepapers, and letters. He picked up a little silver bell with a wooden handle from the nightstand and tinkled it. A housekeeper, looking a bit like a scarecrow, came in. Lehar asked her to bring some tea. She returned with three cups steaming with an herbal smell. Reaching under his pillow, Lehar brought out a package of plain cookies from which he removed three, offering one to Tinschmidt, one to me, and keeping the third. “I know it’s been a long, cold journey from Salzburg,” he said. ‘ ‘That’s why I felt that I had to treat you.” We were surprised, but cold and hungry enough to have our “treat.” The biscuits were stale, but the herbal treat was so bad they went together perfectly. We explained the purpose of our visit — to interview him for an article for our literary journal. He asked how much we could pay him for the interview. As an artist, he said, he lived solely on his talents, and could not afford to give anything away. Tinschmidt and I looked at each other, told Lehar that we fully understood and thanked him for his precious time. And we departed. Out on the road, we silently noticed the tears in each other’s eyes. At a small guesthouse down the road, we stopped for some sausage and hot tea with rum. To the owner’s wife who served us, we mentioned our brief visit to the Lehar villa. She nodded her head in understanding. “Ja,” she said, “we all know that he spins a yarn. He is really a multi-millionaire. He has money in his mattress, in the Swiss banks, in America, in Turkey, in Spain...all over the world. But he’s a miser.” We learned from her that the old man who had greeted us at the house and led us up to Lehar was his brother, the retired Lieutenant- General Baron Lajos Lehar. He slept in the woodshed, she told us, because it was warmer than the house. He tried to help his brother as much as he could, but apparentJsperial Jftature . ~ ly something had snapped in the Maestro’s mind. The train ride back to Salzburg was cold, drafty, and smelling of humid winter coats and cheap tobacco smoke. Now, some 40 years later, I returned to Bad Ischl. It was less than a two-hour drive on the new autobahn from Vienna to this popular tourist destination. It was a balmy afternoon. The bluish pine trees set the background for the golden maple leaves, the coppertone oak leaves and the red splendor of the wild cherry trees. A red-beaked white swan was swimming majestically along the brooklet in front of the Lehar villa. The house itself had obviously been painted since my prior visit, and looked quite elegant. A sign in front announced the Franz Lehar Memorial Museum with guided tours open to the public. My wife and I walked toward the back of the house through the well-kept garden. A woman was seated in a chair enjoying the autumn sun. I inquired about the tours. “It’s closed now; the next tour will be in about two hours,” she replied mechanically. I stood there in the sun, thinking back to that wizened man in the sloppy bed. Inside of me, I heard the music of Franz Lehar. I could hear the tenor singing that he was going to Maxim’s where he will be happy with his choice of girls... Gogo... Margo... Frufru... Back to reality, I thanked the woman for the information about the tours, and told her we would be back in time for the next one, but knowing that I won’t ever be back. Why should I? Franz Lehar is not there. He is all over the world, deep in the hearts of those of us who can remember his music, and are able to listen to it from within. JANUARY 1988 HUNGARIAN HERITAGE REVIEW 25
