Beethoven’s Assassins

Andrew Crumey has been writing exacting, inventive novels quite unlike those of his contemporaries for almost thirty years now, the latest of which, Beethoven’s Assassins, shows no diminution of his ambition or skill. Its five hundred pages revolve around a lost Beethoven opera, commissioned by a mysterious masonic lodge, called ‘The Assassins, or Everything is Allowed’. (“Nothing is true and everything is allowed” lies at the heart of the Assassins’ doctrine, but also, one might suggest, at the heart of this novel). Crumey’s story (or, more accurately, stories) are told over two hundred years and using eight different narrators, many of them real-life characters, though the setting is limited with much of the action taking place in one particular house which in 1823 is owned by a Colonel Wilson, connected, at least by his own telling, to the masonic lodge which commissioned the opera. It is later a psychiatric hospital visited by one of the narrator’s, J W N Sullivan, and later still an artists’ retreat.

The novel begins in comic fashion in the voice of Therese, Beethoven’s sister-in-law (“By heck he couldn’t half go on”). Therese is not an admirer of the composer, and is particularly outraged when he writes on a mural which she regards as the pinnacle of art (immediately introducing one of the novel’s key themes – what is art?). She is, however, the only person present when Beethoven dies, reporting his final words as, “Everything is allowed.” The narrative then changes to the present day and the voice of Robert Coyle, a professor who has been commissioned to write an article ‘Beethoven and Philosophy’ only for the commission to be withdrawn as a result of Covid. (Coyle has appeared before in Sputnik Caledonia and is the character who feels most drawn from Crumey’s own life). Coyle’s story takes up a generous proportion of the narrative and develops into something of a lockdown novel, charting Coyle’s difficult relationship with his father throughout the pandemic. Even when considering Beethoven his father is present:

“Another coincidental parallel. Beethoven, like my father, was paranoid, convinced that people were out to trick him, betray his trust, steal his money.”

Though Coyle finds his father a frustrating figure, this section of the novel is often quite moving and certainly depicts the difficulties of lockdown, with elderly parents living at a distance, vividly.

In the novel’s second part we are introduced to Adam Crouch, a writer (recently lacking in success) who has been invited to the Hyle Centre at Axtoun House:

“A multidisciplinary centre bringing together innovative thinkers from diverse backgrounds.”

Adam’s link to what has come before is soon made apparent when he is referred to as “the replacement for Robert Coyle” who, we learn, has recently died at the centre. (Don’t panic – more of Coyle’s narrative remains). Crumey has fun describing the various antics of the arts centre from the point of view of both Adam and Coyle, the eccentric cast of invitees and the various issues which arise from being an invited artist. He does not, however, forget the connecting plotlines, as Coyle uses the time to further investigate Beethoven biographer Sullivan who has also stayed at Axtoun House (when it was a psychiatric hospital) and Adam finds a mysterious flash drive in his chalet with an encrypted file entitled ‘Assassins’. Sullivan’s story is also told from his own point of view – he has been invited to Axtoun House by Dr Hyle to with regard to a patient, Martha, who can channel the spirit of Therese. Sullivan is, of course, sceptical:

“Therese van Beethoven was a German-speaking Austrian, not someone from wherever Martha’s vulgar colloquialisms originated.”

(This may explain the “By heck” of the opening – not Therese’s voice, but Martha transcribed).

Part four of the novel is a separate section entitled 1823 which also takes place at Axtoun House, at this time in the possession of Colonel Wilson. Wilson hires a young woman, Marion, as governess for his ward, Thomas, but Thomas is a strange boy who does not seem amenable to teaching – though Marion also finds he is closely guarded by the housekeeper, Mrs Struther. In fact, as you may have guessed, Crumey uses many of the trappings of the Gothic novel in this section. Wilson also asks Marion to scribe letters for him, some of which are dictated in a special room:

“This is a place of complete secrecy.”

The letters mark him out to belonging to the masonic lodge which commissioned the missing Beethoven opera, though later his friend Baron Adeling suggests that his mind was disturbed.

Beethoven’s Assassins, then, is a novel collecting some outstanding writing, and demonstrating Crumey’s versatility over a number of genres. At no point does it lag and from each narrative the reader wants more not less. It does not unfold into a perfectly solved mystery but remains as elusive the genius of art itself. Some common themes accrue beyond the central enigma of the missing opera – not only art, but artistic failure (in Beethoven’s later life, but also seen with Adam and perhaps also Katherine Mansfield who makes an appearance); ageing (Beethoven again and Coyle’s father) and, we should not forget, the paranoia and conspiracy theories that were also part of the pandemic. It is a novel quite unlike any other you will read this year, channelling the spirit of Umberto Eco in the lightness of its learning and the cleverness of its craft, and deserves to be widely read.

The Secret Knowledge

At his recent event at the Edinburgh Book Festival, Andrew Crumey pointed out that there were two types of mystery novels. In one the puzzle was like a jigsaw, satisfyingly pieced together until complete but then rather redundant; in the other the puzzle is never entirely solved and those looking for a solution will only experience frustration, as if the jigsaw had a number of pieces missing, or pieces from other jigsaws had infiltrated the box. Suffice to say that Crumey’s work is much like the latter: those coming to The Secret Knowledge expecting that secret to be unveiled by the end are in for a disappointment. Those, however, looking to be stimulated and challenged may want to open the box.

It will be no surprise to those familiar with Crumey’s work that The Secret Knowledge contains more than one narrative, and that hints of alternative realities are never far away. The novel begins romantically in 1913 with a proposal from composer Peirre Klauer to his lover Yvette shortly after he has informed her that he has recently begun a symphony (the titular Secret Knowledge), a private commission from:

“A variety of people. Dreamers and scholars; an intellectual fraternity.”

Pierre says he has one final test for her: “Wait here and when I come back our future can begin.” A few minutes later he shoots himself.

In the second narrative, David Conroy is a pianist on a downward spiral. Once tipped for greatness, he is now only rarely invited to perform and spends most of his time (when not feeling sorry for himself) teaching. Through a chance meeting (though the novel throws into question the very concept of chance) he comes into possession of Klauer’s symphony and passes it on to a new student, Paige.

Crumey (a physicist) said that the novel is not about physics, but, though music is the unifying language of the novel, a stray physicist does appear in a remark by Conroy:

“I met a physics student the other day and asked him about Schrodinger’s cat. You know, the thing that’s neither dead nor alive, but both at once. The student said, maybe we’re all inside the box.”

Of course, maybe this is a physicist in-joke –an obligatory mention of the one idea that seems to have penetrated popular consciousness. Nevertheless, we find Pierre alive and well in Glasgow in 1919; and Conroy’s wife seems to fade out of existence, not only leaving him but leaving no trace. Alternative realities are also a literary device (as is a mysterious manuscript), and Crumey takes us through an almost recognisable historical landscape featuring philosophers such as Walter Benjamin and Theodor Adorno, as the story of Klauer’s symphony between 1913 and the present unfolds. This leads to sudden immersion in philosophical discussion at times, however Crumey is careful to dramatize these discussions, for example making clear the enmity between Adorno and Hannah Arendt. (And for those wanting to explore the issues the novel raises further, they provide a handy reading list.)

Crumey is a writer to be treasured because he is a writer of ferocious ideas. Just don’t expect him to provide all the answers:

“…I want you to keep hold of the confusion, don’t try to resolve it, because I can tell you now, there won’t be an answer, there never is. Art is always inconsistent.”