Read Online Brother of Sleep: A Novel by Robert Schneider - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Schneider
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Elias opened the manual, lit a candle, fixed it in place, and crossed himself. Then tears suddenly sprang to his eyes. He himself did not know where they came from or why. We shall not pretend that we know, either, and shall leave our musiÂcian alone, waiting until he has calmed down and prepares to play the first notes of his life.
Outside the Föhn is raging, howling in the treeÂtops, dancing like a child over the pastures, breaking little twigs, a rotten branch, blowing the dry leaves around and whipping them into house doorways. NotÂing in this Advent would make one think of Christmas. The children are deprived of snow, the pastures have dried up, the Emmer is a mere trickle. And strangely, here and there the willows already bear catkins.
And, at the window, Peterâs shadow. He hears the whispering noise, sees the tops of the pines swaying. He looks at the big swelling on his little arm and bites back the terrible pain. Then he looks at the great halo around the moon. Peter devises a plan. His father has broken his little arm for stealing liquorice and sweets. Peter goes to the lantern and holds his open hands over the chimney. He isnât cold at all. He devises a plan. He will kill his father. His father must perish. And Peter looks at the big swelling again, bites shreds from his lips, and imagines how his father will die.
Elias raised the bellows, scurried to the manual, looked for the eight-foot principal, added a gedeckt, and ran his index finger carefully from one key to the next until he had found his favorite note, the deep F. The balls of his fingers nestled in the hollows in the ivory, for the manual was old and worn. In places the wood gleamed through the keys. He held his F until it had vanished in a thin sigh. Then he raised the bellows again and began to put melodies together from notes. Elias had begun to compose.
His enthusiasm mounted, and his burning head did not cool down the whole night long. Soon his fingers had found their way to F major, which his ear had long anticipated. Elias sought the melody of a Christmas carol, hummed the phrases, looked for the appropriate keys, tried them, and never tired of lifting the bellows again. When he was able to play the melody he decided to improve it. He smoothed out the parts that seemed too bumpy. Those passages that struck him as poor he filled with richness, and when the candle had burned to a stump he had made up a melody that was as mysterious as the candlelight in the curateâs golden chalice. Soon the keys obeyed him, as if of their own accord.
An image of summer suddenly glowed before his eyes. Once when he had lain dreaming in the grass, he had watched the paths of two yellow butterflies flutterÂing happily back and forth. Now he began to add a new melody to the old one. But he wanted the lines to match each other, as the paths of the butterflies did. He set the voice in his right hand fluttering first. Then came his left hand. Where his right hand ascended, his left hand fell moodily downward, and yet the two voices followed a harmonious trajectory. Elias composed some miniatures for two voices: miniatures because the air ran out very quickly, and he had to keep pumping the bellows. Elias had, to put it in academic terms, discovered the law of imitation. If anyone had told him this, he would immediately have fallen silent, thinking he had done something wrong.
So it was that he spent the whole night at the organ. When dawn came he grew dissatisfied. However filled he was with his preludes, the longing of his ears for perfect sound could not be stilled. He knew it had something to do with the instrument itself. It was tired. It was ill. Elias climbed down from the stool, took the candle stump and looked at the instrument, studied the pipes made from the same material as his toe caps, opened another pipe chest, peered in, touched one wooden pipe after another, crept into the box itself, and tested the sound of the individual
Outside the Föhn is raging, howling in the treeÂtops, dancing like a child over the pastures, breaking little twigs, a rotten branch, blowing the dry leaves around and whipping them into house doorways. NotÂing in this Advent would make one think of Christmas. The children are deprived of snow, the pastures have dried up, the Emmer is a mere trickle. And strangely, here and there the willows already bear catkins.
And, at the window, Peterâs shadow. He hears the whispering noise, sees the tops of the pines swaying. He looks at the big swelling on his little arm and bites back the terrible pain. Then he looks at the great halo around the moon. Peter devises a plan. His father has broken his little arm for stealing liquorice and sweets. Peter goes to the lantern and holds his open hands over the chimney. He isnât cold at all. He devises a plan. He will kill his father. His father must perish. And Peter looks at the big swelling again, bites shreds from his lips, and imagines how his father will die.
Elias raised the bellows, scurried to the manual, looked for the eight-foot principal, added a gedeckt, and ran his index finger carefully from one key to the next until he had found his favorite note, the deep F. The balls of his fingers nestled in the hollows in the ivory, for the manual was old and worn. In places the wood gleamed through the keys. He held his F until it had vanished in a thin sigh. Then he raised the bellows again and began to put melodies together from notes. Elias had begun to compose.
His enthusiasm mounted, and his burning head did not cool down the whole night long. Soon his fingers had found their way to F major, which his ear had long anticipated. Elias sought the melody of a Christmas carol, hummed the phrases, looked for the appropriate keys, tried them, and never tired of lifting the bellows again. When he was able to play the melody he decided to improve it. He smoothed out the parts that seemed too bumpy. Those passages that struck him as poor he filled with richness, and when the candle had burned to a stump he had made up a melody that was as mysterious as the candlelight in the curateâs golden chalice. Soon the keys obeyed him, as if of their own accord.
An image of summer suddenly glowed before his eyes. Once when he had lain dreaming in the grass, he had watched the paths of two yellow butterflies flutterÂing happily back and forth. Now he began to add a new melody to the old one. But he wanted the lines to match each other, as the paths of the butterflies did. He set the voice in his right hand fluttering first. Then came his left hand. Where his right hand ascended, his left hand fell moodily downward, and yet the two voices followed a harmonious trajectory. Elias composed some miniatures for two voices: miniatures because the air ran out very quickly, and he had to keep pumping the bellows. Elias had, to put it in academic terms, discovered the law of imitation. If anyone had told him this, he would immediately have fallen silent, thinking he had done something wrong.
So it was that he spent the whole night at the organ. When dawn came he grew dissatisfied. However filled he was with his preludes, the longing of his ears for perfect sound could not be stilled. He knew it had something to do with the instrument itself. It was tired. It was ill. Elias climbed down from the stool, took the candle stump and looked at the instrument, studied the pipes made from the same material as his toe caps, opened another pipe chest, peered in, touched one wooden pipe after another, crept into the box itself, and tested the sound of the individual
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