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Authors: William Jablonsky
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could you do something for me?”
“Of course,” I said, expecting to complete some errand on her behalf. “Anything.”
She wrapped a delicate arm around my waist, and took my hand. “Dance with me.”
I pointed out that there was no music, that the phonograph would wake Jakob, but she raised a finger to her lips. “We don’t need the phonograph.” Softly, she began to hum the melody of a slow Brahms waltz over the quiet ticking of my winding apparatus, and I could feel her gently leading me. We spun quietly, by slow degrees, my oxfords and her bare feet sliding softly across the maplefloor. Our hands entwined, we circled through the library, across the dining hall floor and the foyer, then, somehow—for I have no memory of how the door opened—outside into the snow. I feared she might catch a chill, or that her feet might freeze, so I finally let her go. She held my right hand and twirled once beneath it, then slowly came to a halt, glowing like fine porcelain in the light of sunrise.
She clapped her hands and smiled broadly. “You’re getting better all the time.”
She laughed. “Wasn’t that amazing?”
It took a moment to find my voice, as if I had forgotten how to speak. Then a weak tinny voice echoed involuntarily from my throat: “Absolutely splendid.”
29 November 1893
10:55 p.m.
For the past two days the Master has been in his study, a small square of a room adjoining the den, attempting to compose a rebuttal to Herr Edison’s claim that I am a fraud. He believes that, if published in
The New York Times
or some other highly circulated newspaper, he will gain moral vindication, and has tossed aside a score of drafts as being unworthy of a gentleman. Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald have been charged with preparing food for the upcoming family gathering, while for most of that time I have been at his side, or fetching him carafes of coffee and wine, only leaving to check on Giselle and Jakob or to wind myself. He instructed me to inform the children that he is finalizing arrangements for the Nonnberg Abbey clock—the detail is primarily for Giselle, who would balk at a less specific excuse—and was not to be disturbed. Jakobhas spent most of this time trying to sled outside, though the snow is hardly deep enough; for her part, Giselle continues to suspect her father’s distress is not the product of fatigue, but has thus far respected his request for privacy. He has slept only sporadically since beginning the letter; from time to time he falls face-first at his writing desk in midsentence. He ordered me to prod him awake if he should doze, but on Fräulein Gruenwald’s suggestion I have taken to letting him sleep up to an hour before rousing him.
It appears the Master is attempting to enlist me as his silent partner. From time to time he consults me on his choice of words, reading me short passages and waiting for my reaction. I tell him I am sorry, I have no experience writing this kind of letter, and he glares at me sternly before ripping the page from the typewriter and beginning anew. The floor around his desk is so littered that one can no longer walk within five feet in any direction without hearing crumpled paper crunching underfoot. (He has forbidden Fräulein Gruenwald and me to clear them, in case he wishes to revisit some previously rejected thought expressed therein.)
He was interrupted only once, yesterday evening, when Fräulein Gruenwald knocked at his door to inform us that our neighbor, Herr Brundt, thought he’d seen someone prowling behind the house. The Master was unconcerned—in this part of the city crime is very rare—but ordered me outside to look around, just to ease Fräulein Gruenwald’s mind. It was 8:11 p.m. and quite dark, the only light the glow of gaslights from the windows. I trudged in the snow for minutes, scanning the road for several blocks on either side and the grove of trees in the park across the street, but saw nothing.
I was about to give up
“Of course,” I said, expecting to complete some errand on her behalf. “Anything.”
She wrapped a delicate arm around my waist, and took my hand. “Dance with me.”
I pointed out that there was no music, that the phonograph would wake Jakob, but she raised a finger to her lips. “We don’t need the phonograph.” Softly, she began to hum the melody of a slow Brahms waltz over the quiet ticking of my winding apparatus, and I could feel her gently leading me. We spun quietly, by slow degrees, my oxfords and her bare feet sliding softly across the maplefloor. Our hands entwined, we circled through the library, across the dining hall floor and the foyer, then, somehow—for I have no memory of how the door opened—outside into the snow. I feared she might catch a chill, or that her feet might freeze, so I finally let her go. She held my right hand and twirled once beneath it, then slowly came to a halt, glowing like fine porcelain in the light of sunrise.
She clapped her hands and smiled broadly. “You’re getting better all the time.”
She laughed. “Wasn’t that amazing?”
It took a moment to find my voice, as if I had forgotten how to speak. Then a weak tinny voice echoed involuntarily from my throat: “Absolutely splendid.”
29 November 1893
10:55 p.m.
For the past two days the Master has been in his study, a small square of a room adjoining the den, attempting to compose a rebuttal to Herr Edison’s claim that I am a fraud. He believes that, if published in
The New York Times
or some other highly circulated newspaper, he will gain moral vindication, and has tossed aside a score of drafts as being unworthy of a gentleman. Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald have been charged with preparing food for the upcoming family gathering, while for most of that time I have been at his side, or fetching him carafes of coffee and wine, only leaving to check on Giselle and Jakob or to wind myself. He instructed me to inform the children that he is finalizing arrangements for the Nonnberg Abbey clock—the detail is primarily for Giselle, who would balk at a less specific excuse—and was not to be disturbed. Jakobhas spent most of this time trying to sled outside, though the snow is hardly deep enough; for her part, Giselle continues to suspect her father’s distress is not the product of fatigue, but has thus far respected his request for privacy. He has slept only sporadically since beginning the letter; from time to time he falls face-first at his writing desk in midsentence. He ordered me to prod him awake if he should doze, but on Fräulein Gruenwald’s suggestion I have taken to letting him sleep up to an hour before rousing him.
It appears the Master is attempting to enlist me as his silent partner. From time to time he consults me on his choice of words, reading me short passages and waiting for my reaction. I tell him I am sorry, I have no experience writing this kind of letter, and he glares at me sternly before ripping the page from the typewriter and beginning anew. The floor around his desk is so littered that one can no longer walk within five feet in any direction without hearing crumpled paper crunching underfoot. (He has forbidden Fräulein Gruenwald and me to clear them, in case he wishes to revisit some previously rejected thought expressed therein.)
He was interrupted only once, yesterday evening, when Fräulein Gruenwald knocked at his door to inform us that our neighbor, Herr Brundt, thought he’d seen someone prowling behind the house. The Master was unconcerned—in this part of the city crime is very rare—but ordered me outside to look around, just to ease Fräulein Gruenwald’s mind. It was 8:11 p.m. and quite dark, the only light the glow of gaslights from the windows. I trudged in the snow for minutes, scanning the road for several blocks on either side and the grove of trees in the park across the street, but saw nothing.
I was about to give up
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