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Authors: Susanne Dunlap
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say, putting on my most submissive expression. “Perhaps Godfather Haydn will have an instrument I can practice on when I go to assist him each morning after breakfast, to earn money for our keep.” My words were calculated to achieve the greatest effect. It was cruel of me to anger her; her health was still delicate despite her improvement since yesterday. But at that moment, I didn’t care.
“You will do nothing of the kind! I expect the matchmaker tomorrow. You must stay here so that she can examine you and make a judgment about whom you should marry.”
“I cannot disappoint the Kapellmeister,” I said as I kissed Mama. She could not rise from her bed and come to fetch me, and I avoided her for the rest of the evening.
My stomach growled as I prepared for bed that night. I was too angry to eat the supper Greta had placed in front of me. I realized that now, with Papa’s violin gone and my viola sold, we had no musical instruments in the house. I didn’t remember a time when that was true. Toby had followed me into my room, his eyes dark with shared sadness. “I’ll make you a viola as soon as I am able,” he whispered. I hugged him close and felt him return the embrace before squirming away. No doubt he would cry himself to sleep as he had every night since Christmas.
Once I was alone again, all I could think of was that day when Papa first helped me draw a bow across a string. I don’t know how old I was, maybe five. At first, all I could do was make a scratchy, squeaky noise. I couldn’t understand how he could coax such a glorious sound from the violin. Haydn had lent him a half-size fiddle that he had had made, thinking he would have his own children to teach, so Papa said, but the children never came. At the time, I remember wondering how his children could stay away from him when he was such a kind man, not understanding that Papa meant he had none.
“Gently, gently—let the string do the work. Don’t press down.” I could hear his voice, feel his comforting arms supporting mine. And eventually, I did it. I felt the vibration all down my hands and arms, and it tickled and made me laugh. After that, we spent time every day, and gradually I was able to make the sound on my own. And he taught me how to read music, too.
Mama was a little jealous, I think, although she claimed only to be concerned that I was learning to play an instrument generally considered unsuitable for girls.
“Let her be. She has talent. Who knows, by the time she is grown, perhaps she could give lessons,” my father would say.
How well I remembered her response. “No mother would allow her son to be taught by a girl! At least, not taught a trade.” That’s all it ever was to Mama—a trade—although I knew it wasn’t her fault that she had no real appreciation. She smiled and tapped her foot when she listened because that’s what she thought was expected, but the tapping was never in time. Yet she was able to dance and move her head and hands prettily in a minuet, and everyone admired her. I remember once thinking as I watched her at some holiday festivity, when the servants and musicians were allowed to have their own ball with a small orchestra made up of Gypsies and apprentices, that she was the most beautiful lady I had ever seen. Even more beautiful than the nobles who danced stiffly in their tight stays and panniers.
There was no use thinking about times gone by. It would not help me find out what had really happened to Papa. I was beginning to realize that the task I had undertaken would be even more difficult than I thought, especially with Mama so bent on finding me a husband.
I lay awake in the dark and reviewed my circumstances. Clearly I would have to adjust my plans. First, I must not let Mama settle my marriage too quickly. Aside from the fact that it would make it hard for me to wander about the city on my own or with Zoltán piecing together my father’s movements on the night he died, I was not
“You will do nothing of the kind! I expect the matchmaker tomorrow. You must stay here so that she can examine you and make a judgment about whom you should marry.”
“I cannot disappoint the Kapellmeister,” I said as I kissed Mama. She could not rise from her bed and come to fetch me, and I avoided her for the rest of the evening.
My stomach growled as I prepared for bed that night. I was too angry to eat the supper Greta had placed in front of me. I realized that now, with Papa’s violin gone and my viola sold, we had no musical instruments in the house. I didn’t remember a time when that was true. Toby had followed me into my room, his eyes dark with shared sadness. “I’ll make you a viola as soon as I am able,” he whispered. I hugged him close and felt him return the embrace before squirming away. No doubt he would cry himself to sleep as he had every night since Christmas.
Once I was alone again, all I could think of was that day when Papa first helped me draw a bow across a string. I don’t know how old I was, maybe five. At first, all I could do was make a scratchy, squeaky noise. I couldn’t understand how he could coax such a glorious sound from the violin. Haydn had lent him a half-size fiddle that he had had made, thinking he would have his own children to teach, so Papa said, but the children never came. At the time, I remember wondering how his children could stay away from him when he was such a kind man, not understanding that Papa meant he had none.
“Gently, gently—let the string do the work. Don’t press down.” I could hear his voice, feel his comforting arms supporting mine. And eventually, I did it. I felt the vibration all down my hands and arms, and it tickled and made me laugh. After that, we spent time every day, and gradually I was able to make the sound on my own. And he taught me how to read music, too.
Mama was a little jealous, I think, although she claimed only to be concerned that I was learning to play an instrument generally considered unsuitable for girls.
“Let her be. She has talent. Who knows, by the time she is grown, perhaps she could give lessons,” my father would say.
How well I remembered her response. “No mother would allow her son to be taught by a girl! At least, not taught a trade.” That’s all it ever was to Mama—a trade—although I knew it wasn’t her fault that she had no real appreciation. She smiled and tapped her foot when she listened because that’s what she thought was expected, but the tapping was never in time. Yet she was able to dance and move her head and hands prettily in a minuet, and everyone admired her. I remember once thinking as I watched her at some holiday festivity, when the servants and musicians were allowed to have their own ball with a small orchestra made up of Gypsies and apprentices, that she was the most beautiful lady I had ever seen. Even more beautiful than the nobles who danced stiffly in their tight stays and panniers.
There was no use thinking about times gone by. It would not help me find out what had really happened to Papa. I was beginning to realize that the task I had undertaken would be even more difficult than I thought, especially with Mama so bent on finding me a husband.
I lay awake in the dark and reviewed my circumstances. Clearly I would have to adjust my plans. First, I must not let Mama settle my marriage too quickly. Aside from the fact that it would make it hard for me to wander about the city on my own or with Zoltán piecing together my father’s movements on the night he died, I was not
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