“Blasted dark in here,” Nicolaus said. Yet some ray of our presence had penetrated beyond the hall and above us there was motion. Starting in some far off corner but descending the stairs rapidly, the faint rattle became a jangle, then a clatter, and a glow came bobbing around the corner of the steps; and then appeared to us like a spinning clockwork the lady of the house, the Mistress Dorothea. Her black dress and white apron and bonnet blurred in the dusk and from her constant motion. Her candle, in hand at the length of one long arm, was an errant planet far from its sun. The other arm unfurled. “My babies!” she said. They braced themselves and were embraced. Nicolaus deftly took the flaming candle as it orbited by and the arms wrapped themselves around.
There would be no escape until she released them, and she did not. They were showered instead by thunderstorms of words in all the languages of motherhood. They bore the soaking willingly and inevitably. No one could be offended by Mistress Dorothea, though one would be overwhelmed. She finally reached “Come, come, come,” in her flow and her arms still around the two captives, and with irresistible force, impelled them toward the sitting parlor adjacent to the front hall. I stayed behind rather than intrude on their intimate moment, and I was not alone.
The light was gone from the steps but a shadow remained: a boy, or young man, standing where the stairs turned their corner. He had wide open eyes and a mouth closed as if it would never speak, and straight fair hair, and he was still not quite grown to the height of his brothers. This was Little Johann, the third brother of the three, fifteen years old and named for his father.
“They’re both well,” I said to him. “Daniel even looks Italian in his silk coat.”
He did speak. “Did he tell you how long he’ll stay?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“He hasn’t told us yet. There’re letters for him. From Paris and Russia.”
“Russia?”
“I saw them on Poppa’s desk.”
“Is Master Johann coming down?”
“When everyone’s had to wait long enough.”
I still hesitated. There was no reason for me to remain, but I had a curiosity to watch the Master greet his sons. For all the time I spent in that house, I’d rarely sight him. I pictured him ponderously descending, pompous, portentous and proud. Just then, behind me, the front door opened.
To compare what I’d just envisioned with what I now beheld: If my Master was a fresh, firm pumpkin, this was its collapsed, dried-out rind, similar in appearance but with all the energy drained. We comprehended Cousin Gottlieb.
Gottlieb had grown up in Master Johann’s household and was nearly another brother, even having travelled with the family to Holland when Master Johann had held a position there twenty years before. Now at thirty-eight he had his own household. He was actually named Nicolaus for his paternal grandfather, as are many of his relatives, but had forever been called Gottlieb to avoid confusion.
Gottlieb was an arid man. I bowed politely: I would not usually engage him in conversation for fear of desiccation. Mistress Dorothea drenched a listener and Cousin Gottlieb dried him out, yet I’ve been fond of him as I am of all the family. It’s an odd taste, but well founded, for they’re all worth knowing.
“They dared come back, did they?” Gottlieb in his sharp, rasping voice.
“They’re in there,” Little Johann answered.
“I’d like to know why. And Uncle Johann?”
“I hear him coming.”
I had as well, and I knew it was time to be gone. There was more of the family in Basel, far more, but these were my Master’s closest. Gottlieb was the prime cause for Daniel’s departure two years before, though the composite cause was Master Johann himself. The tinder in that parlor was stacked high awaiting the fatherly torch. Rather than walk boldly out the front door, I took the corridor to the kitchen and the back.
In the kitchen was a remarkable sight. It was Knipper, the coach driver.
In normal times I’d nod and wave to Knipper and keep my distance. He was explosive. But here he looked dangerous as a wet kitten. “Oh, you,” he said, seeing me, and mournfully. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”
“Sure I will,” I said.
“It’s that.” I’d certainly seen that as quick as I’d seen him. That was a black trunk, big as a man, weighing down the stone floor. “That goose Willi brought it from the coach and it’s not theirs. I should have stayed to be sure he only had the right ones. This one’s not meant for here.”
“Should we carry it back?” I asked.
“It’s too heavy.” Coach drivers were made of old oak roots; I’d never seen one wilted like this. He didn’t look able to carry a feather. “But I can’t leave it and have the Master or his sons see I’ve made fool with the luggage.” The dilemma had poor Knipper pickled. “Run back to the inn and fetch that knave and send him here and his cart.”