Eyes closed, head bowed, Marla breathed in and out, and when the moment felt right, lifted her hands and began.
The opening slow arpeggios poured from her long fingers. Even though Marla was focused on the music, a small thought surfaced in a corner of her mind: she never did understand why the nickname of the piece was “Moonlight.” To her the opening movement, with its long quiet flowing themes was much more evocative of water. Her mouth quirked at the thought that it should have been the “Moonlake” Sonata.
Releasing the thought, Marla poured herself into the music, and for several minutes just let the adagio sostenuto of that first movement ebb and flow in tempo, ebb and flow in volume, ebb and flow in spirit. At length, the conclusion arrived, and she closed in the soft final chords; peaceful, cleansing, cleansed.
Without more than half a breath, she tripped on to the allegretto movement, one that had always felt like a stately dance to her, albeit one with a lilt. Eyes still closed, fingers still unerringly finding the keys, she felt her lips curve in an involuntary smile. It was impossible not to smile when playing such a light-hearted piece.
All too soon the second movement was over, and this time the pause between it and the third movement was even shorter, lasting only long enough to lift the hands from the closing positions and place them to begin the great rolling arpeggios of the presto agitato. Fingers flashed as she began at the bottom and rolled up to crashing chords, again and again. Interludes came and went, but always the return to the arpeggios, always the return to the hammered double chords, always the impact of the keys hitting the bottom of their travelings as she treated them almost as percussive instruments.
The final arpeggios rippled and ran down and up the keyboard to an extended trill, a final quiet interlude, then a last outburst of ripples ending in the ultimate chords. She held her hands on the keys as the final sound resonated from the piano, then snatched them away.
“Ha! Nailed it!” she exulted.
Applause sounded around her, and her eyes flew open. She had forgotten where she was, and for a moment she was horrified to see the princess standing close by and clapping madly, with Ulrik behind her with his hand on her shoulder.
Not that Kristina was the only one applauding. The color climbed Marla’s face as she stood to face Mary, and Rebecca Abrabanel, and others of the political elite of Magdeburg and the USE. She inclined her head and shoulders, fuming a little on the inside. Just her luck that she had given what amounted to a mini-recital dressed like a bag lady in everything she owned.
Marla could tell from his expression that Franz, that rat, was holding in laughter. She shot him a look that told him he would pay for not warning her. His response was a further tightening of the lips to repress chuckles that she was certain were threatening to burst forth.
She had to straighten hurriedly, as the princess stepped forward and gravely offered her hand.
“You are Frau Linder, the one who teaches music at the girls’ school, yes? I saw the Christmas concert there. Not last year,” Kristina corrected herself, “but the year before.”
“Yes, you did. I remember seeing you.”
Kristina retrieved her hand after the handshake. “I liked that then. I liked this now. Can you teach me to play like you do?”
Marla got serious. “That would depend: how badly do you want to play, Princess?”
The girl cocked her head and a furrow appeared between her eyebrows. Marla continued.
“I started when I was six, and I practiced five or six hours a week. By the time I was your age, I was practicing eight to ten hours a week. When I was fourteen, it was twelve or more hours a week. And now,” she looked the princess directly in the eye, “I try to get twenty hours a week of practice in.”
Kristina looked appalled. “I have to do that much to learn to play the piano?”
Marla shook her head. “No, but you didn’t ask me if I could teach you to play; you asked me if I could teach you to play like me.”
She could almost see the wheels turning behind the princess’ eyes. And she could see the moment when Kristina understood the difference.
“You mean that to be really good at it, I would have to work really hard at it for a long time.”
Marla smiled. “Yes.”
Kristina walked over and ran her hand along the side of the piano cabinet. “This is my piano, you know.”
“Kristina,” Ulrik said.
“Well, really my father’s, but Signor Zenti presented it to me because Papa wasn’t here when he brought it down the river from Grantville. So it’s kind of like mine.”
That would have been December 1633, Marla remembered; the same month she had made her “debut” recital in Magdeburg.