Wintersong(20)

“Yes, yes,” Master Antonius murmured, nodding approvingly.

The moment burst, and the sounds of Josef’s and François’s playing returned to me, beautiful and pure.

“Very impressive. Very impressive indeed.”

My hopes lifted. Master Antonius wore a smug, self-congratulatory expression on his face.

“François is quite a specimen, no?”

Disgust roiled through me. Specimen. This was the man into whose hands we were entrusting Josef’s career.

“Astonishing,” Master Antonius continued in a conspiratorial whisper, sotto voce, to my father. “I picked him up as a babe from a traveler from Saint-Domingue. His mother was a slave back in Hispaniola, and his father some no-account sailor. Not a shred of musical ability between the two of them, and look at him now! Proof that if you get them young, you can train these Negroids like any other person.”

I was going to be sick. Of all people, the old virtuoso should know that music was God’s gift to man. Music, and a soul. Skills could be taught, but talent could not. François’s fingers flew over the keyboard with ease, and the proof of his soul lay in his playing, more human than Master Antonius.

I could not bear to watch any longer. Unbidden, my eyes went to the darkened corner where I had last seen the Goblin King, but there was no one there. Perhaps I had imagined him after all.

Two more movements in the sonata to go, but I could see that Master Antonius had already made up his mind. No one could deny Josef’s skill, but there was something missing from the notes, something special, something more.

Papa made a mistake, I thought. Haydn was too cerebral for my brother; Josef would have been better served by Vivaldi, as I had suggested. Vivaldi was a violinist; he had known of the instrument’s capabilities and wrote for them. Josef knew this. I knew this. Papa had known this too, once.

The main hall was overly warm now, stuffed with bodies comfortably digesting their Kraut, Wurst, und Bier. Josef and François played on, oblivious to everything but the joy of each other’s performance. I noted how they responded to each other’s cues: the sway of my brother’s body, the tilt of François’s shoulders, they played like lovers who knew every nuance of the other’s sighs. Tears started in my eyes.

Polite applause rose from the assembly as the movement wound to a close. Josef and François smiled at each other, a glow of joy bathing both their faces. Papa clapped like a fiend, but Master Antonius hid a bored yawn behind his hand.

“Very good, very good,” the old virtuoso said to Josef. “You are quite talented, young man. You will go far with the right teacher.”

My brother’s face fell. Josef was naïve, not blind, and he knew exactly what Master Antonius hadn’t offered along with his congratulations: an apprenticeship.

“Yes, sir.” His blue eyes shimmered in the firelight. “My thanks for the opportunity to play for you.”

The sight of my brother’s unshed tears was the last straw. “And just who is the right teacher, maestro?” My voice cut through the chatter and applause like a scythe. “Who could possibly take Josef on as a pupil if not you?”

A hush fell over the room. I felt the astonished stares like daggers at my back, but I ignored them. Master Antonius’s eyes sharpened as they focused on me.

“Ignore her, Antonius,” Papa said. “She overreaches herself.”

The old virtuoso waved him off. “I have my reasons for taking the pupils I do, Fräulein,” he said. “And while your brother is a very talented musician, he lacks a certain, how do you say, je ne sais quoi?”

His pretension was as odious as his condescension; his French was scarcely better than mine, and with a decidedly Italian accent. “And what is that, maestro?” I asked.

“Genius.” Master Antonius looked smug. “True genius.”

I crossed my arms. “Pray, be more specific, maestro,” I said. “I’m afraid we rustic peasants have not your worldly experience.” Grumbles from the audience, and their pointed daggers of curiosity were aimed at Master Antonius now.

“Liesl,” Papa warned. “You overreach yourself.”

“No, no, Georg,” the old violinist said. “The young lady has a point.” He smirked. “True genius is not just technical skill, yes? Any fool could learn to play all the right notes. It takes a certain … passion and brilliance to bring the notes together to say something true. Something real.”

I nodded in agreement. “Then if true genius is performance and ability and passion,” I said, not daring to look at Papa, “perhaps my brother was ill-served by the choice of music.”