Wintersong(16)

“I’m right here, Sepp.” I gently nudged him in Master Antonius’s direction. “Go on.”

Our father and the violin master were sitting by the fortepiano near the hearth. It was the nicer of our two klaviers; Papa had used it when he was still teaching. Our father stood over the celebrated musician, animatedly reminiscing about the time they’d played with the “greats” during their erstwhile Salzburg careers. They spoke in Italian—Master Antonius’s mother tongue, and one Papa did not know particularly well. I noticed the scattered steins by Papa’s side and winced; when our father had a few drinks in him, it was impossible to get him to stop.

“Is this the boy?” Master Antonius asked when Josef stepped forward. He spoke German passably well.

“Yes, maestro.” Papa proudly clapped my brother on the shoulder. “This is Franz Josef, my only son.”

Josef gave me a frightened glance, but I nodded encouragingly.

“Come closer, boy.” Master Antonius beckoned Josef to his side. To my surprise, the old master’s fingers were gnarled and bent with rheumatism; it was amazing he was still able to play the violin. “How old are you?”

Josef quailed. “Fourteen, sir,” he managed after a few swallows.

“And how long have you been studying?”

“Since he was a babe,” Papa said. “Since before he could speak!”

“I’ll have the boy speak for himself, Georg,” Master Antonius said. He turned back to Josef. “Well?” he harrumphed. “How do you answer?”

My brother first looked to me, then to Papa. “I have been studying since I was three years old, sir.”

Master Antonius snorted. “Let me guess: keyboard, theory, history, and composition, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And your father also schooled you in French and Italian, I presume?”

Josef looked stricken. Aside from Bavarian and German, we spoke the barest bit of French, and what little Italian we knew was musical Italian.

“Never mind, I can see that he didn’t.” Master Antonius waved his hand dismissively. “So,” he said, nodding at the violin in Josef’s hand. “Let’s see what you can do.”

There was no disguising the skepticism and contempt in the old maestro’s voice. He must have been wondering why Georg Vogler had never taken his son to any of the capital cities for further instruction, if Josef’s skill was indeed of any worth.

Because, I thought with despair, Papa can’t see farther than the bottom of his next drink.

“Well?” Master Antonius prompted when Josef hesitated. “What are you going to play, boy?”

“A Haydn sonata,” my brother said, stuttering a little. My stomach clenched in sympathetic misery.

“Haydn, eh? Never did compose anything of worth for the violin. Which one?”

“The—the one in D major. N-number two.”

“I suppose you’ll be needing accompaniment. Fran?ois!”

Both Josef and I jumped when a slender youth materialized by Master Antonius’s side, astonished by the valet’s sudden appearance. But I didn’t know what astonished us more—the young man’s beauty, or his dark skin.

“This is my assistant, Fran?ois,” Master Antonius said, ignoring the gasps and gapes from the assembled masses. “He is regrettably not a violinist, but he fingers the keyboard masterfully.”

My brows lifted at the sneer in the old man’s words. The youth, impeccably and garishly dressed in a gold and ivory frock coat, buckskin breeches, and powdered wig, seemed more like a pretty pet than a musician’s assistant. My stomach began to sink with fear; just what sort of man was Master Antonius?

Josef cleared his throat and gave me a panicked look. We had practiced together, and had therefore expected to be performing together. I stepped forward.

“If you please,” I said. “I would like to accompany my brother.”

Master Antonius noticed me for the first time. “Who is this?”

“My daughter Elisabeth is also educated in music,” Papa said. “You must forgive her, maestro; I indulged her fancies as a child.”

I winced. Yes, Papa had taught me music—not on my own merits, but as a means to an end. I was an afterthought, an accompanist, not a musician in my own right.

“A veritable family of musicians,” Master Antonius remarked in a dry voice. “A regular Nannerl to yon boy’s Wolfgang, is it?”

Papa shook his head. “We will, of course, defer to young master Fran?ois here, if that is your wish, Antonius.”

Master Antonius nodded. “Fran?ois, assieds-toi et aide le petit poseur avec sa musique, sonate de Haydn, s’il te plait. Numéro deux, majeur D.”

Fran?ois gave a sharp bow and walked to the fortepiano, flipping out his coattails as he sat down at the bench, giving us all a flash of sky-blue silk lining. His poise in the midst of the audience’s all-too-curious and none-too-friendly stares was incredible. The youth readied his hands over the keyboard and nodded at my brother, awaiting his cue.

Josef was agog. The youth was beautiful: his skin smooth and completely flawless, his lips full, his eyes dark, his lashes long. We had never seen a black person before, but I didn’t think it was the color of Fran?ois’s skin that captivated my brother.