Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(18)
“Ignore her, Antonius,” Papa said. “She overreaches herself.”
The old virtuoso waved him off. “I have my reasons for taking the pupils I do, Fr?ulein,” 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.”
This piqued the old master’s interest. He lifted his bushy brows, his dark eyes beady in his fleshy face. “So the little Fr?ulein fancies herself a better tutor than her father! Well, I am tickled. You amuse me, girl. Very well, then, I shall humor you. What will you have your brother play?”
Josef turned panicked eyes on me. I gave him a small smile, the one he called my pixie smile, playful and mischievous.
I walked to the fortepiano. Fran?ois graciously gave way. Josef looked nervous, but he trusted me, trusted me completely. I placed my hands against the keys and began to play a set of repeating sixteenth notes, trying my best to imitate the pizzicato sound of a violin.
My brother’s eyes brightened when he recognized the ostinato.
Yes, Sepp, I thought. Now we shall play the L’inverno.
He tucked his violin under his chin, his bow poised over the strings. After another measure, Josef closed his eyes and began to play the second movement, the largo, from Vivaldi’s L’inverno.
The melody was gentle and a little melancholy; when we were babies, Papa used to play the largo as a lullaby. The piece was simple enough that three-year-old Sepperl had learned it by ear on his quarter-size violin, but it was a piece to grow on. My brother had experimented with flourishes and improvisations, refining the music until it became something solely his own. No one could wring shades of nostalgia and wistful longing from this movement like Josef. As he grew older and more skilled, he’d continued to practice it over and over until he and his violin were one. Of all the sonatas and concertos Josef knew, this was the one that sounded the closest to his own voice, the one in which his violin sounded the most human.
The violin sang, serenading all those who listened, weaving a spell that made the silence around it sound reverent. Holy.
The largo movement of the winter suite wasn’t long, and all too soon, Josef and I approached the end of the piece. His body was slowing down, taking the last trill ritardando. I strove to match him, slowing down my accompaniment as the last note faded away with a tremulous shimmer.
The quivering memory of that final note held us rapt. Then thunderous applause broke the spell, started by Master Antonius himself. Fran?ois leaped to his feet with shouts of “Bravo! Bravissimo!”
Josef colored, but his eyes shone as he grinned at Fran?ois. Without warning, he launched into the third movement of Vivaldi’s L’estate, the presto. Intense and fast, it called for all his abilities as a virtuoso player, and I could not keep up with him. I had adapted the accompaniment to the largo myself, but I hadn’t done the other seasons. Fran?ois nodded at me and I relinquished my seat to him.
Within a heartbeat, he found Josef in the music and launched into the performance. He pounded the chords where my brother emphasized the shivering trills, he relented when my brother dropped a phrase sotto voce. He knew when to pause to allow Josef’s incredible playing to take flight, where to supplement the holes in the accompaniment to sound seamless. My throat was tight; this slender, dark-skinned youth knew my brother’s unspoken cues even better than I. He could fall into Josef’s rhythms without thought, and he could adapt and modify music he knew and music he didn’t.
Somehow, incredibly, they finished exactly in unison. The hall erupted with praise. Papa clapped Josef on the back, shouting loudly for all to hear that he had taught the boy everything he knows, while Master Antonius could be heard congratulating Fran?ois’s astonishing impromptu performance.
“I didn’t even know you knew Vivaldi, Fran?ois, you sly dog!” The violin master turned to Josef. “You!” he said. “Now you are a young man of taste and vision. Vivaldi! Il Prete Rosso, or the Red Priest, as we called him back home. He did much for the violin, you know, even as some people”—Master Antonius shot a look at Papa—“no longer recognize his genius.”
Never mind that it had been I who suggested Vivaldi, not Josef; it was lost in the rush and aftermath of my brother’s playing.
“Thank you, maestro.” Josef’s face was flushed, his eyes aglow. I sought out his gaze to congratulate him, but he had eyes for Fran?ois and Fran?ois alone. The youth looked back.