Read The Musician's Daughter Online
Authors: Susanne Dunlap
The Musician's Daughter (27 page)
The guard let go of Danior and stepped away, and Alida, against all protocol, ran forward and covered the Gypsy’s dirty, bruised face with kisses. The emperor rose and left quietly. Those of us who noticed him go curtsied and bowed.
I
held onto Toby with one hand and the case that protected my father’s violin with the other. We walked toward our home like two ordinary people who had nothing to fear. Shop keepers and peasants went about their affairs and took no notice of us. The baker even waved and smiled, as if we had not just spent the last few days in a state of constant terror and confusion.
I was in a happy glow on one hand, and overwhelmed by a feeling of bittersweet sadness on the other. It seemed that one of my uncle’s spies—we would probably never know which, but it had certainly not been Schnabl—had been sent to find my father in the cellar and caught him trying to free the prisoners. Papa was unarmed and did not have Gypsy comrades in the corners to leap out and come to his aid. It tore at my heart to think that the last thing he saw in his life was that horrible place. I hoped the guards reached my uncle’s house in time to free the ones I had seen the other night. As to the rest, Alida had said they would do what ever they could to restore them to their families, but it would be very difficult to find them all.
Earlier, while we were still all gathered at the Hofburg, Schnabl had also confessed to changing several clauses in Haydn’s contract with Artaria that would make it impossible for him to fulfill it. Word had been sent directly from the emperor himself to Artaria to explain the confusion, and to request that adequate time be given for Haydn to complete his work. And my godfather also agreed to see a doctor about his eyes.
All the Gypsies who had been rounded up with Danior were released, and given official leave by the emperor to establish a settlement on the banks of the Danube, never to be harassed by the guards to leave it. The archduchess offered Mirela a position as lady’s maid in the Hofburg, but she refused. “I cannot stand the idea of stone walls around me all the time. I was born to be among my people. Besides,” she said to me when I scolded her for not taking this wonderful opportunity to better herself, “as a Gypsy, I serve no one. We can be equals, and remain friends.”
I tried to understand. I realized that someone who could do as Mirela had apparently done, followed Schnabl home and broken soundlessly into his house to take away my father’s violin, would find it difficult to lead a sedate life as a lady’s maid in a very proper imperial court. Still, it seemed a little foolhardy to me. Perhaps no less foolhardy, though, than my wanting to become a better musician rather than letting my mother arrange a suitable match for me.
But there were other revelations. In the hour after my uncle’s humiliating exposure, while we were at Zoltán’s apartment still rejoicing over Danior’s deliverance from death, the archduchess sent word dismissing Alida from her service. She made her a very lovely present, and it was clear she regretted the necessity, but she also knew that Alida would not be permitted to marry Danior if she were a maid of honor at court.
This, though, was accompanied by news that their family’s lands had been restored—yet their domain was far off in Hungary, and Zoltán would have to journey there immediately to start seeing what could be salvaged of the farmlands and if any of the ancient buildings upon them still stood. He was now Zoltán, Baron of Varga.
Everyone had turned away and pretended to be busy talking to each other when he came to thank me for my part in aiding their cause.
“Your father would have been proud of you,” he said, and then kissed me on both cheeks. The kisses were not like the quick pecks he had given me in the past. I could feel the soft imprint of his lips, and they conveyed more than respect. Zoltán’s kisses made me blush, and sent a tingling sensation down into my legs. He then raised my hand to his lips, taking time to squeeze it and stroke it a little before letting it go. I wanted to bury my face in the folds of his coat, to feel the grip of his arms, just as I felt them when he was showing me how to fire the pistol. His eyes burned into mine. I felt like crying, and I thought perhaps he did, too. But everyone was there, noticing us, even if they were looking in the other direction.
When he let go of my hand, I discovered that he had placed the gold medallion and chain in it. “But it’s yours!” I whispered.
“Keep it, in honor of all your father—and you—have done for our family.”
I could no longer see for the tears that had filmed across my eyes.
“Will you come and play with us at Esterhaza during the summer?” Haydn asked Zoltán when he turned to give his general farewell to the rest of those present.
“Of course I shall try, and I will return to Vienna as well. I am certain to have business here.”
He said it for my ears, I knew.
“And Theresa,” Haydn continued, “I still need your help with the music. Will you come to me tomorrow? I have spoken to Prince Nicholas, and he has agreed to make your father’s stipend over to you, as court copyist, and completely forgiven me for my innocent falsehood before. If your family can spare you, I would like to take you to Esterhaza after Easter. You might also perform—in private, you understand—as a violinist in the last desk of the orchestra on occasion.”
I was free to run to my godfather and give him the embrace he deserved for his kindness. Somehow, things had turned out almost as I’d hoped they would, with the exception that nothing would ever restore my father to me.
I had no right to be unhappy anymore. But even after we left Zoltán’s apartment, that lump in my throat refused to go away, and I could not answer Toby’s constant, chattering questions.
When we arrived at our apartment, I expected to go running in to greet my mother, having prepared a tale that would not upset her too much and would keep her in ignorance of the extent of her own brother’s corruption. I would not tell her about Toby’s ordeal, how close he had come to being one of the hundreds of boys who had been kidnapped. I would not tell her that it was my uncle’s spies—including the poor, pathetic Schnabl—who had discovered the role our father was playing in exposing the abuses of the nobles and seeking to rein in those who persecuted and tormented the Gypsies.
I would tell her that my uncle had been sent off to represent the emperor abroad. I would spare her the truth, which was that he had been banished, sent off to the New World without so much as a servant, and with only a small amount of money and valuables. I did not feel sorry for him. It was nothing compared with the fate that Danior might have suffered, but Councilor Wolkenstein would never be brought to suffer such a cruel death in front of the people. He was neither poor, nor a Gypsy. At least all the wealth he had amassed by preying on the weaknesses of powerful men would be given to help restore the boys to their Austrian families, and to make amends for the losses so many had suffered.
I had practiced exactly what I would say to my mother to make the whole affair palatable to her. But the sight of the apothecary’s curricle at the door caught my heart in my throat. Mother was ill again! I let go of Toby’s hand and raced up the two flights of stairs, burst into the parlor, and was assailed by my mother’s screams of agony.
Frau Morgen, the apothecary’s wife and the woman who had helped me prepare my father’s body, sat by the fire, knitting. She looked up, her expression remarkably calm. “There you are at last, Theresa! It’s about time you came back from your life of luxury at your uncle’s. Your mother has been calling for you.”
I laid Papa’s violin on the table and started toward my mother’s chamber, reaching for the door handle.
“Don’t go in just now. You’ll have to wait.”
Before I could fling a biting response at Frau Morgen for imagining that I would not run to be at my mother’s side if she were ill, the screams stopped. Then I heard another sound, a baby’s raspy cry.
All at once I understood. It was our new brother—or sister. I ran to Frau Morgen and kissed her on the cheek. Toby stood in the middle of the room, confused. I was too happy to speak. I hugged myself, waiting for the signal that I could go in and see them both.
A few moments later, the apothecary and the midwife emerged. “Ah, the children. You may enter now.”
Frau Morgen gathered her things and left with her husband. Toby and I went in. Our mother was propped up against her pillows, a bundle clutched in her arms, looking very pale, but well. Greta stood by with pride and love in her eyes. I wanted to embrace her, too, for being so loyal to Mama.
“Come, meet your sister, Anna,” Mama said, smiling.
My sister,
I thought. A sister.
Even though I realized baby Anna’s arrival might prevent me from journeying to Esterhaza for that summer, and that her little mouth would soon gobble up a generous share of the modest income we had been granted through Haydn’s good graces, I loved her the instant I saw her magically tiny fingers. Would she learn to play the violin? I could teach her!
And now I knew I did not have to marry right away. Mama would not want me to, now. She would need my help. And I could rely on my own wits and talent to survive. There was so much I could do.
My new life would start the very next day, when Toby would begin his apprenticeship as a luthier. I would take him to Herr Goldschmidt myself. His room would become the baby’s when she was old enough.
And I—I would practice on my father’s violin, absorbing his talent through the instrument he had held against his shoulder for all those years. I would prove my mother wrong about what girls should be able to do. At the very least, I knew that I would give lessons myself when I was able, and even perform whenever it was allowed.
So much has happened since then. As Alida promised, I have met Mozart and heard his incomparable music. Mirela and I have remained close, and have had more adventures together. I have become acquainted with the Weber sisters, and am now very friendly with Signore Salieri, too—but all that is part of another story. Suffice it to say, I think my father is smiling down upon me, knowing that my uncle has been punished for his crimes and that I have kept faith with everything he held dear: justice, fairness—and most of all, music.
Many thanks to my writer friends who read all or part of this book in manuscript, including Victoria Zackheim, Susan Willbanks, Susan O’Doherty, and Chloe Reynolds.
Extra special thanks to my two young readers, Ben Donnenberg and Daylon Orr, who were really helpful.
And the sisterhood of historical fiction authors who are so supportive and stimulating—what would I do without you? Especially Stephanie Cowell, Sandra Gulland, Barbara Quick, and Rita Charbonnier.
Thanks again to my indefatigable agent, Adam Chromy, and to Melanie Cecka and everyone at Bloomsbury Children’s who helped make this book happen.
Not to forget my ever-inspiring family, whose encouragement keeps me going: Cassie, Chloe, and Charles. Mwah!
Historical novelists are always asked, “What’s real and what’s invented in your novel?” Some historical novels are fictionalized history, where the purpose is to bring to life an actual time or event as closely as possible to what is known to have happened.
The Musician’s Daughter
is not one of these books. Most of the characters—with the exception of Haydn, his wife, the emperor and empress, the princess, and other famous names mentioned in the course of the drama—are fictional. Theresa is what I imagine a talented young daughter of one of Haydn’s musicians might have been like. There were indeed Gypsies and plenty of Hungarians in Vienna, but Zoltán and his sister are also fictional, as is the entire cast of Gypsies.
Having said that, the issues they all faced were real. In 1779, when we meet Theresa, the revolution in America had made the ruling families of Europe very nervous. Although the French revolution and its Reign of Terror was still some way off, many courts were seeking ways either to accommodate the demands of common people or to crack down on them. For instance: the slavelike treatment of the Hungarian serfs, the mistreatment and suspicion of the Gypsy population, the general inability for girls to fulfill any of their dreams unless they involved marriage and children.
And torture was still used, along with hideous public executions, as an example to keep the populace in check.
Haydn’s words and actions in this novel are also fictional, although his setting and circumstances are not. He had been fortunate as a child, yet his childhood was bleak. He was sent away at the age of six to study music in his uncle’s house hold, where he was mistreated and often hungry. He sang in the church choir and was talent-spotted by the music director of St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna. He was accepted, and moved to the glittering capital.
But even talent didn’t save Haydn from difficulties. When his voice broke, he was tossed out on the streets to make his own way, ending up being taken in by a friend and freelancing in musical gigs and as a teacher.
Rather than making him bitter, though, it seems his struggles gave him a lot of sympathy for the musicians he later hired when he landed the position with Prince Esterhazy. He was also a practical jokester, and became a friend and confidant to many of his musicians, standing as godfather to their children. His nickname of Papa Haydn seems to have been well deserved, and I felt he was the perfect figure of authority and kindness for Theresa’s difficult days.
As for Theresa herself: although she is entirely my creation, I am extremely fond of her. My life was nothing like hers (thank heavens), yet I know what it’s like to want to disappear into music and hide yourself away from difficult truths. I started piano lessons when I was five and could read music fluently before I could read words. Something about the feeling of the keys under my fingers and the beautiful sounds made me feel safe and let me dream far beyond the suburban life I led with my three brothers and my parents.
My parents were very supportive of my musical ambitions, and they went out of their way to make sure I had access to the best musical training, for which I will always be grateful. Our lives were not difficult like Theresa’s life, yet growing up in the fifties and sixties was tough, just as growing up in the twenty-first century is, but perhaps in a different way. All I know is that the combination of music and reading is what got me through youth and adolescence.
I pursued music in college and graduate school, eventually giving up on having a career as a performer to concentrate on music history. I was fascinated by the stories—the ones that were told and the ones that remained untold, most often to do with women and girls. When I turned to writing fiction, it was only natural that I would find my inspiration in the music and music history that has permeated my own life.
Although I have never been a violinist, I have picked up a violin from time to time and tried to play. I am privileged to know some superb artists: among them the amazing Peter Oundjian, former first violinist in the Tokyo string quartet, and Elizabeth Wallfisch, one of my dearest friends and perhaps the foremost Baroque violinist today. I listened to them both play in intimate surroundings, and lived through many of Libby’s struggles with injuries and eventually her triumph in the musical world.
My Theresa is a combination of myself at her age, Libby’s deep devotion to the violin, and my imagination.
Suggested listening
Haydn, The London Symphonies, Volumes 1 & 2; Colin Davis conducting the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra (Philips)
Haydn, String Quartets Op. 76; the Kodaly Quartet (Naxos)