Wintersong

by S. Jae-Jones

  He was in none of the usual places: his bedroom, the footpaths in the woods, the Goblin Grove. Dusk was falling and Josef was nowhere to be found. I returned from the forest, tearing at my hair in frustration.

  A hand reached out to grab my wrist as I made my way up the stairs. “Liesl.”

  I jumped. It was Josef, hiding beneath the stairwell. All that was visible was the reflected shine of his eyes, a wolf’s in the dark.

  “Sepperl!” I said. “What are you doing?”

  I came down around the stairs and crouched before him. The shadows carved Josef’s face into hard planes and angles, sharp cheekbones and pointed chin.

  “Liesl,” he said in anguished tones. “I can’t do this.”

  Word of the old violin master’s arrival had spread like wildfire throughout the village. Josef would have an enormous audience for his audition tonight. I minded my brother’s fear of strangers.

  “Oh, Sepp,” I said. Slowly, gently, as though I were coaxing a baby bird from its nest, I took my brother by the hand and led him down the hall to his room.

  His quarters were in complete disarray. Josef’s clothes were strewn about, and someone—perhaps Papa—had brought down a trunk from the attic. His violin case lay open on the bed beside him, the instrument still nestled in its velvet lining. By the looks of it, he hadn’t played it all day.

  “I can’t audition for Master Antonius, Liesl. I just can’t.”

  I said nothing, only opened my arms to hug him close. My brother felt slight and frail in my arms. We were both small and bird-boned, but I was hale and full of life where my brother was delicate. As a babe he had been taken with scarlatina worse than either Käthe or me, and he had been prone to fevers and agues ever since.

  “I’m scared, Liesl,” he whispered.

  “Shh,” I soothed, stroking his hair. “You’ll be marvelous.”

  “It should be you, Liesl,” he said. “It should you before Master Antonius. Not me.”

  “Shush,” I said. “You are the virtuoso. Not me.” It was true. While Papa had taught us all to play the violin, it was Josef whose playing sparkled with brilliance. I was a composer, not a performer.

  “Yes, but you are the genius,” he said. “You are the creator; I’m just an interpreter.”

  Tears started in my eyes. My brother told me my music was worth something every day of his life, but it still hurt to hear him say it.

  “Don’t hide away,” he pleaded. “You deserve to be heard. The world needs to hear your music. You can’t be so selfish as to keep it to yourself.”

  Oh but I could, but it was not out of selfishness; it was shame. I was untrained, untaught, untalented. It was easier—safer—to hide behind Josef. My brother could prune my wild imaginings into a beautiful garden, smooth their rough edges, and present a work of art to the world.

  “But I wouldn’t keep it to myself,” I said softly. “You would play my music for me.”

  That was how it had always been. Josef was my amanuensis; through him I could play the music I heard in my soul. I was the violin, he was the bow. We were the left and right hands of a single fortepianist, meant to be played together and not apart. I wrote the music; Josef played it for the world. This was how it would always be.

  He shook his head. “No. No.”

  Anger flared through me, anger and frustration and jealousy. Josef could have it all, all we had ever wanted, if he would only take the chance. And he had the chance, something I would never have. Could never have.

  Sensing my shift in mood, my brother turned to hug me harder. “Oh, Liesl, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said into my shoulder. “I’m a terrible person. I know I’m being selfish.”

  My anger faded, leaving me drained and exhausted. No, it was not my brother who was a terrible person; it was I. I, who begrudged him the opportunity of a lifetime because it would never be mine.

  “You’re not selfish, Sepperl,” I said. “You’re the least selfish person I know.”

  Josef glanced at the window of his bedroom, toward the forest surrounding our inn. The sun was setting, lending a bloody cast to everything. My brother absentmindedly ran his fingers over the bridge of his violin. It was a del Gesù, one of the few valuable violins we had left after Papa sold the others to Herr Kassl to settle his debts. The Amatis, Stainers, and Stradivarii were long gone.

  “What if,” he said at last, “I made a wish, and had it answered?”

  The reddish light threw all the hollows and shadows of his face into ghastly relief. The bruises beneath his eyes and jaw where he rested it against the chin rest were the color of old blood.

  “What wish, Sepperl?” I asked gently.

  “To be the greatest violinist in the world.” Josef traced the f-holes, lightly sliding his fingers up the neck to rest on the scroll. The scroll was one of the violin’s more unusual parts, carved into the shape of a woman. It was not the woman that was unusual; it was the fact that her face was carved into an expression of agony. Or ecstasy. I was never quite sure. “To play with such beauty as to make angels weep.”

  “Then your wish was granted.” I smiled, but the smile twisted in my mouth. If only our wishes had power. I thought of being young and sitting by Käthe’s side in church, our bony thighs pressed into the hard wooden pews. I remembered looking at my sister’s golden hair haloed by the sun, and wishing—no, praying—that I would grow up to be beautiful too.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he whispered.

  “Afraid? Of your God-given gift?”

  “God has nothing to do with it,” he said grimly.

  “Josef!” I was shocked. We might have been indifferent churchgoers, but God was as ritual and routine as washing up in the morning. To deny Him utterly was blasphemy.

  “You, of all people, should know this, Liesl,” Josef said. “Think you that our music comes from God? No, it comes from below. From him. The Ruler Underground.”

  I knew my brother did not speak of the Devil. I had always known that Josef had faith—kept faith—with Constanze and the Goblin King. More than Papa. More than me. But I had not understood just how deeply his belief in the uncanny was stitched into his bones.

  “How else can you explain the wildness, the abandon we feel when we play together?”

  Was Josef afraid he was damned? God, the Devil, and the Goblin King were larger figures in my brother’s life than I had realized. More than either Käthe or me, Josef had been sensitive to the moods and emotions around him. It was what made him a superb and sublime interpreter of music. Perhaps this was why he played with such exquisite clarity, agony, frenzy, ecstasy, and longing. It was fear. Fear and inspiration and divine providence all in one.

  “Listen to me,” I said firmly. “The abandon we feel—that is not sin. That is grace. Grace is not a gift bestowed upon you that can suddenly be taken away. It is within you, Sepperl, a part of you. You carry that grace inside. And you will carry it with you all your life, no matter where you go.”

  “But what if it’s not grace?” Josef whispered. “What if it’s a favor to be repaid?”

  I said nothing. I did not know what to say.

  “I know you don’t believe me,” he said miserably. “And I wouldn’t, either. But I remember a dream, and it returns to me piece by piece, night by night. I dream of a tall, elegant stranger who comes to me.”

  Josef turned his head, and although it was dark, I could imagine the blush staining his cheeks. My brother had never confided in me outright about his romantic inclinations, but I knew him better than anyone else. I knew, and I understood.

  “The stranger places his hand upon my brow, and says I will carry the music of the Underground with me, so long as I never leave this place.” Josef turned his eyes to me, but he didn’t seem to see me. “I was born here. I was meant to die here.”

  “Don’t say that,” I said sharply. “Don’t you dare say that.”

  “Don’t you believe so? My blood belongs to the land, Liesl. Yours too. We draw our
inspiration from it, from the ground beneath our feet, as surely as the trees in the wood. Without it, how can we continue? How can I still play my music when my soul rests here, in the Goblin Grove?”

  “Your soul rests within you, Sepperl.” I lightly touched my hand to his breast. “Here. That’s where your music comes from. Not from the land. Not from the woods outside.”

  “I don’t know.” Josef buried his face in his hands. “But I am afraid. I am afraid of the bargain I struck with the stranger in my dreams. But now you understand why I’m too terrified to leave.”

  I understood, but not in the way my brother intended. I saw his fear, and saw the demons he conjured to justify his fear. Unlike me or Käthe, Josef had never seen anything of the world beyond our little corner of Bavaria. He did not know what delights the world could offer, what sights, what sounds, and what people he could encounter. I did not want my brother to stay home, to stay confined to the Goblin Grove and Constanze’s apron strings. Or mine. I wanted him to go out and live his life, even as it pained me to let him go.

  “Come.” I walked to the klavier. “Let us play. Forget our woes. Just you and me, mein Brüderchen.” I felt, rather than saw, my brother smile. I sat down on the bench and played a simple repeating phrase.

  “Don’t you want the light?” Josef asked.

  “No, leave it.” I knew where the keys were anyway. “Let’s just sit in the dark and play. No sheet music. Nothing we know by heart. I will give you the basso continuo, and you will improvise.”

  I heard the faint plink of strings against the soundboard as Josef pulled the violin from its case, the soft shush as he ran his bow over the rosin cake. He settled the instrument beneath his chin, touched the bow to the strings, and began to play.

  * * *

  Time passed in waves, and my brother and I lost ourselves in music. We improvised on established structures, embellished on some of the sonatas we knew from memory, and then gradually segued into what Josef was to play for Master Antonius. Papa had decided on a Haydn sonata, though I had suggested Vivaldi. Vivaldi was Josef’s favorite composer, but Papa claimed he was too obscure. Haydn—a composer with critical and popular acclaim—was the safer choice.

  The music wound down. “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Just one more?” Josef begged. “The largo from Vivaldi’s L’inverno. Please.”

  By now the enchantment the music had woven over us was fading. Käthe had accused me of loving Josef more, but it was not Josef I loved more; it was music. I loved my sister as much as I loved my brother, but I loved music most of all.

  I glanced over my shoulder. “We should go,” I said. “Your audience awaits.” I closed the lid of the klavier and rose from the seat.

  “Liesl.” Something in my brother’s voice gave me pause.

  “Yes, Sepp?”

  “Don’t leave me alone,” he whispered. “Don’t let me go into that long night alone.”

  “You won’t go alone.” I gathered him close. “You will never be alone. I am always with you, in spirit if not in flesh. Distance won’t make a difference to us. We will write each other letters. We will share our music with each other, in paper, ink, and blood.”

  It was a long time before he spoke. “Give me a little something, then,” he said. “Just a little melody, to hold your promise.”

  I pulled at a scrap of melancholy and hummed a few notes. I paused, waiting for him to tell me my opening chords.

  “Major seventh,” was all Josef said. His smile was wry. “Of course that’s what you start with.”

  THE AUDITION

  The sounds of the gathered guests in the main hall flooded the corridor outside Josef’s room. My brother shrank back, but I pulled him along, bringing him out from the darkness and into the light.

  Our little inn had never seen this many patrons before. Many of the assembly were burghers from town, including Herr Baumgartner, Hans’s father. Mother bustled back and forth between the tables, serving the customers alone. Käthe emerged from the kitchen with platters of food a few moments later, Hans on her heels with steins of beer.

  “There’s our little Mozart!” One of the guests rose to his feet, pointing excitedly in my direction. My heart leaped with both excitement and fear, but then I saw he was pointing to Josef hiding behind me. “Come, Mozartl, play us a jig!”

  Of course the guest wasn’t referring to me. I was no one, the forgotten Vogler child with neither looks nor talent to recommend her. But the truth did nothing to lessen the sting of disappointment.

  Josef gripped my skirts. “Liesl—”

  “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. François!”

  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, François,” 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, i
mpeccably 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 François here, if that is your wish, Antonius.”

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

  François 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 François’s skin that captivated my brother.

  I cleared my throat, and Josef flinched. He immediately busied himself with his violin, his cheeks flaming, unable to meet François’s gaze. The youth had a slight, bashful smile about his face.