The Musician's Daughter

by Susanne Dunlap

  I caught him looking away from me, scanning the houses and farms we passed. His expression was not kind and gentle. Instead the lines of a frown creased his forehead, and the corners of his lips were drawn down. I began to feel distressed that I had asked him to perform this service for me, especially if it was going to cost him money and cause him pain.

  We took a direction that led us out through one of the city gates. Very soon we were crossing open country. The roads, well packed and cleared closer to Vienna, became rutted, and the cold weather had frozen the ruts so that we were jostled severely from one side to the other, even though we went at a walking pace. My hood fell back and my cap was pushed askew. I tried my best to adjust it, but as I was doing so, another jolt tossed me into Zoltán’s side. He took hold of me and steadied me. His touch was comforting, but as soon as the road became less rough, he let go, and I felt cold.

  We entered a forest glade, mostly tall pines. The darkness around us created a false nighttime. I peered out the unglazed window and thought I saw a group of men through the trees, watching us pass with casual interest. “Where are we going?”

  Zoltán reached across me and lowered the shade. “I think now would be a good time for you to put on your mask.”

  Between the mask and the lowered shade, my sense of where we were became confused. From quiet countryside we passed into some kind of settled area, a village perhaps, or a small market town. I heard the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, and voices calling out their wares in a mix of a coarse Austrian dialect and some other language. By the light I figured that we had emerged from the forest. I had no clear idea of how much time had passed before I heard the coachman call, “Hold up there!” to his horse.

  We climbed down from the carriage and approached the settlement. As we neared it, Zoltán pulled my arm through his and kept me tightly at his side. He, too, wore a mask and drew his hood down so that it hid his face. The cold afforded us ample excuse for covering ourselves. Through the tunneled vision of the piece of velvet-covered stiff paper I could see that I had guessed correctly about coming to a village of sorts. But the sight of the Danube stretching away like a gray satin ribbon through the hoary landscape took me by surprise. And I saw that not far down was the island of the Prater, the pleasure ground where people went for picnics in the summertime. I had pictured us winding deep into the countryside, not circling back toward the busy trade route—which at this time of year was considerably quieter because of the ice patches here and there that could damage the smaller boats.

  “The place I want to show you is just down there, but we need a reason to pass that way at this time of day. Give me your muff.”

  I could not imagine why Zoltán would deliberately take my warmest item of clothing away from me, but I complied, not enough possessed of my wits to ask a question just then.

  To my complete amazement, he glanced around quickly and, seeing that no one paid us any heed, tossed my only fur muff down an embankment onto the sandy edge of the river. It landed but a pace away from the icy water. “What have you done!” I exclaimed, and before he could stop me, I picked up my skirt and petticoats and scrambled as best I could down to retrieve it. Zoltán was close behind me.

  “Why did you do that?” I whispered. He put his fingers to his lips.

  “Here it is, Liebchen. Quite undamaged,” he said aloud, clearly more for the benefit of the curious onlookers who had gathered to see the commotion than for mine.

  His words had the desired effect, and the odd assortment of people, clustered near to what I now saw were crumbling piers, went back to their business. I had not had the opportunity to fully understand where we were until that moment. The huts and lean-tos that made up this village by the banks of the Danube were of the flimsiest construction, some no more than heavy canvas stretched over wooden supports, and in many cases attached to wagons. Despite this, they were decorated with brightly colored silk banners and had chains of shiny metal discs draped upon them, so that I imagined the wagons would make a cheerful sound when they were driven across the countryside. Horses and goats wandered freely through the makeshift lanes—only an ill-tempered-looking hog was penned apart from the people, who numbered something above a hundred. Among them were children, their feet wrapped in cloths against the cold ground, wearing short cloaks pieced together of colorful patches of wool, silk, cotton—any scrap of this or that. Not a single brick house was to be seen, and there were no smartly clothed ladies wearing high headdresses and Brunswick capes.

  “We are among the Romany people,” Zoltán whispered into my ear.

  Gypsies! Had it been they who fell upon my father and robbed him? I began to tremble.

  “They will not harm us,” Zoltán continued. “Fine folk come here all the time to stare at their foreign ways. They are splendid musicians. Your father knew them, and on Christmas Eve bid us meet him here for some spirited music-making after the concert.”

  “But Maestro Haydn said he did not play in the concert.”

  “Nor did he. I’m afraid I was not entirely candid with you the other night. I’m sorry. There was no arrangement to meet at the tavern, either, but I couldn’t explain it all then. We—Heinrich, Jakob, and I—were concerned when Antonius failed to take his place in the orchestra that night. We decided we had best come to look for him here as arranged, thinking perhaps he had prepared some surprise.”

  We strolled as though admiring the river view, but stayed close to that one spot. “Did my godfather know about the arrangement to visit this camp?” I asked.

  “I do not know what your father may have told the maestro. In any case, when we arrived, the Gypsies were in a festive mood, celebrating midwinter. Torches blazed, and everyone was wearing their finest costumes. They welcomed us and gave us wine when they discovered we were musicians. But your papa was not among them.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “The time grew late. Heinrich had had a skinful and then some. He staggered off to—you know—and tumbled over the edge of the embankment in the dark. We went looking for him, and that’s when we found Antonius. Here.”

  He stopped by the carcass of a skiff, now more a loose collection of blackened boards than something that had once plied the river bearing people across to the Prater. I could see no evidence that a body had lain there, but the ground had been frozen for some weeks, and would not have yielded easily to his weight. I turned and slowly took in the embankment. It would have been difficult to scramble up quickly if one were being pursued. Some way down, boulders had been set into the earth to act as steps, but in the dark, without knowing they were there, Papa would never have found them.

  “And then?” I asked. I needed to know more. With every word, every fact I discovered, a picture was beginning to take shape. As yet it made no sense, but I believed that if I could get enough of it, it would soon point me in some direction.

  “We raised the alarm. The Roma men came down. It was their black blanket we used to wrap him, and their leader’s son, Danior, drove us in his cart back to your house in Vienna.”

  “Where is this Danior?”

  Zoltán looked up toward a wagon a small way off from the center of the village. I thought I saw someone vanish inside. “We promised we would not bring soldiers to the camp, vowing that we would try to avoid any implication of the Romany in your father’s death.”

  “Do you believe they did not do it?” I could not imagine what else might have happened. It was clear: Papa had come to take part in their music and been killed for his bonus—and his violin. I wondered if a search of this Danior’s hut would lead us to the Amati.

  “I am certain they did not. What would have been their reason?”

  “Surely the money …” Though it suddenly occurred to me that if Papa had not been at the prince’s palace on Christmas Eve, perhaps he had not received his bonus after all. “When were the musicians given their Christmas pay?”

  “Immediately after the concert.”

 
Zoltán led me toward the stone steps, keeping his hands on my waist as he pushed me up ahead of him. He had large hands for a violinist, but then I remembered he played the viola and cello, too. My mind was swirling. The sensation of Zoltán’s hands confused me, and I could not focus on the matter of my father. I wanted the climb up the bank to last forever, but it didn’t. And when we reached the top, he let go of me, and I was able to concentrate again. If Papa did not have his bonus money with him, why would he have been attacked?

  Our hired coach was where we’d left it, at the edge of the village. Zoltán bought me some roasted chestnuts from a vendor. I could tell everyone was staring at me and I began to feel a little frightened. A toothless old woman approached, coming quite close to me, and pointed at my breasts. She gabbled something in a language that was neither German nor French nor Italian, the languages I understood. I looked down, and noticed that the gold medallion lay outside my dress, just visible where my cloak hung slightly open. I tucked it away quickly.

  “How very odd,” he said. “She called you chey, ‘daughter.’ ”

  How did he know? Zoltán was Hungarian. As far as I knew, he did not speak the peculiar language of the Gypsies. And what was it about the medallion that would make her call me “daughter”?

  Despite the many questions I still had, we barely spoke all the way back to Vienna. I went over and over the events of the day. My head hurt with the effort to comprehend what they all meant. But I couldn’t help returning to one instant in particular. Liebchen, Zoltán had said. Beloved. I knew he’d done it so that it would appear that we were a young couple on a jaunt for the thrill of saying they had visited the Gypsy camp, but in the desolate landscape of my present life, I held that word in my heart and vowed I would never forget it.

  CHAPTER 8

  Where have you been! Your mother is so worried!”

  Greta’s bulk blocked my way into the apartment. All I wanted to do was lie down on my bed, close my eyes, and think, but clearly this would be impossible.

  “Theresa Maria! Is that you? Mach Schnell! Come here this instant!”

  Ever since I understood that I had been named after the empress of Austria, I had felt as if I carried a burden, as though I was expected somehow to be a humble version of the virtuous Maria Theresa, with her widow’s weeds and sixteen children. My full name called out from anywhere was a certain sign that punishment was to come because I had done something wrong—not completed my chores, been unkind to my brother, spent too many hours practicing the viola when I should have been sewing—something that made me unworthy of that name, and so the sound of it filled me with dread.

  Yet hearing my mother call for me now was a relief. Never again would I be annoyed about it. Mama was sensible again. She had recovered. She would be her same, dear self, with all her worrying and fretting over nothing. I ran directly in to see her, desperate to talk to her about everything I’d been through in the past few days.

  Toby sat in the corner of her bedroom with his slate on his knee. I saw that he had been working on a sum for a while—the edges of the slate were filled with doodlings of trees and flowers. Our mother sat up in bed, her eyes open wide and shining. Her pretty face was pale and she seemed thinner. I could see hollows below her cheekbones instead of the plump, rosy cheeks I remembered. When I kissed her, she still felt a trifle feverish.

  “Why did you behave so badly? You know Uncle Theobald will not give you your dowry unless you are a good girl. And where is the money from your papa? He should have brought home his Christmas present from the prince. But Greta has solved that, and Toby will go to Herr Goldschmidt in a week.”

  I couldn’t tell whether she expected me to answer her questions or not. I decided I’d best just try to calm her first. “Mama, I’m so glad you’re well now. As is Toby. You know about Papa, of course, but he is safe with the angels now.”

  I instantly regretted mentioning Papa. A line appeared on Mama’s forehead between her deep blue eyes, and she looked at me with such yearning I had to turn away. “Yes,” she said, “Greta told me, but I didn’t want to believe it. What shall we do?”

  She understands. I was so relieved. “Kapellmeister Haydn is helping us. We won’t starve.”

  “What can the maestro do? It was your papa who worked for him. I always told him he must take some measures to secure our future, get the prince to grant him an annuity, or a widow’s jointure for me. Otherwise we would be helpless without him. We must get you married. Your dowry is our only hope.”

  I forced myself not to sound as cross as I felt. She could not know everything I did. “My godfather has every intention of being as helpful as he is able. And I don’t think that getting me married would solve our difficulties. Anyway, I went to visit Uncle Theobald.” I took hold of her hands. “I did not see him, but I saw enough to believe he will not take kindly to being asked for money. He’s a very great man now.”

  A little of the fire of shrewdness she always possessed lit my mother’s eyes. “All the more reason for him to help us. He is still my brother. What’s necessary is simply that we find someone suitable for you. Greta has asked the matchmaker to come to visit me. I expect her tomorrow morning.”

  “But, Mama—”

  “Greta said you’d been willful while I have been ill. It’s unbecoming.” She reached out her hand to stroke the side of my face. She smiled, softening the reproach in her words. “You must return to your needlework and be a good girl. No man wants a wife who cannot keep house and is disobedient.”

  I knew my mother did not mean what she said unkindly. We were her principal concern in life, and she’d never done anything to harm us. But I seethed at Greta’s treachery. How could she tell my mother such tales! If it were not for me, we might be unable to continue as we were, even for a little while. I was about to inform Mama of everything, of Haydn’s agreement to hire me as an assistant so that we could still receive our money from the prince, when Greta walked in.

  “Herr Goldschmidt sent his lad with this.”

  She handed Mama a piece of paper, folded but not sealed. Mama opened it and read. “Thank you, Greta,” Mama said, nodding in a way that sent the cook reluctantly out of the room. “You see, Liebchen, all is arranged. You must not take it too badly. I only did it because I knew it was for the best.” She gave the paper to me.

  I read it through three times before I allowed myself to believe what it said. Mama had sold him my viola! “How could you?” I asked. “The viola belonged to me!”

  “It was your father’s, and he wanted Toby to have this apprenticeship. Herr Goldschmidt must be paid, or your brother will have no future. We owned nothing else of enough value.”

  I tried to pull away, but she grabbed my hand and held onto it with strength that surprised me. “It is for the best. The viola will not help you get a husband. And we must all make sacrifices.” She squeezed my hand before letting it go and resting both of hers on her bulging belly. She looked down with a soft smile. The infant inside seemed to sense her attention and shifted beneath her hands. When she looked up again, there was just a hint of happy tears in her eyes.

  Mama was right. It was selfish of me to stand in the way of Toby’s advancement. Toby, who would need a lucrative trade if he ever hoped to marry and have a family of his own. Toby, who was still so young I could not imagine him living somewhere else, let alone working long hours each day.

  Yet I knew I would never quite forgive her for it. Because no matter what she said, practical as it was and effective at solving our most immediate difficulties, it proved to me that she did not understand how I felt about playing the viola. She had never understood that, and therefore she could have no knowledge of who I truly was. Only Papa knew how important it was to me to make music, and Papa was gone.

  Although at first I felt only anger, I soon realized that her actions, insensitive as they were, freed me in a way. I need no longer feel guilty about pursuing my own plans, no matter how much they interfered with what ever scheme
s she concocted for me.

  “Yes, of course, Mama,” I forced myself to say, putting on my most submissive expression. “Perhaps Godfather Haydn will have an instrument I can practice on when I go to assist him each morning after breakfast, to earn money for our keep.” My words were calculated to achieve the greatest effect. It was cruel of me to anger her; her health was still delicate despite her improvement since yesterday. But at that moment, I didn’t care.

  “You will do nothing of the kind! I expect the matchmaker tomorrow. You must stay here so that she can examine you and make a judgment about whom you should marry.”

  “I cannot disappoint the Kapellmeister,” I said as I kissed Mama. She could not rise from her bed and come to fetch me, and I avoided her for the rest of the evening.

  My stomach growled as I prepared for bed that night. I was too angry to eat the supper Greta had placed in front of me. I realized that now, with Papa’s violin gone and my viola sold, we had no musical instruments in the house. I didn’t remember a time when that was true. Toby had followed me into my room, his eyes dark with shared sadness. “I’ll make you a viola as soon as I am able,” he whispered. I hugged him close and felt him return the embrace before squirming away. No doubt he would cry himself to sleep as he had every night since Christmas.

  Once I was alone again, all I could think of was that day when Papa first helped me draw a bow across a string. I don’t know how old I was, maybe five. At first, all I could do was make a scratchy, squeaky noise. I couldn’t understand how he could coax such a glorious sound from the violin. Haydn had lent him a half-size fiddle that he had had made, thinking he would have his own children to teach, so Papa said, but the children never came. At the time, I remember wondering how his children could stay away from him when he was such a kind man, not understanding that Papa meant he had none.