The Musician's Daughter

by Susanne Dunlap

  “Theresa Maria! I command you to come before me this instant! How could you be so foolish. Where have you been? Uncle Theobald himself came here yesterday, and now I fear he believes you are disobedient as well as bold!”

  Uncle Theobald? Here? I looked at Greta for confirmation. It seemed more likely that my mother would fabricate such an event to chasten me than that the great man would actually deign to visit our humble residence. But Greta lifted her eyebrows and smiled slightly. So it was true. “What did he want? Why did he come?”

  “What did he want? Such a question! He wanted to meet you so that he could determine your worth. He said he had some ideas for a match for you, that his valet had described you to him when you came the day after your father’s—” She could not speak of it. Despite her anger at me, I knew my mother was still distraught about Papa. “He brought a basket of delicacies. I’m afraid that because you weren’t here, you have missed the sweets.”

  It struck me as comical to have my mother hold the denial of sweets over my head as punishment, as if she did not realize that in the last few days I had lost everything that remained to me of childishness. I walked forward and sat on her bed. What had I been fearful of? This lady, with her pretty face and pregnant belly, really could do nothing to harm me but scold. I was overcome with affection for her, recalling that unlike many of the friends I had had over the years, I never suffered beatings at her hands. Once she spanked me when I ran off with the cook’s daughter to play without asking permission. But I had always been too occupied with music to get up to much mischief.

  I embraced her, interrupting her torrent of angry words. “I’m sorry I worried you, Mama. I’m well now. Shall I bring you some tea?”

  Her complaining sputtered out until she was quiet. All at once I was aware of how vulnerable she was, lying there in her bed, unable to do anything for her family at that moment besides worry and harangue. I would not like to be in her position.

  She sighed before responding at last. “I had my tea, thank you, Theresa.”

  Only one name. I was on safe ground again.

  “There is mending left from yesterday, but before that you must tidy yourself and put on your best gown. I promised my brother that you would attend him at his house this noon, when he returned to take his second breakfast, so that he might see if he could help you—and thereby help us.”

  It was not yet nine of the clock. If I hurried, I might be able to keep my appointment with Haydn and still reach the house in the Graben on time. I took my mother’s hands in mine.

  She gasped. “What happened to you!”

  I looked down and realized that sometime during the flight from the Gypsy camp, I had gotten a bad bruise on my arm.

  “It is nothing, Mama,” I said, rapidly trying to think of something to explain the bruises. “Only that I tied my sleeves too tight against the cold yesterday. But did I tell you that I am now acquainted with a maid of honor at court?” Alida and I had formulated the excuse that morning, so that my mother would be spared too much distress about what I had been through. I had planned to explain that we had been chatting together and lost track of the time, until it was too late for me to go home without disturbing the family, and that that was when Alida sent a lad to assure them I was safe.

  The words “maid of honor” acted like balm to soothe my mother’s troubled spirit. “Ah, my dear, you see? There are compensations in life that go far beyond music. Even your father would have admitted that.”

  She turned her head away from me. Tears collected along her lower eyelid and then spilled out over her cheeks. I stood and curtsied to her, then left her to her grief.

  CHAPTER 12

  My plan for the morning worked almost perfectly, except that in hurrying to complete the work for Kapellmeister Haydn, I tipped over an ink bottle that was nearly empty and now had blotches of black on my best day gown, a sprigged muslin caught up at the sides to reveal a petticoat with a row of lace near the hem. I knew I looked like a maid wearing her mistress’s spoiled castoffs, but there was nothing I could do about it. I knew also that running the final stretch to my uncle’s house would cause me to arrive breathless and disheveled, but it seemed the lesser of two evils when compared with being late.

  The same young maid opened the door to me. This time rather than attempt to shut it in my face, she surveyed the disordered state of my clothing and gave a disdainful sniff before ushering me in. I untied my cloak and held it out to her. She was forced to take it and drape it over the hall chair before showing me into the same room I had entered before.

  I did not have to wait as long that morning for the valet to arrive. And now he made no disrespectful inquiry of me, but maintained a bland expression as he asked me to follow him into the dining room. I was not a little curious to have a chance to examine my uncle at close quarters. He had formed such a part of the myths of my childhood that I imagined him alternately a prince and an ogre.

  At first I did not see him in the grand room. A long table occupied the center of a space that was lit by tall windows looking out over a wintering garden. The smell of fried meats made my stomach growl. In fact, one end of the table was so covered with food that until my uncle lifted his head up from scooping sweetbreads into his mouth, I would have thought it had been set for a banquet that would take place later.

  “Ah, Theresa Maria. Come closer where I can see you properly.” His mouth was still full of food and I watched in disgust as a trickle of saliva-laced fat traced a path down his chin. He took up a large linen napkin from his lap and wiped his entire face with it as if performing his morning ablutions, then leaned back in his chair, his double chin shuddering as he did so. I searched for some trace of resemblance to my mother and could find it only in the color of his eyes, a clear, watery blue. Although there were empty seats all around, he did not invite me to sit. I curtsied, a little belatedly. “Guten Tag, Uncle Theobald.”

  “Turn around. Slowly.”

  I flushed. He did not even bother to return my greeting!

  “The figure is good,” he muttered, as though he were assessing a horse for purchase. “And she has inherited her mother’s beauty.”

  Did he think I was a deaf-mute? Why speak of me that way, and in my presence? I recalled something my father had once said when Mama raised the promise of Uncle Theobald’s dowry. She’ll have to earn it first, I’ll wager, and that, my dear, is no profession for a lady. I wasn’t certain what he had meant, but his words had silenced my mother, who did not speak of Uncle Theobald again for some months.

  “So, Theresa, your mama wants me to find you a husband. What are your accomplishments?”

  “I—I—” What exactly did he mean, my accomplishments? “I play the viola and the violin tolerably well, Uncle.”

  “That won’t do. What about the harpsichord, or the guitar—perhaps the harp?”

  “The harpsichord, when I have to. I have never learned any other instruments.”

  “Do you sing?”

  “Not well.”

  “Draw?”

  “I never saw the need.”

  “Your needlework—surely your mother has at least schooled you in that?”

  Now I began to fume. He held my dearest achievements as lightly as a spaniel’s ability to fetch a stick. Perhaps less so. “I assure you, I am an accomplished seamstress, as it has long been my task to mend all the family’s clothing.”

  “My dear!” I thought he would leap from his seat, but he merely appeared to rise by the degree to which he pulled himself upright. “That is not what I mean by needlework. If you marry well, a maid shall do all that. I mean fancy needlework, to occupy your idle hours in the evening when you’ve no company.”

  “I prefer to occupy my idle hours by reading, Uncle. I have been schooled in German, Italian, and French, and can make my way slowly through Virgil if given a little assistance.”

  “I see my task is even more difficult than I had supposed. We shall have to trust to your physical charms, w
hich are—admittedly—considerable.” He licked his lips, although I did not see any crumbs there, and let his eyes take the measure of me from my indoor cap to my stout walking boots. “I would be willing to undertake this important role, but I must have something from you in exchange.”

  At that moment, I wanted nothing more to do with this uncle, the one who was supposed to have my interests at heart. What should I have expected? He had found it perfectly easy to turn his back on his only sister, despite some times of true want before my father had his post in the prince’s house hold. And he apparently remained unmarried, keeping the entire disposal of his fortune to himself and his own comforts. “If I have displeased you, Uncle, perhaps it would be best if we simply said our good-byes and thought no more about it.” I dipped a quick curtsy and turned to go. To my dismay, the stern valet stood blocking the doorway that would lead me back out to the hall.

  “Not so fast. I see you are offended. I did not mean to wound your pride, but you must be aware that you have hardly been groomed for the position of a great man’s wife.”

  Since I had no choice, I remained where I was, waiting for him to speak again.

  “And this task I have for you—it’s nothing, really. I would only like you to attend a small ball I am hosting in the assembly rooms for a few close friends—no more than a hundred or so—and to be kind to a certain gentleman whom I will point out to you. Just to listen to what he says, and tell me about it afterward. In exchange, you shall have unlimited credit at the most fashionable dressmaker in Vienna—for one week, so that you may be appropriately clothed. In fact, I had better come with you to ensure that you do not forget some detail of your costume.”

  Again he looked at me in a way that made me feel like a prize cow, and I imagined myself draped on a platter in front of him as he prepared to sink his teeth into my tender flesh. I shivered.

  I wanted to run from the grand house and never enter it again. But what would I tell my mother? She had the highest hopes of great benefit resulting from this meeting, and after the worry I had put her through the previous night, I decided I had better make an effort to be agreeable. Let it be Uncle Theobald who gave up on me, and then she would have less cause for complaint.

  When at last I departed, after promising to meet my uncle at the dressmaker’s that same evening before curfew, I wandered out not really thinking where I was going, and nearly collided with a man about to knock on the door.

  “I beg your—” I stopped in midsentence. “Herr Schnabl!” I exclaimed. It was the first cellist from the Esterhazy orchestra, the one who often played in quartets with my father. He was getting quite old, and Papa had said that he drank too much and was always in danger of being fired. Apparently Haydn had defended him on several occasions, and it was only through the maestro’s kindness that he remained. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh,” he said, after nodding to me in greeting, “just an errand.”

  He had a portfolio tucked beneath his arm. I tried not to make it obvious I was glancing at it, but it appeared to contain sheets of music paper. I did not know my uncle was musical. I was glad if he was. Perhaps he was not as entirely bad as I was inclined to think from my recent experience with him.

  “Well, good day to you, Fräulein,” he said, and waited until I had walked a little away before knocking on my uncle’s door.

  I soon forgot the odd coincidence as I continued on my way, I didn’t think where. My mother would assume my interview with her brother had gone well and that I had spent the afternoon at his house, so I did not feel it necessary to rush home. Instead I let my steps take me where they would, as long as I could withstand the cold. I felt very free, knowing that for a short while, at least, no one expected anything of me. It was my first opportunity to think about the previous day’s adventures, and after very little time, I realized that most of all I owed Zoltán an explanation—if he could ever bear to speak to me again—and that I really ought to tell him about the medallion in case he knew of it from before, even if I could not show it to him. After a few turns around Stephansplatz I went toward Schwedenplatz, where Zoltán lived. I hoped that Alida might still be there.

  I walked in through the double street doors and started up the large wooden staircase. Aside from knowing it was on the third floor I couldn’t really remember which apartment was Zoltán’s, but I thought as I looked around that I would at least recognize the door.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to risk knocking at the wrong place. As I mounted the steps, a door opened and slammed shut on the floor above me, and somehow I knew that the footsteps hurtling down toward me were Zoltán’s. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, his momentum almost continuing to carry him headlong.

  “I’m sorry! I had hoped to be able to thank Alida—and you—for your hospitality last night.” My words sounded hollow and unnecessary.

  Zoltán bowed frostily. “I shall convey your thanks to my sister, who has had to return to her position at court until next week.”

  He was about to continue on his way. It was obvious he was still furious with me. “Zoltán, please.” I put my hand on his arm. “I need to speak with you, and … beg your pardon.”

  His determined frown relaxed a bit, but lacked the open friendliness I was accustomed to. “I must hurry to a rehearsal with Kapellmeister Haydn. You may walk with me if you wish.”

  Permission was better than outright dismissal, not as satisfactory as an invitation would have been. Still, I chose to swallow my pride and walk with him. His strides were long, and I scurried to keep up, so that my explanation sounded breathless. “It wasn’t that I didn’t believe you. I just had to see. And I’m glad I spoke to them. Danior and Maya were very kind, and I met a girl, Mirela. Why didn’t you tell me Danior could play the violin like that? And Maya danced so beautifully. I’m beginning to understand why my father visited there. It was for the music, wasn’t it? I mean, it must have been wonderful to be able to escape the formality of court for a little while.” I stopped speaking and paused to catch my breath. “But there is”—I panted—“something else.” I waited for Zoltán to notice that I no longer followed him. He hadn’t said a word, but he only took two more paces before turning to me, not saying anything, but with a question in his eyes. “Frau Morgen found something on my father’s body when she was laying him out and gave it to me,” I said. “A gold medallion, on a chain.”

  He came toward me and took my elbow in his hand, steering me on in the direction of the Esterhazy palace,

  slowing his pace a little so that I could keep up. “A medallion, you say? Can you show it to me?”

  Here was the difficult part. “I’m afraid I have lost it. I wore it yesterday, to the Gypsy camp.”

  He said nothing.

  “I know it was foolish, but I did not want to leave it at home where Greta might have found it.”

  “Did you show it to anyone?”

  I shook my head, then described it to him as best I could.

  “Which way did the eagle face?”

  I thought for a moment, then realized what had been odd about the eagle. “It had two heads, one facing in either direction, with a crown above it.”

  Zoltán stopped walking altogether and rubbed his forehead. “She could not have known,” he muttered, then turned to me. “I think it is best that I give you some more information, so that you will not take any further risks. You must leave the investigations to others more qualified than yourself.”

  Something about his tone angered me. How dare he treat me that way, as if I were a nuisance who had interfered! I didn’t see him doing much of anything to solve the mystery of my father’s death. But then, perhaps he was doing something but was simply not telling me. Why should he, after all? “I’m not afraid. I need to understand. It’s all that really matters to me.”

  “To understand,” Zoltán said, “you must be made acquainted with matters that would put you in almost as much danger as your father faced, every day.”

  “
Danger? As a violinist? What do you mean?”

  “Your father was not merely a violinist. Nor am I merely a musician. Once you know these things, you will no longer be merely a girl.”

  A tingling sensation started somewhere in my middle and flowed quickly down to my fingertips and toes. What could he be saying? I had lied to him before when I said I wasn’t afraid. I was.

  “Your father met my father among the Roma in Hungary, before he began to work for the prince.”

  “Did he go to listen to music even then?”

  “It started as that, but soon he became interested in our people, our difficulties.”

  Our people? What was he saying?

  “I am part Gypsy. My sister is only my half-sister. Her mother died shortly after she was born. Our father met my mother when her tribe was camped near our village. She was beautiful.”

  Zoltán—part Gypsy, and an orphan, too. I never knew, or thought about it. I never asked, I supposed.

  “We are a baronial family, but when my father took a Gypsy wife, he was banished from court and his lands were confiscated. Only through the good offices of an uncle who is a bishop was he able to secure a position at court for Alida.”

  With every word, Zoltán shocked me more and more deeply. Compared with his difficulties, my life seemed very safe and calm. I still didn’t see, though, how all this related to some danger to my father.

  “When your father was hired by Kapellmeister Haydn, the maestro became more than his employer, he became a friend. They spoke about many things, including our family. Your father brought Haydn out to hear the musicians in their camp, and then Haydn acted as intermediary, hiring some of the Gypsy musicians to go with the prince’s guards when they marched to keep order. Others he engaged to entertain during carnival. These small gestures saved the entire community from starvation. They had been expelled from a place where they had made their camp and raised their livestock for generations.”