it came.
The sound burst open and every instrument with it, and a choir of angels extolled it and the 'Ode to Joy' exploded into a million voices and every heart sang at the promise of peace and love and happiness and hope and all that ever and ever was rich and wonderful ... And the child looked, and saw the roof beams quiver. And she knew without thought that she would never be lonely again ...
And the strings were rising, and rising, they rose to the most jubilant eruption of sound that ever was heard ...
It was over.
There was silence. No movement. Nothing.
Then suddenly there came a volley of sound, for the whole audience had jumped to its feet and were clapping and cheering and shouting and throwing their hats in the air and waving their handkerchiefs ... and going mad ...
'Turn around, turn around,' whispered the child.
On the podium Kapellmeister Umlauf was bowing. He bowed again. Again and again he bowed. But the man didn't move.
'Turn around, turn around,' whispered the child.
The clapping and cheering, the shouting and waving was getting louder, wilder ...
Still the man didn't turn ...
The child slipped from her seat: quick like a mouse she was at the stage and tugging a trouser leg.
He looked down.
He turned.
It was only then that he realised that he had written something of unparalleled mastery.
Twenty-six
Nothing lasts. Not even the most perfect moment ... It can only be relived in memory.
This the child is doing over and over, as in the darkness of early morning she steps from the carriage. As she enters the house she murmurs a silent thanks ...
In the kitchen she takes down a glass and reaches for water ...
The next day the heat's inside her skin.
• • •
'It's a fever.'
'I'm just hot.'
'It's a fever,' repeated the woman. 'Into bed.'
The child lay on her bed. Her head throbbed. The light hurt. Her mother sponged her face and arms. 'Too much excitement,' she said. She dispensed liquids and read stories ...
The child slept through the night and through the next day and the next and when she awoke she was grumpy.
'You're getting better,' her mother remarked. They sat at the table and drank broth. 'Can I go for a walk?' asked the child.
'Tomorrow – maybe.'
Now she was feeling well, the child noticed things. The rag her mother used for the cough was now permanently inside the bodice of her dress. And there was something else.
'Is Papa sick?'
'No, Liebling .'
'Then – ?'
The woman coughed hard, held the rag to her face. 'In two days, if you're quite well we'll both go back ... All will be right, Liebling ...'
But something wasn't. The child could tell ...
Twenty-seven
'I can go for a walk. You said.'
The woman made a fist, pressed cheeks, a brow, and nodded. 'The fresh air will do you good. Wear your coat and go slowly.'
The day was pink, the air warm against skin. In the sky rode puffs of coppery cloud. The child wanted to run but went slowly as her mother said ...
Music was coming from the house in the Reinerstrasse .
She stood at the door.
The man played a series of rollicking chords and came towards her. 'At last, here she is, looking like a woolly bear. Are you sick? Were you sick? I say to myself, meine kleine Blume is hiding away, she thinks there is no joy in my music. That I am the most ridiculous of musicians. Am I right?'
The child shook her head.
'So, did she like it?'
A frantic nodding of head.
'Am I not a genius? Am I not brilliant like the stars?'
'Yes!'
'In that case you must know the answer. What was it you saw in the music, little flower. Write it.'
The child went to the small table, wrote 'STORM.'
'Yes.'
'DANCE.'
'Yes.'
'TEARS.'
'Yes – and the last?'
She dropped the pencil and jumped up; she stood on tip-toe, threw back her head, her arms wide.
The man was silent. 'How strange ... ' he murmured. 'She knows what others older and wiser have no comprehension of – it is a mystery, this feeling for music that is instinctive in a child.' He
The sound burst open and every instrument with it, and a choir of angels extolled it and the 'Ode to Joy' exploded into a million voices and every heart sang at the promise of peace and love and happiness and hope and all that ever and ever was rich and wonderful ... And the child looked, and saw the roof beams quiver. And she knew without thought that she would never be lonely again ...
And the strings were rising, and rising, they rose to the most jubilant eruption of sound that ever was heard ...
It was over.
There was silence. No movement. Nothing.
Then suddenly there came a volley of sound, for the whole audience had jumped to its feet and were clapping and cheering and shouting and throwing their hats in the air and waving their handkerchiefs ... and going mad ...
'Turn around, turn around,' whispered the child.
On the podium Kapellmeister Umlauf was bowing. He bowed again. Again and again he bowed. But the man didn't move.
'Turn around, turn around,' whispered the child.
The clapping and cheering, the shouting and waving was getting louder, wilder ...
Still the man didn't turn ...
The child slipped from her seat: quick like a mouse she was at the stage and tugging a trouser leg.
He looked down.
He turned.
It was only then that he realised that he had written something of unparalleled mastery.
Twenty-six
Nothing lasts. Not even the most perfect moment ... It can only be relived in memory.
This the child is doing over and over, as in the darkness of early morning she steps from the carriage. As she enters the house she murmurs a silent thanks ...
In the kitchen she takes down a glass and reaches for water ...
The next day the heat's inside her skin.
• • •
'It's a fever.'
'I'm just hot.'
'It's a fever,' repeated the woman. 'Into bed.'
The child lay on her bed. Her head throbbed. The light hurt. Her mother sponged her face and arms. 'Too much excitement,' she said. She dispensed liquids and read stories ...
The child slept through the night and through the next day and the next and when she awoke she was grumpy.
'You're getting better,' her mother remarked. They sat at the table and drank broth. 'Can I go for a walk?' asked the child.
'Tomorrow – maybe.'
Now she was feeling well, the child noticed things. The rag her mother used for the cough was now permanently inside the bodice of her dress. And there was something else.
'Is Papa sick?'
'No, Liebling .'
'Then – ?'
The woman coughed hard, held the rag to her face. 'In two days, if you're quite well we'll both go back ... All will be right, Liebling ...'
But something wasn't. The child could tell ...
Twenty-seven
'I can go for a walk. You said.'
The woman made a fist, pressed cheeks, a brow, and nodded. 'The fresh air will do you good. Wear your coat and go slowly.'
The day was pink, the air warm against skin. In the sky rode puffs of coppery cloud. The child wanted to run but went slowly as her mother said ...
Music was coming from the house in the Reinerstrasse .
She stood at the door.
The man played a series of rollicking chords and came towards her. 'At last, here she is, looking like a woolly bear. Are you sick? Were you sick? I say to myself, meine kleine Blume is hiding away, she thinks there is no joy in my music. That I am the most ridiculous of musicians. Am I right?'
The child shook her head.
'So, did she like it?'
A frantic nodding of head.
'Am I not a genius? Am I not brilliant like the stars?'
'Yes!'
'In that case you must know the answer. What was it you saw in the music, little flower. Write it.'
The child went to the small table, wrote 'STORM.'
'Yes.'
'DANCE.'
'Yes.'
'TEARS.'
'Yes – and the last?'
She dropped the pencil and jumped up; she stood on tip-toe, threw back her head, her arms wide.
The man was silent. 'How strange ... ' he murmured. 'She knows what others older and wiser have no comprehension of – it is a mystery, this feeling for music that is instinctive in a child.' He
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