Part 1: Solos

1. Sonata no. 1 for Piano

1. Adagio con dolcezza (Slowly, with sweetness)

Artur Gunther was swaying to the music. He was not playing the piano, however, which was silent at the other end of the large room. He sat at a table, his right hand moving with a flourish in tempo with the music, his left hand writing on paper. Wearing breeches, which covered three-quarters of his long legs, high stockings, which covered the rest, and a white blouse open at the neck—the casual clothes of late eighteenth-century Zienheim—he wrote the music playing in his mind. He was doing what he loved: composing.

Scattered on the table were several empty ink bottles, some discarded quill pens, the rastrum that he used to draw staff lines, a plate with a few bits of bread, and sheets of staff paper covered with musi­cal notation. The music flowed from Gunther’s mind through his torso into his hands and pen, filling the staff lines with notes.

When Gunther heard a different melody, he stopped swaying, raised his pen, and looked up. The music in his mind also stopped.

The main door to the tavern swung open, bathing Gunther in a flood of early morning summer sunlight. Then the opening was filled again, not by the door, but by a giant. Well over six feet tall, he had massive shoulders and a broad girth. As he entered the tavern, his resonant bass voice swirled throughout the room and into Artur Gunther.

The giant was singing.

“Gerd—”

Gerd Boeth stopped. Standing silent and motionless, he hoped that Gunther could continue composing.

Gunther motioned with his right hand, inviting Gerd to resume.

Gerd sang and Gunther did too. The giant heard a duet and wondered: Is Gunther improvising a melody to complement mine?

The quill flew back to the paper, notes and rhythms appearing again on the staff lines.

When the duet ended, the pen came to rest on the table, and Gunther looked up. “Gerd, you continue to improve. You are in tune, which is not easy a cappella. And the sincerity of your singing illuminates the lyrics. My newest music thanks you.”

Gerd felt his face flush; his young friend never offered an unearned compliment. The giant saw the remains of the breakfast that he had made for Gunther. The assorted patches covering the blouse and breeches hanging from Gunther’s gaunt sixteen-year-old frame led the giant to wonder anew about the boy’s well-being.

When Gunther’s head moved back toward the paper, Gerd’s eyes moved to the quill, which again danced over the staff lines, pouring forth dots and stems. Gerd studied Gunther, whose green eyes sparkled whenever he wrote or played music. Gunther’s hands, with their long, supple fingers, seemed to impart their glow to anything they touched—his quill, the buttons of his threadbare jacket, a violin, clarinet, or guitar. His hands were radiant whenever they touched the keys of a piano.

As he had explained to Gerd, most musicians created music while seated at a piano. But not Ar­tur Gunther. music always played in his mind: music that he had heard, music that he had written, or new music still taking shape. All he needed was paper, a rastrum, a quill, and a bottle of ink to write the notes once he had concluded that the music was finished. Gerd remembered Gunther saying, “When I write my music, I suppose that it looks easy, but no one sees the effort that it has taken me.”

The favorite place for Gunther to write music was the table at which he was seated, facing the fireplace. He liked to be near a fire’s heat and light while com­posing, he had often told Gerd, because they helped keep the music coming. Although last night’s fire was dying out, it was replaced by a brilliant June sun streaming through the large front window, lighting the sheets of music and the face and hands of the music’s creator.

Wanting to speak but not wanting to interrupt again, Gerd tugged on his blouse. Gunther wrote several more measures, looked up, and said, “You want to know whether I have looked for more piano students.”

Pointing at the table, Gerd replied, “I think that you haven’t looked for work as a piano teacher, pianist, or violinist. Whenever you create or study music, nothing else enters your mind, not even that you must eat or make a living. Artur, if you don’t look for work, how will you pay your rent or buy clothes?”

“I still have a few piano students … I think. But I seem unable to find more or keep the ones I have. Please do not offer me money again, Gerd. You are generous enough to let me eat at the Melodic. I promise to pay you when I earn the money. … I also promised to pay my landlady the two months that I am behind on the rent. Or is it three? Or four?” He shrugged his shoulders in resignation.

Gerd laughed. “Trading mutton for you to accompany our singing? We all get the better end of that bargain! I bought this tavern and renamed it the Melodic Inn to attract music lovers and to help someone like you. We’d get an even better bargain if you moved in.”

“Thank you, Gerd, but I will stay where I am.” Gunther returned to his music.

Gerd shook his head, because his young friend had not answered him about looking for work. Gerd walked to the long bar and poured himself a glass of milk. As he drank, he remembered when he had first met Artur Gunther.

2. Poco a poco accelerando (Little by little getting faster)

On a spring evening two months earlier, while Gerd was playing the piano for the nightly singing at the Melodic Inn, he found himself listening in particular to one part of the large main room. The singing there sounded more in tune and had more dynamic variety. He moved his eyes from the piano keys to look there. Except for one newcomer—he always liked to see newcomers—he recognized the singers as Melodic regulars.

Sometime later, Gerd heard that the singing from another part of the room sounded fuller, resonating more with his piano playing. Listening closely, he heard that some of the patrons there were singing in harmony. He saw people whom he had known for several years, their faces aglow with the joy of ensemble singing. All were familiar to Gerd, save for this young newcomer.

Gerd felt his wrists tiring. After playing one wrong note and then another, he concluded that he was adversely affecting the singing he treasured. When the song ended, he exclaimed, “My arms need a rest! Piano playing is hard work.” Rising from the piano, Gerd kneaded his forearms.

Groans emerged from the crowd along with shouts, “We’ve only started!” and “Don’t stop!” Axel, a mason, called out, “Frieda is sick, and Erwin is out of town! Can someone else play the piano?”

Some patrons milled around the piano and the others remained standing, instead of returning to their tables and their desserts. Nobody wanted this evening of song to end.

“May I play?”

Standing there was the newcomer. For the first time, Gerd examined this tall, thin stranger, who looked barely fifteen, with clothes full of patches and long hair not held by a ribbon. The boy was so disheveled that he might be living in the park.

Gerd addressed the crowd. “What do you say, everyone? Shall we let this young fellow accompany us?”

Shouts rang out, “Give him a try! … Let him play!”

Gerd extended his hand toward the piano and said to the stranger, “The piano is yours.” He turned back to the room. “Let’s sing.”

Moving aside to let the boy sit, Gerd asked, “What songs do you know, young fellow?”

The stranger replied politely, “I do believe that I can play any song that the patrons wish to sing.”

The giant shrugged his shoulders.

After looking down at his hands for some time, the stranger said quietly, “I am ready to play.”

Gerd’s bass voice boomed, “Who wants to sing solo?”

Many hands shot up. Gerd chose Hans, a long-time Melodic regular, with a stocky build, a weather-beaten face, stained breeches, and a baritone voice. Rising from his chair, Hans grinned self-consciously.

Gerd asked, “What would you like to sing, Hans?”

“‘The Evening Stars.’”

The stranger waited for the singer to get comfortable standing next to the piano. Hans sang and the stranger played. When the song ended, Hans received loud and long applause. Walking from the piano, he shook his head in wonder and whispered, “I have never sung better.”

Everyone stared at Hans, except for Gerd, whose gaze remained fastened on the young pianist.

Gerd chose Gerlinde, an alto, to sing next. As Gerlinde walked to the piano, Gerd’s eyes went from her plain brown dress to her hands, chapped and red from working all day in a kitchen.

Gerlinde stood awkwardly next to the piano. The moment that the stranger played, she transformed. She stood taller, her shoulders wider, as though her back no longer ached from hours of leaning over mounds of vegetables. Gerd studied the pianist, trying to discover what had made Gerlinde’s posture change, but nothing that he could see—how the stranger moved his hands on the keys or his feet on the two pedals—was different from any other pianist. Yet something in the combination of the accompaniment and the singing made Gerd feel that he could sing until dawn or tomorrow’s dusk.

Like Hans, Gerlinde received much applause when she finished singing. Her face a mix of bewilderment and delight, she walked back into the crowd. Her husband, Axel, the mason, leaned over, kissed her cheek, held her hand, and said, “Dearest, I loved your singing.”

Someone called out, “Our singers have never sounded so good! Gerd, did you put something in the soup?” Everyone laughed—everyone except the giant, whose eyes were drawn to the stranger’s fingers, still caressing the piano keys.

Gerd moved to the piano and said, “I’ll sing next.”

There was a scuffling of feet and chairs, as everyone moved closer to the piano.

Gerd said, “How about ‘One Moonlit Night?’”

The giant took his time getting comfortable, adjusting his shoulders and breathing deeply. Finally, he nodded that he was ready. The pianist said, “Would you like to sing in D-flat major?”

Gerd nodded his agreement and thought: Why am I not surprised that he knows the right key for my voice?

Gerd heard the stranger improvise an accompaniment that suited his bass voice—simple enough not to overwhelm his ear, but clear enough to communicate how the pianist wanted to help him interpret the song: the correct places to breathe, appropriate points to become louder or softer, when to change the tempo. Feeling the tension in his face disappear, Gerd responded by singing the song’s story: his vision of a luminous moon becoming sounds that lit the entire room.

The better Gerd sang, the more the stranger asked of him. The pianist’s head, body, and fingers somehow were guiding him, but he could not discern how. He had always been nervous singing in public, sensitive to exposing his limited musical skills. Now, he felt none of that. He sang for the pleasure he experienced.

The song climaxed with Gerd singing an F, the top of his range. After taking a quick breath through his nose and opening his mouth a little more, he heard his F ring, full of radiant moonlight. He moved down to the home tone, ending on a warm D-flat.

In the silence that followed, Gerd opened his eyes and looked out, seeing a dumbstruck audience. The patrons shot to their feet. Shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!” filled the Melodic Inn.

Gerd turned to the piano. His accompanist was applauding. Placing his powerful hands on either side of the pianist, Gerd carefully lifted him from the piano bench and smothered him in a ferociously gentle bear hug.

The young pianist grinned shyly. The Melodic Inn erupted in loud laughter.

Keeping his arms around the stranger’s torso, the giant lowered him to face their audience. Gerd said, “I didn’t do anything to the soup, but this young fellow has done something miraculous to our singing.”

The laughter embraced both musicians.

Finally, the Melodic became quiet enough for the giant to say, “I’m Gerd Boeth, young fellow. Who’re you?”

“Artur Gunther. I have been in Zienheim two days.”

“Where have you stayed?”

“I have slept in Bartholine Park. I have not found a place to stay, or a job. I am glad that I found this inn.”

“Thank you. I started the Melodic Inn as a place for people to play, sing, and enjoy music. People have played the piano or the violin for us, but no one’s played as you do. From how you improvise, I hear that you’re a composer?”

“Yes.”

“And a pianist?”

“Yes.”

“What other instruments do you play?”

“I play the violin.”

“What else?”

“I play several other instruments some.”

“Some?” Gerd’s resonant laugh caused the patrons’ roar to ripple throughout the room. “Tell me what instruments you don’t play.”

After a pause, Gunther said evenly, “I play every instrument in the orchestra.”

“I’m not surprised. What have you composed?”

“Since I was a boy, I have composed practice pieces for my growth as a composer.”

“When will you debut your compositions in concert?”

“I will when my music is ready.”

“You may play here anytime you like, Artur Gunther. After tonight, word will spread about you. If you play here, the only problem will be finding space for everyone who comes.”

The peals of laughter emerging from Gerd’s large body broke the respectful distance that the patrons had kept from the two of them. They crowded around Gunther to shake his hand, slap him on the back, thank him for the music, and implore him to continue playing.

Hans said, “We hope that you aren’t tired.”

“Tired? I am just getting started.”

With cheers ringing out, Gunther sat again on the piano bench. He asked, “Who is next?”

The singing continued for hours. When Gerd saw too many yawns from too many singers, he announced that the next song would be their last. After it ended, many people approached Gunther to thank him again.

Eventually, the patrons left, leaving only Gunther and Gerd.

The giant said, “Please don’t leave. I’ll be but a few minutes. A man must pay his debts.”

When he returned from the kitchen carrying a large tray laden with pigeon, potatoes, and carrots, he asked, “Have you had dinner?”

“No. The small piece of bread that I ate earlier was lunch.” Gunther looked at the steaming food. “If you treat me like this for accompanying, I shall visit frequently. No, make that very frequently.”

As the two musicians feasted, Gerd’s bass voice gave sound to the early morning sunbeams streaming through the large window. “I brought dinner, but maybe I should have brought breakfast!”

When Gunther finished eating, his fingers rubbed the wood on the table, the rubbing soon becoming tapping, his left hand beating in three and his right hand in four. He examined the room. “The Melodic Inn is like taverns that I have been in, except for the furniture. Every table, chair, and stool is made from the usual oak. Yet a cabinetmaker’s artistry—each piece styled differently, but the entire room an integrated whole—makes the furniture an aria in wood. Did you build the furniture? Are you a carpenter?”

“Yes, I did. I was a carpenter before I bought the Melodic.”

“The complex pattern of curves on the chairs reminds me of a fugue, because the curves join in a way that I never would have imagined, but they make sense—even as they move in different directions. As I examine them, I see how they all fit together.”

“Thank you.”

“With your talent, why did you become an innkeeper?”

“Music. My family sang in church every Sunday, which was the reason I went. My parents were farmers. I liked farming, but I liked more building and fixing things, from the leaky roofs to the broken windows. I decided to become a carpenter. Because I sang while I worked, everyone called me ‘The Singing Carpenter.’ I love music, but I haven’t had any formal training. Although I’ll never be a professional singer, I wanted as much music in my life as possible. Because people in Zienheim love to sing—even when they dine—I decided to become an innkeeper. My family had no money, but I had saved some, borrowed some from friends, the rest from a bank, bought this place, renovated it, and renamed it the Melodic Inn.

“To have music every night and enjoy it with other people, after dinner I played and sang at the piano. Many diners joined me, and our tradition of singing took hold. With our singing every evening, music is the main course. As you saw and heard, amateur musicians of varying abilities—masons, drivers, commoners of different trades—come here after a day’s work to eat dinner but mostly to sing. I’m neither a trained chef nor a trained musician, but I get by. And we sing every evening.”

“Making music for a living—in whatever form—is glorious.”

“How will you make a living? You said that your compositions aren’t ready to be performed.”

“I shall try to join the Zienheim Orchestra playing violin. This would give me the time that I need to study and compose.”

Artur Gunther soon became much more than a regular patron of the Melodic Inn. A tradition began that whenever he arrived, whoever was at the piano would finish the piece, rise, and relinquish the piano bench. Night after night, Gunther played the piano, the violin, the guitar, and occasionally the double bass and other instruments—whatever the patrons had brought that evening. Gerd worried that all this playing was taking his friend’s attention away from composing, but Gunther said that accompanying brought him ideas for new music.

Gunther found a place to live in an old boardinghouse. Through the Melodic’s customers, he acquired a few piano students, allowing him to survive.

His hand wrapped around his now-empty glass of milk, Gerd emerged from his reverie. All Artur Gunther need do was audition for the Zienheim Orchestra. Surely, its leader would appreciate his friend’s playing as much as he did.

3. Mesto (Sad)

A week later, before the customers arrived for dinner, Artur Gunther stood near the Melodic Inn’s piano. He loved accompanying, but he longed to perform with and learn from Zienheim’s leading musicians. He reached into his pocket, withdrew his moneybag, counted his meager savings, and concluded that he finally had enough to attend a concert.

The next evening, Gunther arrived well before the concert’s start at the Zienheim Orchestra’s home, the Musik Haus. The last time he had felt this excited, he recalled, had been on his birthdays when he was a boy.

The largest and most revered concert hall in Europe, the Musik Haus was set far back from the road with a vast courtyard acting as a prelude to its monumental stained-glass windows and brilliantly lit entrance. A throng of people was entering the building.

In the growing darkness, far from the lanterns, Gunther gazed at the building. Although he was not religious, he considered the Musik Haus his place of worship. Decades earlier, Dietrich Hamlein, his favorite composer, had debuted most of his compositions here. Not only did Hamlein craft captivating melodies, convey emotional depth, and draw lush tones from the orchestra, but his later pieces pushed the boundaries of their genres, challenging Gunther both as listener and composer.

Hearing in his mind the concert’s opening piece—Hamlein’s Twelfth Symphony, in F minor—Gunther imagined the night of its debut: its composer leading from the violin and the resounding ovation from his audience. Gunther imagined himself at the Musik Haus’ piano, leading the Zienheim Orchestra in the debut of his first piano concerto.

At the end of a long line, Gunther felt Hamlein’s Twelfth draw him toward the entrance, the gates of his Elysium. In the lobby, he found the table at which a man sat with a small stack of tickets on one side and a money box on the other.

Counting the money while he spoke, the cashier did not see Gunther. “What type of ticket do you want?”

“A ticket in the standing-room area.”

When the man looked up, he stopped counting, his right hand still holding a copper coin. “I’ve never seen clothes with so many patches. I wonder whether they even qualify as rags. You look as if you couldn’t afford to buy anything, let alone a concert ticket.”

“I have enough money to buy a ticket in the standing-room area.” Gunther reached into his breeches, removed his moneybag, counted his copper coins, handed them to the cashier, and said proudly, “Enough!”

“You’re willing to spend all your money for a standing-room ticket?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you have steady work?”

“Not exactly.”

“How will you make a living?”

“I hope to play the violin in the Zienheim Orchestra. Before I audition, I should hear its members perform.”

The cashier handed Gunther a ticket and pointed to the stairs. “Take those to the top. Standing room is to the right. … Good luck finding a job, young fellow. Joining the Zienheim Orchestra is difficult.”

Clutching his precious ticket, Gunther raced outside to the musicians’ entrance to see the men whom he hoped would soon be his music partners and teachers. He heard Hamlein’s Twelfth Symphony as though it emerged through the stained-glass windows to engulf him in a sea of aural beauty. He could not wait to hear how Hamlein would sound performed by the Zienheim Orchestra.

The musicians arrived, one by one, carrying their instrument cases. They did not greet one another. Entering the most prestigious concert hall in Europe to bring to life the music of its most renowned composers for the most discerning audiences should make these musicians some combination of solemn and jubilant. Instead, many of them were staring at the ground, their faces lifeless, as if prepared stoically to endure the evening’s performance.

Never had Gunther felt what he saw on their faces and never when he made music. Even when he played the darkest music, he expressed the conviction that sadness was temporary, to contrast the darkness with life’s true brightness.

When no more musicians appeared, Gunther saw the shadows cast by the setting sun suffuse the Musik Haus with a sense of sorrow. Nothing that music cannot cure, thought Gunther. He strode to the entrance.

He entered the hall, raced up the stairs, and reached the standing-room area as the musicians came on stage. Their faces still wore the same forlorn expressions. They rose dutifully when the concertmaster entered and moved to his chair. He wore a wig, unlike his musicians, who had adopted the recent trend of going wigless when employed by nobles. He turned and bowed to the audience. With a motion of his right arm, he led the orchestra into Hamlein’s Twelfth.

Gunther gripped the railing and leaned forward.

The opening notes seemed to lift Gunther into the air, as though they had the power to defy gravity. Never had he heard musicians this technically proficient. Each was listening intently to his music partners, ensuring that no one overpowered the others. Each instrument—from the violins to the clarinets to the trumpets—sang with its own distinctive timbre, the orchestra’s tone a lyrical rainbow of sonorities.

Soon, Gunther felt his hands grow cold. He did not want to believe what he heard. Although the musicians played every rhythm correctly, it was with an almost military precision, the tempi inflexible. Despite the musicians’ prowess, the resulting interpretation was unworthy of Dietrich Hamlein.

One of the many things that Gunther loved about Hamlein’s compositions was how they offered interpretive choices in every measure. For Gunther, part of the thrill of making music was that whenever he played any piece it would sound novel, and, even if he were to play his own music, he could not predict what it would sound like—not exactly. After the first few moments tonight, however, he knew how every detail of the Hamlein Twelfth would sound, from the next note to the last. If the orchestra were to perform the symphony again, he was certain that it would sound identical. To his ear, the concertmaster had preordained his interpretation, and every musician’s job was to play exactly as instructed.

The concertmaster sat stiffly in his seat, his bow and right arm moving rigidly, not looking at the other musicians, except to furrow his brow when a small deviation from his interpretation displeased him. His cold countenance proclaimed, “I am in charge, and you will play as I command!” Gunther felt the chill in his hands spread throughout his body.

Gunther could conceive of a talented concertmaster ruling over his orchestra to create a singular vision of the music. But that was not what he heard. Tonight’s interpretation was inferior to the first one that he had developed for this symphony as a twelve-year-old, one that he had rejected when he studied it again at fourteen. He considered even his current interpretation inadequate.

None of the string players swayed in rhythm to the music. Instead, each sat still, only bow arms and fingers moving. A bassoonist scowled, and an oboist had his eyes closed for almost the entire performance. The musicians looked like prisoners doing forced labor.

Nothing about the playing changed for the rest of the evening, from the violin concerto’s first theme to the concert aria’s ending notes. When the performance ended, the audience applauded politely, the concertmaster bowed and left the stage, and the musicians left without looking at one another.

Gunther hurried outside. He needed to leave behind what he had heard and to discover how such performing could have come to be.

He stood alone in the darkness by the musicians’ entrance, shivering despite the warm June air. The musicians emerged from the Musik Haus. None smiled. Many stared at the cobblestones as they left. The principal clarinetist pinched the bridge of his nose. A violist shook his head and squinted at something far away. Gunther wanted to know why these musicians would perform this way when it made them so sad. He stepped toward the assistant concertmaster but froze in place, allowing the man to pass in silence. The orchestra members appeared so withdrawn and unhappy that he chose not to speak with any of them.

When the sound of the last musician’s footsteps died away, Gunther turned and in a gesture of support ran his hand against the brick wall of the Musik Haus. If every sonority that had been sounded here during the decades were stored in these bricks, each had to know that tonight an act of blasphemy had been committed. He leaned forward and kissed one of the bricks.

Walking around the building to the courtyard, he stopped short when two men, one in front of the other, swept past him, as if he were a twig that had fallen from a nearby giant oak tree, something to be kicked aside for having the temerity to get in their way.

Gunther’s attention went to the elderly man in front. He wore bright orange silk trousers, a matching jacket with medals pinned on the front, and cream sashes—one around his waist, another running from his right shoulder to his left hip. Framing his disdainful expression was an immaculate white wig, which proclaimed to the world the man’s superiority. From the entire combination, Gunther inferred that this man was a ranking noble who had something to do with this evening’s musical sacrilege.

Again, Gunther shivered.

The eyes of the noble narrowed, he sniffed, and he lifted his nose. He turned to the other man, the concertmaster, whose plain clothes were in sharp contrast to the noble’s finery. “Fine work, Durr, as always. These musicians require a firm hand. Else, we cannot do justice to Hamlein and the other composers.”

The commoner said, “Thank you, sir. To lead the orchestra tonight under your patronage was an honor, as always.”

The noble faded into the night, the erratic tapping of his walking stick striking the cobblestones in dissonance with the majesty of the Musik Haus. Watching the concertmaster glance at the music scores under his arm and then depart in the other direction, Gunther wondered whether the commoner had smirked. Gunther concluded that he must have imagined it, because such a thing was not possible for someone who had led a program of Hamlein and other masterful composers. Yet the manner of both men was consistent with the musicians’ dejected expressions and with the icy dread he felt.

Gunther remembered why he had come to Zienheim. The words filled his mind because his goals were so clear to him: I want to compose the most beautiful music I can, and perform it with the finest musicians, for the most appreciative audiences.

He reached into the pocket of his breeches, tearing another hole in the worn fabric. He looked at his empty moneybag. Every member of tonight’s orchestra had money in his pocket. He recalled the musicians’ grim faces and the dour nature of both the noble who ran the Zienheim Orchestra and his bewigged concertmaster.

Walking toward the Melodic Inn, new music played in his mind, singing of a world antithetical to what he had heard tonight.

As soon as he saved enough from piano lessons, Gunther attended performances at the Zienheim Opera and several smaller venues, hoping that the playing would be different from what he had heard at the Musik Haus. It never was.

* * *

One evening at the Melodic Inn several weeks later, while Gunther led from the piano, Gerd sang a song about a lost love. A slight tremor in his voice conveyed genuine grief. Gunther responded with a small gesture of his head, slightly slowing Gerd. The sad section of the song became still sadder, providing more contrast to the happiness with which the song ended.

Gunther’s fingers ran across the chipped keys of the piano, an instrument so ancient that he had to struggle in frequent tuning sessions to keep it playable without snapping a string. Looking at the patrons, all in tattered, patched clothing like his own, he recalled the impeccably tailored uniforms of the Zienheim Orchestra’s musicians. He remembered a gleaming piano that he had dreamt of playing.

On the next break, he noticed a newspaper on a nearby table. Curious, he lifted it and saw ads for orchestral musicians. Gerd had left it to remind his friend to look for work. Newspaper in hand, Gunther walked to the light of the roaring fireplace and read.

Gunther remembered the despondent faces of the musicians whom he had heard. No, he declared, my face will never look like that—especially when I play.

Artur Gunther tore out the page of ads, crushed it into a ball, and threw it into the fire. He watched the job listings become flame, ash, and smoke.

He returned to the piano, rubbed a chipped key, and asked, “Who wants to sing next?”

* * *

One October evening, six months after they had met, Gerd chose again to raise a tender topic with Gunther. “Accompanying amateur singers cannot fulfill you, Artur. Why don’t you perform as a soloist? You think that your own compositions aren’t ready, but surely you can perform Hamlein and other composers. Besides writing your music and improvising, you spend every minute studying, except when you accompany. All this study must enable you to perform.”

“Let me explain why I am not ready, Gerd. Let us examine the first phrase from Hamlein’s Nineteenth Piano Sonata, in B-flat major, which, I know, is your favorite. Listen to the unusual chords in the opening measure. These harmonies ask a question that you would expect to be answered when the first theme begins. But instead …” Gunther explained many possible interpretations.

When Gunther looked up from the piano, Gerd’s glance at the pendulum clock told the giant that more than half an hour had passed, and they had discussed only the first phrase—with his friend having played it with more nuances of tempo and shades of tone color than Gerd would have believed possible.

“Gerd, I must study every phrase as we did the first one, before I can consider performing this sonata. I also must improve my ability to interpret music, to integrate the phrases. I still cannot, not in any systematic way. I cannot yet do justice to Hamlein’s music.”

Gerd did not bother to tell Gunther that the time spent proved that he was ready. Not willing to concede, Gerd ventured, “What about playing at parties, dinners, and other such events nobles attend? They always have music.”

Gunther’s thoughtful nodding told Gerd that his young friend was considering this suggestion. Gunther said, “Playing at these events is different from concertizing. The music is not the main purpose, only background setting. This makes it easy for me to honor the composers without the preparation that would take time away from my composing and studying. Also, I need not interact with an autocratic concertmaster. Gerd, you have a good idea!”

“It doesn’t matter what you play, Artur, it only matters that you play. People will soon learn what kind of musician you are. Only good can come from this.”

Gerd hurried off and returned with a fistful of newspapers. He remained to ensure that his friend did not return to composing. Reading, Gerd realized that every notice for musicians to play at parties included the name of a commoner to see and the noble he represented.

Gerd helped Gunther choose an audition for a birthday party at a noble’s estate.

* * *

Wearing his only dress suit, which was full of patches, Gunther arrived at the audition. He entered a large waiting room filled with nervous-looking young men, many with heads buried in piano scores.

As he sat on an intricately upholstered chair, his eyes moved down to the richly colored rugs and up to the brightly polished wood of the furniture. He craned his neck to see the tops of the mirrors and paintings mounted high on the walls. Looking down at his long, slender hands resting on his thighs, his body felt strangely small—almost invisible. He remembered feeling like a twig in the path of the Zienheim Orchestra’s leader. Would this party’s sponsor be like that noble?

Gunther wondered whether coming here was a good idea. To dispel his doubts, he closed his eyes and concentrated on Hamlein’s Ninth Symphony, in E major, the majestic chords urging his thoughts forward, the sunlit rays of the music parting the clouds of his doubt.

“Good morning. You must be new in Zienheim. I haven’t seen you before.”

Gunther opened his eyes to see one of the young pianists, whose forehead held tight lines of tension, which did not belong on a musician’s face. Pausing the symphony, he replied, “Yes, I am fairly new to Zienheim.”

“Have you been practicing?”

“Were we supposed to prepare specific pieces?”

“No. But the auditions are most competitive. Believe me, I know. I’ve been trying to get work in Zienheim for more than a year. Everyone here has been practicing day and night. If I’m hired, maybe the noble will make me his house pianist! Think of it, a steady job playing the piano!”

To be some noble’s house pianist was the last thing he wanted, thought Gunther, although he sympathized with the young man’s desire to make music professionally. He replied, “Good luck to you.” The young pianist left, his fingers tensely playing an imaginary piano. Gunther returned to listening to Hamlein.

Eventually, Gunther heard a door open and into the salon strode a commoner with a lifted chin, a well-tailored blue suit, and a wig, who peered down his nose at the musicians. He swept a jaded glance around the room, appearing to note who was there. With a curt motion of his head, he chose a pianist. The young man scrambled to his feet, stuffed his music score into his bag, and followed the commoner-in-charge, who closed the door behind them. Soon, the pianist returned alone, frowning and shaking his head. He left the room. The next young man who received the nod returned even more quickly, his shoulders slumped, his eyes filled with tears. He too swiftly took his leave.

Gunther enjoyed the music playing in his mind, oblivious to the comings and goings. Finally, sensing someone’s presence, he looked up. The room was empty except for himself and, looming over him, the commoner-in-charge.

“Young fellow, I left you for last because I haven’t seen you before and because you look too young to be a professional musician.”

“I am sixteen and older than I have ever been.”

Smiling for the first time that morning, the man said, “Let’s see whether you are as musical as you are witty.”

Gunther followed the man into a smaller room. The man moved his hand toward the piano in the corner, inviting the boy to sit. Gunther smiled at the piano as he would an intimate friend, his left hand stroking the wood of the piano’s side. Sitting, he did not touch a single key.

The man said, “Have you prepared anything to play?”

“No, nothing in particular.”

The man had hoped to make things easier for this youngster, who could not possibly know the piano repertoire as well as experienced pianists. Knowing that he had a job to do and hoping to end this quickly, he hardened his face and voice. “How about Valino’s Incidental Music for La vittoria della libertà?”

As the man turned to retrieve the score, Gunther’s voice stopped him. “Which version? Valino wrote it decades ago. He revised it recently when Gagliardi updated the play because of the American Revolution.”

The man stopped, spun back, and stared at the boy. He had known this earlier version but had forgotten it, because years ago it had slipped into obscurity. “I mean the later version.”

As he moved to get the music, the boy’s voice stopped him again. “I know the piece. I will begin with the Overture.”

His eyes fixed on Gunther, the man sat on a chair near the piano. He motioned with his hand for the boy to play.

The face of the pianist was peaceful, his hands resting lightly on his thighs. He lowered his head to gaze at his hands. The energy radiating from those hands fascinated the man. A strange thought ran through his mind: he was intruding on a private moment between this boy and his hands. The boy seemed to be praying, not to a deity in the heavens, but to something within himself—something about to surge through the ten slender fingers, which rose slowly, paused, and in one swift, delicate motion lowered and played.

Every tone in the melody rang as an end in itself, but the music from the left hand drove the melody forward with such momentum that the man had to attend to the new tones. The phrasing grew naturally from the individual notes, joining them together in a manner sounding unexpected yet inevitable. No pianist, no piano, no outside world existed—only these sonorities and the resulting feelings, which reminded him why he had dedicated his life to music.

When the boy finished playing, a peaceful silence enveloped them. Finally, the man asked, “Why did you audition?”

“I hope to get the job. I need the money.”

“I wasn’t speaking about money. Why aren’t you performing as a soloist at the Musik Haus? Why doesn’t everyone in Zienheim know you?”

“To answer your first question: To perform there, I would have to spend every waking moment practicing, leaving me no time to compose. To answer your second, I have no desire for everyone in Zienheim to know me. I would like those who love music to hear, understand, and value my music, when it is ready for me to perform.”

The man stared at the boyish, innocent face. “Have you had much interaction with the Zienheim nobles?”

“I have seen nobles riding in their carriages or talking on the street. In the village where I grew up, I played in the orchestra, which the leading noble sponsored, but I hardly knew him.”

“What do you play besides the piano?”

“I play the violin and several other instruments.”

“Given how you play the piano, you are certainly good enough to play the violin in a Zienheim orchestra. I assume that you have chosen not to do that.”

“You are correct.”

“You have heard how these orchestras perform?”

“Yes.”

“While making incidental music for these nobles, you hope to be left alone?”

“That is my hope.”

“I think that you know more than your young face would suggest.” Not waiting for an answer, the man continued. “Young fellow, you are hired.”

“Thank you.”

“But it takes some understanding to deal successfully with these aristocrats. … Have you ever cared for a cat?”

The expression on Gunther’s face moved from a confident-beyond-his-years musician to a puzzled youth. “Yes.”

“Nobles are like cats. Cats believe that the sole purpose of humans is to serve their needs. Nobles treat commoners as though every commoner’s sole purpose is to fulfill their needs. Nobles cannot conceive of a commoner having his own needs. The sooner that you understand this, the easier time that you’ll have dealing with them.”

The clouds of Gunther’s doubts returned. Maybe coming here to audition was a mistake, he thought. He had no interest in being anyone’s servant. … Gunther recalled the noble head of the Zienheim Orchestra imperiously tapping his walking stick while leaving the Musik Haus. That tapping noise reverberated within him, leaving him feeling cold and far removed from the music that he had played.

He looked at the piano, still radiant from the sounds that it had created. His fingers touched the keys, but they did not play. … The keys were saying that together we can help these nobles shine. How could he refuse such a request? Did he know what he was getting into? No, he did not. … He looked at his only dress clothes, full of patches. … He was already poor. How could some noble make things worse for him?

Gunther looked up at the commoner-in-charge. “I would like to perform at the party.”

“Excellent! Let’s have these aristocrats start hearing you in a way that will be easy for you.”

The man walked to a desk, wrote a note, and handed it to Gunther.

“Here’s the address and the details of a birthday party for a young noble at her grandmother’s estate. I’ve given you general instructions on the type of music to perform. You’ll be asked to play requests, which will be easy for you. Mostly young people will attend, with a few elderly chaperones. I doubt that you’ll have any difficulties with the nobles.”

* * *

When Artur Gunther knocked on the rear entrance of a mansion in a wealthy area of Zienheim, a servant answered the door and led him to a lawn with manicured hedges, multicolored flowerbeds, and many young nobles, their outfits rivaling the garden’s rainbow of colors. His worn clothing stood out far more than the guests’ party attire, thought Gunther. He followed the servant to a piano at the edge of the main patio.

The servant said, “You may start playing whenever you like. You aren’t allowed to eat. The pitcher of water near the piano is for you. Although I have my orders, if you’re hungry after the party, I’ll bring you some food.”

“Thank you, but I would not want to get you into trouble. Water is fine.”

Gunther sat at the piano, but he did not play. He wanted first to absorb the party’s ambiance, which would help him choose appropriate music. He was captivated by the trees overflowing with sun-drenched leaves, the flowers wafting their fragrances, the birds chirping, and the guests mingling, talking, and laughing. They were mostly young people with a few elders. The girls wore floor-length gowns of silk and taffeta with matching hats, and the boys brightly colored waistcoats and breeches, with white blouses and stockings as contrast. They were aristocrats, but he did not believe that they were any different from him. He liked to see people enjoying themselves, and whatever these nobles were like, they were people. This meant that they needed music.

With that, Gunther’s hands, full of an expectant energy, rose slowly, paused, and rapidly descended until they joined with the piano keys, playing the overture from a Buonocore opera, The Joyous Silversmith. Massimiliano Buonocore was beloved for operatic melodies so evocative that everyone remembered them, yet simple enough that everyone could sing them. … I aspire to compose like him, thought Gunther. After Hamlein, his favorite composer was Buonocore.

Closing his eyes to remove any visual distractions, Gunther wanted to hear only how his playing sounded and how it blended with the other sounds of the party’s world. To move from piece to piece, he added a series of chords to modulate from the key of the ending piece to the key of the next.

After some time, Gunther opened his eyes and reached for some water. Several elderly nobles were seated on chairs around the piano, as if he were concertizing. He wanted to ask them why they were there, but he was not to speak with nobles. Instead, he closed his eyes again and played. Somewhere on the fringe of his consciousness, he heard less and less from the party. When next he opened his eyes, he could not move his hands for the water pitcher. Almost everyone had moved a chair near the piano, forming a wide semicircle. Only a few young people still chatted on the other side of the patio. This gathering was a birthday party no longer. It had become an Artur Gunther piano concert.

He did not know what to do.

As he sat there unable to move his hands, an elderly noblewoman seated in the front row said, “Please continue playing as you have been, young man. Your playing is far better than what we usually hear. Today’s birthday party is the most enjoyable concert that I have attended in far too long.”

Several nobles applauded. Soon everyone was, not boisterously, but in a respectful manner matching the setting and the music that he had performed, thought Gunther. The ovation ended only when he rose and bowed. He resumed playing.

With his eyes closed, he attended only to his playing, because almost everyone was hushed. A tranquility rose between him and the piano, out to his audience and beyond, and back to him. … This afternoon was a taste of what he wanted to do with his life: to compose and perform music that sang of his view of the world, a sunlit world, a world in which—

“What on Earth is this?”

The sound was from a world that held no place for him or his music.

“I repeat. What on Earth is this?”

Artur Gunther opened his eyes. Standing in front of him was a young noble, whose narrowed eyes glittered with anger, the skin of his face drawn tight around a clenched jaw. Probably only a bit older than Gunther, his suit a bright green, this noble held a walking stick and stood exactly erect. His demeanor proclaimed him the center of not only his but of everyone’s universe. Gunther remembered the advice about nobles being like cats. This young lion believed that someone had violated his den.

Gunther had no choice but to stop playing. He rose from the piano, leaving an unresolved harmony hanging in the air.

The elderly noblewoman who had spoken rose. “Gernot, stop this foolishness. You are interrupting our lovely concert.”

“Grandmother, this is Astrid’s birthday party, not a concert.”

A girl seated next to the grandmother said, “Today is my birthday, Gernot, and this concert is a wonderful birthday party.”

“You are my baby sister, Astrid, and your opinion is irrelevant. I am the man of the house. I am Count Delkind. The only thing relevant is that I organized this party. I did not have this in mind!”

Delkind turned to Gunther. “This so-called concert has ended.”

When Delkind approached, Gunther remembered to bow.

“Let me understand this situation, to ensure that I am fair. You were hired to play incidental music. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir, you are correct, but—”

“Incidental means incidental to the party’s main purpose. Am I correct?”

Gunther lowered his head and stared at the ground. “Yes, sir.”

Delkind placed his walking stick on the piano, stepped his right foot forward, his left arm tucked behind, and his right hand resting on the pommel of a sword slung on his left hip. It was a fencing stance.

“By the looks of it, your music has become the party’s sole purpose. Is that correct?”

“Yes, it does look that way, sir.”

“You did nothing to stop this situation, did you?”

Looking at his ice-cold hands, Gunther said, “No, sir, I did not.”

Leaning forward at the waist, Delkind hissed, “You are insubordinate. You were given one assignment, you did another, and you did nothing to stop yourself.”

Gunther continued to stare at his hands. “Yes, it looks that way, sir.”

Delkind sprung violently up and forward, slapping Gunther across the face with the back of his gloved right hand. Gunther felt blood drip from the right side of his mouth down his chin.

“Now I have your full attention. Good! I understand what you were trying to do. You took this party as an opportunity to show that you can play concert music. You thought that I would be impressed and either hire you as my house pianist or recommend you to one of my friends. Well, your little ruse has failed.”

His grandmother said, “Gernot, that is not what happened. What you are doing is cruel. Being a musician, you should sit and listen to this young man. You might learn something.”

“Grandmother, being Count Delkind is far more important to me than music. This matter is my responsibility, not yours. Leave this to me. I am disciplining an insubordinate servant.”

Gernot Delkind turned back to Gunther. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Your days of playing music for nobles have ended. I shall see to that. I shall punish a mere commoner for disregarding my wishes. You are dismissed. Leave!”

Gunther turned to go but was stopped by Delkind’s mocking tone.

“Oh, yes, we must pay the hired help, even if it did not perform its required tasks. Let no one say that I am not generous.” Delkind reached into his jacket pocket, removed a bag of coins, selected several, and hurled them at Gunther. They hit him in the chest and fell to the ground. He looked at the noble, the coins, and back at Delkind. He bowed, turned, and left.

Artur Gunther chose not to hear the sounds that Count Delkind sputtered.

* * *

Gunther trudged away from the party as if his legs had forgotten how to move. No music played in his mind. His lip swelled. His head hung down on his chest, and his eyes fixed on the ground during his long journey back to the Melodic Inn.

Managing a wan smile, he watched the force with which Gerd threw the bloodied blouse into the roaring fireplace. When Gunther described the early part of the party, he felt warmed as much by Gerd’s attentiveness as by the fire. After he finished the rest of the story, an expression of righteous fury accompanied the indignation in Gerd’s voice, “I wish that I’d been there. I’d have torn that arrogant aristocrat apart.”

“If you had done that, you would be hanged. Commoners who touch nobles are executed. You know this. I am glad that you were not there.”

Gerd growled, “What now?”

“I am not sure. According to this Count Delkind, my career as a professional pianist in Zienheim has ended.”

“You don’t think that he can ban you from getting a music job, do you?”

“You did not see the expression on his face when he said it. What disturbs me is that the audience, all nobles, responded to my performing exactly as I wanted. I did not try to turn their party into a concert.”

“I know.”

“I played the way that I always do. Then, this one person stops my performing today and probably in the future. How unfair. By what right did he do this? By what right?”

“He’s an aristocrat. As such, he needn’t account for his actions with commoners. For him, the issue of fair and unfair or right and wrong is irrelevant. … How will you make a living while you compose, Artur? We both know that your heart isn’t in teaching. How many students do you have left?”

“Two or three. I am not sure. I forgot to tell you that yesterday I was dismissed again, for the same reason: I keep missing lessons. I cannot blame my students or their parents. I forget everything else when I study or compose.” Gunther shrugged in resignation.

Gerd motioned for his friend to join him in the kitchen. He ladled them some soup. While Gunther ate, Gerd reached for a pile of newspapers. After finishing his soup, he said, “You should keep trying to get work as a pianist, Artur. I found a few possibilities. You need the work financially, musically, and spiritually.”

“I prefer not, Gerd. I did not enjoy how the party ended.”

“But before this Delkind arrived, you learned that nobles exist who appreciate your playing.”

Gunther stared at his hands. Eventually, he replied, “You are right, Gerd. I cannot make a living teaching only a few piano students. I do not know how much longer my landlady will let me stay without paying the rent. You are also right about these aristocrats. Until Delkind arrived, I enjoyed performing. I should keep trying.”

Gerd handed Gunther a newspaper and pointed to an advertisement for a pianist to perform at a party like the one for Astrid Delkind.

* * *

When Gunther arrived at the address in the advertisement, he thought that life was repeating itself. The well-appointed room was full of young men nervously tapping their feet or moving their fingers playing imaginary pianos. A commoner-in-charge selected the pianists one after another, who went with him to audition, returned soon after with dejected expressions, and left. Gunther again was chosen last.

“Have you prepared anything to play?”

Gunther suppressed a laugh, because these were the exact words that the first commoner-in-charge had asked. His answer was as before, “Is there something that you would like to hear?”

“How about the second movement of Hamlein’s First Piano Sonata?”

This was an unusual choice, thought Gunther, because this early sonata was not viewed as concert music but as more of an exercise.

“Yes. I know the piece.”

The only thing different this time was the music. When Gunther finished playing, he looked up and saw an astonished expression on the commoner-in-charge’s face. After several extravagant compliments on his playing, the man said, “I’ll have steady work for you. What’s your name?”

“Artur Gunther.”

A frown clouded the man’s face. “I know that name. I’ve read about you.”

Gunther wondered how the man could possibly have read about him.

The man walked to his desk, rummaged through a pile of letters, removed one, and when he read it, Gunther saw the man’s jaw muscles tighten. Slamming the letter onto his desk, the man said, “I … cannot … hire … you. … I wish that I could after what I heard … but I cannot. …” A note of apology tempered the anger in his voice. “Count Delkind’s letter is clear. He added you to the List of Musicians Not to Be Hired. Under no circumstances is anyone to hire you. You may try other agents, who hire musicians for nobles, but each received this letter. Of that, I am sure.”

“No doubt. Delkind is thorough.”

“What will you do?”

“Continue trying to find work as a pianist. Not every noble will accede to Delkind.”

“Unfortunately, they will.”

“I cannot believe that. These nobles are people. Most people are good. A few are not.”

“Unfortunately, you’re wrong. Nobles are different. A few are good. Most are not. Every music agent who received this letter must comply. If we don’t, we’ll lose our jobs. You’ll not be hired to perform in Zienheim.”

“I am not convinced by what you say, perhaps because I have not interacted with many nobles. If what you say is true, why do you work for them?”

“I’m an amateur flutist, but I’m not good enough to be a professional. I can’t change the aristocrats’ control over the music in Zienheim. But I can help talented young musicians make a living—at least most of the time.”

The man sank into his chair, propped his elbows on his desk, and let his forehead fall into his hands. After a long silence, he raised his head. “I don’t understand nobles such as Gernot Delkind. As fine a musician as he is, he must have heard your talent.”

“I do not understand him either. He concluded that I was insubordinate, which I was not, and he prevents me from making music for anyone? How is that possible?”

The man shrugged his shoulders, years of frustration and pain etched on his face. He rose, extended his hand, and squeezed Gunther’s shoulder. “Good luck to you, Mr. Gunther. You’ll need it.”

* * *

When Gunther returned to the Melodic Inn, Gerd saw his face, frowned, and said, “Your playing certainly didn’t stop you from getting the job. Delkind found a way?”

With a voice steady but tinged with despair, Gunther pronounced his sentence. “Count Delkind has put my name on the List of Musicians Not to Be Hired. This list has been distributed to every agent in Zienheim who hires musicians for aristocrats. My career as a performer of incidental music for nobles, such as it was, has ended.”

Gerd’s hands balled into two powerful fists. He muttered as he turned toward the kitchen. Gunther’s voice stopped him.

“My being on that list does not prevent me from playing incidental music, only playing it for nobles. I selected a program, and I would like to play it. What I need is an audience.”

With Gunther heading for the piano, Gerd unclenched his hands and moved to his favorite chair.

When Gunther played, Gerd heard that each tone, each phrase, and each piece had but one purpose: to suffuse him with happiness. Soon, any thoughts of Gernot Delkind or of Gunther’s struggles faded from his mind.

Hours later, while preparing dinner, Gerd thought that enough people in Zienheim would prize the playing of Artur Gunther for him to earn a living, if only they could hear him. Until that happened, only the patrons of the Melodic Inn—gunsmiths, glassblowers, weavers, and the other artisans—would be so blessed.

2. Suite no. 1 for Solo Cello

1. Allegro con brio (Lively with spirit)

Twelve years earlier, young Josef turned his head toward the sounds.

What he heard made him feel as if he could jump over the buildings lining the street or swim across the wide river running through Feilenberg. He raced toward the source of the sounds with a burst of youthful energy, dodging pedestrians, carriages, and horses.

Arriving at a grassy enclave under a covered pavilion at the end of the street, he stood erect, head lifted, before each of four men in turn, each holding a funny-looking object. He sat next to the only one seated, the one with the largest wooden object. Josef closed his eyes, his body swaying.

When the sounds ended, he looked up at the seated man and sang what he had heard.

“Not only did you sing much of the melody, young sir, but you also sang expressively and in tune. How long have you been studying music?”

“What is music?”

Embracing his wooden object, the man stared at Josef. After some time, he said, “Music is the name of the sounds that my three friends and I made. ‘In tune’ means that you sang what we played.”

Josef pointed at the wooden objects. “What are these called … music makers?”

“They’re musical instruments. The two smallest are violins, the slightly larger one is a viola, and mine is a cello.”

“I like best the sound of the cello.”

The cellist laughed. “I do too!”

Josef’s nanny arrived, gasping for air but sighing with relief. “Young sir, how many times must I ask you not to run off by yourself? You could get into trouble.”

The cellist said, “No need to worry, my dear. Your young charge is safe with us and, more importantly, with our music. We have witnessed the birth of a love affair.”

“What love affair? He is four years old!”

“He has fallen in love with music.”

Josef asked, “How does the cello work?”

The nanny laughed knowingly. “He wants to know how everything works.”

The cellist said, “You either pluck the strings with your fingers or use this wooden stick called a bow. Go ahead, try.”

Josef stood and ran his right thumb and forefinger along the length of the thickest string. He plucked it and laughed at the resultant rumble. After plucking in turn the other three strings, he looked up at the cellist. “I am confused. I heard more than four sounds.”

The cellist stared at Josef before answering, “You place the fingers of your left hand on the strings to shorten them. Doing so allows you to create all the sounds you heard and others too. In music, we call sounds ‘tones.’ Let me show you.”

The cellist raised his bow and played slowly, explaining to Josef what he was doing with his fingers and the bow. Josef’s gray eyes followed every movement. When the cellist finished, the boy ran his hand lovingly across the body of the cello and sang what the cellist had played. He plucked the different strings and moved his fingers until he replicated the music on the cello.

Looking up, Josef saw the four musicians staring at him.

The cellist turned to the nanny and said gravely, “You must make sure that this boy receives music lessons.”

She spoke hesitantly but firmly. “But … Josef is the only child of the Duke of Wulstein. He’s heir to the title. I have no idea whether the duke would approve.”

With equal firmness, the musician replied, “Duke-to-be or not, musical talent such as his must be nurtured. Please. Have someone speak with his father.”

* * *