Guido

By Rebecka Persson

                                                                                                                             Vienna, 1741

The old maestro lay trembling in a pile of soiled linen, his spindly body posed much like it had been when he entered the world: bent in on itself and turned away from the violent colors and clamor outside the window. He had been sickly all his life, afflicted with a cough that raged through his body like the earthquake that shook the world the day he was born. He was so far from his beloved Venice now, trapped in a garret among the proud, gilded mansions of Vienna where people treated him worse than a thieving stepchild. It was a cold city, proud as a cardinal and heartless as a thief. He, who had been famous around the world, was forgotten and trapped in a failing body. There was blood on the pillow where his dry lips had touched it.

Even now new harmonies, songs and melodies floated like angels through his mind, whispering to him, his ailing heart beating in rhythm with their mysterious force. Leaning against his bed was his old friend Guido, the violin that the Marchesa had given him on his fortieth birthday. The last of his strength had at last gone from him, as if his body had finally resigned itself to eternity. But to whom would he give his beloved Guido? The very question cheered him, as if proving that he was still alive. He would give it to Franzy, the boy who brought him apples and listened in secret under his window when poor singers who still remembered visited him like grey specters from his past. The maestro had made his peace with God, or so he had convinced himself. But would he at least see little Franzy one last time? Would the lad play for him?

“Herr Vivaldi?” As if answering his prayer, the plodding yet light footsteps of the boy had made their way up the steps and the door opened with a loud creak. The old man closed his eyes just so he could savor the rhythmic tapping of the boy’s shoes against the floor. A faint scent of apples perfumed the fetid room. Apples always reminded the composer of life, youth and promise even after he no longer had the teeth with which to eat them.

“Maestro, are you awake?” The footfalls were broken by the dull thump of a basket dropped by his bed.

A small, earth-scented hand tugged at his bed linens. There was the sound of a wooden object falling and strings plucked as Franzy cursed softly.

Vivaldi opened his eyes and saw the boy clap one hand over his mouth in shame.

“I am sorry!” Franzy’s plump face brightened as he held up the instrument. “See, nothing happened. All is well.”

The old composer tried to raise his head, pulling one hand over the few wisps of hair clinging to his scalp like old moss. His hair had once been a flaming red but was now as white as the lime they poured into graves. The irony had not escaped him.

As if on command, the boy put his arms about the maestro’s shoulders and heaved his emaciated torso against the cushions.

“Thank you Franzy,” Vivaldi said in his broken German. “Now bring me Guido, please.” He closed his eyes again and traced his fingers along the curves and surface of the violin much like a lover caressing his mistress. Formerly a priest, Vivaldi was again conscious of the irony. The wood was smooth, no cracks or lines in the surface of the varnish; his old inamorata was indeed unharmed. He opened his eyes as he rested the instrument against his chest. “I can no longer play, Franzy. You must make the strings sing for me.” With a violent cough, he handed the violin to the sturdy Austrian boy with the ear for music.

Franzy’s eyes lit up. His chubby hands took the neck of the violin gently and cradled it against his arms much the way one holds a kitten. His rosebud lips trembled a little as he spoke. “To the glory of God, Maestro?”

The composer coughed, wiping his mouth with a tattered, bloodstained handkerchief. “To the glory of God and to the promise of youth, dear boy. Always remember that youth has a long journey to make and much to learn.”

* * *

In the years that followed, Franzy had many opportunities to reflect on the truth of what the old maestro had said. On that long ago afternoon, however, all that the old priest had told him was distilled into the sound of a single violin as Franzy played for the dying composer a charming little minuet, simple enough for any Dunderhead to play. Franzy had heard that, over the years, passing tradesmen and children would make more of it than it was; but he realized that it had been the first step of the long, momentous voyage of a pilgrim. He still had much to learn and even if he had lived four lifetimes, Franzy would not know all that there was. Yet he had talent, and had been fortunate enough to have it recognized by the noble Esterhazy family that lent him its patronage.

Perhaps the sad, impoverished death of the great Signor Antonio Lucio Vivaldi should also have warned Franzy of the vagaries of life and the tenuousness of artistic patronage; and maybe Signor Vivaldi’s gift was little more than gratitude for the apples that the boy had brought him. Yet Franzy had followed his heart, practiced on the violin and clavichord until his fingers bled, and learned to listen to that mysterious muse that shapes the voices, sounds and impressions all around him into musical compositions. At first they had been as simple and artless as the minuet he had played when Signor Vivaldi breathed his last, but little by little, Franzy uncovered new harmonies and complexities, labored day and night on the simple until his musical inventions won everyone’s heart. God had at last given him a voice. He was no longer little Franzy, but a respected composer and teacher.

For the glory of God and to the promise of youth. It had been among the last words the maestro had spoken to him. For some reason, the thought had returned to Franzy now as he was listening to his new pupil at the clavichord.

So much fire, he thought, and yes, a good deal of talent too. Like so many young musicians, this fellow displayed his abilities with much aplomb, but there was something else there. A fire too deep and consuming to be the mere product of youth, Franzy concluded. A difficult young man, he could tell by the defiantly clenched jaw. Unfortunately, this young German was not blessed with good looks or grooming, so he had better learn to cultivate a bit more charm. But talent there was - raw, unadorned talent that asked for no special favors and granted none in return. Was this the way of today's youth?

With an elegant flourish that contrasted with his uncouth appearance, the young musician struck the last note of the sonata and turned to his old teacher, his voice gentler than usual but the air of defiance still shining like embers in the dark grey eyes. “Sir?” His voice was low as if out of respect, but the proud bearing still bore an infuriating aura of bravura that nipped at Franzy’s well-earned confidence like an annoying tick.

“You have great ability and passion, Herr Beethoven.”

“Yes?” The young man jutted his head forward like a bull.

“Yes, it is very, very good.”

Herr Beethoven made a rude snorting sound and returned to the keyboard, clearly dissatisfied with his teacher’s comments.

Franzy pulled one hand over his wig and leaned back in his chair, fighting back a twinge of anger. What right had this young upstart with his moth-eaten coat to show such disrespect? Musicians traveled from all parts of Europe to be taught by him; and his reputation as composer and teacher allowed Franzy to select only the most gifted to sit at his clavichord. Even the great Mozart showed him respect and honored him with his friendship. And yet-

The brash young man had turned his attention to the violin that sat like an ancient relic on a velvet cushion in a corner of the room. “And what is this, sir?” He ambled over to the violin and lifted it as if it already were his.

Franzy raised his hand in protest and let out a sigh. “That is an old friend of mine.” He crossed his hands against his embroidered waistcoat; all anger vanished in an instant when he saw the spark of enthusiasm in the young man’s eyes. “The gift of a great maestro who died long ago.”

Beethoven grunted a reply and, like someone born with an instrument in hand, leaned the violin against his pockmarked chin. Soon the strains of the instrument, pure and sweet, filled the air between them like a benediction.

The man that the world knew as Franz Josef Haydn closed his eyes and from the depths of his memory summoned forth the scent of apples.

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Rebecka Persson works as a Rare Book Cataloger at the Boston Athenaeum. She is a member of the New England Screen Writers Alliance and enjoys writing mystery and historical fiction.  She is also a classical music aficionado who has always been fascinated by the lives of the great composers. Email: rebeckap@mac.com