The Black Spaniard Page 2

  “A remembrance book! How sweet, why thank you, thank you all!” he said with true appreciation, looking around at his friends.

  “Now you must read them, read them all!” said Mrs. Breuning, ushering her charge to a divan and pressing him into the cushions. There were 14 entries, only a small fraction of his colleagues, friends and patrons, but they were dear to him. He went page by page briefly, then returned to Eleanor’s entry, and read it aloud:

  “Friendship, with that which is good, grows like the evening shadow ‘til the setting sun of life,” Luis read. The group became quiet, and Luis looked up at Eleanor, who was avoiding his gaze. How beautiful she looked in the late October sun, her hair more golden than ever, wound in a braided bun, and her auburn dress, though modest, showing her figure to its best advantage.

  “Well,” said Luis. “I’ll read one other. From you, Count!” The Count looked knowingly at Mrs. Breuning but said nothing.

  “Dear Beethoven! You are now going to Vienna in fulfillment of your long-frustrated wishes. The Genius of Mozart is still mourning and weeping over the death of her pupil…With the help of assiduous labor you shall receive: Mozart's spirit from Haydn's hands. Your true friend, Waldstein.”

  Luis barely read the words, which startled him, for he was not expecting such a testimonial. Certainly, he had self-confidence on his own. But to hear such expressions of confidence from a great man was almost too overwhelming to bear. He coughed to repress a cry, and with great control, put the book down beside him. The room was as silent as emptiness.

  “Sir,” he said, looking up, his voice cracking. “I vow to live up to your high expectations.”

  The Count walked over to Luis, dwarfed by the tall figure of the older man, and patted him on the shoulder. “I know you will, my friend. We will be watching you from afar! Remember, you will always have your admirers in Bonn, and we will always believe in you.”

  The little party came to an end, and with many hugs, handshakes, and final wishes, the visitors left. The von Breuning boys, sensing that Luis would want to speak to Eleanor alone, went to other quarters of the great house. At last, Luis and Eleanor stood alone, breathing in the energy and good wishes, feeling a tangle of bittersweet emotions.

  “Luis…”

  “Eleanor…”

  They laughed to catch themselves speaking at the same time. “Luis,” continued Eleanor, looking at her handsome but slightly threatening friend, “Luis, I do wish you all the best. You will learn so much. You have a destiny, a destiny to do great things!” Luis looked at her, perhaps too hungrily. “Luis, do you hear what I am saying? I will miss our conversations, reading books together, oh, Luis,” against her better judgment she fell on him in a gentle embrace. “I will miss you.”

  Luis had been working on mastering self-control, but that embrace—innocent and sororial though its intent—shattered his resolve. “Eleanor,” he whispered into her ear with passion, “you must come with me!”

  Eleanor tried to pull back, but the powerful arms imprisoned her. “Eleanor,” he whispered fervently, “we are meant for each other. Marry me, marry me, Eleanor! I can’t live without you!”

  Eleanor was alarmed and pushed as hard as she could, with no effect. “Stop it! Luis, stop it right now!” she pleaded.

  “We don’t have time,” Luis said, swinging her around and pinning her to the wall. Her hair became loosened in the struggle, and the braid fell down her back. “I can’t wait,” he cried, “we don’t know what will happen!” He kissed her fiercely as she tried to squirm away.

  “Luis, this can’t be,” she gasped, trying to pry away his strong hands. “God, Luis, stop and listen to me!” He stole one more violent kiss, then realized he had overstepped all propriety and boundaries of decency, and fell back, covering his face with his arm. He lunged at the wall, his back to Eleanor, and sank to his knees. “Eleanor, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He turned his head and looked over at her form on the divan, her face hidden, her body sobbing but without tears. “I love you so much, Eleanor. We have everything in common. Why can’t you--”

  “Don’t you ever touch me again!” said Eleanor firmly, once she had regained her composure. The fact was, she loved Luis as well, not as a sister, but as a woman loves a man when she is ready to give her heart and life to him. But it was not to be. Forces outside their power, forces that he would never understand, laws he would never obey stood between them.

  “I wish you a good journey,” she said with trembling voice. “But put me out of your mind and out of your life. Good-bye!” And with that, without looking back, she ran from the room, leaving Luis on his knees, against the wall, his face in his crooked arm, his fist clenched. His heart and body burned, first with desire, then with passion, and finally with embarrassment. Some time passed, and the fever receded. He got up, tucked the farewell album into his vest, and went to his room, which was far from Eleanor’s. Luis sat on the edge of his bed late into the night, his head in his hands. What good were ideals and truths if you were rejected, as he imagined, because you are the wrong social class or poor or different looking? It was in a gloomy mood that he slipped off into sleep that night and awoke early the next day, leaving the von Breuning home without further goodbyes, and promptly commencing a journey to the south.

  Chapter 3

  The ride out was smooth enough, though at a brisk pace in order to reach the city within a week. There was an ever-changing parade of fellow passengers, but Luis was in no mood for conversation. He looked out the window, and sometimes read the literature Neefe had given him before his departure, strange writings from the East and Egypt, which he was careful to hide from the prying eyes of the occasional priest sharing the coach. Among them was a slim volume of a Hindu text translated by Forster. Forster…where had he heard that name before? Luis shook his head to himself. At the age of 21, he had lived so long, it seemed, already had done so much--a lifetime’s work! He smiled: and yet, it was just beginning. Thoughts of his old life already were slipping away, and recollections of Eleanor evaporated as the coach drew closer to its destination.

  Luis hated to travel and stay in strange places, but most were routine along the way, with one exception. On one afternoon, he was the only passenger on the coach, and the driver stopped for the night in an out-of-the-way inn, very working class, and quite run down. While careless of his appearance and tired from a few days’ travel, Luis still cut an imposing figure, and his high black boots, a gift from Count Waldstein, still retained their shine.

  After acquainting himself with his room—more like a monk’s shabby cell than the sort of lodgings he was now used to—Luis went downstairs for a meal and a pint. The tavern was filled with locals, laborers, and farm hands who had been working hard to prepare the barns and fields for the winter ahead. The light wasn’t very good and cast an eerie golden glow over the squalid array of tables and stools. In one corner, Luis noticed a neglected piano, sunk in the shadows. The place had a stale, smoky smell, but he was hungry and eager to just get through the night.

  The barmaid took his order. He had nothing to occupy him, no book or paper, and at any rate, one couldn’t read in this poor light. So he looked directly into the girl’s face, and noticed she was rather pretty, with blonde braids pinned over the top of her head. She in turn looked back, frowned, and took his order.

  “Where you from?” she asked, looking at him strangely. “You’re not from around here.”

  “Well, of course not,” said Luis, deciding to open up a bit. “I am employed by the court of a prince. And going to another in Vienna.” The girl’s eyes widened a bit, and she sized up his clothing. Then she smiled, revealing a missing canine tooth. Luis was amused, but maintained eye contact, until he heard a stool shift behind him, and a heavy hand thrash down on his shoulder.

  “Darren!” the girl said, annoyed, looking at the hulking shape behind Luis. “Leave off, Darren!”

  Darren pulled back on Luis’s shoulder and lifted him up with one hand. “Who do
you think you are?” The young man was at least six feet tall, with arms like the rear flanks of a large hog, and smelling as sweet. Non-plussed, Luis turned and glared into the man’s ugly face.

  “Excuse me,” he scowled, “have we been introduced?” The tall man was not used to sarcasm.

  “Say,” he said, tightening his grip on Luis’s lapels, “we don’t need your kind around here.”

  “And what kind would that be?” demanded Luis, prying the rough fingers off one shoulder.

  “Black devils!” the ugly man said. “Straight from hell, you are!” Luis gave a short laugh, though he was quaking within.

  “You are mistaken!” he said. “I am van Beethoven. That would be van…”

  “He’s an arissocrat!” called the bar keep, “lay off ‘im, Darren, we’ll have the ‘thorities here, and I’ll loose my license again!”

  Darren wasn’t so sure. “He’s a gentleman, fer sure,” said the girl, secretly pleased at the attention, but not wanting anyone to be hurt. “Ain’t you, dear?”

  Luis unclenched his fists, and drew back a bit, pulling himself up to his full 5 foot 5 height (perhaps 5 foot 6 with the boots), and shook his hair, as though symbolically freeing himself from his assailant. “I am. In fact,” he was starting to enjoy the altercation after several days of inactivity, “have you heard of the Chevalier de Saint-Georges?” Blank stares from all around him. “He is a renowned black musician lately in the French court. You might say I am…a German equivalent!”

  The tavern owner, impressed, nodded slowly. “It’s true about that ‘van,’ Darren, means royalty,” the man continued in a cautioning tone. “So, Mr. Van whatever, don’t mind Darren here, he’s just stickin’ up for his girl, you know how these things is.” Luis smiled a superior smile and waved his hand. Had he had a clean handkerchief, he would have waved that as well.

  “No trouble,” said he, turning to nod pleasantly to the girl, who smiled another toothless grin. “So, let me try your goulash, then, as I see you have a piano, I would be delighted to play you a few tunes of your own choosing!”

  The group of a dozen patrons and the main actors in this drama relaxed a bit, and there were hums of approval. So it was that Luis became aware of two other wonderful qualities that he possessed: that of peacemaker among the lower classes, and his own ability to transform into royalty, thanks to the Dutch “van” in his name. The “van” actually meant no more than “of,” but in the German states, the equivalent “von” signified someone of royal birth (such as the von Breunings and Count von Waldstein). So what if a small deception were perpetrated; no harm was done. And after all, wasn’t Luis true royalty, the royalty of genius? It sounded convincing to him, and gave him another tool in his charted course to success.

  Predictably, the meal was dreadful, but the bread was filling and the beer enlivening. Before long, Luis was at the dusty piano. He tossed the sheet music onto the floor, and was soon taking requests for “Polly, I wish I’d loved ya better” and “The long night’s dark without you, Bess.” There were at least six keys missing, and the piano had not been tuned since a wandering furniture hauler had dropped it off some years before.

  Still, all had a good time, and soon, Darren was putting a hammy hand of friendship on the shoulder of the man he would have shaken to death an hour earlier. The crowd soon was singing, “I miss you, Mother, how I miss your gentle heart,” and a few sobs escaped from the more intoxicated choristers.

  At the end of the night’s revels, Luis, not overly sober himself, raised a tankard to all present, and said, “Remember, gents and lady, remember tonight, when van Beethoven gave you an evening of music!” “Hurrah!” and similar comments dwindled into the air as the owner closed up shop and Luis made it up to his room, satisfied with a night’s work.

  Chapter 4

  The coach pulled away, leaving Luis and his small assortment of packages and bags on the footpath. He looked up at the grand Lichnowsky Palace, which he had visited briefly five years before. So much had happened in those five years: his mother was dead, his little sister, too; the new friends he had made, the books he had read, the music he had played and composed; the teachers and older associates who had dropped away, like Neefe and his circle. He was a new man. But the palace, indeed, as he turned 360 degrees and took in the view, all Vienna, looked exactly the same. He bundled everything together and walked to the back door. Some day, he thought, the Great will enter through the front, and, in his head, there was no one to tell him to tone down his arrogance.

  The room was six flights up, in the attic. Luis sprinted up the stairs, glad to exercise his legs, and tossed his bundles on the bed under a dormer. He paused a moment, looking out the small window over the massive, almost oppressive weight of the cityscape. Born in an attic, lived in an attic: there would be more to his life’s story than that. There was not yet a piano in the room, which was large enough to contain one. He looked around to see what would be the best way to bring up such a large instrument. Why didn’t they think of these things, he scowled.

  No matter, for now, the first thing he would do would be to write notes to those behind, including the Elector, to let them know he was safely arrived. He peeled off his jacket and cravat and tossed them on the floor. There was a simple desk with a lantern, a small stove, and a shelf for his books, which he hoped would arrive soon. He put his coach copies—the Egyptian aphorisms, the Indian Gita, a parcel of additional epistles of introduction, all compliments of the banned Bonn Freemasons—on the bookcase, and located the writing paper in the desk. The mid-November sun cast ample light, but no warmth, across the length of the room. Luis blew on his fingers and rubbed his hands together. Well, it wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  Prince Lichnowsky was out of town when Luis arrived, and just as well, as it gave the young man a few weeks to adjust to his new environment. He soon was taking walks around the city, including strolls along the Danube (which was about an hour away) and the promenade known as the glacis, and among the many lovely parks, still pleasant on milder days. He had no trouble finding a practice piano, since the palace was filled with instruments, testifying to his new patron’s passionate attachment to the musical arts. And, as his journey had taught him, one could always find an evening’s amusement in a local pub, where the hired musician would be only too glad to take a break when a reckless young visitor offered to take over for minutes that would soon spill into hours.

  Shortly after the prince and princess returned, Luis was called to meet his new patron in the music room, a spacious parlor with a raised dais on which stood a chestnut colored piano gleaming in the afternoon sun. Luis stared at it a moment, frowning, trying to recall the sense of déjà vu surrounding a golden aura around some beautiful chestnut-colored object, but the image quickly passed.

  And there was the prince himself, at the keyboard, playing one of Luis’s own compositions. “Ah, Beethoven!” he said, lifting his pale hands from the keys, and smiling a warm greeting. “This is really very good!”

  Beethoven nodded, “May I?” and sat beside the prince, picking up where his patron had left off and then improvised a half-dozen spectacular variations. All in a day’s work!

  “Hah, brilliant!” said the prince, beaming, as though in possession of a new expensive toy. “Oh, I so did the right thing. Well, Luis,” the prince rose and walked over to a more regal-looking chair with gold damask upholstery, “have you settled in? How is your room? Is your piano in tune?”

  Luis fiddled with the keys a bit. “Sir,” he said, continuing to play lightly and softly, “I thank you for your hospitality and confidence. You will not be disappointed! But my room is not very satisfactory. And I have no piano whatsoever!”

  “No piano!” exclaimed the handsome prince, who was less than 10 years older than his protégée. “Don’t tell me they put you in the attic.” The prince sighed. “That will never do. We’ll take care of that immediately. Ah, Princess!” the aristocrat beamed, as a beautiful woman in her late tw
enties entered the room. The Princess Christiane was slim, tall, and elegant, with feathers and ribbons woven into a complex hair design, and a burgundy day dress skirting the floor. She was accompanied by her lady’s maid.

  “My dear,” she said warmly to her husband, “please introduce us.” There would normally be a slight echo to their voices in a room of this size, but it had been carefully, even scientifically padded and lined to assure a fine acoustical balance, and her voice lingered warmly on the air.

  Beethoven was immediately disarmed and overwhelmed by the warmth and generous nature of the princess, and her caring solicitations. Too old to be of interest to him as a lover, too young to be a mother figure, it was more to the latter that his heart tended.

  “You will teach my husband, too, I hope,” she said with a gentle smile, looking at the prince with genuine affection. The prince took her hand and kissed it softly.

  “First,” he said, motioning to a servant, “we need to make arrangements for Beethoven’s lodging. How does the first floor sound?” Luis was impressed, and nodded his assent. “And I must show you off, I hope you don’t mind. Can you prepare a short recital for next week, say, a couple of pieces by Carl Bach, something by Haydn, a couple of your own works, and be prepared to improvise?” He smiled as though “no” was not a possible answer.

  “But of course, sir,” said Luis with a slight bow.

  “Oh, Princess, have someone take Beethoven for a fitting. You’ll need some new clothes quickly.”

  “We’ll attend to it,” smiled the princess. “I just stopped in to meet you. Samuel will call on you later today about the fitting. Dear,” she said, turning to her husband, “No Mozart?” A cloud crossed the prince’s face. He had been Mozart’s most enthusiastic patron until a dispute over a large sum of money he lent the composer shattered their relationship. Tragically, a few weeks after the prince won a court settlement in his favor in the case, Mozart, overwhelmed with work and cares, succumbed suddenly to death.