Free The Musician's Daughter by Susanne Dunlap

appointment.”
    I had heard rumors in the kitchens of the Esterhazy palaces about Haydn’s bitter and unfaithful wife. It was said they never slept in the same bed, and that she visited an old witch who gave her an elixir that prevented pregnancy. Everyone felt sorry for Haydn, and never criticized him when he had occasional trysts with kitchen maids, or for the affair he was said to have had with the widow of one of his musicians.
    “Forgive me for not giving you time to settle properly, but I must be at the palace in an hour.” He pulled a silver pocket watch out of his waistcoat and shook his head at it. I knew that watch well. It was the one he used to let us listen to ticking away, and that he would produce from the oddest places to make us laugh—a flowerpot, our ears, his own mouth. “Do you prefer to sit or stand when you write?”
    I saw that the desk was a high one, like those used by clerks in offices, and although I was not accustomed to standing up and writing, I told him that was what I preferred. When I took my place, I noticed that six or seven sheets of paper had already been lined, and the clefs for a string quartet had been mapped out. I still couldn’t quite see what I would have to do. I had no trouble hearing—my pitch was perfect—but I had never actually tried to write down notes as I heard them. The maestro must have sensed my doubt, because he spoke to me quietly and reassuringly.
    “Your papa used to dash in just the heads of the notes first as I sang, then go back later and add the stems. I still seem able to fix the rhythm. The flags don’t jump around as much as the staves and the dots for me.”
    He started with the lowest line, the cello. He did not sing it all, but more often simply called out the harmonies. My father had schooled me in figures, so I knew how to sketch in the bass that would hold the upper parts together and give them depth. The first movement was a lively allegro, and as we continued with the first-violin part, I could anticipate what was coming. Or at least, I thought I could. Every once in a while Haydn sang a note or a phrase that took me by surprise. I would look up questioningly, and he would say, “Yes, yes, that’s just what I mean, there’s a good girl.”
    When we got to the upper parts, the ones in the range where he could sing, I sometimes thought the maestro simply forgot I was there. He wandered around the room, swaying to the music he heard in his head and singing so fast at times that I could hardly keep up. Although I had to glue my eyes to the page most of the time, every once in a while he would pause and I could look up. Then I would see him gazing off into the distance, eyes sometimes misting over as though the idea of music was too powerful to bear, and then they would brighten and he would start to sing again, and I would have to focus on the lines and spaces and write as fast as I could.
    By the time the mantel clock chimed the next hour, my hand was in a cramp and I realized I had bitten the inside of my lip and could taste the salty blood. Haydn approached to look at my handiwork. I trembled with fear that he would find it unsatisfactory.
    He picked up the sheets, scanned the lines, brought them close to his eyes, and held them at arm’s length and sighed. “In truth, I will not know how well you have done until after the rehearsal. But in general it looks as though you have written everything down. Accuracy is the issue.”
    “Will you refine the movement tomorrow?” I asked.
    “Oh dear me, no, there isn’t time for that. It’s first time or nothing, you see, at this time of year. You may as well come tomorrow for the other movements, which won’t be as long as this one.”
    I wanted to ask him if he had the notes all in his head already, or if they simply came to him as he paced around the room, but in spite of his kindness and consideration, I was a little afraid of my godfather. He could end the stipend at any moment, tell my