My Interview with Beethoven: A Novel

By L.A. Hider Jones

Named one of Kirkus Reviews Best Indie Fiction of 2017! It's 1826, and young Virginia newspaperman George Thompson leaves his unhappy past for Vienna, "the city of music." His mission: interview the famous composer, Ludwig van Beethoven. But George wants more than an interview. He wants to get close to Beethoven because he's be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lory Jones
• Release date: May 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732319004

Book preview

Dedication

Dad, thank you for bringing home my first

Beethoven record,

his Piano Concerto No. 4 in G Major.

That changed my life.

A

cknowledgements

So many people involved themselves in guiding me through this hair-gripping mess called writing and editing. I am indebted to the following for their advice, support and profound interest in my debut novel:

My editor Robert Yehling brought to my manuscript his editorial knowledge, his experience living in Germany and Austria, and his love for Beethoven’s music;

My beta readers Donna Beckage, Tom Breene, Richard Allegra, Courtney Earhart, Sherrie Parker, Julie Lindsay, Jesse Oakley III and Astriña Calame, and my copyeditor, Kirsten Kellogg, shared their suggestions and enthusiasm for the story and its characters;

Designer Dave Wieand labored patiently with my many changes to the front and back covers (but it was worth it);

My trip to Austria in October 2011 would not have happened without the American Beethoven Society, who chartered the dream trip of my lifetime and the best kind of research there is: a Beethoven, Haydn and Mozart tour in Vienna, Mödling, Baden and Salzburg;

My fellow writers at the Southern California Writers’ Conference and the Henderson Writers’ Group awed me with their keen insight in helping turn a struggling manuscript into a shining one;

And those Beethoven biographers of yesteryear made my research a lot easier, particularly Alexander Wheelock Thayer, who literally sacrificed his life while chronicling Beethoven’s life, and Gerhard von Breuning, who knew Beethoven well and loved him nevertheless.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Overture: Appassionata

Book One: Coriolan

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Book Two: Eroica

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Book Three: Pathétique

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Epilogue

About the Author

Dear Reader. . .

Overture

Appassionata

Williamsburg, Virginia.

February, 1815.

Pound pound pound pound!

George sat up like a spring from his parents’ sofa. His heart raced as the sleepiness in his head tried to make sense of the noise. Who could be at the front door so angry, so early in the morning?

He pulled his blanket to his chin as he glanced about. Pa’s pendulum clock on the mantel shelf chimed six o’clock. The fire in the hearth had flamed out hours before. It was not yet sunup.

Pa, he called above to his parents’ bedchamber. Whoever was at the door meant no good. His father would cut their business short.

The knock pounded harder. George sprang to his feet, pulling the blanket with him, and stared at the ceiling again. Pa was not rushing down their narrow, creaky staircase, as expected. Pa! How George wished to be safe in his bedchamber instead of the sitting room, facing trouble. Why was his father dawdling? Something had to be done.

He put on his slippers, wrapped the blanket about him to ward off the chill, and crept to the door, white puffs shooting from his mouth. I have a rifle, he shouted with manly authority at the intruders, with only the poor blanket to protect him, and I’m a damned good aim, so you best run away.

You be George Thompson? came a man’s gruff voice from the other side.

This stunned George into silence.

Open up, lad. We’ve come to fetch Hannah Thompson.

My ma? Why you want her for?

Men’s voices mumbled. Finally: Ask your father.

George turned toward the creaking stairs and let out a breath of relief: Robert Thompson was coming down, tucking his shirt into his trousers. Robert was George’s hero. Honorable. Trustworthy. His Hercules. Everything would be done proper, as always.

George rushed to him, breathless. There’s men outside looking for Ma.

Robert passed his son and opened the door. Two men hunched on the little stoop in their snow-dusted hats and shabby coats, stomping their feet and blowing into their fingerless mittens to ward off winter’s bitter chill. They appeared hopeless, in a hangdog way.

You be Robert Thompson? one asked.

Robert opened the door wide and motioned to the stairs. My wife is in our bedchamber.

The men brushed past as George clung to his side. Pa, what’s happening? Why do they want to see Ma? Is she sick? She was fine at supper.

Robert would not look at him. She’s always been sick, George. He headed for the stairs, then turned and pointed at him. Stay put. Do you understand? No matter what you hear.

George watched him disappear after the men. He listened intently, clutching the blanket tighter about him as his mother’s startled voice asked in her broken English, Who are you? Why you come? I don’t have the typhus. She turns frantic. My George, is he safe? What’s happened to him? I have lost Richie, I do not want to lose George. He is only eleven.

George shivered as a blast of air blew through the doorway. When he went to shut the door, he saw a woman outside. Cloaked in black, she lingered, like Death, by a covered wagon harnessed to two horses; at the wagon’s rear, a small chamber with double doors. The woman opened them, reached in, pulled out a straightcoat, and approached the house. George backed away as she entered.

Commotion erupted upstairs. Hannah Thompson rushed down in her flannel gown, her blonde hair hanging loose. Worry distorted her pretty face. She opened her arms to her son. "Do you need me, Liebchen?"

George dropped his blanket and rushed to her, and she pressed him to her breast and kissed his head. I’m fine, Ma. What do those men want?

Before she could answer, the men lumbered down, carrying her trunk, Robert moving close behind. Confused, Ma stared at them. Why you taking my things? They hauled her trunk outside, then returned and went for her. She backed away. They lunged and threw her body to the floor. She screamed, and George pounced on the men as Robert shouted at him. Fingernails, fists, and teeth became weapons.

Leave my mother be! George shrieked, kicking and pummeling them.

Husband, help me!

George, get over here, Robert thundered.

Let go of her, you have the wrong house!

George! Here. Now. Robert pointed down at his black slippers.

My ma’s not sick! George bit one of the men on the shoulder, and he cried out. Robert pulled George out of the tussle and pressed him against his body, his arm compressing across the boy’s chest like a crossbeam in white muslin. George fought to pry himself free. His father’s hold tightened.

Let it be, George.

But, Pa—! Desperate, George watched his mother lose her fight. Her bare arms and legs flailed, like an animal caught in a trap, as her hair flowed back and forth until it twisted about her head. They tried to drag her, but her nails dug into the green floral rug. She once knitted that rug, in the Bavarian way.

George broke into sobs. Please, stop with my ma.

They forced her into the straightcoat, pinned her arms back, and finished strapping her from between her legs to her neck. Her chin dug into the floor as she drooled and convulsed, staring at her husband and son with mad, wide eyes. Husband, why won’t you help me? she whimpered.

Robert would not move.

"George, hilf mir, bitte!"

Frightened, George could only stare at her. His beautiful, wide-smiling mother, musical and luminescent, had turned into something savage. Hannah Bekker Thompson was not yet twenty-nine.

The sheriff appeared in their doorway. His wide-brimmed English hat shadowed his solemn expression. Is everything to order?

Robert nodded. It is.

George looked up at his father, not believing what he was witnessing. What is to order?

The sheriff tipped his hat and left. The men lifted Hannah, unnaturally lifeless and stiff in the straightcoat, and loaded her into the wagon’s chamber as if she was lumber. The woman closed the doors, boarded with the men, and they drove off.

The clock on the mantel shelf tick-tocked softly in that harsh silence.

George broke away from his father and raced along Francis Street, chasing the wagon as it rumbled up for the hospital. He slipped and fell on the ice-thickened road, stood, ran, and fell again, tearing his knees. His slippers had flipped off, landing nearby. The knees of his breeches were ruined. But nothing would stop him from fetching his mother—not those damned icy patches, not Pa, not God.

He pushed himself up, snatched his wet slippers and put them on, and ran again, this time to Phineas Poole’s house. An adopted grandfather of sorts, Poole was his strongest confidante and ally. George’s parents adored Poole as one of their own. He was family.

M-M-Mr. P-P-Poole. George’s teeth chattered as he pounded on the paneled white door. No answer. The cold grabbed his wheezing chest, making him shiver uncontrollably. His innards expanded as he forced energy into his whole being: Phineas Poole! He backed away to glimpse a welcoming face at Poole’s black chamber windows. Nothing. Why are you all against m-m-me?

The wagon had long disappeared behind a snowy mound. Frantic, George followed its tracks, bounding the white slope until he reached the hospital’s oak door, and pounded his palms upon it so hard they hurt. The peep window opened. The saggy face of a female attendant appeared.

P-p-please, m-m-ma’am, George begged, d-d-do you have m- m-my mother? Hannah T-T-Thompson.

Boy, what you doin’ out here in just your shirt and bottoms? she said in a low voice. This ain’t no place for you. Best you be gittin’ home. The typhus ain’t over. Do you want to fall sick agin? Do you want to die like your little brother?

But M-M-Ma doesn’t have the t-t-typhus. She’s well. This is a p-p- place for s-s-sick people. Here— George tapped his temple. You’ve made a God-fearin’ m-m-mistake.

The woman’s eyelids dropped in sympathy. Go home. Your pa needs you. The peep window drew shut.

No! George pounded the door. Please, give me my mother. He jiggled the door’s iron latch. Hannah T-T-Thompson! He backed away and howled to the top of the asylum: Hannah Bekker Thompson! Maaa!

The hard air sucked his cries into nothingness. A crow cawed somewhere.

With raw, bloody knees, George limped home, wrapping his arms about himself while scrambling for answers. The men, the sheriff, the straightcoat. Why? The Thompsons were good people. Pa was a respected mathematics teacher at the College of William and Mary. Ma was admired as a faithful wife, loving mother, and breathtaking musician. How she astounded Poole and that printer, Rathburn, at her pianoforte. In those golden Sunday afternoons, Richie and George laughed and danced to her joyous, robust music, right on that green floral rug, with Pa and Poole fiddling at her side. What sunshine their merriment brought into their home, before the typhus.

The spire and cross of Bruton Church caught George’s eye. They seemed to slide across snow-covered rooftops as he moved along. He turned his head away. Every day, Reverend Eaton buried new souls in the graveyard. There had been three dead one day before, four the day before that, and six before that. Richie was one of them. No sense peeking through the narrow passageways to see if the reverend was there. If he wasn’t, he would be soon. Typhus had spread all over Virginia, to Richmond. All over America. All over the world.

No doubt its contagion lingered still in his bedchamber, where Richie had died. George could not wait for its wash-down, to sleep there again.

Then he reckoned onto something: Pa had not been the same since he returned from Richmond a fortnight ago, since Grandpa Bekker’s urgent letter: Robert, hurry to Richmond. Do not bring Hannah. Only you. Hurry. How could anyone know that Grandpa Bekker lay dying? All George wanted was for Pa not to leave them. Ma was worn from tending to Richie, who was suffering bad. George remembered the suffering too well, having survived the typhus himself.

Before leaving for Richmond, Pa had put his hand on George’s head, anointing him: You are now the man of the house. Take care of your mother and brother. I shall return soon.

There was no figuring what Grandpa Bekker had told Pa on his deathbed. Whatever he said, when Pa returned, the light had fled his eyes. In its place lurked an unfamiliar darkness. . .

George rushed inside the house, slammed the door behind him, fell back against it, and closed his eyes. A new fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with its woodsy scent. Heat rushed at him, melting away the chill in his body. It was an inappropriate comfort. Hunched over the hearth, Robert was gripping the mantel shelf, his arms straight and rigid, his head bowed between them so low, George could not see his face.

Pa, why didn’t you stop them?

No reply.

George flew at him and beat him. What kind of man are you, that you let them take her? Fetch her back! What they did was wrong.

His father remained unmoved.

George punched his arm. Answer me!

Eleven years I thought she loved me.

George jumped back as if burned. Robert’s voice rumbled so deep and stiff within his chest, it seemed another persona possessed him.

Eleven years, I ignored her signs. So long I endured her polite affection. His hands tensed until the skin pulled taut over bone. All of it, subterfuge and lies.

George tempered himself to gain his father’s attention. We need someone to take care of us, Pa. We’re only men.

‘Marry my daughter,’ your Grandpa Bekker had told me. ‘My Hannah’s a widow, poor child. Lost her husband, Captain Mälzel, in the Austrian emperor’s army. He died at the cannons.’ But there was no Captain Mälzel. No husband. Robert’s knuckles stretched white until ready to pop. Your mother was never a widow.

I don’t understand. Are you saying I’m a… A bastard by another man. George frowned. That’s nonsense, you’re my pa. You’ve always been my pa. Nothing else matters.

It matters when you learn that a man and his daughter conspired to trick and lie. He lunged for the shelves next to the hearth, where his two bibles and boxes of musical scores rested, and grabbed Hannah’s black lacquer box. In that box rested her most beloved scores, as dear to her as her own child. He tore off the lid and poured its contents over the fire.

Stop! George grabbed for the box, but Robert tossed it on top of the mound. That’s Ma’s favorite music! What have you done? He fell to his scraped knees and cried out; the skin broke apart and bled anew. Fighting the pain, he poked his hand into the flames, plucking away the box and pinching for the scores. "Why this music? I love these so much, over all the others."

Robert yanked him away, snatched the score’s cover page from the hearth, and waved it furiously in his son’s face. Little flames licked the paper’s edges. "He is your natural father! He conceived you! He, not I, is the one your mother has always loved. There has never been any room in her heart for me. He threw the page into the fire and paced, desperate to leap out of his skin. I married your mother on her birthing bed, ninety seconds before you slipped onto the sheets. I loved her—I pitied her, and spent the rest of our marriage laboring for her affection. I even filled my head with little tales: ‘Perhaps if we lived at the Thompson plantation, to my roots as gentleman planter, she would love me. Perhaps if I learned her German, she would reach for me instead of I always reaching for her.’ But she gave me nothing but glances. What color are her eyes? Green? Blue? Even their hue deceives. Foolish, stupid man…"

Robert shook his thin finger at him, his grey-blue eyes piercing through the boy like ice. But ice could never be that cold. You are no longer my son. He grabbed the black poker and stabbed the score through the heart of the composer’s name. The wood underneath snapped. The paper blackened and curled, floating billowy ashes up the chimney. Pack your things. You’re going to Rathburn’s.

The master printer? George blinked. For the night?

Robert threw the poker in its brass stand with a rude clang and strode for the stairs.

Tears trailed George’s face. I didn’t mean for Richie to die, he shouted. It’s not my fault, Pa. It’s not my fault!

His father disappeared into the darkness. The bedchamber door slammed shut.

Sobbing, George knelt again before the hearth, his face contorting from the pain in his knees. But the wound Robert had created in the mound of music held his attention. His watery eyes barely discerned the distorted name on the cover page:

Beethoven.

Thereafter, a peculiarity seized the boy. Distinctly, he remembered mundane details: numbers, dates, conversations, sensations, a jumble of facts and trivia. There was no reason for such recall, they meant nothing. Yet, it was as if they were forming a new society in his head, drilling his brain to remember everything with clarity.

Especially the words, You are no longer my son.

Book One

Coriolan

1

October, 1826.

I settled my valise on the scuffed floorboards. Suh, I said to the man I once called Pa, it’s time for me to leave.

No response. Instead, my stepfather concentrated his anger through my mother’s lace curtains to the scene outside, where a coach awaited me. Inside the coach sat his enemy, Johann Nepomuk Mälzel.

Mälzel was no longer the phantom husband Grandpa Bekker cooked up twenty-three years ago, dying in the emperor’s army as cannon fodder and whatever else. No, he remained much alive, trying to calm my distraught mother at his open window.

Six months before, Mälzel’s first visit aroused my stepfather’s suspicions. Yesterday, his second visit saw me stumbling home, drunk and raving. This morning, Mälzel came to whisk me to the docks. He would not step out to greet my stepfather in his usual merry way. He did not dare.

Mälzel was one of Robert Thompson’s problems. The other was I. Finally, I was leaving home to go to my natural father, the famous composer, Ludwig van Beethoven. Through this journey I craved a pure beginning, without lies, spite, and harsh family secrets.

Circumstances offered me no choice. I had lost my promotion to master printer, my sweetheart to a planter’s son, and my foolish attempt to buy back the Thompson plantation house. Ah, and one more: my fantasy to introduce steam printing in the South. All brushed my fingertips—now, all gone.

For my humiliations, I blamed Benjamin Rathburn, master printer of the Williamsburg Post. Jolly and generous, he had pulled me to his side in that damp, cool print room and groomed me as his apprentice. I clung to Rathburn as if he were my new father, renewed to be someone’s beloved son. After my interview with General Lafayette (whose visit two years before I fondly remember), Rathburn promoted me to journeyman.

Then, without warning, he turned on me. Gossip brewed over some indecency I supposedly laid upon his daughter, my sweetheart. His secret letter detailed my demise, exposing not only my frailties, but also his reptilian nature. I confiscated that letter from his desk and dropped it onto my parents’ bed to read. Soon they would learn too much about their false friend.

How did I lose Rathburn’s favor? I’ll tell you how: I was born into a tangled nest of lies. Lies flow in my blood. Small wonder I chose the press, the most profane and vilified of professions. The press permits me to twist truths, weave tales, and toy with people’s heads. The press also permits me easy access to Northern newspapers, which published my articles against slavery, the South’s peculiar institution. Naturally, I had to hide my correspondence from Rathburn and any other Southerner. Had my correspondences been found, they would have served my undoing: More than my effigy would have hung from a tree.

All of these complications convinced me that a nobler path existed with Beethoven, whose music leaves nothing unsaid or unturned. He awes me still, excites my imagination, soothes my demons, and emboldens me with nerve. I reckoned I would like him, once I met him. He would embrace me as good fathers do, and shake off the rocks and briers from the paths I set for myself. My interview with Beethoven will happen, I convinced myself, and finally my life will be fine—even if I must lie to make that happen.

Yesterday’s whiskey from Sparky’s tavern gurgled in my throat. I swallowed hard to will it down. Whiskey is stubborn stuff. I took in a deep breath, waiting for my stepfather to tear his attention from the window and Mälzel and acknowledge me. He pretended I was not there, yet his shoulders tensed at my presence. I cleared my throat. Warily, he turned the side of his face to me, like a woodland critter watching for its enemies of prey. Perhaps I deserved his distrust. He deserved mine certainly.

He narrowed his stare at my waistband. Stubborn smudges of printers ink peeked from under my yellow vest, its strong odor clinging to my clothes like bad perfume. But printers’ ink can never be washed out—not out of those threads, not out of my blood. I tugged the vest down to hide the stain. It snuck up. I buttoned my jacket and moth-eaten overcoat to cover it. He turned away, disgusted: Neither my bachelor’s degree in philosophy from the College, nor my prestigious Phi Beta Kappa key, could pull me from my dirty profession.

Forgive my transgressions yesterday, I pleaded. I was full of drink. Whiskey never agrees with me, but I needed it. You’ll learn why, after you read a letter on your bed.

The stairs behind me snapped and grumbled as the coachman and his man lumbered down with my trunk. I raised my voice over their grunting: This is my first journey, suh, where I must sail at least three ships. The perilous journey may claim my life—

It is no concern of mine what happens to you while you traipse the world. Never tell your mother whom you intend to visit. He sharpened on me his usual cold eye. You will invite harsh consequences.

His threat came at me like a balled fist. "On my honor I will not tell her I will visit him. Beethoven’s name was forbidden to be spoken in his house. I may have been born of foreigners, but I am a Virginian by birth. Like you. I bear the name of your honored father. The men and my trunk rudely passed in front of me for the doorway. Suh, have you no kind words for me at all? At this final moment?"

Prepare to have your heart broken. His voice sounded disconnected from his body.

"I know what you are saying, and you are wrong! He will see me. Emotion choked my voice. Perhaps I said too much yesterday because you say too little—or feel too little. I upset you? That is not my intent. You cannot run off and hide at that plantation house when it suits you. Is that where you’ll run to after I leave, suh?"

His glare said everything: Go to the devil.

I picked up my valise. Please embrace my mother more than you have. She deserves better than us. I marched out, a brew of likker and anger churning my gut.

My mother reached out to me with open arms. "Oh, George, mein Sonne, komm hier. Her white apron shone starkly against her green dress. Even in this early hour, she wore that damned apron. My stepfather had commanded her to wear it always, as good wives do, he sternly reminded her. She obeyed, her head bowed, yet she despised it. Bad hospital coat," she would mumble while snapping the apron strings tight behind her.

I embraced her, digging my cheek upon her head. Eleven years of stress had dulled her flaxen hair, thanks to her husband. Such a man who lords over children in Sunday school has no business preaching Christian forgiveness, love, or pity. He showed none for his wife. Mrs. Patrick Henry was thrice more cracked than a loon, yet our great patriot refused to see her languish in that asylum. His gift to her was keeping her home. My stepfather’s gifts to his wife? That green floral rug she knitted. A small bed. A new blanket. Goddamned tokens.

Ma gripped my arms as if to tether me in place. George, comfort me. Her impatience would not wait, and she pleaded to Mälzel, "Wirst Sie kümmern sich um meinen Sohn, Johann?" Will you take care of my son? This is George’s first time from home. He has only gone as far as the docks to fetch the mail sacks!

Humiliated, I covered my eyes. At twenty-three, I should have left home long ago. But obligation forced me to remain, for her sake.

My George, he does not know our old world, Johann. What will become of him there? I lost one son, I do not want to lose another.

Mälzel reached for her hand on the window’s frame. Ma pulled back. Graciously, he suffered her rejection. Take heart, Hannah. George is an enduring young man. From the brief time I have known him, I say that he would make a good soldier. Mälzel’s weary smile upon his tanned face matched the dullness of his grey hair.

Ma turned to me, panting. "Where are you going in Europe, my son? Will you see your Grossonkel Josef and Cousine Barbara in my Regensburg village? Remember when I told you I was born and raised there? Johann, too. We were childhood friends."

I laid my hands on her arms. It’s as I told you yesterday, Ma. Remember? I am touring Europe to continue my education. I despised lying to her. Through the gauzy curtains, my stepfather hung like an obstinate ghost with a warning: No mention of Beethoven. But I promise to visit Great-uncle Josef and Cousin Barbara.

She said with typical innocent hope, Wherever you go, do not despair. I shall have a light in the window for you.

I will not return. Your husband banished me last night because of the scene I caused. Respect that, Ma.

Why you so cross with me? Her voice pitched high like a child’s whine. I don’t want to be alone with him.

The irony of it: This man who extoled the virtues of truth all his life was trusted the least by his own family. I clasped her hands. Ma, if your husband harms you, seek Mr. Poole or Sparky. Go to the sheriff. Do anything but suffer his authority. I stroked back a loose strand of her hair. "As much as I desire it, I cannot be with you forever, Ma. You must be strong on your own. Do you remember what the doctor told you? Whenever you have disturbing thoughts, write them in your journal, then read them. That will help clear your head. Share your journal with no one. No one."

She nodded. I must not bother my husband with my foolishness. I will be silent and obey him. She bit her trembling lip. I don’t like sleeping with him, George, but I don’t want to go back to the hospital.

I hugged her again and whispered, Write, write, write, always. Keep the demons at bay. I kissed her forehead, then boarded the coach and closed the door. The coach swayed as the driver mounted for his seat. Can you be strong, Ma? Can you do this for me?

She lifted her head as if jolted with a pleasant surprise. Are you going to Vienna? You must visit Beethoven!

This stunned me, as if she gazed upon my unfolding future. "Ma, do you want me to see him? I can if you want me to." This cleared my conscience. One less lie to fret about.

She dug into her apron pocket, then slipped a cool object into my hand. Return this to him, she whispered. I was wrong to take it. I have paid dearly.

I opened my palm. It was an oval miniature portrait of a dark- haired man—young, brown eyes, gentle mouth, tousled black hair. His demeanor was simple, yet stately. This is Beethoven?

Mälzel leaned forward to gaze at it.

I tried to slip it back to her. Ma, I cannot have this, it is yours—

Take it! She jumped away and hugged herself protectively. I want him no more. He has ruined my life.

Mälzel tapped the floor with his walking stick and the coach snapped into motion. I nearly came at him. What are you doing? I am saying good-bye to my mother!

The ship’s schedule has no time for sentiment, Mälzel said coolly.

I thrust my head out the window as her figure shrank, standing in the dusty street. "Ma, remember what I said. Suche Hilfe wo Du kannst. Sei stark!" Seek help where you can. Be strong!

Her shoulders slumped as she watched our coach turn the corner and disappear. That forlorn woman and her jealous husband forced me to admit: They are broken people and I cannot repair them.

From my palm, Beethoven’s image beckoned me. His features were my own. Would he welcome me? He was conceived as a bastard child, as I. Such was written in that new English encyclopedia at the College library: Ludwig van Beethoven, born of the Prussian Frederick the Great. I will sit next to him, talking and laughing. We will joke, play chess or cards, and drink, oh yes, we will drink. I will loosen him for the inevitable truth: Maestro, I am your son. An interview was the only suitable approach to this famous man.

Watching the woods glide by in their first blush of autumn’s golden and russet hues, I promised God this interview would be my last lie.

2

How did I get it into my head to leave Williamsburg for Beethoven? It roused up, like a slow storm brewing: I could not see it, could not hear it, but when a mean wind blows out of nowhere, something has stirred it with a mighty hand, way back from far away.

After my mother was taken from our home, I never heard Beethoven’s music again. But the inmates in the asylum did. When they got too excited about anything or nothing, the attendants would bang on their wooden cell doors and shout, Quiet, you! As if on cue, Ma reached for the virginal that Phineas Poole brought her and played new Beethoven’s sonatas her relatives sent her from Regensburg. The virginal was a handsome instrument, crafted from Poole’s own hands. When he wanted to get fancy, he paid one of the town’s craftsmen to paint budding flowers on it, and carve intricate designs into the wood until it resembled a thing of beauty from her native Bavaria. Poole adored my mother. She reminded him of all he missed from his beloved Ireland, homespun country ways and all.

Like some dreamy incantation, the virginal quieted the inmates, as its music echoed and bounced off the smudged walls. When I took her home six months before, she left the virginal behind. Let them enjoy it, she said sadly.

One tune never left my head: the second movement, an andante, from Beethoven’s sonatina in G major. It played like a slow waltz from the Old World, where peasants huddled at the hearth, reminiscing over events that never came to pass, or mourning over ill-fated things that did. The song’s middle pushed itself to be happy and lifted its skirts to dance in joy over life’s sweet moments. Then reality crashed in like a soggy roof. The music ended with a sigh.

That sentiment fit my circumstance. No boy should be tossed out of his own home, when everyone knows he did no wrong. Except be conceived by the seed of another man whom my mother passionately loved . . . in another land and time, so far away.

It was my twenty-third birthday, six months before leaving Williamsburg, when my mother came home and soon after, Beethoven re-entered my life. Like bad news, I did not see him coming.

It happened during the Williamsburg Faire. The Faire stretched from the Market Square to the Palace Green, even though the palace and its green lawn were no more. The spring Faire was celebrated on the feast day of St. George, England’s patron saint. Although we are a nation free of the British, some quaint English habits never changed. As the only newspaperman for the Williamsburg Post, I toured the Faire, jotting down the best events of the day in my little notebook.

Militia cannon fired. The townspeople screamed, then laughed. Music, singing, shouts of farmers and merchants hawking their wares filled the air, along with militia muskets, the lowing and bleating of penned livestock, and the shrieks of excitable children. Over here, fiddling and grinning contests, puppet shows, and soaped pigtail chases competed for the young at heart. Over there, horse races, cockfights, and boxing matches lured the jaded, the innocent, and the curious.

In the midst of this activity, two mayoral candidates competed on the lawn. One was Rathburn, stumping his ideology on a raised platform. I would have voted for him, had I owned property.

Down in Rathburn’s pressroom, I had felt one with the world as I tied on that blackened leather apron, lined tiny print by the window, and inked the plates. Laboring from sunup to sundown, I grew into a well-formed man as my muscles thickened with every pull of the press arm.

Working alongside me was Isaac, a Negro and a buffalo of a man, thick-muscled, dark brown, and wooly. He was my confidante; as a white man, I was his protector. Rathburn needed Isaac’s sinew for the heaviest labor, the worst of which was making newspapers. Inking leather balls, dabbing the plates, then pumping the rusted lever can wear a man. Stamping one hundred sheets a week had enlarged and hardened my young biceps, but it deformed forty-eight-year-old Isaac. Up and down he worked that lever, up and down. His right shoulder grew higher than his left, throwing his gait into a noticeable limp. But Isaac committed himself to his labors: He had two hundred and fifty dollars to earn before he could buy his freedom.

When I advanced to journeyman, I cast off the blackened apron for my favorite brown suit and yellow vest. Better yet, more money—seven dollars a week—jingled in my pocket. My new wealth brought jauntiness to my step, freshness in my spirit, and boldness to my head. As a man without property, though, I was restless for promotion: Master printer!

Back at the Faire, I could not divert my eyes from Rathburn’s daughter. Standing at his side, she beamed like a vision, lightly twirling her parasol at her shoulder. Miss Rebecca—my Becky, a petite goddess created by God’s artistic hand. Our gaze met as her father earned applause from the planters. Winning their votes was Rathburn’s life-long goal. The title of His Honor meant as much to Rathburn as master printer meant to me. I tipped my hat to her. She smiled demurely from beneath her parasol’s shade. I nodded in the direction of a troupe called Bambini’s Traveling Thespians: Join me there. Her parasol twirled in response: Yes.

Near the former Governor’s Palace, Phineas Poole’s band struck a lively tune. Poole envied the orchestras in Europe. He desired such for Williamsburg, as if that would return our sagging village to its glory days. I could not make sense of Poole sometimes.

But what commotion Poole’s band made! Some folks, staid and correct, threw themselves into the dance. Negro children marched in place. Even old souls, those who fondly reminisced when the minuet was king, rocked to and fro on wooden benches. The whoops, squeals, and laughter almost drowned out the noise of the livestock and hawkers. The music concluded to a rousing ovation.

Mr. Poole! I shouted.

He turned and waved. Halloo, George.

Ancient, spry, and full of gristle, Phineas Poole dreamed of being America’s first great composer. But the only thing he created was mischief at the parish organ some Sundays, displeasing the frowning Episcopal congregation. Music was not allowed during services, but Poole did not care. Boredom pushed me to it, he would say. Nevertheless, he reigned as an expert on the musical works of others. He relished all music, from solemn church hymns to folk songs, Negro spirituals to randy sea chanteys. Hundreds of scores weighed on every chair in his home— Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Corelli, Palestrina, Cherubini, Poole possessed them all. Except Beethoven. After much begging, he convinced my mother to allow him one of her scores before the men dragged her to the hospital. Poole’s pleasure in playing Beethoven abruptly ended when my stepfather burnt those scores to ashes. Poole mourned the loss so deeply that he refused his company for weeks.

I motioned to his audience with my pencil. What’s the idea, getting folks in high feather? That music is fine enough for a long review.

This town needs a good tickle now and then, Poole cackled with his usual glee.

So which dead composer did you choose this time? I lifted the score