For Music, For Mozart

by Kathy Handyside

It was late, and the only light on in the house was the piano lamp, as I sat at the piano working out a phrase from Mozart's piano concerto in Eb.

It was always Mozart now. At one time, I listened to nothing but Beethoven's music, but I found his music too stormy now. What I needed was the peace, lightness, depth, and even the tragedy of Mozart's music. Somehow, it brought light and hope to my life which, since my mother's recent sudden death, had become unsettled and sometimes almost unbearably lonely, melancholic and depressing. Mozart's music gave me the only balance in my otherwise unbalanced life.

Night after night I'd sit at the piano for hours, painfully slowly trying to play his music. Something inside me needed to play it. I wasn't much of a pianist - I wasn't even taking piano lessons - those would come later. I had been a clarinetist in the past and I played the viola now, so of course I could read music. I had just fallen in love with Mozart's keyboard works and longed to play his piano concertos and sonatas, but they were desperately difficult, even though on paper they looked deceptively simple.

"Nothing is so complex as true simplicity," I thought, staring off into space. Then I turned back to the music to try it again, a phrase at a time.

Suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement. I looked up: a man stood there, looking somewhat annoyed. He strode over to the piano.

"This is an E," he said, striking a note. "This is an Eb. Would you please learn the difference between them?!"

"Well, I'm trying," I said apologetically. "But I'm not really a pianist, you see - I don't really play the piano. Herr Mozart, I presume?" My heart was knocking wildly. He bowed.

I studied him: like the Lange portrait in the biographies of him - short, not much taller than me, sandy hair, slender, large blue eyes that seemed to bore into the depths of one's soul when he looked at you.

Suddenly remembering my manners, I said, "Would you care to sit down, Maestro?"

"Thank you, " he said and sat down on the sofa. I remained where I was on the piano bench, unsure of how close I wanted to get to him. We stared at each other for a minute. What does one say to a two-hundred and forty-five-year-old ghost?

Mozart smiled at me. "You're not afraid of me, are you?," he asked.

"Oh...no!," I said. How could I tell him how much I'd dreamed and longed for just this chance?

"You're not a pianist, you say, but you're playing my keyboard works?," he asked, looking over at the shelves of music next to the piano. They were crammed with his piano music, along with that of Bach, Beethoven, Haydn and all the other composers whose piano works I dreamed of playing someday.

Mozart came back over to the piano and picked up the concerto. Glancing at the music, he asked, "Isn't this a bit...advanced...for you?"

"Yes," I admitted, then added softly, "But I have to try." Mozart looked at me, then smiled.

"You like my music?," he asked quietly.

I lowered my eyes so he couldn't see my sudden tears. "Yes," I said in a near-whisper. How could I tell him what his music meant to me? He'd probably heard every platitude ever conceived.

"Well," said Mozart. "Let me hear what you can play of it". He sat back down on the sofa.

I looked at him, wide-eyed and, I admit, rather terrified. I suffered from the worst performance fear - playing for people was torture for me. It was one thing to play music by myself - it was quite something else to play it when the composer of the music was sitting right there listening to me. And what a composer! I well knew, too, his disdain for mediocre musicians and was frightened at the thought that I, too, belonged in that category and would be subjected to his caustic comments.

"Well, come on!," Mozart said, rather impatiently. "I need to find out what level you're at."

Not fully understanding his meaning, I began. I played what I could of the concerto, slowly.

"All right," Mozart said, after a bit. I stopped playing. "You are, as you say, not really a pianist," he said. I winced at that. "Well, not yet, anyway," he added quickly, seeing me wince.

"Let me find out what you do know musically. Have you any music paper - and a pen?"

"Yes," I said. I went over to the bookshelves and pulled out my pad of manuscript paper and handed it to him. I had a fine-tip felt pen and a pencil on the music rack of the piano. I handed him the pen.

"Thank you," Mozart said. He flipped open the pad of manuscript paper. A sheet fell out and landed on the floor. Before I could react, Mozart leaned over and picked it up. I'd forgotten I'd left it in there - it was a composition I'd been working on - a theme and variations for piano. "Is this something you wrote?," Mozart asked, interested.

"Yes," I said. "But it's not finished yet. And anyway, I'm not really a composer. My problem is that I have ideas - I hear things in my head - but then I don't know what to do with them. I can't seem to get what's in my head down on paper."

Mozart looked at me. "You seem to be not really a lot of things, don't you?," he said, with a small smile. He came back over to the piano. "May I?," he asked. "Of course," I said, and stood up. He sat down and played what I'd written. "Very nice," he said. " I like it."

"Thank you!," I said, surprised.

"Well, let's begin," Mozart said, setting my composition to one side. He stood up and walked over to the desk at the far end of the room. "May I use your desk?," he asked. He was, if nothing else, extremely polite, I thought.

"Please do," I said.

"Thank you," he said. "And you must sit here," he said, indicating the extra chair at the front of the desk. I sat down.

Mozart opened the manuscript pad once more. Then he looked curiously at the pen. It was, of course, an ordinary pen - ordinary by our standards, that is.

"Um...?," Mozart looked at me. "Oh, sorry, Maestro!," I said, hastily. I pulled the cap off the pen and stuck it on the other end, then handed it back to him. He made a few squiggles on the paper.

"Ah," he said. "How curious!"

Then Mozart wrote out several measures of music and handed the paper to me. "This is your examination," he said. "What can you tell me about each of these examples?"

I had already had two semesters of music theory at the university. I went through each example, identifying key and time signatures, chords, intervals, everything I could think of.

"Excellent!," said Mozart, when I'd finished. "You know more than I thought you did. Now let's see how musical your ear is." He got up and went back to the piano and drilled me on a series of what we would call ear training exercises. Some I got correct, a few I missed.

Ear training was still my weak area.

At last Mozart turned from the piano and said, "Well - I have both a favor to ask and a favor to grant. And an explanation for both."

"Would you like to explain it over coffee, Maestro?," I asked.

Mozart brightened. "Wunderbar! I'd love that!"

"Follow me, Maestro," I said. I led him out to the kitchen.

When we reached the kitchen, I flipped the light switch on. Mozart stared. "How did you do that?," he asked. I showed him the switch and he tried it, flipping the lights on and off several times, grinning delightedly.

"That is marvelous! You must tell me sometime how it works."

"Please sit down, Maestro," I said. "This will only take a few minutes." He sat down and watched me as I put the water and coffee in the coffee maker and turned it on. Then I set out cups and saucers, napkins, spoons, sugar and cream on the table, then fixed a plate of chocolate chip cookies I'd made earlier in the day and set a small plate in front of him and another at my place. I sat down opposite him. "You have a machine to make coffee?", Mozart asked, looking over at the now-growling coffee maker.

"We have machines for just about everything now, Maestro," I said.

"I see," he said, musingly.

"The coffee will be ready soon," I said. "Meanwhile, have a cookie." I indicated the plate. "Thank you," he said, reaching for one. He bit into it and his eyes widened. "These are wonderful!," he said.

"Thank you - I made them earlier today," I said.

The kitchen was soon redolent with the smell of brewing coffee.

"Ah - one of my favorite scents!," Mozart said. "I love coffee."

"I read that about you," I said.

"You must find this very strange," he said.

"Well, yes," I said. "And yet, not strange. You see, ever since I first fell in love with your music and first read about you, I admit I've dreamed of this. To be able to sit and talk with you face to face. So it's like being in a familiar dream."

Mozart smiled. "I'm glad you're not frightened," he said.

The coffee pot gave a final grumbling noise. "Coffee's ready," I said. I stood up and went over to the coffee maker, picked up the pot and carried it back to the table. I filled his cup, then filled mine and returned the coffee pot to the warming plate.

Mozart preferred his coffee black, but waited until I'd fixed mine.

"Well," he said. "I spoke of two favors and promised you an explanation. I have, you might say, some unfinished business which I must finish. And I need a place in which to finish it. Somewhere where I won't be disturbed, where I won't be recognized. Your home would be such a place. I've been studying you for some time. If you would allow me to stay here to do my work, I would agree to give you lessons in exchange." He looked at me a bit anxiously, awaiting my answer.

I looked at him. I'm sure my eyes were as wide as the cookies on the plate. I couldn't speak.

"If it's an inconvenience, I understand - I won't impose on you," Mozart said, hastily.

I drew a breath. "Oh, no, Maestro! It wouldn't be an inconvenience at all! It would be such an honor!"

Mozart laughed. "An honor? Thank you, but I must warn you - I'm a very demanding music master. I'd expect you to work. Are you sure?"

I thought, Mozart wants to give me music lessons and he's asking me if I'm sure I want them?? "Oh, yes - I'm sure!," I said. "But there is one thing I'm confused about."

"What's that?," asked Mozart, reaching for another cookie.

"Well - why me?," I asked. "Why would you come to me? I'm a musical nobody. Why wouldn't you go to, say, Itzhak Perlman, or Murray Perahia?"

"Does Itzhak Perlman or Murray Perahia need lessons from me?," Mozart asked.

"Oh," I said. "Well, no."

"Well, then," Mozart said, draining his coffee cup. "Is there any more coffee?", he asked.

"Certainly, Maestro," I said, standing up. He handed me his cup.

"You know - you don't have to keep calling me that," Mozart said. "I think, if we are going to be friends, you could call me 'Wolfgang'. I shall call you 'Katherl'."

I smiled. "All right - Wolfgang," I said, pouring him another cup of coffee. "So you know my name?," I asked.

"Of course," Mozart replied. "I told you I've been studying you for some time. Thank you," he said, as I handed him his cup.

I sat back down at the table. "Again," I said. "Why me?"

Wolfgang took a swallow of coffee, then set his cup down. "Well," he said. "Although I do not enjoy teaching that much, I do enjoy helping pupils who want to learn, who are serious and who have some talent. People who don't care to learn do not sit up all hours at the piano trying to teach themselves to play my music."

"Oh," I said, at a loss for words.

"Why don't we work out a plan?," Wolfgang asked.

"Certainly," I said. "I'll get my notebook." I walked back into the living room, pulled mynotebook out of my backpack and went back into the kitchen. Wolfgang was just helping himself to several more cookies when I came back in. He started and looked at me with a guilty smile. I grinned at him. "Help yourself, Wolfgang," I said. "Don't be shy. Besides the more you eat, the less I'll eat. I could stand to lose a few pounds and you look like you could stand to gain a few, so it's to our mutual advantage," I said, smiling. Wolfgang grinned and set the stack of the cookies on his plate.

And so we sat, finishing off the coffee and cookies, and worked out a plan for Wolfgang's moving in and a schedule for my lessons. He would come back in two days.

Finally, we said goodbye and Wolfgang disappeared into the night.

I knew that in two days' time, my life would change in a way no one would ever believe.

(The End - or is it the Beginning?)

This enchanting little fantasy was concieved at the keyboard, like a Mozart sonata. It is an intimate journey of the imagination told in multiple chapters, which is sure to charm the heart of any musician who has ever loved Mozart and wished for him to be their personal muse. An absolute delight.

Disclaimer: Mozart, his family and associates, are historical personalities not subject to any copyright laws. The individual stories themselves, however, are the exclusive property of the author and may not be reproduced without written permission from the author.