by Kat Nickell

The music wouldn't come.

The overcast skies, threatening rain yet never yielding a drop, mirrored his dismal feelings. Worse still, he had received a new letter from his sister: his father's illness was worse. Couldn't he come home, preferably alone?

Tears stung his eyes as he crumpled the letter. How could he write Nannerl that he hadn't the means to travel--even alone? She wouldn't understand; neither would Papa, if he came to hear of it. He'd only lecture on practicing economy and living within one's means, and probably blame Stanzi for failing to be a proper hausfrau.

Better to write that he had receive a new commission which was keeping him in Vienna. Papa would like that, though he would be hurt all the same. It was, of course, a lie--for the commission had not come. Not yet. Bt he felt sure it would. Even they must have heard how Prague had lauded his "Figaro".

Basta! Who was he fooling, anyway? The sad truth was that he didn't want to go to Salzburg again, not even for Papa. Or was it because of Papa?

Composing his thoughts as carefully as he would a sonata, he dragged paper and quill toward himself and began to write.

"Mon Tres Cher Papa..."

"Herr Mozart?"

He glared at the maid. "Yes?"

"Herr Mozart, the Baron Van Sweitan is here," she dithered, bobbing up and down with excitement. "He wishes to speak to you."

Moments later, Van Sweitan entered and seated himself in the most comfortable empty chair. "I have a young man I want you to hear, Mozart. he is quite talented."

Mozart snorted, all-too familiar with the Baron's pretensions to musical knowledge. He tried to be diplomatic, though--at least, as long as the hope of work was possible. "I'll be the judge of that," he smiled curtly.

"Of course, of course," Van Sweitan waved the slight objection aside. "Once you hear him, though, you will beg him to be your student..."

Mozart's doubts increased as Van Sweitan usheredin one of the most unprepossessing youngsters it had ever been his misfortune to meet.

The youth looked like a farmboy, dressed in last year's cast-off fashions. His untidy, bushy hair fell to his shoulders without even a ribbon to pull it from his heavy, beefy features. Worse, thre were pimples standing out hotly against his dark skin, and his nose kept making an unhealthy snorting noise.

Mozart remained polite. "Welcome, mein herr. The Baron tells me you wish to learn how to play..."

"I can play!"

Even his voice was heavy and unmusical, thickened by a provincial accent worse than a Salzburger's. Mozart looked past the boy to their mutal patron, who shrugged.

"I wish to learn how to compose."

Mozart restrained the urge to laugh. "Indeed? Well, let's hear how well you play."

The boy shrugged and shuffled to the pianoforte. "I've got a technique." Seating himself with a grunt, he began to play a movement from one of Mozart's sonatas.

After a few minutes, Mozart had to restrain himself from rushing over and slapping the youth's hands from the keyboard. Technique? What technique? The boy played like the beast he looked. if he had any musical feeling in him at all--which Mozart doubted--it was buried deep. Too deep for him to mine.

Finally, the minuetto came to a merciful end. "Well, what did you think?" enthused the Baron.

At Mozart's hesitation, the boy said sullenly, "You did not like it--but I played each note perfectly, at tempo."

Mozart nodded. he had to give credit where credit was due. Still, he could not bring himself to praise such clumsy playing.

"Give me another chance, Herr Mozart. I can improvise; give me a theme, and you will hear what I can do."

Mozart heard the note of pleading in the grating voice and, despite his misgivings, acquiesced. Without thinking, he named a theme.

"And the style?"

A wry grin crossed Mozart's lips. "Try your own. Let's hear what you can do on your own."

The heavy head bowed over the keyoard, then the blunt fingers began to move. An adagio measure to establish a theme, then he attacked more boldly and the notes wove themselves into a complex pattern--not one that Mozart would have chosen himself.

It was too disturbing, almost dischordant. It was the sort of thing that audiences would not like. Yet it had raw power behind it, and it was a power that swept the listener before it like a dark ocean wave. There truly was gold buried in the mud.

Mozart found himself falling under it spell until the last notes died to silence. The young man sat, head sunk upon his chest, eyes squeezed shut,listening to the final echoes.

"So, Mozart--was I right?"

Van Sweitan's jarring voice jolted Mozart from his reverie. He stood up and walked to the piano, studying the boy who was sittig like a lump. Such a dull setting for such marvelous music! Finally, he said, "I will take you as a student. My fee..."

"I will see to that," Van Sweitan interposed before the boy could answer for himself. "Will next week suit you, Mozart? He is eager to begin."

He could only nod. Next week would be fine. Just fine.

Abruptly, the Baron rose and announced that he had other business to attend to, but that he would be in touch within a few days. "Oh, and by the way--" he turned as he walked toward the door, "his name is Ludwig."

The mismatched duo went away, then leaving Mozart alone with his thoughts.

But there was still the letter to compose to his Papa. returning to his desk, he composed his rambling apologies, then added the praises that "Figaro" had received in Prague:

"...And Papa, they do nothing but Figaro. They whistle it, hum it,
sing it in the streets. You would have enjoyed our success, I know.
Besides my new commission, of which I hope to write more later,
I have taken a new pupil. He is an ugly boy who will never be one
with fashion or the ladies, but he has talent of I kind I've never heard.
We must watch this young Ludwig, for he will make a great noise in
the world some day.
Your obedient son--

"Wolfi !"

He turned. Constanze stepped through the front door, the small dog on its leash. She was smiling.

"Wolfi, the sky is cleaing up and the sun is coming out at last. It is going to be a beautiful afternoon."

Yes it was! The private clouds that had haunted him that day began to disipate. With a grin, he swept her into his arms and spun her around until they both were as giddy as children. For awhile, the world and its cares could wait.

Epilogue

Ludwig Van Beethoven never returned. His own mother was dying, and he returned to her home in Bonn before his first lessons could ever begin. By the time he was able to permenantly resettle in Vienna, Mozart was dead. Though deeply discouraged, he settled on another instructor who conveniently presented himelf, and who convinced beethoven that everything had happened for the best. The new instructor was Antonio Salieri.

Mozart's letter was lost before it even left Vienna.

This story was originally written for an anthology called "Faded Roses", published by Off-Note productions . Wistful, thought-provoking and droll, it is a delight to read for all music lovers, be their favorite composer Mozart or Beethoven

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.

"The Beast" -- © 2001-2006 Kat Nickell & Off-Note Productions