“You, of all people, should know this, Liesl,” Josef said. “Think you that our music comes from God? No, it comes from below. From him. The Ruler Underground.”
I knew my brother did not speak of the Devil. I had always known that Josef had faith—kept faith—with Constanze and the Goblin King. More than Papa. More than me. But I had not understood just how deeply his belief in the uncanny was stitched into his bones.
“How else can you explain the wildness, the abandon we feel when we play together?”
Was Josef afraid he was damned? God, the Devil, and the Goblin King were larger figures in my brother’s life than I had realized. More than either K?the or me, Josef had been sensitive to the moods and emotions around him. It was what made him a superb and sublime interpreter of music. Perhaps this was why he played with such exquisite clarity, agony, frenzy, ecstasy, and longing. It was fear. Fear and inspiration and divine providence all in one.
“Listen to me,” I said firmly. “The abandon we feel—that is not sin. That is grace. Grace is not a gift bestowed upon you that can suddenly be taken away. It is within you, Sepperl, a part of you. You carry that grace inside. And you will carry it with you all your life, no matter where you go.”
“But what if it’s not grace?” Josef whispered. “What if it’s a favor to be repaid?”
I said nothing. I did not know what to say.
“I know you don’t believe me,” he said miserably. “And I wouldn’t, either. But I remember a dream, and it returns to me piece by piece, night by night. I dream of a tall, elegant stranger who comes to me.”
Josef turned his head, and although it was dark, I could imagine the blush staining his cheeks. My brother had never confided in me outright about his romantic inclinations, but I knew him better than anyone else. I knew, and I understood.
“The stranger places his hand upon my brow, and says I will carry the music of the Underground with me, so long as I never leave this place.” Josef turned his eyes to me, but he didn’t seem to see me. “I was born here. I was meant to die here.”
“Don’t say that,” I said sharply. “Don’t you dare say that.”
“Don’t you believe so? My blood belongs to the land, Liesl. Yours too. We draw our inspiration from it, from the ground beneath our feet, as surely as the trees in the wood. Without it, how can we continue? How can I still play my music when my soul rests here, in the Goblin Grove?”
“Your soul rests within you, Sepperl.” I lightly touched my hand to his breast. “Here. That’s where your music comes from. Not from the land. Not from the woods outside.”
“I don’t know.” Josef buried his face in his hands. “But I am afraid. I am afraid of the bargain I struck with the stranger in my dreams. But now you understand why I’m too terrified to leave.”
I understood, but not in the way my brother intended. I saw his fear, and saw the demons he conjured to justify his fear. Unlike me or K?the, Josef had never seen anything of the world beyond our little corner of Bavaria. He did not know what delights the world could offer, what sights, what sounds, and what people he could encounter. I did not want my brother to stay home, to stay confined to the Goblin Grove and Constanze’s apron strings. Or mine. I wanted him to go out and live his life, even as it pained me to let him go.
“Come.” I walked to the klavier. “Let us play. Forget our woes. Just you and me, mein Brüderchen.” I felt, rather than saw, my brother smile. I sat down on the bench and played a simple repeating phrase.
“Don’t you want the light?” Josef asked.
“No, leave it.” I knew where the keys were anyway. “Let’s just sit in the dark and play. No sheet music. Nothing we know by heart. I will give you the basso continuo, and you will improvise.”
I heard the faint plink of strings against the soundboard as Josef pulled the violin from its case, the soft shush as he ran his bow over the rosin cake. He settled the instrument beneath his chin, touched the bow to the strings, and began to play.
*
Time passed in waves, and my brother and I lost ourselves in music. We improvised on established structures, embellished on some of the sonatas we knew from memory, and then gradually segued into what Josef was to play for Master Antonius. Papa had decided on a Haydn sonata, though I had suggested Vivaldi. Vivaldi was Josef’s favorite composer, but Papa claimed he was too obscure. Haydn—a composer with critical and popular acclaim—was the safer choice.
The music wound down. “Feeling better?” I asked.
“Just one more?” Josef begged. “The largo from Vivaldi’s L’inverno. Please.”
By now the enchantment the music had woven over us was fading. K?the had accused me of loving Josef more, but it was not Josef I loved more; it was music. I loved my sister as much as I loved my brother, but I loved music most of all.
I glanced over my shoulder. “We should go,” I said. “Your audience awaits.” I closed the lid of the klavier and rose from the seat.
“Liesl.” Something in my brother’s voice gave me pause.
“Yes, Sepp?”