The Countess Shares Confidences over Karneval Chocolate
GIULIETTA GUICCIARDI: VIENNA, 1860
He was a stormy pedagogue,
always interrupting the prettiest airs–
even his own compositions,
which I was given to understand
he did not permit everyone to play.
I pounced upon each chord
with the ignorant ardor of youth;
I was sixteen, after all, and he was already
famous in Vienna, where such
approbations are stingily accorded.
He insisted on a light touch. He himself
was a wild man, ripping the music
from my stumbling fingers
and stomping about as the pages
fluttered sadly earthwards,
like the poor pheasants dropped over
the hunting fields of the Prater.
Rest assured I soon learned to play
more lightly! He was pleased, then,
and a quick soft smile would crimp
that dismal chunk of a face,
a sight just slightly less repugnant
than his rages. He was exceedingly
unlovely, yes, but with a threadbare
elegance–much as a servant,
envisioning gentility, might
avail himself of the scraps and dashes
from the milliner’s basket.
Sometimes I could coax him
to the pianoforte, where
he would bow his head,
eyes closed, and wait–
as if the silence spoke only to him;
before playing without notes
music of such inexpressible beauty,
I thought to breathe and disturb the air
would break his heart. He would not
consent to payment, but accepted the linens
I had sent up to his rooms. Poor man–
he thought I had sewn them myself.