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Showing posts with label Mozart. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mozart. Show all posts

Friday, July 3, 2015

NIGHTINGALE ~ Friday Freebit


 
 
To Klara's delight, her musician sweetheart is also a cat lover.
 
 
 
 
“My grandfather is a keeper of cats,” Akos spoke into the silence. “Ever since I was small, I’ve always had one of my own. Actually,” he said with a smile, “as you perhaps know, a better description of the situation might be that I belong to the cat.”

Klara smiled. His interest in Satz was not feigned.

“And what is your cat like?”

“In my case, I am owned by a queen cat, a lady of many colors. Her name is Zuzanna. She is a good mother and a fine mouser.”

“What happens to all the kittens?” Klara knew that was another thing Max hated about cats, their fertility.

“Zuzanna is populating the Prince’s palace thoroughly, but her kittens are beautiful and find homes.”

“Fortunate for them,” said Klara. She knew that surplus kittens were generally given to servants to drown. She’d be hard pressed to give such an order herself.

“Cats are discriminating about whose life they enter. If a cat trusts you, it is a great compliment.”




 
 
 
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~Juliet Waldron ~
 
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Friday, May 1, 2015

MY MOZART / Excerpt for MAY DAY





#frifreebits

She was moth to his flame...


...The forest was a living cathedral, the great columns bearing a roof of green. All the time we gradually ascended, following a path. In one place we forded a lively stream, balancing on mossy rocks that barely kept us above the chattering water.

Topping a final rise, we came at last upon the Waldhut. It sat in a small clearing, dwarfed by the biggest pine trees I had ever seen. Smoke trailed from the chimney and a fire also crackled out front, snapping sparks. From the greasy cloud rising from a blackened, steaming rock pile, I knew that a pig had already gone into the pit. There was another smell, too, the welcome fragrance of coffee.

Among the musicians and dancers were handymen and servants, all sharing in the cheerful equality of the day. As Barbara and I laid blankets at the edge of the clearing atop a thick blanket of pine needles, I spied, further back in the woods, a green tent. Stage shrieks emanated from it.

"Gott! The usual bawdy house atmosphere." Barbara took me by the arm and pulled me toward the fire. "You, Blumechen, are to stay far, far away from that tent."

The clearing had the look of an impromptu marketplace, with stacks of rugs and laden baskets. Three children suddenly bounded out the door of the summerhouse, pushing past like unruly dogs. Two boys and a girl, they wore bright lumpy peasant’s clothing.

Who did they remind me of, with their broad laughing faces and thick wild hair?

"Schikaneder's." Barbara answered my unspoken question. "Three different mothers, but look at them, alike as peas in a pod. He keeps a regular herd at some farm near Josephplatz."

Turks, I thought, weren't the only men to keep harems.

Going into the Waldhut with Barbara, we found a trestle table set with breads, butter, cheese and those expensive luxuries, coffee and sugar. With cups in hand we stood around the table with the Schacks, who were already inside eating. At last, in spite of the strong, sugary coffee and so many gay companions, I was sleepier than ever. Barbara and I, after looking at each other and yawning, agreed we couldn't keep our eyes open much longer.

Going into the yard, we collected our things and carried them to an area screened from the clearing by flowering trees. Here, close to the prone form of an ancient pine, we spread our blankets. Ferns and clusters of tiny white and lavender flowers dotted the ground. Barbara fussed at me to hurry and settle, but I spent time carefully finding a spot where the blanket wouldn't crush them.

"Shall I sing my little girl a lullaby?" Barbara leaned back against the fallen tree and kicked off her shoes.

"Yes if you please, Frau Gerl."

Behind us, the clearing grew quiet. There seemed to be a unanimous decision that it was time for a nap. While Barbara softly serenaded me with an old nursery song, I bunched up my shawl for a pillow. A root that felt like a big toe stuck into my side, so I moved my hips. The last conscious thought I had was that I'd never be able to fall asleep here...

 
 
~~~
 
 
I stood with a group of women among the pines. I could hear a bright tune, perfect for a romp, but my companions were still as statues. In their midst was a man, an angel of a man, a man I almost recognized.
Golden curls haloed his face and he wore a crown of laurel leaves, like Apollo. When he beckoned, one of my companions would rise and walk like a sleepwalker into his arms, where she would be embraced and kissed. Melting, the woman would crumple to the ground at his feet and remain there, eyes raised toward his shining face, apparently quite stricken with love..."
 


 
~~Juliet Waldron
MY MOZART:
 
 
 
See all my books @
 

 

Friday, April 24, 2015

FreeBits--NIGHTINGALE/Chapter One

#frifreebits
 


 http://amzn.com/B00D8MEL8E

Klara ached all over, but perhaps the bitter draught of willow bark and hot water which she had just swallowed would subdue it. The aristocratic audience, which contained two princes of the Blood Royal, was one she did not dare refuse.

In the winter twilight, servants had been lighting ranks of candles set upon the chandeliers. The task completed, those tinkling balls of crystal and light were hoisted towards the ceiling. A glow fell over the white wigs and court clothes of the guests, who were seated in a half-circle around four string players and a gilded harpsichord.

The January afternoon was cold, and her maid, Liese had scolded. In the end, Klara resigned herself to wear a silver wig. Very often, in Max’s absence, she did not. This, of course, quickly set her apart from the other ladies, but Klara Silber's hair was her glory. Thick, lively, and the color of polished mahogany, it made a spectacular crown about her heart-shaped face. To atone for the absence of the required wig, her hairdresser would create a frenzy of curls. One auburn lock was often left loose to trail with lazy abandon over one shoulder. Today, however, she was simply too cold. Today she would gratefully accept the warmth that came with the wig.

The host of this English Tea, an elderly Baron, took Klara's hand into his white kid glove, ready to lead her to the harpsichord.

"You appear a little fatigued, Fraulein Silber. Please don't feel you must tax yourself too much on my account, especially when there is so much sickness about this winter. Perhaps just sing the poignant little piece by Kapellmeister Handel, the song of Queen Sheba, which the ladies love so much.”
 
The Baron, unlike so many others of high rank, was always considerate.

"I do feel somewhat tired, sir." Meeting his faded, benevolent gaze, Klara glossed her discomfort. "However, I would never wish to disappoint you, or your distinguished guests."

"I think there is little danger of that, Fraulein." He regarded her with a fatherly smile. "We wouldn't want you to be ill when your patron returns from his labors in Silesia. I'm sure that after the fighting and the long labors of his absence, Count Oettingen will often require the healing solace of your voice."

The Baron was simply making conversation, but Klara shivered.

Just the mention of Max!

Snow and continuing turmoil on the Prussian border had detained her patron, The Most Noble Maximilian von Oettingen.
 
Klara had been gratefully thanking every saint in the calendar that he had not yet returned....


~Juliet Waldron



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Friday, August 15, 2014

~~MY MOZART ~~ An Excerpt for Friday Freebits!




 
    ~~Nanina Gottlieb tells us about her very first introduction to the man she will love forever.~


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


             What had my fond Papa been saying about me? Wanting to sink through the floor, I shot a look in his direction, but Papa, blind with parental pride, could not see my discomfort. I could feel a wretched blush, that bane of my life, throbbing into my cheeks.

"Your Papa says that you appreciate good music and that you sing."

These were his first words to me. There wasn't a hint of condescension or mockery in his voice. Shy and proud as a cat, I had braced for it.

"I hear all of your music that I can, Kapellmeister Mozart."

I remember rocking up on my toes. I absolutely couldn't stop myself.

Here I was, talking to this magician!

"She clearly has excellent taste! Come here, Princess Gottlieb. Sit beside me."



~~Read More of MY MOZART at Amazon~~
 
 
 
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Thursday, May 15, 2014

MY MOZART


 

 
 

It was said of the enigmatic Mozart that "...'tis unfortunately all too well known that fast living in ill-chosen company shortened his precious days."  My Mozart is the story of Nanina Gottlieb, who begins her narrative as a musiker brat.                                                                                                       

 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 

"Mozart, Ich liebe dich. I love you. Love you."

"Come here, Nanina Nightingale. Come and give your poor old Maestro some of your ‘specially sugary sugar."

My mouth on his‑‑the friction produced warmth and sweetness, with a decided undertone of the expensive brandy he liked, flowing from his tongue to mine. I slid my arms across the brocade of his jacket, none too clean these days, and swayed a slender dancer's body against him.

Let me assure you that my sophistication was assumed. It really doesn't matter - then, or now. I was young, foolish, and drowning in love. I was seventeen. He was thirty five.

He had once been boyishly agile, doing handsprings over chairs, turning cartwheels of joy at a prima donna’s kiss or a perfect performance of his own celestial music. He was never tall, and was, like most men of his age, working on a bit of a belly. Still, he kept more or less in shape by a daily regimen which included running from bailiffs, dashing out the back doors of taverns to avoid payment, and climbing in and out of the bedroom windows of adventurous (and talented) musical gentlewomen.

I believed he knew everything--that he could see right through me with those bright blue eyes. He probably could. He'd been my music master--and, more--my deity, ever since I'd met him, in my ninth year.

His jacket, now spotted and stained, must have been fine enough to wear in the presence of the Emperor. Bright blue, it perfectly matched his eyes. I can still feel the fabric sliding under my fingers as my arms passed over his shoulders and around his neck.

I can still see him‑‑a woolly frizz of blonde hair, long, aquiline nose--a ram that had once been an angel. Sometimes, when he was loving me in some exquisitely naughty way and joyfully smiling as he did it, I could almost see horns…

 


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My Mozart by Juliet Waldron from Books We Love


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“The brilliance of the plot is that it is timeless ... The characters are as real as today, once again underscoring the fact that people, after all, never change in motives or behavior ... only in time.”  Patricia A. Martin