town, craggy outcrops of rock showed through the trees.
âLook, Louise,â Izaac had stopped. âMadame Helena was right, Beethoven did live here; it says so above the door: 1818 to 1820. Come on, we must go in.â Beyond the arch was a narrow courtyard, cloistered on both sides, opening beneath another arch into a tantalising garden at the end. âImagine the music that must have filled this place?â he murmured. âDo you remember the sonatas we worked on? And the Violin Concerto? Oh, to have been here!â
At that moment a woman emerged from a door to one side. She looked Izaac up and down, saw his violin, his rucksack, and his awed expression.
âLooking for Herr Beethoven, love?â she called out. âWell, youâre a hundred and twenty years too late. My great- great-grandmother threw him out because of the noise he made. Roaring like a lion he was, and hammering at his piano till the strings broke. We havenât lodged musicians since!â
Before Izaac could explain that he wasnât looking for a room, she had disappeared with a genial chuckle. âHe was deaf as a post,â he explained to Luoise as they retreated, âand used to get furious when he couldnât hear his piano.â
They got directions to their new address from the clerk in the town hall, a lovely little building with an onion dome. Ten minutes walk brought them to another court-yarded house, with Uncle Rudiâs now dusty car waiting like a guard dog in the entrance. The windows had all been thrown open, and Madame Helena emerged, looking like an Arab dancer, with a gauze scarf across her face. âThere was a fire that destroyed the local sawmills a week ago,â she explained. âThe smell of smoke seems to have got in and lingered inside.â She plucked off her scarf. âThe first of my seven veils! We are going to have fun!â She led Izaac inside. âI have chosen a room for you. It backs up onto the woods so you wonât disturb anyone when you begin to practise later. Howeverâ¦my orders now are for no practising for at least a week!â
Louise, wanting privacy, went off to find a place for herself; the Abrahams family seemed to have expanded into every room available. Trunks and cases stood open everywhere. Helpless men waited for their loved ones, or Lotte, to unpack for them. Eventually she found her way up to the attic where she discovered what had probably been a servantâs room. It reminded her of her attic back in Delft, so she furnished it inher imagination in the Dutch style and went on a welcome journey back into her past, thinking of Father and Pieter and of her home in Holland.
Madame Helena closed the door and Izaac was on his own. He shed his rucksack, laid his violin on his bed, and bent to undo the two clips that held it closed, but then stopped. Helena had been adamant â no practising â but yet the itch, the urge to take out his violin and start playing was overwhelming. If he couldnât practise, what would he do? And Louise? What about her? She had been on his mind recently. She and his music were bound together as his one great love in life, but, looking back, heâd made a slave of her, hadnât he? Now, for the first time he was become aware of her as a person. They were much of an age. He decided that they would explore Mödling together and perhaps venture up into the woods as Beethoven and the others had done. If Helena was right, it would still be part of their music together, but he would make it Louiseâs holiday as much as his. He lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and promptly fell asleep.
Louise was delighted to be included in Izaacâs explorations and thrilled with the lovely little town. They walked the streets and the courtyards, and when it got hot, they took refuge in the cool of one of the churches. The exuberant altars and the baroque decorations of the church, all trumpets and
âLook, Louise,â Izaac had stopped. âMadame Helena was right, Beethoven did live here; it says so above the door: 1818 to 1820. Come on, we must go in.â Beyond the arch was a narrow courtyard, cloistered on both sides, opening beneath another arch into a tantalising garden at the end. âImagine the music that must have filled this place?â he murmured. âDo you remember the sonatas we worked on? And the Violin Concerto? Oh, to have been here!â
At that moment a woman emerged from a door to one side. She looked Izaac up and down, saw his violin, his rucksack, and his awed expression.
âLooking for Herr Beethoven, love?â she called out. âWell, youâre a hundred and twenty years too late. My great- great-grandmother threw him out because of the noise he made. Roaring like a lion he was, and hammering at his piano till the strings broke. We havenât lodged musicians since!â
Before Izaac could explain that he wasnât looking for a room, she had disappeared with a genial chuckle. âHe was deaf as a post,â he explained to Luoise as they retreated, âand used to get furious when he couldnât hear his piano.â
They got directions to their new address from the clerk in the town hall, a lovely little building with an onion dome. Ten minutes walk brought them to another court-yarded house, with Uncle Rudiâs now dusty car waiting like a guard dog in the entrance. The windows had all been thrown open, and Madame Helena emerged, looking like an Arab dancer, with a gauze scarf across her face. âThere was a fire that destroyed the local sawmills a week ago,â she explained. âThe smell of smoke seems to have got in and lingered inside.â She plucked off her scarf. âThe first of my seven veils! We are going to have fun!â She led Izaac inside. âI have chosen a room for you. It backs up onto the woods so you wonât disturb anyone when you begin to practise later. Howeverâ¦my orders now are for no practising for at least a week!â
Louise, wanting privacy, went off to find a place for herself; the Abrahams family seemed to have expanded into every room available. Trunks and cases stood open everywhere. Helpless men waited for their loved ones, or Lotte, to unpack for them. Eventually she found her way up to the attic where she discovered what had probably been a servantâs room. It reminded her of her attic back in Delft, so she furnished it inher imagination in the Dutch style and went on a welcome journey back into her past, thinking of Father and Pieter and of her home in Holland.
Madame Helena closed the door and Izaac was on his own. He shed his rucksack, laid his violin on his bed, and bent to undo the two clips that held it closed, but then stopped. Helena had been adamant â no practising â but yet the itch, the urge to take out his violin and start playing was overwhelming. If he couldnât practise, what would he do? And Louise? What about her? She had been on his mind recently. She and his music were bound together as his one great love in life, but, looking back, heâd made a slave of her, hadnât he? Now, for the first time he was become aware of her as a person. They were much of an age. He decided that they would explore Mödling together and perhaps venture up into the woods as Beethoven and the others had done. If Helena was right, it would still be part of their music together, but he would make it Louiseâs holiday as much as his. He lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and promptly fell asleep.
Louise was delighted to be included in Izaacâs explorations and thrilled with the lovely little town. They walked the streets and the courtyards, and when it got hot, they took refuge in the cool of one of the churches. The exuberant altars and the baroque decorations of the church, all trumpets and