Baroness Dorothea Ertmann
Was
a student of Beethoven.
Like
him, she loved the piano.
The
only thing more important to her
Was
her frail, young son,
With
his small hands
And
thin fingers.
When
he died of the fever
She
moved into silence
As
though it were a room in her house.
She
did not weep; she made no sound.
She
sat stiff-backed at her piano,
But
would not touch the keys.
A
note arrived after a week;
Would
she come to Beethoven’s house
That
he might express his condolences?
She
went to be polite;
He
was waiting seated at his piano.
He
did not speak.
He
started softly playing his instrument.
She
listened respectfully, but unmoved.
After
an unmeasured amount of time,
His
chords became louder
Growing
less melodic and
More
feverish, discordant, angry notes,
Unpleasant,
but not out of place.
His
energy was unrelenting.
Then,
a surprise like finding a daffodil in winter,
His
playing became tender,
Gentle
and soothing;
A
melodic movement that seeped slyly
Through
a crack in her soul.
Her
breathing became arrhythmic.
She
quietly began to cry;
A
measure later, her whole body sobbed.
The
music took her far away
And
then, brought her home.
They
had been engaged nearly an hour,
He
had said not a word,
But
she understood everything.
She
stood up,
He
turned toward her and took her hand;
She
felt his long, obedient fingers
Touching
hers.
She
went home
To
grieve.
