Prussian Counterpoint by Nupur Tustin

Author:Nupur Tustin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nupur Tustin
Published: 2021-06-19T00:00:00+00:00

“What is that?” Greta’s voice rang out as soon as Rosalie set foot inside the servants’ hall.

“Ah!” Rosalie gasped silently, nearly jumping at the sound. Her fingers tightened around the packet Frau Haydn had given her. She hadn’t realized anyone was in the room when she opened the door.

Now, twisting her head around, Rosalie saw Greta sitting by the window.

“It’s a painting,” she replied, having recovered her wits. She set the parcel on the table and recounted her conversation with the Kapellmeister’s wife.

She had barely finished when Greta nodded. “I remember now. Frau Bach was most insistent that it be delivered to Herr Haydn alone.” Her plump, dimpled palm closed over the packet.

She drew it toward herself and began untying the string.

“I can’t imagine why,” she said as she finally withdrew the small frame from its wrapping and held it out in front of her. “It’s a pretty enough painting, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

Rosalie glanced at the picture with its muted, watery shades of grays, blues, and greens of the Katholische Kirche St. Anna. It looked more like a quick sketch executed in preparation for a larger work.

About a half-inch of paper all around remained white, as though the brush had run out of paint and the artist had simply neglected to lift some more. The edges were soft and ragged. Still, it made quite a quaint scene.

The signature scrawled on the bottom right caught her eye.

“Look!” She pointed to the “J.S. Bach” inscribed at the corner. “This must be her son’s work. I suppose he seeks a commission from His Serene Highness.”

Greta stared critically at the work. “A painting in oil might have been more likely to do the trick, then. I doubt that will do it. And just look at that frame! I have never seen anything so badly chipped. Frau Bach said it was, but just look at that.”

She jabbed her finger at the top right corner. The gilt on the decorative flutes running around the frame was peeling off and a large piece of the wood had chipped off, exposing an unsightly patch of the rough, ringed layers of the yellowish sapwood.

Rosalie stared at the frame. It was in very poor shape.

“I suppose we could try to find another frame. Herr Haydn won’t have the time for it.” She looked across the table at Greta. “And there’s nothing much for us to do here in any case.”

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