Sent to the Devil Read Online Free Page A

writing music to suit each performer. He calls it ‘fitting the costume to the figure.’”
    Alois smiled.
    â€œAnd of course Vienna is a much more sophisticated city than Prague,” I continued. “So we might have to add some scenes to appeal to the tastes here.”
    â€œAll that must take a long time,” Alois said.
    â€œWe’ll soon know how much work there’ll be. We’ve been working through the Prague libretto and score with the cast here, and we’ll finish that tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat else are you doing?” my friend asked.
    â€œI’m setting aside time to write a bit of poetry,” I answered. “I’m thinking of having a small collection published.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful, Lorenzo! I’d love to read some of them.”
    â€œI’d be honored if you did. I’ll bring them by your office in a day or two.” We chatted about books for a while, enjoying our comfortable companionship, and did not notice the hours passing until the owner of the catering shop finally shooed us away. As I paid the bill, I remembered the pallet on the floor of Alois’s office, and considered offering to help him pay for a room at my own lodgings. But I bit my tongue for fear of embarrassing him.
    Now I was heading to my lodging house, through the great Stuben gate cut into the medieval battlements of the city, and over the wide bridge that crossed the glacis, the sloped, grassy field designed to deny cover to an approaching enemy. Like most Viennese, I would prefer to live in the city, but lodgings are much less expensive out in the suburbs. My father still needed my help educating my stepbrothers back in Ceneda, so I tried to cut my expenses so that I could regularly send him funds. I have a long walk to and from my office every day, but I try to view my situation as an advantage. I’ve been so busy lately, my walk to and from work is all the fresh air I get.
    The evening was as warm as the day had been, and I carried my cloak over my arm as I walked across the dusty, broad path that ran parallel to the city walls and made my way over another, smaller bridge that spanned the Vienna River. Moments later, I turned into my street. I had to admit that it was pleasant out here. Small, neat houses lined both sides of the street, and a strip of land planted with linden saplings ran down its center. Shrieks of girlish laughter greeted me as I approached the house of my landlady, Josepha Lamm. Ahead of me, a burly young man was maneuvering a cart laden with hay through the narrow opening into the house’s courtyard.
    â€œGood evening, Signor Da Ponte,” he called.
    â€œGood evening, Stefan.” I gestured at the cart. “Are you giving up stonemasonry in favor of farming?” I asked.
    He laughed. “No, sir. This is for Sophie’s party. Come, you’ll see.” He rolled the cart into the courtyard. I followed.
    My jaw dropped at the sight before me. Madame Lamm’s normally neat courtyard was strewn with hay. Six young women, dressed in white gauze dresses tied at the waist with satin ribbons, had formed a circle and, holding hands, were attempting to dance around a small goat in the center of their ring. A blond, heavily pregnant girl sat forlornly on a bench to the side. The goat jumped up and put its hooves on one of the dancers.
    â€œStefan, help! Get it off me!” she cried, laughing. The young man pushed at the animal.
    â€œGood evening, Signor Da Ponte,” the girl said. “Would you happen to know anything about goats?”
    â€œHello, Sophie,” I greeted my landlady’s daughter. “What is the meaning of this bucolic display? Where did you get that poor animal?”
    My landlady came out the door of the house, carrying a tray with a pitcher and several mugs. “The goat belongs to Hoffer down the street,” she said. I put my satchel on the ground and took the tray from her. She