Authors: Stephanie Cowell
Tags: #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Fiction, #Contemporary, #Biography & Autobiography, #Juvenile Fiction, #Biographical, #Siblings, #Family, #Sisters, #Music, #Genres & Styles, #Composers & Musicians, #Composers, #Classical, #Mannheim (Germany), #Composers' spouses
Marrying Mozart (33 page)
The voices below grew louder, and a door slammed. Mozart came up the steps and back into the room, running his hand through his wild hair. “Well,” he said a little breathlessly, looking from one to the other, “you’ve had a chance to talk. That’s good. We should perhaps go and have something to eat. There’s nothing here.”
Constanze stood at once. “I can’t come; I’m expected home.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Let me walk with you a bit.”
The day was very hot, and the lemonade stand on the corner, with its gay blue-striped awning, was crowded. She let him take her arm but did not move close to him, and he said with all tenderness, “Has he said something that upset you? Beloved, beloved, tell me what he said.”
The words stumbled out, and when he heard, he seemed to swell with anger. “How dare he speak to you like that?” he said, his voice rising in spite of the crowds about them. “Where’s his respect for my wishes? I respect him. I’ll always provide for him no matter how many wretched lessons to deaf pupils I must teach. And what of all the money I earned as a child? He invested in me; he’s not poor. By God, he must let me go! If I rise or fall, I must do it on my own.”
He was shaking her hands now. “He will come round and give his blessing to our marriage. He will. Nothing matters but that we make up and be the dearest friends again, my Stanzi.”
Her face had become very plain. “But don’t you see, I couldn’t. I couldn’t marry anyone with a father like him. He’d be pulling you one way, and I’d be pulling you another. I want him to like me, and he doesn’t. He won’t. I wouldn’t ask you to choose between us. Listen, Wolferl: we were both lonely and we fell in love, but perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps we can find a way to be friends as we once were. Isn’t that possible?”
“No, it isn’t,” he said quietly, and leaned against the side of a church where they had stopped. “But I know you’ve felt this way since we quarreled. Everything’s going badly for me today. One day you think all’s within your grasp, and the next it’s swept away. That’s true of life, but I always want it differently. Gottlieb Stephanie’s too busy to complete the libretto, and it’s likely the commission will be offered to another composer. My writing is too original for some people; I’m not handsome; and no one will forgive me for growing up, not even my own family. Today I may have lost my chance at the opera and my hopes of marriage to you. We perhaps shouldn’t speak anymore of it. We’ll see each other in the street now and then, Constanze. I’ll always be glad to hear of you. Send my greetings to little Sophie when you write her.”
He walked away with his head lowered, and she stood for a time with the basket of fish on her arm, and then walked home. Two neighbors were sitting with her mother in the kitchen drinking coffee; Constanze climbed the stairs to her room, and lay silently across her bed with her arm over her face.
The doors of the opera house were closed when he reached them, but he found a side door unlocked and hurried up the stairs. From the offices he heard movement; he knocked, and entered at once, expecting to see Orsini-Rosenberg’s unrevealing face, but only Thorwart sat behind the desk, with the accounting books spread out before him as if he were the director. He pushed the books away and folded his hands on his heavy stomach to gaze at the composer.
Mozart cried passionately, “What opera competes with mine? I heard it from my librettist. I was assured mine would be given when I played parts of it last week for the Count.”
“Yours might have a chance if you had it ready,” Thorwart said dryly. “But you don’t. We must have an opera in place, and there are others to choose from; thus, we’ve done so.”
“But I’ll have mine done in a few weeks; the librettist swears there will be only a very short delay.”
Thorwart frowned and wagged his heavy finger. “Ah, young man, young man, you think too highly of yourself. Remember that you are but one of many composers in Vienna. I’ll tell you what your downfall is, Mozart: your pride. You’re a musician, which makes you a servant. Servants aren’t nobility. I’m not nobility, but I come closer to it than you because I act like a gentleman. You had a chance to make a decent living as a church musician and turned away from it.”
“You have stood against me.”
“What cause have I to stand for you?”
Mozart clutched the edge of the table hard. “Sir,” he said, “it would be easier for me to get all the positions you could ever obtain than for you to become what I am, even if you had three lifetimes to do it.”
With the greatest dignity he bowed himself out of the room. Then he darted down many streets, between carriages and wagons, to the door of his librettist, and was let in by Stephanie’s startled wife. He pushed past her into the bedroom, shook the rotund, snoring man from his sleep, crying, “Where is the libretto? Give me the libretto!”
The sections came on time as promised, and he did nothing but write. After three days his father went home, and Mozart continued in his cluttered rooms alone, composing piece after piece of his opera.
I
n her bedroom some days later Constanze sat to write to her younger sister, now and then nibbling the end of her pen. There was a spot of ink on her apron front.
n her bedroom some days later Constanze sat to write to her younger sister, now and then nibbling the end of her pen. There was a spot of ink on her apron front.
18 July 1782
Dearest dearest Sophie,
It’s all over between Mozart and me. Just this morning his friend Leutgeb was here for an hour trying to persuade me to go back. He stood with his head to one side, listing all the true attributes of his friend (“Honest Wolfgang, good Wolfgang!”). “But I don’t think I want to marry at all,” I said. “And not with a father like his, not with that wretched cold man! I’ll stay home and help my mother. I’m the last sister, what can I do? I won’t marry at all.” And he came very close to me and said, “What a waste,” rather warmly, and I felt that old flush of heat that so frightens me because then I don’t know what I’ll do. I really don’t. My heart breaks for M., but after saying I wasn’t pretty, and attributing the worst to all of us, besides his wretched father, I feel it’s against my pride to go back. And he does nothing, nothing, but send me music. No words, just music. He sent me a rather astonishing serenade for thirteen wind instruments, and Leutgeb ran around singing the parts and shouting, “Listen to this—what music!” until I wanted to cry or cover my ears.
I have almost forgiven you sending my letter to Herr Schantz, though it is the silliest thing you ever did. Perhaps it’s a good thing to do the silliest thing so young; then you can have the rest of your life to be wise. I must recall you’re only fifteen and a half.
But why do I write any such things? I cry a lot. Tell me what to do. Even after that letter, I still trust you.
Constanze
The reply, sealed with the convent’s seal (a blurred impression of the Holy Ghost in blue wax), came rapidly.
Dearest Constanze,
After receiving your letter I couldn’t sleep, and went down to our chapel in the middle of the night. There was only one candle burning before the statue of Our Lady, and I knelt before it a long time and then perhaps I fell asleep and dreamed this, or perhaps it was a real vision sent to me. An angel came and sat beside me, his great soft wings almost pushing me out of my place. He smelled of lemonade. He was naked to the waist and rather beautiful, and I tried not to look at him, because I felt rather too moved. He sat there for a while talking of this and that, and then he said, “You must go home and make the marriage between your sister and Amadeus.” I couldn’t recall who Amadeus was at first, because we have never called him that, but it’s his middle name, right? The “A” he puts when he signs his music (and he prefers Amadé, he told me once). So it seems if you are being so silly, I must come home.
I am rather glad to do so, to tell you the truth, because I find after testing my vocation that I prefer to love God in the world and not behind cloister walls, and besides, I don’t mind flirting. I like conversation on the true meaning of life with friends and wine and people playing music in a comfortable room, and my ideal is just what I had as a little girl, and I can’t have it here. I don’t ever intend to marry because I am more virtuous when chaste, but I intend you to marry him, so I can have what I want for you and we can have our Thursdays again. So I am packing my things. Two of our nuns are traveling to Vienna, and I am coming with them.
Please don’t tell me that anything has happened to my cat.
Constanze wrote back eagerly, using one of her father’s pens.
Dearest Sophie,
You are welcome, welcome, welcome. I read your letter with tears of joy. I want you to come here, and we’ll always be together, but I can’t marry Mozart. I’ll be thirty and old before we get his father’s consent. You must stop trying to arrange all our lives, but do come back.
The cat is well and has six new kittens, which, as Josefa would say, must mean that she has been very well indeed, and enjoying the life of Vienna.
Love always,
Your sister C.
S
ophie swept home dragging her one modest leather portmanteau, pins falling from her untidy hair, and rushed up the stairs on her thin legs. She kissed the cat, was pleased that Constanze had watered the plants in the garden and in the hall, and went at once to see Father Paul, who confirmed her decision that her vocation was in the world and not behind convent walls. She found her favorite old straw hat and pinned flowers on it, wearing it over her pale freckled face with her spectacles. “I’ll dedicate myself to good works,” she said. She made a list that first night of the most pressing of them: find more boarders, persuade Mother to eat less noodles and cake, and burn that ridiculous book of suitors.
ophie swept home dragging her one modest leather portmanteau, pins falling from her untidy hair, and rushed up the stairs on her thin legs. She kissed the cat, was pleased that Constanze had watered the plants in the garden and in the hall, and went at once to see Father Paul, who confirmed her decision that her vocation was in the world and not behind convent walls. She found her favorite old straw hat and pinned flowers on it, wearing it over her pale freckled face with her spectacles. “I’ll dedicate myself to good works,” she said. She made a list that first night of the most pressing of them: find more boarders, persuade Mother to eat less noodles and cake, and burn that ridiculous book of suitors.
The next morning, after she had lain in bed talking until ten with her sister, she got up and began to tie on her petticoat. “Come on,” she said. “You’re not marrying Mozart’s father, and Mozart’s jealous of anyone you’ve ever smiled at only because he loves you. Go and tell him that you’re at least friends again with him. I’ll walk with you. Wear your straw hat ... wait, I’ll pin flowers on yours as well. ”
They walked over in their flower-printed dresses and large straw hats. “Now, go up,” Sophie said when they arrived at his rooms; they saw the concierge out front eating dark bread and sausage. “I’ll wait here. When you come down, we can all have a lemonade.”
Constanze walked up the stairs, her hand lingering on the banister. She could hear the fortepiano that Mozart had ordered on credit from Stein, Johann Schantz’s competitor in the instrument business, and she stood for a moment in the open doorway watching him play, gazing at his fingers, which seemed hardly to touch the keys.
“Constanze,” he said, looking up; then, after a long moment, he added, as if nothing difficult had ever passed between them, “Come look at this aria for the maid Blondchen from my opera. Will you sing it for me?”
“I don’t sing very well. And I didn’t know there will still be an opera.”
“There will be,” he said grimly. “And I’ll give all the fortune that I’ll ever have if you’ll sing this aria for me.” She came closer, and he caught her fingers and pulled her down to the bench beside him. “Listen to me,” he said. “Beloved, listen to me. I think of you all the time. There can’t be anyone for me but you. Let’s pretend we’ve just met. I know nothing about your family, nor you of mine. We introduce ourselves just so. Now I must tell you I have a present for you.”
“But you didn’t know I was coming.”
“Sophie sent word last night.”
“Oh, that child—I’ll be forced to send her back to the convent. Well, show me the present but ... stop, we’ve just met. Remember that. We’ve just met, and we’re beginning again.”
He took her hand and led her down to the concierge’s dark room by the main door, where in the corner there was a basket containing a dog and four pups. He knelt, pulling her down. “I already told her I’d take the brown one off her hands. Look, I said to myself, they’ll be taken and drowned, but not if there are homes for them. I said, this one’s for Stanzi. You can’t take her yet, she’s too young; but you can visit daily, or twice daily, or hourly, and when you do now and then, you will remember the lonely composer upstairs.” He hesitated. “When we have our own rooms, when we’re married, she’ll be ours.”
“I hope that will be soon,” she said, her face hidden under the brim of her hat.
“It must be very soon, Constanze, for I’m suffering for want of you.”
“And I’m suffering wanting you,” she murmured, her words muffled by her drooping hat brim and the soft puppy noises. “I suppose I should tell my mother and you’ll have to tell—”
“I’ve already written him.”
T
hey were all already assembled as he came into the boardinghouse parlor with Leutgeb at his side, though the hour had not yet struck. Caecilia Weber wore her darkest and most formal dress, buttoned to the neck, and her white cap with the faintly yellowing lace at the edge. At her throat was fastened a brooch he recognized; he had always wondered if the piece contained a holy relic or some memento of her late husband.
hey were all already assembled as he came into the boardinghouse parlor with Leutgeb at his side, though the hour had not yet struck. Caecilia Weber wore her darkest and most formal dress, buttoned to the neck, and her white cap with the faintly yellowing lace at the edge. At her throat was fastened a brooch he recognized; he had always wondered if the piece contained a holy relic or some memento of her late husband.
He bowed, and she inclined her head.
To her right was Thorwart with a rolled piece of paper on his knee, which Mozart assumed to be the marriage contract. Behind him was Constanze, her small hands clasped in her lap and her head lowered. Mozart could see her only a little through the bulk of the others, but he thought she looked anxious. He would have liked to kiss her hands. Beside her, on the chair with a crooked leg, Sophie also sat with hands clasped in her lap. Whenever she moved a little, the chair tilted. He wondered which would last longer, the meeting or the chair.
He took a seat and placed his hat on his knee. Leutgeb sat by his side, rocking back and forth slightly, his mouth twitching hard now and then. Mozart kept his eyes firmly focused on the bald spot of the rug around the clavier leg. If he dared look directly at Leutgeb or Sophie, he would not have been able to contain himself. He might have rolled across the worn rug, seizing one of the old red sofa cushions to stuff in his mouth. “You will behave?” he had pleaded to Leutgeb as they walked over. “The seriousness will be a bit higher than if the Archbishop of Salzburg had tried me for assault, but then, this is more important. After all, she owns the girl, or thinks she does.”
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