Marrying Mozart

by Stephanie Cowell

  “The actor Gottlieb Stephanie; he described the piece to me. It’s comical with many serious moments. It’s about faithful love and an enlightened ruler.”

  “That would please both our Emperor and our visitor. But I know Stephanie, and he makes more promises than he can keep. If I was able to pave the way for this opera, Mozart, how do I know he’ll keep his part of the bargain?”

  Mozart gazed at him steadily.

  “Very well then, let me propose a plan.” The Count folded his arms over his chest, returning Mozart’s gaze. “If you can show me a fair-sized portion of this opera, I might arrange for the commission to be yours. Shall we say within a few months? I will then arrange for the design of the production and costumes and the engagement of the singers. How fortunate you found me here this time, Mozart. The opera I planned to commission had nothing so exciting as a plot in a harem.”

  The young composer rushed back to his room and began to work at once; the next morning he took his several pages of new music down to the parlor near Fridolin Weber’s beloved clavier to continue working at the music table there. A small fire barely licked the scant wood. He was writing so intently, tongue pushed against his lower teeth, that he did not notice for some time someone standing in the doorway; when he looked up, he saw Constanze Weber with some wood in her arms.

  “It’s too cold in here,” she said. He was so much under the spell of his work that he only smiled vaguely at her.

  Since Sophie’s departure, this quietest of the sisters had seemed to meld into the halls of the boardinghouse. She carried sheets and kneaded bread until the young woman she had been was slowly turning into nothing but a dull servant—a pity, because she was not much more than eighteen. Wasn’t she in love with a cellist, that pale fellow he had seen on the steps now and then? Hadn’t Sophie said that? Then why didn’t the man take her away from this wretched place? As soon as he had an advance on the opera commission he would go himself, as soon as he had a little of it done.

  “You’ll want more wood,” she said.

  “I added a bit before, and expect to bow my head before your mother. I don’t blame her: not wood, candles, wine, nor pork is free.”

  She knelt and coaxed the flames to recognize the new log. He gazed without much thought at the delicate back of her neck and the few strands of hair that had escaped her cap. Her name was the same as the heroine of his opera, Constanze.

  She stood up, dusting her hands. She said, “I interrupted your work.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Mama says you aren’t leaving us quite yet.”

  “No, I have a possible opera commission. Right now it is possible, probably, likely, yet I believe it will be, it will be. I slept only a few hours since I began it; the music won’t leave my mind. Let me play the first chorus for you.”

  She sat down by the music table as he moved to the clavier. The bright music sprang out with its evocation of a Turkish march and seemed to shake the curtains and the new log, which rolled slightly and fell. “There’ll be triangles and drums,” he said. He heard the march coming closer in his head, the sound of the pasha and his worshipful court approaching. “It’s harem music,” he added. “That’s where it’s set.”

  She said, “Do you remember the first time you came to visit us on a Thursday?”

  “I do.... I loved your father.”

  She brushed the bits of bark off her apron into her hand, and closed her fingers on it, standing suddenly as her name was called from the kitchen below. Her eyes were dark in her serious face. “I have to begin dinner,” she murmured. “I’m glad about the commission; I’m very glad you aren’t going to England just yet.”

  Much later he would recall that gesture of the closed hand, her sudden standing in her great apron. Something stirred in him, but it melted away before he could recognize it.

  The trees blossomed. One day he saw the dog he had seen previously in the street, nosing hopefully in some garbage. He whistled and put out his hand, but the animal, having understood the young man had no food for it, trotted away with dignity.

  Mozart seldom saw Constanze in the house to speak more than a few words to her. She moved past him like a shadow, then was gone as if she had never been there at all. She’s lonely, he thought suddenly. Poor girl, when I first saw her amid all the others, I didn’t think it would come to this. And where the devil is this French cellist of hers? He never heard the man’s voice in the hall anymore.

  One day as he was coming from his music publisher, he saw her walking before him, weaving between the carts and people of the crowded and elegant market, with a leather portfolio under her arm. The sky was heavy white, and it looked as though rain would come soon. “Mademoiselle Weber,” he called, catching up with her. “Where do you go?”

  “I’ve delivered some music I copied,” she said. She stood very still, though people pushed about her. Just then a woman with two small, yapping dogs passed them, and her mouth opened with delight. “Oh, the darlings,” she cried. “Oh look, oh I wish I had one of my own.”

  “I recall you love them, and having one’s an easy enough wish to grant.”

  She had bent over to let their wet tongues lick her outstretched hands, and didn’t answer him until she had straightened and the dogs had scampered away, following their mistress about a corner. “No,” she said. “Mama doesn’t like them. We had one when we were very young. It piddled under our beds and made her furious. Once it piddled on our shoes, and we couldn’t get the scent out when we walked to church.”

  “When you live away from her you’ll have one.”

  “But I’ll never live away from her.” Constanze looked down the street past all the shops and stalls as if someone had called to her. “I thought I would for a time,” she said hesitantly. “I thought I’d move to Paris, but I can’t leave her alone, not with Sophie gone. I wanted to, and I couldn’t do it. You only see how bad-tempered she is, but I see another side of her. I do see more than one side of people. That’s a strength and a failing, isn’t it? So I’m not going away.”

  So that was it. Her cellist has gone without her. Mozart suddenly offered her his arm. “Let me walk with you,” he said. “I was going for a walk in the Augarten. Come with me,” and they turned toward the public gardens, which had groves of linden trees and concert gazebos and stalls for ice and lemonade. He said, “I think we can walk a time and still get back to Petersplatz before the rain comes.”

  They walked in silence, and then gradually he began to whistle. Glancing at her, he saw her smiling slightly.

  “You like that melody?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s the second aria for the maid from the opera. You’re always working, running here and there. I think sometimes how much you must miss your sisters.”

  “Yes, I do. I didn’t think Sophie would go. I can’t imagine why she did it so quickly.”

  “When I am away from my sister, Nannerl, I miss her so. My family is very close, perhaps because there aren’t many of us.”

  Now that they had entered the Augarten the sky was darkening even more, and people were hurrying past them into the streets. He thought to offer her a coffee and wondered if she would refuse. She withholds herself from me, he thought, concerned. Why should she? Have I ever offended her? I used to hear her laughing with others, but she only smiled a little before. I wish I could make her laugh.

  He felt the first warm drops of rain. People about them scurried for cover; suddenly the heavens opened, and the rain poured down. In moments the ground was soaked. He seized her hand, and they ran together under the trees, huddling there with several other people. Above them the rain poured off the leaves and down to the dirt path. He said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would come so soon.”

  “When we were girls we would play in puddles in the rain and after. Did you ever do that with your sister?”

  “No, I don’t remember anything like that. I only remember friends and music. My mother and father los
t several babies before my sister and I were born. They were very careful with us.”

  Now she was silent, nodding, arms across her chest, the portfolio wet. Under the noise of the rain, she murmured, “Herr Mozart, you once said something unkind about me and my sisters to another boarder. You said there was only one beautiful Weber girl. You never thought me pretty at all. I’m not beautiful like Aloysia, but I think I have some beauty. When I heard you say that, I wasn’t in the least sorry she broke your heart. I felt you deserved it.”

  He nodded. “It was a stupid thing to say,” he muttered. “I’m a boor, an ass, and if I said such a thing, I did deserve it.” He felt for her cold fingers, and moved his hand away again. “If only we weren’t so stupid, if only I knew better ...” Then he gave up. “Ah, this rain,” he said sheepishly. “We’ll be soaked.” He slipped his arm around her to shelter her. At first she pulled away, but when he tried once more, pulling her nearer to him inch by inch, she did not move.

  They stood listening to the rain, which drummed more quietly now. Her brown shoes and the hem of her skirt were soaked. When the rain ended, they walked home through the wet streets; once she stamped her foot in a puddle, and the water splattered all about. Then she was serious and quiet again. As they approached Petersplatz she became even more silent and walked a little ahead of him, briskly, becoming once more the boardinghouse keeper’s daughter. Above them from the house hung the neat little sign: FINE ROOMS TO LET BY MONTH. Both the drunken theology student and the Spaniard had left. Pigeons were shaking the wetness off their wings, and the large puddles reflected the slate-hued sky.

  Strange that she had been in this house so long and he had barely noticed her. Now he was aware of her often. She’s in the kitchen, he would say to himself, and now she’s gone out. Where has she gone? he would wonder. He looked from his window to see her walking off with her basket. Outside the sun shone; there were no puddles. He smiled to himself. Otherwise he was terribly busy trying to make ends meet as the libretto arrived in disorganized pieces; he composed when he could, and still had no approval from the Count. He played at the Countess Thun’s, and gave more lessons to Mademoiselle Aurnhammer, who flirted with him. He arrived home and found Constanze had become a shadow once more.

  “Puddles,” he’d whisper as they passed on the stairs, and sometimes, “Puppies, little darling ones with wet noses who piss in little pots. Oh no, it won’t rain; it never rains in Vienna.” Though he made her smile, each time she then withdrew again. She recalled what he had said about her lack of beauty and could not forgive him. She was silent and severe. How could he persuade her he meant better? Life had sobered him, and she did have her own beauty, but he had no words to express it. They met just inside the street door, by the potted plant, where she was reading a letter from one of her sisters. He leaned against the wall, by the hatrack, and read one from Padre Martini, who had returned to Italy, then another from his father, who complained of Salzburg and told him to keep his feet dry. His sister, quiet and patient Nannerl, had also written.

  “Come, play this with me,” he cried from the parlor the next day. “I’m setting some of my dances for fortepiano. What do you think? I know you play well.” She put down her sewing, came across the room, and sat beside him. Then, as in the old days, the parlor filled with music. Her left hand brushed his, but it was all right, for they were safe in music.

  “What will be your future?” he asked when they stopped.

  “None. I stay here.”

  “Not just only that,” he cried. “Not only that for you.”

  She stood up suddenly. Then they were laughing over something. He had not heard her laugh like that in a long time, or perhaps never, because before he had not paid attention. “Stop,” she said. “I must go back to my work.”

  “Don’t go,” he said.

  It was a whole world in those minutes from parlor to kitchen. She had never considered how long it was between those rooms, down a flight of stairs, through a hall past the sour faces of her ancestors’ portraits, and into the kitchen and the smell of the burning fire and chopped food. It was not merely the tinkle of the bright dances she regretted leaving, but something in herself she had not experienced in a long time. She rubbed her flushed face and then slipped into the kitchen where her mother and the maid were preparing dinner.

  Her mother’s words came like a slap. “Look at you, Maria Constanze Weber, and God forgive you ... laughing with him instead of helping me. You’re the same as the others. I thought you were better. I have given everything to you girls, and you have cared only what happened to each other, never me, never me. Why are you with him so much these days? A poor musician just like your father. The opera will never happen. I have it on excellent knowledge.”

  Constanze stood stunned. “What are these mad stories?” she said, when she found her voice. “What are you speaking about? Does laughter lead to anything bad? Are you worried I’m going to fall in love with him? Yes, of course. He’s not good enough for me because you are once more searching for an imaginary prince to give me a title and money, which will reflect well on you. The Grand Duke of Russia’s coming here in some months; have you written him of me? Here’s your answer; here’s what I think of it.” She snatched up the blue pitcher and hurled it against the brick oven, where it shattered into a hundred pieces.

  They both turned then to see Mozart on the stairs, looking from one to the other. Constanze dropped to her knees and began to sweep up the pieces. Their lovely pitcher. She had bought it one sunny day years before while out with her father, and they had packed it in straw on their moves from city to city. Now it seemed she had lost him again in the shattered blue pieces.

  Frau Weber began to slice a large onion. “Perhaps you can enlighten me on some matter, Herr Mozart,” she called to him.

  “I would try to do so, madame,” he replied, approaching the kitchen door.

  “I don’t understand sons and daughters these days. I nursed my parents, and it was not until they were in heaven that I accepted Fridolin Weber’s offer of marriage. Nor do I understand a young man, quick to assume that the girl who cooks his meal is also to warm his sheets.”

  “What do you speak of?”

  “My daughter, who gathers up the broken pieces of my pitcher as if she knows nothing, my daughter and you. Do you think I’ve seen nothing over the past few weeks? You walk with her in the park; you whisper on the stairs. Haven’t I been through this tragedy once already with my older girl, who foolishly waited for you and, in her waiting, grew tempted and fell? Yes, if you had not made her wait, this wouldn’t have occurred. Now they’re gone, they’re all gone but this one, and I have plans for her. I have plans for her.”

  “It seems to me that you have plans to sell her,” he said quietly. “And that she objects to being sold. There is a problem there.”

  Frau Weber rushed toward him. “Have you compromised her? She’s easy enough; all my daughters are. I’ll make life wretched for you both if such a thing has happened. I’ll blacken your name, young man, so that no good person will attend your concerts, so that the Emperor will know what a shame it is that he listens to your music. Your opera will be canceled if you see her anymore. No one will ever hear your name. I took you in for pity, but I was wrong. Play about with the daughter of a good widow indeed, and see how the law comes down upon you!”

  “But madame, this is madness. Do you threaten me?”

  “I do, and I’ll carry it through. You are not to see her anymore, do you understand me? Leave,” she cried imperiously. “Leave!”

  He turned in confusion to Constanze, her apron full of broken bits. “Yes, do go,” the girl cried. “This is no place for you, Mozart. You see how we are. There’s no help for us here since Papa died. Go, I’ll send word. I’ll be fine. Truly, I’ll send word.”

  He went at once through the streets to Leutgeb’s rooms above his cheese shop, and later they sent the delivery boy for his things. He did not look at them but walked up and do
wn in his little room. Constanze, he thought. What on earth has occurred? If she did not come to him by the morning, he would go to her.

  But she came early the next day. He had slept badly, waking to rain pelting his window. When he heard her voice below, he ran down the stairs three at a time and found her standing in the shop, her cloak and skirt still dripping. Leutgeb walked toward him between the wedges of odorous soft cheeses, which were veined with mold like the delicate hand of an elderly person. “This is a bad thing,” he muttered, straightening his shop apron. “Frau Weber seems to have gone quite from her mind.”

  Constanze stood between the crates, tears running down her face. “What is it. What is it?” Mozart cried, taking her hands.

  “I’m never going back there. She’s berated me without ceasing since you took your things, first accusing me of being your mistress, then crying that I should have seduced you so you’d have to marry me and take me off her hands. And then, worst of all, the whole truth about Sophie’s leaving came out. Yes, she’s gone mad. I won’t go back, and I won’t love her anymore. It’s all over between us.”

  “But what of poor little Sophie?” he asked. He wondered if she would ever find out about the young girl being in his room, or if she would believe they had merely laughed, found her spectacles, and talked about God and happiness.

  “My mother said you tried to seduce her.”

  “I never ... but this is madness also.”

  “Of course I don’t believe such a thing; I never could. But I didn’t know where to go, and I felt terrible for the things she said. Oh what does she want of me? How can I go back there? And then suggesting that we ...” She put down the cup of coffee Leutgeb’s wife had brought her and turned to the small stove in the corner, continuing as though Mozart were not there. “Does she think I have no pride? I wore enough of my sisters’ cast-off dresses, and I won’t have her cast-off love. The beauteous Aloysia—you chose her and may have the memory of her!”