Mozart's Last Aria

by Matt Rees

  As the audience applauded again, I vowed that I’d repay Wolfgang for this moment, no matter the cost to my soul or my body. I had rejoined him in his music. Once more we were together.

  9

  Baron van Swieten concentrated on his cane, as though its tip clicked out a message in an obscure code on the floorboards. The muscles of his face were tight. I saw he struggled to overcome a strong emotion, but his voice revealed it. ‘It was as though Wolfgang performed for us here this evening.’

  ‘You flatter me, sir.’

  He rubbed his finger beneath his nose. ‘Oh, I’m really not given to flattery.’

  ‘It’s something I’ve never learned, either. So you’ll believe me when I say that Wolfgang wrote of you very often and most fondly.’

  ‘Less of me, I imagine, than of the concerts he gave among my friends. I host small musical gatherings each Sunday afternoon in the great hall of the Imperial Library. We used to sing around the piano, and Wolfgang would play and sing and correct our harmonies all at once. It’s as if a beloved son has been taken from me.’ Swieten’s eyes lifted from the floor and brightened. ‘Will you join us tomorrow for our little musical salon? You’d honor us.’

  Perhaps, in Swieten’s library, I’d find others who had been close to Wolfgang. They might know more about the mysterious Grotto, or at least assuage my doubts about his death. ‘I should be delighted. I hope my playing won’t disappoint you and your guests.’

  ‘After hearing you this evening, I’m sure it shan’t.’

  ‘The audience was most distinguished. It was a lovely evening of music all around.’

  Swieten glanced at the aristocrats and merchants promenading about the hall. ‘These people are stinking and corrupt. Their unwashed bodies reek beneath this tide of cologne on the air. But you’re right, the music was lovely.’

  Though I wished only to relish the thrill of my success, I was sensitive to his evident preoccupation. ‘Something is amiss, my Lord?’

  ‘Let’s say I have some troublesome duties at the palace. In addition to the library, I head the Emperor’s censorship office. But I find that I don’t believe in censorship. I would have everyone free to say and write just what they wish.’ His smile was bitter. ‘I’m forever at war with those in the Emperor’s service who’d ban all but the Bible.’

  Lichnowsky came to Swieten’s shoulder with Stadler and Constanze.

  My sister-in-law took my hand. ‘You played so beautifully,’ she said.

  ‘The concerto was divine, Madame de Mozart,’ Lichnowsky said. ‘Wolfgang was so much ahead of his time, almost not of this world, an angel. One might say he was too much for us. That’s why he died – to enter a heaven fit for him.’

  Swieten rapped the floor with his cane. ‘Nonsense, my prince. Wolfgang was of this time more than any of us. He represented its new ideas of enlightenment and freedom and equality, of scientific and intellectual inquiry. You’ll find all these things in his songs and in the themes of his operas. If there are some who’d prevent the course of progress, it’s they who truly drove him to his death.’ He looked about as though he might find such people nearby and wished to confront them. He radiated a potency that was at odds with the lace and embroidery of his costume.

  ‘But Wolfgang’s ideas can’t be killed off,’ he continued. ‘He never allowed his fears to silence his art.’

  I caught a glance between Lichnowsky and Stadler that carried a warning. I wondered about Swieten’s last words. What had Wolfgang had to fear?

  ‘So Maestro Mozart was free of fear? If so, it was a fault.’ A smooth, cultured voice behind us. ‘‘Fear should sit as the guardian of the soul, forcing it to wisdom.’’

  Our group turned toward a gentleman in a green coat who smiled at Baron Swieten, twirling the curl of his periwig above his ear.

  ‘But Aeschylus goes on to add that mercy should take precedence over harsh judgment,’ Swieten said. ‘Your classical learning is faulty, sir.’

  ‘If only I might ruminate all my days in your Imperial Library, I’d correct this fault. Alas, my duties are of a more practical nature.’

  Swieten squared his jaw, but was silent.

  The newcomer opened a gold box, tapped some snuff onto his knuckle, and sniffed it into each nostril. ‘I overheard the Prince calling Mozart an angel. Perhaps our departed maestro has, indeed, become a myth. After all, he’s now in the realms beyond earthly power.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Even if none of us has yet escaped it.’

  Lichnowsky took a step backward. His eyes registered fear. ‘An angel? I meant it as a figure of speech. I—’

  ‘There’s too much unthinking speech nowadays and not enough reverence for the way things are.’ The gentleman bowed to me. ‘Madame de Mozart.’

  His manner made me hostile and pedantic. ‘I ought to correct you, sir. I’m Madame Berchtold von Sonnenberg, to be precise,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’m aware of that.’ His expression was devout and insouciant, like a priest before a cowering sinner, pleased by the knowledge that secrets could never be hidden from him.

  Under that gaze, I felt a quiver of disquiet, as though by mentioning my husband’s name I had implicated him in some conspiracy as yet unknown to me.

  Swieten grimaced. ‘Madame de Mozart, may I introduce to you the Count von Pergen, our Imperial Minister of Police.’

  I curtsied.

  ‘I didn’t take you for a music lover, sir,’ Swieten said.

  Pergen toyed again with the curl of his wig. ‘I’m a great devotee of Maestro Salieri. Even when the court composer conducts the music of someone else. I must commend you, Herr Stadler, on the choice of music.’

  Stadler straightened like a guilty boy before a stern schoolmaster. ‘Thank you, your Honor.’

  ‘You didn’t include any of Maestro Mozart’s more tactless compositions.’

  ‘Tactless?’ I said.

  ‘The Count refers to The Marriage of Figaro,’ Swieten said. ‘He disapproves of the opera because it portrays a servant triumphing over his master, I assume.’

  ‘No doubt your brother was deceived by the Italian reprobate who wrote the text of that opera,’ Pergen said. ‘A Jew, no less.’

  ‘A convert to Christianity,’ Swieten said.

  ‘I fear the conversion never really took hold. But the fellow is gone. Let’s hope we hear no more of this seditious work.’

  Now it was my turn to be tactless. ‘I thought Figaro was an exquisite opera.’

  Pergen snorted a scornful little laugh. ‘Dear lady, if a poison tasted vile, it would be harmless – no one would ever swallow it. The poisoner gives it the flavor of fruit or sugar to seduce us to our doom. Your brother’s beautiful music was the seduction, and Figaro’s outrageous philosophy was the poison. One might say the same of Freemasonry, for example.’ He glanced around our group.

  Lichnowsky and Stadler cast their eyes down. Swieten sighed.

  ‘Young men are drawn into Masonry with promises of equality and other fine ideas,’ Pergen said. ‘Only then, when they have given their mortal oath to be brothers, do they learn that they must pursue an agenda that undermines our state.’

  I thought of Wolfgang’s letter. ‘Can the Masons really be so dangerous?’

  ‘The Revolution in America was led by a cabal of Masons. You’ve heard the names Washington, Jefferson, Franklin? All committed to the overthrow of the natural order of government and monarchy. All Freemasons. They’re condemned by His Holiness the Pope.’

  ‘But Wolfgang was just—’

  Pergen raised an eyebrow. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Just a musician.’ I felt feeble before him. ‘I can’t imagine Wolfgang engaging in subversion.’

  ‘Maestro Mozart had his first great success some years ago with The Abduction from the Seraglio. You recall the opera?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Its theme of reconciliation between the nations and races is to be applauded. Unless one understands that it may have been the work of a m
ember of the Illuminati.’

  ‘Come now,’ Swieten said.

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  Swieten scoffed again, but Pergen spoke to him with an archness that silenced him. ‘Baron, you can explain the Illuminati’s purpose so much better than I.’

  Swieten shifted on his feet, like a man I had seen once at a prize fight in the village fair, balancing to take another blow, but knowing he might not stand it.

  ‘Please,’ Pergen said, ‘do explain to the lady.’

  ‘It’s a secret society founded in Bavaria. Its aim is to end religious and national prejudices.’ Swieten recovered himself and turned to Pergen. ‘Hatreds fostered by priests and government ministers.’

  ‘You may call them religious animosities and national enmities. I call them simply religion and nations, which ought never to be overthrown,’ Pergen said.

  Constanze took a small step toward the Count. ‘Wolfgang wasn’t opposed to religion, and he loved his Emperor.’

  ‘He named the leading character in that dangerous Illuminist opera Konstanze, did he not?’ Pergen said. ‘Don’t think I’m fooled by the alteration of an initial letter, Madame.’

  Constanze gasped and rocked on her heels.

  ‘You go too far, sir. You can’t suspect the Maestro’s wife,’ Swieten said. ‘The Illuminati are men, as are all Masons.’

  Pergen shrugged. ‘At least Maestro Mozart’s little Masonic compositions weren’t a part of tonight’s fare. I much prefer the music he wrote when under the influence of a natural fear.’

  Wolfgang’s fears again. ‘What inspired such dread emotions in him, my Lord?’ I said.

  ‘Death and final judgment. I was in St Michael’s church a few days ago for Maestro Mozart’s memorial service.’

  Swieten supported Constanze by the elbow. She seemed faint. ‘We performed Wolfgang’s Requiem Mass there,’ he told me. ‘He had been writing it at the very moment of his death.’

  ‘A wonderful composition. It was inspired by the awesome majesty of God,’ Pergen said. ‘This was greater music than the petty bickering of spiteful servants in a despicable operatic farce.’

  ‘Were you at the church to hear the music, or were you visiting your dead?’ Swieten drew himself to his full height and flared his nostrils.

  ‘It’s true that the Pergen family tomb is set into the floor in the aisle of St Michael’s.’ Pergen took another pinch of snuff. ‘But I’ve no need to visit them. The dead are always with us.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Swieten’s grimace was sarcastic and impatient.

  ‘I see them walking among us even now. Sometimes I find it hard to tell the difference between a living man and a ghost.’ Pergen reached out to stroke the embroidery of Swieten’s silver coat. ‘Until I touch him.’

  Constanze’s knees gave out and she collapsed onto Swieten’s arm. During the fuss to revive her, Pergen made a deep bow to me. He stepped back with his left leg, flourished his hand and folded himself low over his right knee. His extended leg seemed to curve inwards in its silk stocking, giving him the look of a flunky in a satirical cartoon.

  He sauntered away at a measured pace.

  We descended the stairs of the Academy and waited by the brazier, as the carriages pulled up to take people into the night. Swieten climbed into his coach with a tip of his hat to me. Lichnowsky was so pale after his encounter with the Police Minister that he appeared to shine in the interior of his carriage like a thin slice of the moon. Stadler left without a word.

  Vienna had seemed to be weeping for my brother’s death. But there was self-pity and terror in the mourning of his friends. It was as though they expected something just as dreadful to happen to them. I had intended to go in the morning to Wolfgang’s grave, but the conversations in the concert hall convinced me to delay. Before I went to pay my last respects, I needed to be sure of what had happened to him. In our lives, we had become silent to each other. At his graveside, I would allow that there be no more secrets between us.

  Constanze stared into the dark side-streets, as we returned from the Academy. The Police Minister’s suspicions terrified the poor woman. I restrained my enthusiasm for our performances. It was no time for celebration.

  Still, my joy in the music I had played that night overpowered even Pergen’s intimidations. I was thrilled to have performed Wolfgang’s compositions before such a distinguished audience, to have felt the presence of the brother I had thought so lost to me.

  I bade Constanze good night and watched her carriage rattle toward Kärntner Street. I breathed deeply of the silence in Flour Market Square and perched at the edge of the pool around the Fountain of Providence. Dangling my fingertips in the freezing water at the feet of the goddess, I hummed the melody of Wolfgang’s concerto and wondered about the private life of the Baron van Swieten.

  10

  The morning light sparkled on the old, warped glass of the windows and shone through a gap in the curtain around my bed. The sunshine was silver, like the pure light that emanates from a saint in a vision. Silver like Baron van Swieten’s coat. I stretched my arms above my head and kicked off the heavy winter covers. The excitement of my performance at the Academy still warmed me.

  Lenerl tied the curtains to the bedpost and curtsied. ‘Guten Morgen, madame.’

  I sat up and pulled my knees close to my chest under my nightdress. ‘Morning, my dear.’

  ‘You were very excited when you came back last night, I must say, madame. The concert must’ve been wonderful.’

  ‘It was a night I’ve dreamed of for so long. I suppose I’d given up hope that anything like that would ever happen to me.’

  The girl grinned and held up my dressing gown. ‘You couldn’t even get a sentence out. You danced into bed like you were dreaming.’

  I stepped into my slippers and let her wrap me.

  Lenerl poured a hot chocolate from the breakfast tray at the dresser. I tasted it with such pleasure that I shuddered.

  ‘I shall perform again today, Lenerl,’ I said. ‘For the Society of Associated Cavaliers.’

  ‘Very fine gentlemen, no doubt, Madame. You’re making the most of Vienna.’

  I heard a shadow of disapproval in the girl’s voice. She was simple and religious, and she would have expected me to spend the week on my knees beside Wolfgang’s grave. But I was in no mood to discipline her. ‘There’s a lot for me to accomplish here,’ I said.

  Heavy clogs ascended the stairs. A knock at the door. Lenerl eased it back with care, so that I shouldn’t be seen undressed. She held out her hand, red with housework, received a letter and brought it to me.

  I recognized the crest impressed in the wax seal. I had seen it on Baron van Swieten’s coach as I walked to Magdalena Hofdemel’s home. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth.

  The Baron’s letter confirmed that I should play for his Associated Cavaliers that afternoon. He requested that I join him for lunch first. He had something in particular he wished to share with me alone, he wrote. His language was formal and impersonal, but it excited in me an enthusiasm I knew to be unseemly.

  ‘Give me my writing case,’ I said. ‘I have to reply right away. Then you may dress me for a lunch with the Baron.’

  Lenerl unscrewed the lid of a pot of ink. On the edge of the dresser I wrote a brief note to the Baron accepting his invitation.

  ‘Imagine, lunch with a baron, madame. Have you met him before?’

  ‘I encountered him last night at the Academy.’

  ‘A baron. No wonder you were so dreamy when you came back here.’

  ‘Don’t think I’m so impressed by the title of a baron, my girl,’ I said. ‘I’ve performed at the keyboard for kings and empresses.’

  Her head inclined a touch. I saw she was thinking that playing the piano and taking lunch were two different things. I sealed the note and found a few kreuzers in my purse.

  ‘Take this downstairs. Have the landlord send a boy to the Imperial Library to deliver it.’

  Lenerl curt
sied and left.

  I stroked my hair where it fell blonde across my collar bone. With both hands I lifted it so that it sat above my head.

  I wanted to be on my way to the Baron now. I reached for the bag in which Lenerl had packed ribbons for my hair, and I pushed aside the breakfast tray. My stomach was tremulous and excited. I had no more appetite for chocolate.

  Before I set down the bag of ribbons, I noticed another letter on the dresser. It had been concealed beneath the tray. In the small, jagged characters of my husband’s handwriting, it was addressed to me.

  I cut it open with my thumb. Berchtold must have written it less than two days after I left for it to have arrived so soon. I read the first line, but I was too distracted to take in its meaning. I chose for the moment not to examine why that might be. I started once again at the beginning.

  My dear lady,

  Madame, I trust you have arrived in good health in Vienna and that you have paid your respects to the widow of your brother. You may be sure that your children and mine desire your swift return and await you in a state of noisy agitation that is most disturbing to my office and duties. I very much hope your initial purpose in traveling to Vienna has been swiftly disposed of. Such things as murder, of course, occur among the disreputable elements of Viennese society, but I trust you have uncovered a more natural explanation for your brother’s passing.

  The vivacity with which I had awoken drained away. In the mirror on the dresser, my expression was sheepish, like a catechism pupil scolded by a nun.

  Your son, the letter went on, doesn’t neglect his studies at the piano, though I have noticed that his childish playing is somewhat enervating when my offended ears are not later compensated with the greater skills at the keyboard of his mother.

  I imagined Little Leopold at the piano and smiled to think that my husband suffered the boy’s music with my own performances in mind. That he recalled with pleasure the times when I played for him was as close to intimacy as he would allow himself to come in writing.