Constanze Mozart had square hands, which she was always folding together as though she wished in that way to make them look more elegant. “My husband will miss you when you’re gone,” she said. “It’s so difficult to find good singers. Do you know what I mean? He is so particular. That is, he will write for anyone, as required, but he would prefer to write for someone like you. You are so musical. It is good of you to include him in your concert.”
The conversation dwindled. Anna smiled at the little boy and Constanze got up to straighten the chairs. Anna asked if she could help. Constanze politely declined. There seemed nothing to say.
Mozart was convinced that Constanze did not know.
At last they heard him in the foyer.
“Is Mademoiselle Storace there?” he called. “I’ve just run into my sister-in-law, she’d like to hear our aria. She says you invited her to tea, Constanze.”
“Don’t shout from the other room, my love,” said Constanze, going to the door.
“Is she here?” he bellowed.
“Yes, sitting patiently and listening to all my prating.”
Mozart bounded in, a high color in his face, and kissed his wife and child. His hair stood out and his shoes were damp around the toes. Anna’s heart constricted. “Didn’t you find your slippers in the hall?” Constanze asked, frowning, and went to fetch them and bring little Karl to his nurse.
Anna rose. Mozart stopped short before her. “You’re here,” he said. He hesitated and studied her. “I’ve been looking forward to this all morning.”
“As have I,” said Aloysia Lange, rustling forward to greet Anna. “How good it is to see you. How do you do. We’re all so broken up about your leaving us. It is really too bad. Do you much mind me listening? I was coming to visit my sister and I would so much love to hear you. You’re so gracious, my dear. What a lovely frock this is! Just like a rose. How I wish I had your youth. My family is quite well, I thank you, the children in good health, by God’s grace. How pretty you are. Isn’t she pretty, brother? It must be months since I’ve seen you. Constanze, isn’t Fräulein Storace looking well? How we shall miss her.”
“We hope she’ll not be parted from us for long,” said Constanze, coming back into the room. She helped her husband with his slippers.
Anna stood smiling. He was here. Her friend. She must remind herself to breathe. The jewel in her heart had dropped to her belly and become grotesque and leaden. To smile, to speak a nicety, meant dragging the weight through a current of water, neck-deep. There was only the press of water and numbing cold. She had trouble attending to what was said and yet every instant was like a drop of dew on her skin, finely delineated. She was conscious of herself in the room, and of Mozart’s every gesture. Here he was, in plain daylight, with his wife and his wife’s sister. She recognized him—what he was, how dear and how right—with a certainty so serene and assured it would not be undermined. But she could not go to him. She was forbidden. She felt the heaviness, the water coming over her chin, the cold winter light reminding her that everything was comical, petty, implacable.
They all crowded into Mozart’s music room. The two sisters, one prettier, the other happier, sat side by side at the far end, their skirts overlapping and their hands entwined.
But Anna could not mind the sisters watching over them. She would have undergone many more discomforts for the exhilaration of singing with him again. The aria brought her joy, just as he had intended. There could be no greater gift. She could not help, once they’d gone through it, swinging to him with such open delight that it turned to laughter.
“You like it?” he said, pleased.
She draped herself across his instrument, her head on her arm, as if swooning there. “I adore it.”
He smiled. “Don’t break anything.”
“I’m very gentle,” she murmured.
“Is she all right?” Constanze asked. She and Aloysia were about eight feet away.
“I think my brother has made his favorite soprano faint,” Aloysia said. “She’ll recover in a moment if she’s not too far gone.”
“Why, you’ve made all three of us giddy, my love,” said Constanze. “You don’t know your powers.”
Anna drew herself up. “You do,” she said to Mozart. “You know very well.”
He shrugged, proud. “It’s a proper rondo.”
“As promised.”
“Anything for you,” he said in Italian. She gave him a sharp look.
“I think they’re talking about us,” observed Aloysia to Constanze.
“They’re talking about the music.”
“I wish he’d write music like that for me.”
“He did—don’t you remember?”
“Not like that, sister,” said Aloysia.
“Well, you’re not having a farewell concert.”
“Perhaps I should.”
“But where would you go away to?” asked Constanze blankly.
Aloysia snorted and dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. “Why, nowhere. But that’s the point. My brother doesn’t want Mademoiselle Storace going away, so he writes her this. He knows I will never go anywhere, so he writes me nothing.”
“Hush. We’ll disturb them.”
Anna turned to the ladies and bowed graciously. “I’m so sorry. Herr Mozart’s playing overpowers me.”
“As it does us all,” Aloysia said. “As it has done ever.”
“It’s beautiful, Wolfgang,” Constanze said.
“And the text,” added Aloysia, “is so affecting. I understood almost every word. Eternal faith, and so on. Even though they are parting she will always be loyal to him. The amato bene. The ‘beloved,’ Constanze. You understand? And of course she means that we are her beloved ones, all we of Vienna. There will not be a dry eye in the house, as they say.”
“Surely not mine,” said Anna. “I’ll be happy if I can only make it through to the end without weeping.”
“Oh, you shall manage,” Aloysia said tartly. “You always do.”
Anna dropped her eyes.
Mozart laughed, uneasy. “Three of my favorite ladies all in the same room, and all of them flattering me. I’ll get a big head.”
“Too late for that,” said Aloysia.
“If only my sister were here,” Mozart said. “Then there’d be four of you.”
“What would she say?” asked Anna.
“She might want to play it herself.”
“Why, then I don’t want her here.”
He gave her a warm look. “You would, if you heard her. She’s a better player than I am.”
“I can’t imagine any better than you,” she said.
“So naive,” exclaimed Aloysia. “La, madame! You cannot find your way to my brother’s heart by praising his playing. He’s been praised for his playing since he was no older than Karl.”
“How may I do it, then?” asked Anna lightly.
“By stealth and cunning,” Aloysia said. “Like my sister did.”
“Aloysia,” Constanze exclaimed. “You’ll hurt my feelings.”
“Oh, my dear, you know I was only teasing. It wasn’t stealth but your sweet, gentle nature, your simplicity; your grace. Let that be a lesson to you, Mademoiselle Storace.”
“Oh, yes,” said Anna with a smiling glance at both sisters. “Whenever I see Madame Mozart I wish I could be more like her.”
“But we can only be ourselves,” said Aloysia. “That is our great tragedy.” She looked at her sister and dabbed her nose.
The two women observed the rest of the rehearsal as though sitting judgment on it. The next time Anna and Mozart rehearsed this, it would be with the orchestra.
They would not let her be alone with him. She would never again be alone with him.
Still the ladies in their observance insisted that Anna and Mozart rehearse just as they would have done without anyone watching. The ladies in their observance would be but flies on the wall, making not a peep or motion, simply absorbing the charming unio
n of the famous soprano and her chosen composer. After the first flurry of compliments they remained silent and impenetrable as seated topiary trees, unmoving except for a slight listing of their bodies, a shivering in the still air of their lace and bows.
But Anna and Mozart were yet able to enclose themselves in a private dialogue—a few soft words, here and there, in Italian, a language neither sister knew well, while discussing their music. They said nothing of any great matter, but it was a nothing for themselves alone.
“A little slower here, I think.”
“Here I imagined you as a soldier, a revolutionary.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man. But only for these bars and you mustn’t tell the emperor.”
“Welcoming my death.”
“Yes—a hero.”
“And this, here, must be a great change.”
“That is love.”
Their eyes touched and touched again, while the topiaries watched and shivered.
“You see? Here we faint and there we faint doubly.”
“Exquisite—exquisite …”
“We can do more with this climax, mademoiselle.”
“How do you find such strength in your left hand?”
“Practice.”
“Again, again.”
“And you see this will go over the orchestra.”
“I love this part,” she said. “Where we faint.”
He laughed. “You’re blushing to say it.”
“That’s how you may tell it’s truth.”
“Could I ever write you less?”
“Hush, my dear one.”
“The world may hear. Could I write less for you, Anna?”
“Not my Christian name. The world may not hear you say that.”
“And yet you call me dear.”
“No, that was the music.” She shook her head. “Let me sing that part again. The part where I faint and you carry me up.”
“It should be more beautiful. I’ll improvise around you.”
“Inside me, rather.”
“How may I do that?” he murmured.
She laughed, remembering his touch, which she could have no more. He said, “Sing now—sing and I’ll find you.”
As Anna was leaving, Constanze grasped her hands and said, “You are so dear, mademoiselle, and good to us. I tried to be as quiet as a mouse. The concert will bring you and my husband much glory.”
Caught in Constanze Mozart’s regard, held so firmly in her strong, square hands, Anna was nearly deprived of speech. Here, again, was the ordinariness, the truth, the lead in her belly.
“We’ll see each other again,” Constanze said. “Don’t be sad. There’s no need to be sad.”
Lord Barnard opened the door in his dressing gown, his fine wheat-colored hair hanging around his shoulders. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. “My dear Miss Storace,” he exclaimed, “you catch me in dishabillé.”
“Did I wake you?” Anna asked. She couldn’t smile. She had been almost home from the Mozarts’ when she had directed the driver to come here instead. She gathered her skirts and entered his small parlor, which was sparsely furnished and rather chilly, testifying to his transience and carelessness. Through the door she could see his rumpled bed. The street on which he lived received poor light and the room faced north. It was already dark. He had lit no candles. There was a sour, fermented smell.
With a yawning sigh he fell into a chair. Anna removed her hat and gloves and set them on top of her cloak.
“I was dancing until dawn,” Barnard said. “And beyond the dawn.” He lifted a foot. “See my blisters? Heaven’s judgment on me. I had to toss my shoes and dance in my stockings. They say a rabble of Englishmen smashed all the lampposts in the Grabenstrasse, but I’d nothing to do with it, I’m not even English. I was dancing the whole time.” He laid his head back and shut his eyes.
Anna stood in the middle of the room without speaking, in the encroaching dark.
Finally she turned, as if to leave. He opened his eyes and gave a long sigh, and in the next moment was on his feet, gathering her into his arms. A tall man. She could lean her cheek against his chest and hear his heart beating there.
“My little dove,” he said languidly. John Fisher had called her that. His fingers touched the back of her neck. “To what do I owe this honor?”
She rested against him. He held her effortlessly. The smell had gone. “Loneliness,” she said at last. She tried to laugh. But she felt so sad.
“Sweet Miss Storace,” he said. “You of all ladies should never be lonely.”
“I only have an hour.”
“All happiness is mine.”
The Great Leveler
Lord Barnard, Henry, the future Earl of Darlington, with his big smile and his easy hands, was Anna’s near constant companion during her last week in Vienna. He seemed to look on her as a kind of prize, beneficial to his pride and reputation. She, having felt out of her mind for some weeks now, regarded the affair as a final step into dissolution that might yet get her through the days and nights. Embracing Barnard—his drinking, his lust—she embraced the truth. She dropped the weight of longing and loneliness and let herself drift heedlessly down the stream. This was plain daylight, this was her life as she had always been accused of living it. A loose life, a life befitting her wealth and her profession. If she could not be happy yet she could seek comfort, in whatever form or person it might appear. Vienna had enjoyed her and in this last week she would enjoy Vienna.
She saw Mozart only once, at the dress rehearsal for her concert. They were surrounded by people. Stephen talked to him for a long time about the wonders of London. She had warned Stephen on pain of death not to say anything about Lord Barnard.
She wanted to stay awake every minute, to feel everything. But of course that was impossible. Most of the time with Barnard she spent sleeping, as heavily as she had ever slept, and as dreamlessly, and what a comfort it was. This word she repeated to herself—comfort. She abandoned everything else.
A few nights before her departure, Anna went with Barnard, Stephen, and Lidia to a masked ball at the Redoute. She danced early into the morning and had scarcely time to catch her breath or drink from the clear, sparkling cider laid out in silver punch bowls along the edges of the dance floor. The hall glowed warmly with candles and the motion of turning skirts and gliding feet and gently smiling faces. The heat of their bodies on this February evening lent to the party feelings of youth and joy. There was nothing the Viennese loved better than dancing. It was good to move in patterns spontaneous and orderly, to be passed from hand to hand by gracious partners, to think nothing of the future or past. Anna’s Carnival mask could not disguise her accent or her smile, but her partners were kind enough to make nothing of her fame—except, perhaps, by expressing a whispered word of regret at her parting. She felt she had done little to deserve that regret, but she let herself be touched tonight by their graceful goodwill.
Her limbs were loose and free from dancing. The band of string players in the small balcony played unflaggingly, and since the music did not tire, neither did her feet. Her brother was in a corner drinking with some of the Englishmen who had been here all week. He had no head for drink. Lidia did not engage in the dancing; she felt herself too tall and clumsy, and stayed in the other room playing whist with old gentlemen and dowagers. Anna’s feet skipped and turned as if of their own accord and she was not thirsty, though she had barely sipped any cider, and as she turned from hand to hand she could not think of Mozart, nor even of Barnard, though now she was dancing with him again. In his red mask with the big beak, Barnard did not look himself, and thus was more tolerable. But now, suddenly, a drunk officer was pushing into their group, and saying that Anna had promised this dance to him, though she had no memory of such a promise. He tried to take her in his arms. In her shock her feet fell out of rhythm and she went hurtling to the ground.
Every spell was broken. She was thirsty and tired. Her mask had f
allen askew. And she knew, in her bones, that if she left Vienna she would lose her dearest friend.
To Stephen, drunk in the corner, it looked as if his sister had been struck by the officer. He let out a yell and forced himself through the ballroom and began striking the officer wildly. He made the officer’s nose bleed. There was an uproar. The officer was a notable gentleman and everyone attested he had not struck the lady. In a matter of moments Stephen was subdued, arrested, and ordered taken to jail.
“He can’t go,” Anna protested. “We’re leaving in two days.”
But it was no use. Stephen blew his sister a kiss and shuffled off in the arms of his captors singing “Rule Britannia.” The offended officer retired to the next room with the whist tables, a handkerchief pressed to his nose, while Lidia glowered at him from the doorway. After a moment of hushed hesitation, the dancers resumed their pleasure.
Barnard was loath to go but Anna made him take her and Lidia to the jail in his carriage. Lidia was planning to come with them to London; she had been practicing her English with Stephen and was distressed at his arrest. She kept saying that if she had been there with Anna she could have stopped him.
Day was breaking. Fog hung on the ground and dimmed the streetlamps; the night had turned from black to purplish blue. To their left, the river made its lapping murmur, and somewhere a bird began to sing. The air was damp and almost warm. Spring was coming, spring in Vienna. Last year she had sung in Mozart’s Figaro; this year she would be in Paris. The air was hushed. Even the citizens beginning their day’s work seemed turned inward, their footsteps gentler than they would have been in noon daylight.
Lidia got out first and hurried directly into the prison. When Anna’s foot touched the damp cobbles, she slipped, and Barnard had to catch her elbow. The slickness of the stone and the lurch in her belly cast a kind of sobriety over her. She stood without moving.
“Aren’t you coming?” Barnard asked, a note of irritation in his voice. “Are you quite fine?”
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