Marrying Mozart (23 page)

Shyly, the girls looked around the room. There was an air of sensuality about the carelessly squashed sofa pillows; a book thrown facedown on the floor; the easel, with its half-finished portrait of their sister in some operatic role, head tilted to the side, great eyes gazing intensely at the viewer. Behind a slightly ajar door, they could see the rumpled unmade bed; emerging from that door came Aloysia, also rumpled, wearing her husband’s dressing gown, which she had to hold up, for it was so long it seemed like the regal train of a monarch. Her hair was down about her shoulders, as if she had just risen from that bed, where the sheets still held the warm scent of man and wife. She smelled of it as she leaned forward to kiss them, her tangled hair brushing their cheeks.

Constanze and Sophie embraced her. How odd to have her apart from them; it was a crack in their lives that did not mend.

Aloysia stretched out on the sofa pillows. On her feet dangled Sophie’s slippers, which she had taken months ago when she had rushed home for her possessions, her face flushed with anger and tears, throwing randomly in her portmanteau someone’s chemise, someone’s hairbrush, her broken rosary, and many other things. Now, lying on the sofa in her own rooms, all rushing was gone. She yawned, and said idly, “How are things at home?”

“The same,” said Sophie with a sigh. “Five boarders, including Steiner, who studies theology and never pays on time. How’s the baby? Oh I wish she were here to hold; I love babies.”

“You’ve always loved little things, but you mightn’t if you knew what trouble she gave me being born; I thought I was dying. I suppose she’s well; her wet nurse in the country seems like an honest woman. We’re going to drive out tomorrow to see her; someone who likes my singing is lending his carriage. You can come if you like. She’s an odd little thing. My husband says she looks like me, but I can’t see it.”

Aloysia stretched and glanced at Joseph Lange, who had again taken up his paintbrush. He felt it and returned the look. The two younger sisters reached for each other’s hands. Come back, they wanted to cry. When would she be coming home? Would she ever now?

Aloysia reached for the pitcher to pour some beer; at that moment something silver glittered at her throat. Sophie squinted and leaned forward. “Why, that’s Josefa’s locket,” she cried, instantly proprietary on behalf of her older sister. She could see Josefa on her knees, feeling under the bed, crying, “Where’s my locket? Where’s my locket?”

The beer was poured, a few drops making their way down the outside of the glass. “What, do you think I took it without asking?” Aloysia said. “I did borrow your slippers, Sophie, I admit that. I’ll return them soon, I promise. As for the locket, Josefa said I could have it. Last month when I came for my things she thrust it at me, saying, ‘I don’t want it anymore.’ She’s more and more odd, you know. Her deportment’s dreadful, even onstage. Never mind. I guess she’s done with her mourning for her lover in Munich.”

Aloysia sat up a little, and looked around the room as if momentarily surprised to find herself here.
“Mon Dieu,”
she murmured. “How we are all turning out differently than we thought ... but enough of that. Come see my new dresses. I’m singing in private houses as well as the opera, and it does pay very nicely.”

In the bedroom she spread out a new pink dress, a dark green one, and a petticoat that would be displayed through the front dress panels, layers and layers of white eyelet embroidered with little pink flowers. Aloysia looked carefully at her sisters. She kissed Sophie, and said, “I can’t believe you’re fifteen. Your birthday was months ago, and I’m sorry I missed it. I’ll buy you a present; you know I always do, though it’s often late. But look at you both—before we know it, you’ll both be in love and married as well. By that time Josefa might actually be less abrasive and find someone to marry her. I’ll be the most famous singer in Europe by then, and we’ll visit one another and be civil. Yes, it will happen; I know it.”

Sophie stood with her toes turned in a little, rubbing the bridge of her nose to ease the place where the spectacles rested. “I’m not going to marry,” she said. “I want to be a nun and dedicate myself to charitable works.”

“Oh, that again, you tiresome child. All girls want that for a time—the perpetuation of virginity, the dedication to the sorrowful mysteries, and all those things we were taught when Papa took us to church. But tell me ...” Her fingers caressed the eyelet of the petticoat, and she blinked a little faster. “How is ...
Mother
?”

Constanze sighed. “Mama’s much the same. Her back aches; her legs ache; the boarders tire her. I do what I can. Speaking of marriage, she has plans again. I heard her talking with Uncle Thorwart the other day from behind closed doors, something about the cousin of a count who has a small estate. She doesn’t give up; she doesn’t understand. When
I
marry it will be for love.” She raised her face, and, in that moment, there was an unusual radiance in her heart-shaped face.

She flung herself down on the bed, pushing aside the dresses. “The last time Mama tried was in the autumn, and he was old enough to be my grandfather. He had to help himself up from the chair with his cane, though Mama said he owned four houses.” Through her now loosening hair, Constanze gazed at her younger sister, beginning to laugh all over again. “And we laughed so hard, Sophie and I, we had to excuse ourselves. We collapsed on the stairs outside the sewing room, laughing. I know he heard us, but we couldn’t help it! Sophie said, ‘If he can’t stand by himself, what will he do in
bed?’
and that made me laugh so hard I nearly fell over. It’s true; the child did say it. Don’t deny it, Sophie! Oh, heavens—”

“Oh, how ridiculous,” Aloysia cried. “Sophie, how
do
you know such things? What use will they be in a convent? What a waste! Darlings, poor mice! Move over; don’t squash my dresses.”

The three sisters tumbled over one another on the bed, lying on their sides amid the pillows, hearing Joseph Lange’s humming as he painted in the next room. Aloysia said, “You know, our Josefa never comes to see me, or at least hasn’t in this last month. She can’t make up her mind if she loves me or resents me. But she does have a lover. I know people who sing with her. It’s one of the tenors, the one from Prague. The city’s small; you can’t blow your nose without someone noticing it, and gossip’s the very bread and butter of life. Some people say two lovers. She’s doing it to get back at Mother, to show others she can, to show me.”

Lying on her side, Aloysia hesitated, her face taking on an unusual severity. “And if she doesn’t watch it, she’ll find herself where I was, with a bun in the oven, and she’ll have to marry. Not that I didn’t want to; I wouldn’t trade Lange for the world. But there I was, so swollen with child, so distorted I hardly knew myself, and I kept saying, really, is this creature me?” Now she was laughing again, flinging back her hair. “Can you imagine our proud Josefa in that state? Children are lovely, but with the bickering and quarreling Mother and Father engaged in over us, and their concerns about how to cut the slices of meat small enough to go around. Oh mice, do you remember the hours and hours we hid on the stairs while they raged and shouted? With all that, should we be hasty to get ourselves with child?” Her voice trailed off, and she caressed the bodice of the pink dress.

Sophie lay silent in thought. Josefa did not come home often. She was singing in another opera house, where her rich voice with its deep low notes fascinated some even though her roles were small. She had made close friends with two women who lived together, one a rather mannish portraitist and the other a young composer; she was often at their house, and stayed away for days without explanation. Their mother looked at her angrily with a furrowed brow, daring to challenge her only in short barbs, then looking away, gnawing her lip, afraid of losing her. But could Aloysia’s words be true? Two lovers? What did a woman do with two lovers? I am losing her; I am losing her, Sophie thought. Josefa will go just like Aly, and leave us.

Vaguely Aloysia’s words floated over her, and Sophie turned to look at the young singer who now leaned back dreamily, pillow in her arms. “She’ll come back, Sophie,” she murmured. Aloysia knelt for a moment and touched the younger girl’s freckled cheek as she had years before when Sophie was ill and she had sung her lullabies. Then she said, with slow tenderness, “Oh mice, do you ever wonder what life is for? In the end what it’s really for, what’s the reason for it, and how are we to behave?”

Aloysia opened her hands palms up and then reached for an ostrich feather that lay on the table near the bed. “Never mind, I’ll make myself melancholy talking like that. Look, this feather’s going on my blue hat ... everyone in Paris wears them! No, wait, this is important! Tell me about you, Stanzi. There’s something different about you. What is it? Do you have a secret? Are you in love? Yes, you are, look how you blush. Now I’m going to tickle your belly until you tell me.”

They fell together into a heap, Constanze laughing, her dress pulling up over her dark hose as she tried to get away from her sister’s tickling fingers. “Oh stop, stop, Aloysia; there’s no one, I swear.”

Holding her down, Aloysia whispered into her ear, “I know something about you that you don’t. You could be a great flirt if you let yourself, Constanze Weber, and you could, too, Sophie, with all your talk of nunneries. You silly girls, when will you learn? Flirting’s delicious, it’s delicious; you have so much power. Oh, it’s one of the most delicious things.”

A knock sounded at the door, discreet, then sounded once more. “Beloved,” came Lange’s low and reasonable voice, “you have a rehearsal with the musicians in an hour. The clock just struck, and you ought to have a little food before you go.”

Aloysia sat up suddenly. She stood frowning, glancing severely toward her few more common dresses, wondering which one she should wear. The two younger sisters slipped down from the bed, straightening their own dresses and refastening their hair with the pins that had come loose.

“My darling,” came the call again.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Aloysia flung off the dressing gown and stood in her smock; she sat down on the chair to pull on her hose and fasten them to her garter. From the other room came the sound of things being moved. Smoothing her hose, Aloysia said offhandedly, “And how’s Mama’s boarder, Herr Mozart? I hear he writes and gives lessons and some concerts, yet still can barely make enough to feed himself. A pity. Some people say he’s brilliant, and others that he’s just too proud, that he wants life just as he wants it and won’t have it any other way.”

Sophie nodded, the corners of her mouth drawn down. “He never speaks to us except when he must,” she said uncomfortably. “I wish we were still good friends! Do you ever sing the songs he wrote for you?”

“Yes, I do; they’re beautiful songs. The whole tour he planned! He has a kind heart but little sense. Sophie Weber, are you going to ask me if I regret what I did? Never, not for a moment. Joseph and I are much in love, and we may travel to other countries. Perhaps to Paris for my singing, and he could paint there. His work’s in demand. Did you see the lovely one he’s making of me in the role of Zémire, with the feathers in my hair? Oh girls, did you see it? It’s against the wall.”

She was dressed now, slipping the last of the ivory pins into her hair. They followed her into the small sunny room where her clavier stood and watched as she gathered up her music, trying a scale or two. Her beautiful little voice rang out to the china figurines on the windowsill. When she turned, both younger sisters sensed that she had now entirely left them, that the laughter and tickling might have occurred years ago and not just a few minutes before.

“Don’t let Mama spoil your lives,” she said severely. Then she kissed them on their cheeks, for a moment letting her little hand linger on their arms. “Good-bye, my very dears,” she murmured. “I miss Papa, don’t you? Sometimes I miss him so much I can’t bear it.”

T
he shop sign dripped water down its painted wood over the words JOHANN AND WENZEL SCHANTZ, MAKERS OF FORTEPIANOS AND CLAVIERS, PURVEYORS OF MUSIC FROM FRANCE, AUSTRIA, AND ITALY. Peering through the rainy windows, Constanze gazed past the instruments to the blurred, well-built man in his leather apron. Then she opened the shop door to the tinkle of the bell, and went inside, shaking off her cloak as best she could.

His voice resonated warm and deep. “
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Weber.”

She made the smallest curtsey. “
Bonjour,
Herr Schantz.”

“You come in the rain! I hope all’s well with your family.”

“Oh, all quite well! I’ve come to find the music for the song we spoke of.”

“Yes, of course! I was concerned for a moment that my man didn’t mend your father’s old clavier satisfactorily. I’m afraid he confided in me that it’s seen its time.” And he smiled at her. “I’ll look for the music, mademoiselle,” he said, and went through a door into a small room where she could hear him humming and vigorously moving boxes. Even though he left the room, she could feel his presence.

Johann Schantz’s dark, muscular arms under his rolled sleeves were dusted with hair; his chest was broad, his voice deep. He smelled of the insides of fortepianos and claviers, that hidden woody smell of her childhood. He reminded her of a painting she had once seen of a gypsy. For some months now she had been making excuses to see him, spending the day before thinking of what she could say, and the days following wishing that her words had been more clever or that something about her had been more noticeable.

Aloysia always said you could define affection, relegating it to either flirtation or deep feeling, but that was so reductionary, that was so unsubtle. When Constanze was twelve there had been the schoolboy who had lived downstairs in their Mannheim house and had left her short notes slipped under a crack in one of the steps. When she was not quite fourteen there had been the lawyer’s clerk. He had died young, and for months she had grieved for him.