Marrying Mozart (24 page)

And now she was seventeen, living in the ever-changing world of transient boarders, circumventing her mother’s explosions, one of which some months ago had sent a mild boarder she had favored, a bespectacled student of ancient Eastern languages, rushing from the door, leaving behind books of very strange writing. A duller man had taken his room, and once more she had turned her back on the lot of them. They were merely meals to serve, shaving water to heat, beds to change—Aloysia’s abandoned fiancé among them. They would mean nothing to her, and she would allow them to see nothing of her true self.

Constanze had decided many years before that the best way to slip through her chaotic world was to be as quiet as possible, and to let no one know what she was feeling. When in the old days quarrels became too much between her mother and father, she had hidden on the steps, blocking her ears with her hands; then she and Sophie would quietly pick up the bits of broken plates. Yet under her full breasts, which she was always trying to lace down to obscurity, her heart was very soft. She cried for dead birds, she mourned for lonely old people—and she kept it all inside of herself. It would emerge in bursts of temper or grief, if she let it emerge at all. There was no room for her in the house, not in the early days. There were her brilliant older sisters, and her utterly charming and devout younger one, for whom she would give her life: they were gregarious and individualistic and, in the case of Aloysia, extraordinarily beautiful. There had never been any place for Constanze but in the corners, so in the corners she made her world.

Now she stood in the fortepiano shop in the midst of the instruments; she stood stiffly, for this place to which she was so drawn was a place of danger. Music opened her entirely. To some people it was pleasant; to others it brought the hope of happiness and peace; but to her it was reckless and deep. Once she had stumbled into a church when the boy’s choir was rehearsing a Bach chorale; alone, huddled in the farthest pew, she had found herself sobbing with emotion. And the truth was she had wanted to sing. She had wanted to sing deeply, richly, fully, but she had not dared. She was not as good as her sisters; she had never been as good as them, so she had chosen silence. Now she could not find her way through it.

She ran her hand over the fall board of one of the instruments; still hearing the sound of boxes being moved, she sat down on the bench and softly played a scale. From the other room came Johann Schantz’s jovial voice, “I do advise your family, Mademoiselle Weber, to consider buying a fortepiano. I would give it to you under generous terms. You see how much superior it is even to the harpsichord, in which the level of the tone can’t vary.” Then he was closer; he had come from the room. He stood just behind her. “Play something and you’ll see,” he said. “Play something.”

The first chords filled her, and tears pricked at her eyes. She withdrew her hands after playing only a page of a piece from memory, and clasped them tightly in her lap among the folds of her gray skirt.

“Come!” he said, seating himself beside her and beginning to play. His large hands were slightly hairy, and here and there were small cuts from his work. “Now you see what the pedal can do,” he said. “Is it not a remarkable instrument? But perhaps not today for you.”

The shop bell tinkled, and another customer came in, shaking out his umbrella. Constanze stood up at once and walked to the window, where piles of music lay; she began to look through them. Trios; music for wind band, clavier, and fortepiano music. Outside the window, the rain streaked down, and people hurrying past were blurred. Some time passed.

Then he was at her side. “Here’s the music, mademoiselle; I found it for you. You lost your copy when moving? Keep this one safe.”

Johann Schantz touched her arm, but she did not turn. She knew at that moment there was another young woman inside her, and if she allowed her to burst free, then who would she be, what would she do, where would she belong? Who was she if not the dutiful daughter, her hands clasped over her apron; the one who picked up broken plates and brought scraps out for the refuse man? She knew who she was: good, sweet, obscure Constanze, who had not quite been able to keep her family together.

Then his youngest child ran into the shop and leapt into his father’s arms. She walked a few streets in the rain, protecting the music under her cloak. The fortepiano maker was a married man. How could she dream of him? What would her own beloved father have said?

Still, during the next days, she reviewed every moment that had passed between them since she had first seen Johann Schantz, of the times she had visited his shop to purchase music or to present another difficulty with the aging clavier. She thought of how when he himself had come to their house to mend the clavier, she could not go into the parlor when she heard his voice.

Two days after her visit to the shop she was standing by the table just inside the boardinghouse door, looking through the post, which contained its customary weekly letter from her maternal aunts, when she saw the letter addressed to the Weber sisters. At once her heart began to pound, and she took the letters with her to the kitchen.

“What do you have there?” Sophie asked as she rolled out dough. “I know. One of Mama’s schemes has worked out, and the Count’s Russian cousin has asked to marry you. You’re moving to Moscow.”

“No, it’s an invitation to a supper and dance with the Schantz family, in their rooms above the music shop. Alfonso’s going as well, and he can chaperone us.”

Sophie looked about for the bowl of preserved fruit to spread on the dough. “What are you hiding from me, Stanzi?” she said ruefully. “Never mind. You’ll tell me when I’m on my deathbed, dying of curiosity. Let me see. Josefa won’t go with us; she never does anymore. I suppose Mama will say we can go if cousin Alfonso’s there.”

They arrived late to the party after helping to serve supper at home. The upper room was quite full already, with more than a few dozen people, mostly musicians, some of whom the girls had known half their lives. A sideboard groaned with dark bottles of wine from Johann and Wenzel Schantz’s country vineyard, for the brothers’ family made fine Viennese wines in addition to fortepianos. There were also cheeses, sliced sausages, and bread.

Constanze kept her eyes on the floor or the table. She could sense the presence of the fortepiano maker, and hear his resonant, rich bass voice. This night she knew that his eyes followed her; she could feel them.

Sophie hurried off to speak to an old friend of their father’s, and Constanze found Alfonso and his handsome Italian peasant wife sitting on chairs in one of the bedrooms, which had been cleared as much as possible for the party. She could estimate by Alfonso’s ebullient voice and his flushed face how many glasses of wine he had already consumed. By his side, rocking back and forth shyly in his chair, was a young man. “My prodigy,” Alfonso cried expansively. “I found him work in the orchestra at Stephansdom playing in the masses when he’d just come from France, and I think I may be able to find him a place with the musicians of Prince Esterházy when they travel here this winter. My dear friend, my dear Henri, I have known Constanze and her sisters since they could barely totter across the room. Their father was a good soul and my closest friend.”

“Yes,” replied Constanze, but she was aware only of Herr Schantz’s hearty laughter from the other room.

Some minutes later Sophie appeared at the door. “They’re beginning to play a game,” she cried impatiently. “Come on.”

In the large room the chairs had been pushed to one side but for a red velvet one in the center. Sophie held her arm and spoke in her ear in a ticklish whisper. “They’re going to measure the women’s calves with a ribbon and see which one’s the plumpest. They guess beforehand, and make wagers; they cast lots to see who does the measuring.” It was an old game Constanze had seen played once years before in her own house; her father had done the measuring, and her mother had stood by frowning. It will be Johann, she thought, who will measure. He will touch my leg. Her breasts, laced not quite so flat this evening, seemed to rise and grow warmer.

The dice were rolled, and the winner cried out. She closed her eyes. It is Johann, she thought, but when she opened her eyes, it was Alfonso’s prodigy, Henri, who stood with the scarlet ribbon dangling in his hand, swinging it to and fro before the many guests who crowded around.

One by one the women were pulled laughing to the chair, crossing their legs at the knee, lifting their skirts, their petticoats, and, last of all, their plain white shifts. The men jostled and whistled. Sophie went directly and, pulling up her garments, exposed her white light wool hose; Henri knelt before her and wound the ribbon around the fullest part of her calf. With a pen he marked her initials on the silk and dangled it high.

Lastly, Constanze was pulled forward to the chair. She glanced up at all the interested faces, then gathered up her various layers until her white hose were bared. She felt Henri’s hand on her calf, and gazed down at his golden hair indifferently. Everyone in the room was looking at her. Then he held up the dangling ribbon in triumph, and people broke into applause. She had won, and she stood, her skirts fallen again into place. She smiled at everyone, and yet saw only the fortepiano maker. Then he was at her side, holding out a glass of wine. “For the pretty leg,” Johann Schantz said with a wink. He was slightly drunk, and the few white strands in his dark hair glittered in the candlelight. “For the pretty little girl.”

Now the red velvet chair was moved to the side of the room as well and a flautist began playing a country dance. She flung herself into the steps, moving quickly around the room, as all the women did, from partner to partner, but he did not dance with her. He never seemed to reach her; he was always on another side. There was Sophie, oblivious, shrieking with laughter, but he was so far away.

And then he was quite near her. “I’ve brought you a little lemonade,” Johann said, as Constanze rested for a moment with her hand on a chair back. “You dance well. I never knew you had such gifts, Mademoiselle Weber.” Then, bending down, he murmured in a voice that stirred the soft curls above her ears, “Come, my dear, I have something to show you.”

Walking softly down to the shop below, with its dark shapes of unfinished instruments, he held her hand. By the tall cabinet for strings and parts, he drew her closer. He bent down to her, and his mouth was terribly warm and smelled of wine. She had never been kissed on the lips by a man before. Her whole body grew warm as his fingers and then his mouth moved beneath her bodice to one nipple. So this was what had swept Aloysia away; this was the thing that made women throw off all resolution. It was the end of feeling such loneliness, of being the one not chosen, of living in silence.

He was panting and rubbing himself against her. His groin was hard. He pushed up her skirt and petticoats, and explored high above her knee under her drawers. “Yes,” she stammered. “So it’s ‘yes’ then?” he replied. His fingers touched the soft hair between her legs, and she gasped; he put his free hand over her mouth. “Ah, you wild kitten,” he whispered. “I have wanted you since you first walked into my shop.”

He pushed her back onto the table, and some materials fell to the floor. Vaguely she felt something sharp under her back, and heard the pounding of dancing on the floor above them. He was pressing against her; as she lay in shock and joy, feeling his weight, she managed to murmur, “But what does this mean, Johann? Will you leave your wife and run away with me?”

“What I wouldn’t do for you!”

The street door opened abruptly, and a few men came in, dragging a great bass in its case. She rolled to the side, pulling down her skirts. Without his warmth above her she felt naked and alone. He had stridden forward to greet his new guests, his voice hearty, hand extended; in her confusion she backed up, began to pick up some bits of ivory from the floor, and then dropped them. Quickly she ran up the steps to the room with the half-empty plates and the wine bottles. And where was he? Half of her had been torn away. And then there he was, coming up the stairs with his friends.

From a corner his wife stared at her, and Constanze stood between the woman’s hard eyes and the man’s broad laughter. It was as if he were a different person than the one who had almost taken her virginity downstairs on the table with the instrument parts pushing into her back. Her virginity—dear Lord! She moved among the others, wondering if everyone could see on her face what had happened. Except for Frau Schantz’s bitter look, no one seemed to notice her at all.

Sophie was shaking her. “It’s time to go,” her little sister whispered. Sophie’s breath was also full of wine and cakes, and she swayed a little and burst into embarrassed giggles. “I’ve made a fool of myself! Someone twice my age tried to feel my breasts. I think I’m drunk. We promised we’d be home by ten. Alfonso is also drunk; I don’t know how his wife will get him home. I find these evenings confusing; convent life must be easier. May I hold on to your arm. Dearest Stanzi, I am quite ...”

They supported each other down the stairs, past the many instruments in the shadows and out into the spring evening. Sophie put her hand over her mouth. “I’m going to be sick,” she gasped.

“Rest here awhile.”

“We’ve got to be home. Blessed Saint Anne, Stanzi, someone’s
coming.
”

They turned as best they could and made out Alfonso’s golden-haired prodigy hurrying after them. He approached them in a nice trot, his face openly good-natured, and said, “Let me walk with you! What were the others thinking! You should not walk home alone.” His glance took in Sophie, but he was discreet and said nothing, only looked a little amused.

Constanze let him take her arm, glancing worriedly at her sister on the other side of him. Whatever he said, she heard little. She thought only of the dark instrument workshop, the smell of unfinished wood, the glimmering black and ivory keys, the oddly coiled strings, the feel of the fortepiano maker as he pressed close, the sound of dancing above. What could she make of the kiss, and the hand groping above her garter? What wouldn’t I do for you, he had said. And now there was Sophie, cautiously putting one flat shoe before the other, babbling about the evening. The sooner she goes to a convent, the better, Constanze thought. I ought to join her. I’ll have to confess this.