Marrying Mozart (9 page)

There were stories of too many glasses of good wine drunk, girls half dazed, an unremembered night but for a petticoat stained with blood that would not wash out. (The first spilled blood of unmarried virgins did not wash out. Their mother had always assured them of that, and their aunts had nodded solemnly and sworn it by heaven.)

Sophie blew her nose and wound her rosary in her fingers.

“How did Papa meet Mama exactly?” she asked eagerly. “Both our aunts have a different story. It was a love match though, Mama said. I think they ran away. Aunt Elizabeth says her parents were against it. They were rich, and Papa was poor but full of prospects.”

“I thought Mama’s family lost their money when she was ten.”

“No indeed, seventeen.”

“I’ll ask her.”

“She’ll tell you something different every time.”

“Oh, shut up! We were speaking of marriages in general.”

With voices even lower, the conversation turned to sanctified marriage, and they sat more erect in the darkness. They told one another the stories of courtships and marriages: marriages of wealthy women and the elegance of their dresses, marriages of scrub girls, marriages betrayed and reconciled; of fidelity and infidelity, great dowries, large settlements, and true love, which was the rarest thing of all. Exhausted by so many marriages, they fell asleep one by one, until only Sophie and Josefa remained awake, now lying in heaps under blankets on their two close beds, faces almost touching, whispering.

Sophie said, “You could have sung that song at sight, Josy.”

“Yes; when he writes another, I will.”

“I like Mozart; he has a nice smile. I thought he would follow Aly down the hall, but he didn’t. I wonder why he didn’t. Maybe he’s in love with someone else. Maybe it’s you. Does she love Leutgeb, do you think? He and she were behind the hall door for the whole first movement of the trio, so perhaps she does. And what will Mama say to that?”

“Oh, really, I don’t care. Such nonsense.”

“I noticed something about the book. The first several pages have been cut out—the early writing.”

“More nonsense. Good night.”

Sophie lay awake for a time. She turned her head slightly to look at her sisters, sleeping this way and that, embracing pillows, curling in lumps under quilts, a hand with bitten fingernails dangling near the iron headboard. What was it like to be in love?

But the future was too complicated. There were things to be done in the morning: hose to be hung to dry, shirts to be ironed, and that all to one purpose. Under her breath she said her nightly prayer, which she and Constanze shared, that they might all remain together and that nothing would ever divide them. The pink flowered hose would be washed; the fan would be mended. She looked about the shadowy room at their garments thrown this way and that, their petticoats flung across the one chair, everything hazy in her nearsightedness. She put out her hand to touch her sisters, reassuring herself of their presence, protecting them.

 

In the marital bedroom, breeches and shirt draped also where they could find space, Fridolin Weber and his wife lay in bed, still talking softly. He wore a wet cold cloth over his forehead to remedy another of his frequent headaches. “Ah, your Thursdays,” Caecilia Weber said affectionately, for their old friend Thorwart had come with many bottles of wine to replace the ones they had drunk, and Aloysia had sung like an angel from heaven.

Still, she added sternly, “I must speak to Aloysia tomorrow. I saw Leutgeb follow her. I have my plans for her. Don’t smile, Fridolin. Thorwart moves in high circles and will help us. He’ll find some good prospects. I swear before a year more turns, someone with an old family name will marry our girl. One can’t have these matters arranged too soon before some other more unworthy girl gets the best opportunity.”

“You’re not thinking of the Prince of England, I hope?”

“You jest with me, Fridolin.”

“You fill her head with too many things, my dear. I want only her happiness. She’s very gifted, but rash.” Fridolin handed her the wet cloth, which she again dipped in water and wrung out. “Perhaps one of our girls will marry Mozart. I like that young man, my wife. I like him very much indeed.”

“Yes, he has a kind nature,” answered Caecilia. “But he doesn’t know how to get on in the world. Thorwart doubts he’ll do well in Mannheim; he’s hoping to be commissioned for an opera, but the wrong people are against him, and he wants to have the position of vice kapellmeister for the court but may not. He has enemies.”

“Why does he have enemies?”

“Because he doesn’t know how to manage people; people don’t know what to think of him. He doesn’t fit in. Thorwart tells me that. But we can’t consider him as a suitor. He has promised not to think of marriage until he succeeds. I heard him say so.”

“Let’s hope that won’t be a long time, for his sake. I know how eager young men are! But my love, Josefa left us for a time tonight. I thought the quarrel was made up, and then she left us. Do you know why?”

“Oh, she falls into dark moods and sulks! You know she never listens to me. Yes, she despises me for all I’ve done for her. She’s my eldest, the most dependable but the least to be trusted. She distorts stories to suit herself, then changes them the next day. The same unfortunate characteristic of my dearest sister Elizabeth. I don’t know if she herself knows truth from lies, and she’s so tall and ungainly. I dare not tell anyone the size of her feet. I have begged our shoemaker not to reveal it. Perhaps she will have to sing for a living, for it’s unlikely she’ll find a husband at all.”

“God will provide, as He always has. Will you pinch out the candle, dear? I’m quite tired, and have lessons to give in the morning.” He kissed his wife’s fragrant cheek, touched her full breast under the wool nightdress, then, with much tenderness, took her in his arms.

T
hree days before Christmas, Maria Caecilia was baking alone in her kitchen, the apron that sloped down from her ample breasts covered with flour and egg. No one else was home.

Their Thursdays had been canceled for a few weeks because of the great many performances all musicians played in Mannheim during this brief season. Sophie was at her Latin lesson, and Constanze was copying music at the house of a friend. The two older girls had sung several times in private houses, as they were doing today, and Maria Caecilia was grateful she did not have to go. If truth be told, she was not musical. She liked a few old country tunes, but to anything more complicated, she was quite deaf.

All morning she had combined eggs, flour, and spices, grinding ginger and nutmeg, whisking brandy with sugar. Now she had already baked a great deal, and the water was boiling. She listened once, and then again, wiping the eggshells and the sharply odorous gingerroot away from the table. The first batches of cakes lay cooling on trays by the window.

She had just brewed coffee in the iron pot when Johann Franz Thorwart knocked on the door.

He came into the kitchen in his customary high, gleaming English boots with their clanking spurs, and removed his hat. He was a well-built man of medium height, his graying hair in two rolls on either side of his head and the rest in a neat pigtail down his back. Carefully he placed the sword by the cupboard of dishes. “Ah, the scent of coffee and baking!” he said, kissing her cheek. “Sometimes great dinners (and, my dear, I have sat at some great dinners these years!) can disappear, for all I care, when one can have coffee and cake. No, don’t think of removing us to the parlor! This warm kitchen is the finest place in the city! Better than a palace! Yes, I am cheerful! Business is good; business is very good.”

Maria Caecilia took down two of her best small plates and wiped them on her apron.

Both she and Fridolin knew Johann Franz Thorwart from their hometown of Zell; his family had lived across the courtyard from hers, and it was Thorwart who had introduced her to Fridolin when she was seventeen. She found him entirely admirable. From humble beginnings, he had risen steadily. He was a factotum, secretary, and bookkeeper; served wealthy men in private matters; and discreetly moved money from this pocket to that. When he walked down the street, he hummed buoyantly, and wore an English-style frock coat that was all the rage, and those boots with spurs. His waistcoat pocket was filled with neatly folded papers, any of which he could find at once. His hands were wide and very clean. He was a man of business, and she trusted business far more than music. Two years ago he had appeared in Mannheim, and the Webers had taken him happily into their family circle.

She said, “You will have extra cream with your coffee as always?”

“As always, Maria Caecilia.”

She dusted the best cushioned chair for him, and he seated himself, laying his hat on his knee and taking up a book that he saw on the table. “This can belong to no one but Josefa, for only she would be reading Rousseau,” he said, frowning at the title, then reaching carefully into his pocket for his reading spectacles. “Dangerous stuff,” he said. “Here the writer goes on and on about the rights of the poor. The poor, as Christ said, are always with you! They crowd the streets of Paris like vermin. I saw them on one of my journeys and prayed for them. It’s obvious they are wasteful and spend their earnings in drink.” He tapped the book. “Rousseau is wrong. If we’re wise, we will not consider pulling down those above us who sustain us. The ancient order sustains us. God preserve the health of our Elector and our Emperor. No pauper lines my pockets and pays my rent!”

With the edge of his hand he pushed the book away and into a little dusting of flour. “I tell you, I don’t know what is happening to the world. The New World colonies simply rebelling and trying to make themselves a new country, turning their back on England last year. The United States, indeed! Mark my word, even if they succeed they will come crawling back after some time. I have full trust we’ll never see such a revolution on our beloved European shores.”

Maria Caecilia shook her head as she filled the plates. “My little Sophie now reads these things as well.”

“Take it from her. Mad, foolish young people.”

“Hopefully, they’ll soon grow out of them. You and your wife will come for Christmas dinner? My sisters will be here for some weeks; I expect they’ll arrive any hour. You will have a cake with your coffee? Do take some home. I remember as a boy you loved cakes.”

“And you loved them as well, still do. Ah, your
lebkuchen.”

He sat for a moment inhaling the steam from his coffee cup, then ate a bite of the cake. “My dear Caecilia,” he said, “how clever you are, managing all these years on I don’t know what. But you know, I’ve admired you since we first met. The girl you were! So pretty, so virtuous, so devout! I can still see you leaning from the window early one morning in a chemise with pink ribbons. You didn’t know I saw you; the light was gray, and there you were. You blush.”

She brought her floury hand to her cheek. “My dear Johann, you’re kind to remember all these years.”

“Do you recall how I took you for pastry in Zell with your sisters just before you met Fridolin? But time is passing, and I’m expected at the palace on business within the hour. Let me come quickly to the heart of my visit. We were to speak of Aloysia, and this Swedish Baron. I have found more concerning him.”

“Ah, have you?” she said, sinking down to a chair opposite him and beginning to breathe more rapidly. “Is there a chance of this occurring?”

“A rather good one, my dear.”

“Johann, for the love of Saint Anne, tell me! This is my dearest hope! I’ll make six novenas to the Blessed Saint for any good news.”

“He’s a widower and quite taken, I hear, with virtuous German girls who are musical. He was there indeed last month when our Aloysia sang with her sister in the Elector’s palace. When I begin my negotiations, I will at once make clear that only through holy matrimony may he have her, with some added provision, of course, to her parents for the loss of her daily company.”

“My friend! So he heard her sing?”

“Indeed, he both heard and saw her.” Thorwart patted his lips with his handkerchief, and drank again, then sat back expansively. “And was, I am told by some acquaintances, much taken with her. I do not have the pleasure of his personal acquaintance, of course, but I know those who do. I shall make discreet inquiries. I assure you, my dear, this is neither the first nor the last marriage I have helped to arrange.”

She was too moved to touch her coffee. “How can we ever thank you?”

“I am repaid in honor, in doing the best for my old friend Fridolin’s daughter.”

They spoke of other things for a time then. His wife was well, his daughter well, though they could not join the Webers for Christmas dinner. Opportunities of a financial nature were opening to him in the Mannheim court, for which he thanked God; still, he might not be there much longer. The Elector of Munich was ill, and if he died, Mannheim’s Elector Carl Theodor would move to Munich with his court, succeeding to the Munich princeship, and Thorwart would follow. Musicians would follow as well.

He ate cake and gossiped pleasantly, crossing his legs at the knee, playing with the polished wood buckle of his breeches. Then he stood, pleading business. She curtseyed; he bowed, took his hat, sword, and cloak, and went away into the snowy streets.

Long after the sound of his footsteps had died away, Maria Caecilia stood by the warm bake oven gazing at his empty coffee cup and the crumbs on his plate. He had recalled her at seventeen; he had recalled her as she once was. Reflectively, she began to move across the rough wide floorboards of her kitchen where she had cooked so many hundreds of meals. Though she was now middle-aged, with graying hair hidden under her cap, she felt her old beauty and opportunities as if they pressed inside her, wanting to grow again. Even when she turned to a bit of broken mirror on a shelf by the pots, she saw herself as she had been, seventeen years old and leaning dreamily from a window in a chemise threaded with pink ribbon, all her future stretched out before her. It was but a shadow, and when she looked closer, it was gone. Tears filled her eyes. “Come back,” she whispered, but time did not come back.