In the back room, which was stocked with parts of instruments in process, Johann’s brother Wenzel Schantz was fitting a sound board, but the principal room was crowded with customers. Mozart had lifted the cabinet lid of a fortepiano to examine the hammers and the triple strings when Johann approached him.
“Herr Mozart, good day. I’m happy to hear your name is getting around more these days. Do you wish to purchase an instrument? I could set you some good terms and find one just to your liking. Allow me to show you the pedal mechanism for this particular one. My father knows yours from some thirty years back. Your father’s book on playing the violin remains the best. I hope the great Leopold Mozart is well.”
They stood by the fortepiano, peering inside, discussing the hammers and the string tension while an assistant spoke to other customers. Then Johann said convivially, “I understand you won’t be a bachelor much longer. Word does get around the city, you know. I imagine the whole city knows about the romance between you and Mademoiselle Weber.”
The fortepiano maker hesitated, running his hand soundlessly along the black keys. “Man to man, Herr Mozart, may I say a few words to you? Our fathers have long been friends!” He began to smile in a twisted way, looking very much the gypsy. “Oh, those Weber girls! Many men about the town know things of them. I’m speaking of the two younger ones. Yes, there’s more to them than meets the eye.”
“I doubt that. I know them well.”
“You don’t know, then? I recall a certain gathering my wife and I had some months ago. The two girls, of course, made no objection to joining in the game of forfeit. Well, who would? There were enough married women here to chaperone, though I was surprised to see the alacrity with which Mademoiselle Constanze lifted her skirt to have her calf measured by that young cellist. Later she drew me down to the shop, and I must tell you, I could have mounted that girl had I had five more minutes. ‘I love you!’ she told me. ‘And I must have you!’ She was all over me. Then several weeks later she sent me a letter; thank God my wife didn’t see it. It said she wanted to run away with me. But this can’t be important to you. It’s Mademoiselle Sophie you intend to marry, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not Sophie.”
“Ah, then, I do beg your pardon. I spoke indiscreetly. Now I’m very sorry indeed. It was only the night and some wine. I wish you all happiness, Herr Mozart. I’ll send the order around to your rooms for you to sign if you wish to purchase one of our instruments.”
“I would sooner play on a piece of lumber than take one of your instruments, Schantz.”
He hardly knew which way he went, and when he came to Petersplatz, he circled round and round like an angry dog. He would have left right away had he not seen Constanze waving at him from a window. Then he had to go up. She was in the parlor mending sheets, and she put them down at once to rush over to him.
He turned his face.
“Good heavens, what is it?” she murmured. Her warm smile faded away.
He told her in a few sharp words what he had learned. “So this is how you behave?” he said. “I have to learn such a thing from a man who is a stranger to me, who must be mocking me.” He began to stride rapidly up and down the room. “You let a man unknown to you measure your leg before others; you went in the darkness with a married man and almost—my God, I’m so sick I can hardly think. My father’s coming in a week. How can I introduce you to him? Have you no respect for your honor and mine? I myself would not have touched your leg in front of others.”
“Of what do you accuse me?” she cried. She was suddenly trembling. “It’s true I let him measure my leg, but my leg didn’t belong to you then; you had no call on my leg or on any other part of me. As far as I knew, you didn’t think of it and hadn’t a right to it anyway. And yes, I went down to the shop with him in the dark.”
“Alone in the dark? Alone in the dark?” Mozart’s voice seemed ready to crack.
“Yes, alone in the dark, and he drew me there himself because he knew I was lonely, and if he says differently, he’s a liar. No, I didn’t confess it; I had no cause to confess it. Why are you fussing so much?”
“Because I must know what part of you he touched.”
Her beautiful dark eyes flashed, and she clenched her small fist. “What does it matter? I was indiscreet ... but why must you question me like this? What haven’t you done? You’re surrounded by pretty singers; my own sister was one. Susceptible to women, that’s what our guardian said about you. How can I know what you do, what you try to cover up by accusing me?” By now Constanze was shouting. He stared at her in horror. In her anger she swept the music to the floor, and the inkwell tipped and spilled its dark rich blue liquid over the carpet. She clasped her hand to her mouth and cried, “Oh, look what you have made me—”
“The letter you sent him asking to run away with him?”
“I never sent any letter, but I wrote one when I was very wretched, before you ever deigned to look at me. Oh God, then Sophie must have sent it! I understand now; she sent it for me. She wanted my happiness.”
“Sophie would do such a thing?”
“You don’t understand what happened.”
“I understand that I won’t be laughed at,” he cried. “And his father knows mine ... perhaps they’ll drink a glass together somewhere, and talk. It’s bad enough that the woman I will marry lives in a boardinghouse, with all manner of men coming and going, walking through the halls with their shirts not fully buttoned, seeing your garments hanging to dry, your precious small things....”
“Where else should I hang my things? Why are you so jealous? I haven’t given you cause, have I? I am waiting, just as my sister waited. I’m sick to think I’ll meet your father. To please him, I’ll have to behave in some peculiar way unlike myself.”
“I was going to tell him you’re not like the other Webers.”
“But I am a Weber, and I’m proud to be a Weber. Our hearts are open; we’re hospitable. It was our hospitality that brought you to us. Johann Schantz says bad things of me, and you believe him. Suppose he took advantage of me—”
“I know your passionate nature.”
“You’ve never objected to it before.”
They stood glaring at each other. She would have slapped him if he had not caught her hand. “Stop, stop ... dearest Stanzi,” he said. “I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand like this. I’m jealous, but I’ve never doubted you. It’s just what Schantz said. What you did before shouldn’t matter, but it does if it’s common talk. I will never buy one of his instruments. I’d rather use it for firewood. Come here; stop walking up and down like a soldier on guard.” He caught her in his arms, where she remained stiff and furious, eyes cast down, ready to shout again and say other things he could not imagine.
He whispered to her, “Listen, all will be well. I’m jealous because I want you so, and the thought of any other man touching your hand drives me from my mind. I’m sick with wanting you. I won’t wait longer than autumn. We must be married in the autumn. I’ll count the days and the hours. Listen, just think how happy we’ll be! We’ll have a little dog, yes, and a house full of beautiful chairs and mirrors and things. Several beautiful elegant rooms quite near Stephansplatz. Perhaps the old cathedral organist will die and I’ll take his place. Yes, many things may happen to me once the opera is done and a success, and it will be a success, I swear it. And at night we’ll draw the curtains and send the maid away.”
Though she did not break from him, Constanze stood stiffly, eyes downcast, responding to nothing, as if she had heard none of his words. She said, “I’ll be as rude as I like to your father if he’s rude to me. My family is as good as yours, even if we never played before the courts of Europe. I don’t care if your father comes. Your name may be known throughout Europe, but it’s little enough to me.” She said a great deal more until he grew pale and seemed to shrink.
“Very well then,” he said, “I’ll write. I can’t speak with you today.” As he left the board
inghouse, he muttered, “The girl has her mother in her. How will I ever manage that?”
The beauty, the sweetness of the warm months was gone between them. Three days passed without meeting, though Mozart sent her small hopeful notes of reconciliation. All the whispered conversations they had had, the pleasant arguments of what sort of furnishings they would have, in what part of the city they would live, even the names of their future children, stopped abruptly. When he received no answer to his last letter, he threw up his hands. He was too busy to placate her. He resented it, and sent a quick letter off to Salzburg asking his father to postpone his trip.
Unbeknownst to Mozart, it arrived two hours after the Salzburg coach left for Vienna. Mozart was writing one morning, huddled in his shirtsleeves over the paper, when his door opened to reveal his father standing there, gray hair pulled back in wound ribbons, gazing critically about the room at the clothes thrown here and there, the unmade bed, the dirty plates pushed to the side of the table.
Mozart leapt up at once, passing his hand over his mouth to conceal his agitation. “You’ve come.”
“You were expecting me, were you not? Surely you were expecting me. We planned—”
“Yes, of course. Come in, come in. The journey was ...”
“Difficult. My bones ache.”
Mozart kissed the older man, rang for the landlady to remove the dirty dishes, and paced the room anxiously. He hardly heard the stories of Salzburg, of work difficulties, as he hurled the covers hastily on the bed and picked up his dirty hose. He wanted to throw open his arms at the mess and cry, You see, this is why I must marry, Father. Can’t you see I need a wife? But with the events of the past week, it was not the time to do it. He did not know what Constanze was feeling. He could not break through her anger, her little hard profile when he tried to see her.
He spoke about music with his father, who then said dryly, “And so? Where’s the girl?” He looked about the little room as if he expected his son had hidden Constanze Weber in a closet. “I’m hungry for my midday meal; ask her to join us.”
Mozart hurried from his rooms and went running down the street, dodging between horses and carts and shoppers, slipping past the stalls of goods for sale, and to the house in Petersplatz, but Constanze was not home; a neighbor said he had seen her go to market. He turned and headed that way, the dust of the warm streets now covering his shoes, and saw her emerging from the fishmonger’s, a large piece of fish wrapped in old paper in her basket. He felt his hair stand on end as he approached her.
“My father’s come,” he said into her ear. “We’ll all have a fine dinner together. He’s hungry and wants to meet you. I couldn’t stop him from coming; I asked him to postpone his trip. Come right now, please, and I beg you, Stanzi, my beloved, my only darling, my wife to be, don’t let him see any differences between us. They’ll all be gone soon, once you stop sulking and realize how much I love you, so there’s no need for him to know about them now.”
“I’ll make up our differences when my hurt stops,” she said. “It just doesn’t go away that quickly. But I’ll meet your father and be very nice, as I was taught to be. Oh, why couldn’t he have come next week? I’m just almost over being angry; I needed only a little time more, Wolfgang.” She slipped her hand in his, and he took her basket of fish. They walked together toward his rooms, past his concierge, who stood in front of the building eating an ice, and climbed the stairs.
Constanze saw a small man with gray hair and a sour face, but his hands, with their callused fingertips from his lifetime of playing the violin, were rather beautiful.
She curtseyed, suddenly aware that she was wearing a mended dress, discolored along the hem with street muck and floor sweepings.
He returned a small bow. “Ah,” said Leopold. “So you are Constanze. Yes, it is a pleasure to meet you, Constanze....”
“I hope your journey was well, sir.”
“Coach journeys tire me....”
The conversation went on in this stiff way until they were interrupted by a knock from below and the nasal voice of the old concierge. “It’s my librettist,” Mozart said. “He likely has more of the words for me to set; I’ve been waiting for them. Sit down, sit down and be comfortable. Father, show her some Salzburg hospitality. There’s a little wine in the decanter. Then we’ll go for supper.”
Mozart’s father and Constanze both took chairs. Constanze folded her hands in her lap. She realized that they were not very clean. For a few moments they listened to the agitated voices below.
Leopold muttered of wine, of church music, of childhoods. Then he cleared his throat. “You seem like an honest girl, Mademoiselle Weber,” he said. “And I think I see a pleasing innocence in your face, yes, just as he has described you. You think you know my son, but that’s difficult to do; he doesn’t know himself, never has.”
She pressed her hands together. “I believe I know him well, sir. What do you mean?”
“He thinks he loves people, but it’s music he loves. I formed him for music and he belongs to music, but it won’t give him a life. He can’t make his way in the world, and for any woman to marry a man like that would be a disaster. Haven’t you waited for him often, only to have him come late? Has he never looked up from his writing and not even realize who you are? There, you see. And what would occur if you married him? You would be waiting, waiting. You would be by a window waiting for someone often out in society, often in the presence of many beautiful women. And then you would be sorry you didn’t listen to the sad words of an old man who loves him. For I have waited, mademoiselle; I have waited many years for my son to truly come home. And if he does marry ... take this nothing against yourself, mademoiselle ... I think perhaps your family is not the best to marry into. He will have to make his way in the world. Do not be offended by my words, but he can’t succeed with you at his side. He would not be wise to choose to marry the daughter of a boardinghouse keeper.”
The voices below grew louder, and a door slammed. Mozart came up the steps and back into the room, running his hand through his wild hair. “Well,” he said a little breathlessly, looking from one to the other, “you’ve had a chance to talk. That’s good. We should perhaps go and have something to eat. There’s nothing here.”
Constanze stood at once. “I can’t come; I’m expected home.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Let me walk with you a bit.”
The day was very hot, and the lemonade stand on the corner, with its gay blue-striped awning, was crowded. She let him take her arm but did not move close to him, and he said with all tenderness, “Has he said something that upset you? Beloved, beloved, tell me what he said.”
The words stumbled out, and when he heard, he seemed to swell with anger. “How dare he speak to you like that?” he said, his voice rising in spite of the crowds about them. “Where’s his respect for my wishes? I respect him. I’ll always provide for him no matter how many wretched lessons to deaf pupils I must teach. And what of all the money I earned as a child? He invested in me; he’s not poor. By God, he must let me go! If I rise or fall, I must do it on my own.”
He was shaking her hands now. “He will come round and give his blessing to our marriage. He will. Nothing matters but that we make up and be the dearest friends again, my Stanzi.”
Her face had become very plain. “But don’t you see, I couldn’t. I couldn’t marry anyone with a father like him. He’d be pulling you one way, and I’d be pulling you another. I want him to like me, and he doesn’t. He won’t. I wouldn’t ask you to choose between us. Listen, Wolferl: we were both lonely and we fell in love, but perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps we can find a way to be friends as we once were. Isn’t that possible?”
“No, it isn’t,” he said quietly, and leaned against the side of a church where they had stopped. “But I know you’ve felt this way since we quarreled. Everything’s going badly for me today. One day you think all’s within your gra
sp, and the next it’s swept away. That’s true of life, but I always want it differently. Gottlieb Stephanie’s too busy to complete the libretto, and it’s likely the commission will be offered to another composer. My writing is too original for some people; I’m not handsome; and no one will forgive me for growing up, not even my own family. Today I may have lost my chance at the opera and my hopes of marriage to you. We perhaps shouldn’t speak anymore of it. We’ll see each other in the street now and then, Constanze. I’ll always be glad to hear of you. Send my greetings to little Sophie when you write her.”
He walked away with his head lowered, and she stood for a time with the basket of fish on her arm, and then walked home. Two neighbors were sitting with her mother in the kitchen drinking coffee; Constanze climbed the stairs to her room, and lay silently across her bed with her arm over her face.
The doors of the opera house were closed when he reached them, but he found a side door unlocked and hurried up the stairs. From the offices he heard movement; he knocked, and entered at once, expecting to see Orsini-Rosenberg’s unrevealing face, but only Thorwart sat behind the desk, with the accounting books spread out before him as if he were the director. He pushed the books away and folded his hands on his heavy stomach to gaze at the composer.
Mozart cried passionately, “What opera competes with mine? I heard it from my librettist. I was assured mine would be given when I played parts of it last week for the Count.”
“Yours might have a chance if you had it ready,” Thorwart said dryly. “But you don’t. We must have an opera in place, and there are others to choose from; thus, we’ve done so.”
“But I’ll have mine done in a few weeks; the librettist swears there will be only a very short delay.”
Thorwart frowned and wagged his heavy finger. “Ah, young man, young man, you think too highly of yourself. Remember that you are but one of many composers in Vienna. I’ll tell you what your downfall is, Mozart: your pride. You’re a musician, which makes you a servant. Servants aren’t nobility. I’m not nobility, but I come closer to it than you because I act like a gentleman. You had a chance to make a decent living as a church musician and turned away from it.”
Marrying Mozart Page 25
