The note was a little mysterious, but Klara welcomed it. She was feeling house-bound and was glad to have an opportunity to get out, even for a little.
The next morning, as promised, Signor Manzoli came in his carriage, and Klara, well bundled in furs, quilted petticoats and fine woolen stockings, went down the stairs to join him.
"Where are we going, Maestro?" She’d asked while Hermann watchfully handed her into the carriage.
"To the White Lamb."
"And who will we see there, Maestro?"
"A most interesting composer of operas, Signorina." Manzoli patted her hand. "We will not stay long, but I do very much want you and Herr Almassy to meet him."
"Herr Almassy will truly be there?" She couldn't help the flush that started at the mere mention of his name.
"Yes, my dear," Manzoli replied, his faded eyes studying her. "He will certainly attend us."
"You are very mysterious this morning, Signor."
"We shall enjoy a few pleasant hours with fine music, I promise. What could be a more suitable first outing for my darling Prima Donna? I'm certain you are more than ready to escape your rooms."
"Indeed! Being confined is so boring. But, tell me who we are to visit?"
`"Well, he is a musician from the provinces, Nightingale, and has not been in Vienna since the days of his earliest youth. Now, let me keep my secret, so that you will enjoy the surprise I have in store. I'm certain you will be enchanted, both by the gentleman and by his music."
As he'd said, Almassy was waiting, sitting in the downstairs parlor of the inn and passing the time with a cup of coffee. After greetings were passed, a servant was summoned to show them the rooms "of the Kapellmeisters." A few minutes later, the three of them were climbing the stairs. As they went up, they heard the sweet harmonic patter of a keyboard.
Klara thought the whole business rather odd. Manzoli had never displayed any kind of interest in any provincial Kapellmeisters before. As they walked along the corridor, the sound of music became clearer, grew into a pattern and then a song. The servant bowed the three of them to a door which stood slightly ajar and departed.
Here was the source of the music! A fugue was spiraling round and round, rather like a very long jeweled snake that was swallowing itself. When they stepped through the door, music and warmth came pouring out. Klara stood between Akos and Manzoli and waited. None of them wished to interrupt this exquisite work.
An elderly looking servant appeared from behind a lacquered Chinese screen which stood on the far side of the room, and waved them in. Then he bowed them to three chairs which had been arranged just beyond the screen. Into these they gratefully sank, happy not to disturb the performer.
The harpsichord which was the source of the sound stood at the other end of an extremely long but quite narrow room. It was twenty or thirty paces in one direction and perhaps only nine or ten in the other. Just the nose of the instrument was visible, projecting from behind screen. They were seated in shadow, but the part of the room where the harpsichord stood was illuminated by a window.
Manzoli smiled to himself, apparently with the pleasure of the music, and contentedly closed his eyes. His face today appeared rather sallow, and that, along with his almost mostly empty mouth made him resemble last year's pumpkin. Although the performance was phenomenal, Akos and Klara were both too curious to completely loose themselves in it.
The fugue abruptly came to a quicksilver conclusion. Although she wondered about the performer, Klara was sorry to hear the work end, for it was like a merry brook whose sparkling passage left her feeling almost light hearted. The servant, who'd been leaning against the wall, at once waved them towards the harpsichord.
"Fraulein Singerin. Gentlemen! Please enter."
The Inn of The White Lamb was old. The floors twisted and skewed, rising here and falling there because of settling. Klara had the oddest sensation of walking upslope toward the window as she approached the screen.
She was taken aback when she saw the performer at last. There was a slight boy seated at the instrument. He appeared, at first glance, no more than nine, or, at a stretch, ten. An untidy golden halo of fine curly hair partially trapped in a blue satin ribbon crowned his head.
When he looked up at his guests, Klara was met by enormous blue eyes which sparkled with intelligence and a maturity that was years beyond his size. Suddenly, she had the oddest feeling: there was an ancient soul inside that short, boyish body.
He rose to greet them, and in the dignity of his movements, Klara was reconfirmed in the sense she had been completely wrong about his age. He was, she decided after another hard look, a very under-grown youth of twelve or thirteen, but one of an excessively mature understanding. He was not yet even in the earliest stages of maturation, so his prettiness of feature and cloud of curls seemed almost girlish.
"Maestro Manzoli!" The boy made a graceful bow. "How wonderful that you've come to visit, and how well you are looking! And you've brought such wonderfully interesting company!" He spoke in faultless Italian, in a clear voice which was nowhere near breaking.
"Ah, my dear Chevalier Mozart." The cherub and the castrato exchanged kisses, the boy standing on tip toe to reach Manzoli's fat cheek. "Played like a Kapellmeister, as always, dear boy. I can't believe I've lived long enough to have the delight of hearing you again."
Then he stepped back to introduce his companions. "Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart," he said, "I wish to introduce you to Fraulein Maria Klara Silber."
"Oh, Bellisima! The veritable goddess who has sung Chevalier Gluck's Alceste and his Eurydice, and to such high praise. Ah, Fraulein Silber!" He seized Klara's hand and kissed it, his mouth pressed with grown-up enthusiasm upon the back of her glove, "I have been praying to have the pleasure of hearing you sing while I am in Vienna. Are you recovered from your illness? Every person of taste I meet raves about your artistry, Fraulein."
Klara gazed into the very adult mischief now sparkling in those blue eyes and replied, "Ah, you are a dreadful flatterer, Herr Mozart."
Of course, Klara knew all about him. He was one of those miraculous child prodigies, a masterful performer upon clavier and violin, but also a genius of an even rarer sort. He had been composing opera ever since he'd been old enough to grasp a pen.
"This is my good friend, Akos Almassy, Concertmaster to Prince Vehnsky."
Wolfgang bowed politely. "Do you ever have the privilege of playing violin with the great Kapellmeister Haydn, Concertmaster?"
"I have been honored to play both violin and clavier in his august company. And may I inquire what you were playing as we came in? It was astonishing, like a bank of flowers basking in sunlight. I've never heard anything quite like it."
"Do you play the organ?"
Almassy smiled. "Not so that I may claim it."
"Well, what you heard is actually a piece for that instrument by the elder Bach, Johann Sebastian, which has been transposed for the harpsichord. Of course, this little instrument can't really do it justice. I was fortune enough to visit Leipzig and obtain some copies of the elder Bach's music. I wished I'd had a month just to study the contents of the trunk that sits, gathering dust, in the great church there. His sons, of course, are now world famous. But the genius of their father! I'm convinced there's not a composer living or dead who can hold a candle to him."
His speech was fast and breathless, his enthusiasm animating. The visitors stood smiling at this small, but obviously learned and able musician.
"Well, if the rest resembles what you were just playing, I could wish a pilgrimage to Leipzig myself."
"If it would please you, Concertmaster," the boy said cheerfully, "I will have this piece copied out for you."
Akos replied he would like that very much. Then Wolfgang called the servant, and called for wine and cakes. The servant looked glum, but the boy insisted.
"Your father, young sir, he said…."
"Oh, never mind. I'm to play at Prince Galitzen's tonight and I should come home w
ith a few more ducats. Don't worry about it, Herr Gassner. Bring us what Countess Rumbeck has sent over."
Soon they were sitting in front of the stove in straight backed chairs, sipping wine and nibbling at a plate of sweet biscuits.
"But you never answered the burning question, Fraulein Silber," Wolfgang said. "Will you be able to sing while I am here?"
"She will, Wolfgang." Manzoli spoke for Klara. "And, perhaps, even, something of yours. That is, if you will write us something."
The boy's blue eyes glinted, but he didn't appear in the least surprised.
"Yes," Almassy added, with a sidelong glance at Klara. "I've been authorized by Prince Vehnsky to ask you to compose a one act opera for his Shrove Tuesday assembly."
"Oh, how wonderful! At least, I hope so," Wolfgang, apparently knowledgeable about the downside of such requests, swiftly amended. "Upon what libretto?"
"Now, now!" Manzoli laughed. "Don't you want to know how much the Prince offers you for the work?"
"Well, yes. I suppose, especially as Papa is not here to ask."
"He will not be with you forever, young Maestro." Manzoli spoke in his best schoolmater's voice. "You should get used to taking care of business."
"Oh, but we are all musicians here."
Manzoli's face remained stern, so Mozart turned back to Almassy. "All right, Herr Concertmaster. What is this composition to pay?"
"Well, thirty ducats from the Prince, Herr Mozart, but Fraulein Silber has said she would add twenty more. The fees of the singers will be assumed by the Prince."
The boy's blonde brows shot up. "Indeed! And of course you shall be the heroine, Fraulein Silber." His face brightened. "Then I shall hear you sing," he cried triumphantly, "this very afternoon, so that I can begin. I don't think, Manzoli," he said, turning to back to the castrato, "that Papa will be upset about this."
"No, I don't think he will. But can you get it done so quickly?"
"By Shrove Tuesday?"
"Yes, for Mardi Gras.
"Wunderbar! That's plenty of time. I just adore setting operas, oh, more than anything! Of course, I must hear Fraulein Silber sing and see the libretto right away."
Manzoli gestured to Vincenzio who had walked up behind them and then remained by the door. He swung forward on his crutch, bringing with him an embroidered case.
"Ah, good! By Mestatasio!" Wolfgang surveyed the leather bound book. "The lyrics will be good. Did the prince pick this for some reason?"
"No, Signor Manzoli picked it and Herr Almassy helped persuade Prince Vehnsky. As a matter of fact," Klara said, "we are the ones with a reason for choosing this libretto."
"This is a variant of the story of Pygmalion, is it not?" Wolfgang began thumbing rapidly through, his frizzy blonde head bent over the pages. "I believe I heard these lyrics sung two years ago in Bologna."
"Yes, a magician transforms a nightingale into a woman so she can sing to him. However, in human form, she cannot sing the song he especially loves, for that is the song she sings for her mate. The magician is angry and threatens her, but the heroine prays to Venus to touch his heart. The goddess makes an appearance and the magician humbly bows to the goddess, and turns his captive into a bird again. When she sings the magic song at last, it becomes a duet because her mate flies to her out of the forest."
"The aria in which the heroine begs the magician to let her go must be capable of melting a heart of stone." Klara gazed deep into Wolfgang's clear eyes as she spoke.
Could someone so young summon the emotion that would be needed? Emotion that rang true enough to sway the heart of that proud Lord to whom she belonged?
"Why mince words?" Manzoli said. "Fraulein Silber is the nightingale. The release she craves is this."
Young Mozart gave Klara a disconcertingly shrewd look. It was as if he already had a man’s understanding.
"I will do it." Putting out a plump strong hand he shook Almassy's. "We must work together, however, for words and music must both be exactly right if we are to achieve such a great end. Will you help us, Signor Manzoli?"
"Oh, certainly, dear boy. As you may suspect, I'm already in over my head."
"Shall we set it with two sopranos, or a soprano and a tenor or a counter tenor? The magician, of course, is bass baritone. Does Venus sing?"
"Yes," said Manzoli. "I believe in the Italian version she was…."
"Contralto," Wolfgang finished. "Yes. I even remember the singer now. It was Signora Branoschi, who has sadly lost all control of pitch. I plugged my ears or I might have puked."
"You never heard her in her prime." Manzoli shook his head with a sad sigh of remembrance.
"Florian Adamberger, we hope, will be our magician."
"Ah, Herr Adamberger. I remember hearing him when I was in Mannheim a few years back. He was very precise, and he’s a good actor, too."
"Oh, I'm so glad you like him. Herr Adamberger is a dear friend of mine and I have already asked if he has time to do the part." Klara felt the happiness that comes when a good friend is frankly praised.
"I shall have to hear everyone before I start. On such short notice and with everything needing to be perfection upon a first and only performance, we mustn’t take any chances."
"Well, Adamberger's oldest daughter, Adele, will be our bird's mate," Manzoli said. "She's a pupil of mine. A fine young mezzo, Wolfgang, with plenty of chest voice. Her instrument is strong and flexible. Fraulein Silber and I agree that although she is a young singer, she will be perfect."
"Is she tall? Will she make a handsome boy?"
"Absolutely," said Klara smiling. "Fraulein Adamberger is tall and slender, but not too womanly yet."
"And Venus?"
"We have several ideas, but have not talked to any of them yet."
"Let me know as soon as you can, for just as we have been talking, I've been having the most wonderful idea for a quartet of voices at the end. I must hear everyone sing to make it quite right."
***
"Well," Mozart sighed. "I can see that we'll get no more practicing out of either of you this afternoon."
The lovers had become less and less inclined to music as the time passed, more and more inclined to each other. Akos and Klara had been holding hands and at intervals he'd been raising her fingers to his lips and kissing them.
"Love is more than music for the two of you, although I find that an impossible notion. I intend, like you, Herr Almassy, to fall in love with a prima donna. That way I can always have my compositions beautifully sung to me, even at home. If you had not," and here he gave Klara a look in which despondence was incompletely hidden by a sparkle of sophistication, "stolen away the heart of this lady, I should have made an attempt upon it myself."
"Ah, but you have my heart, dear little Maestro." Klara came to kiss him on the cheek. "Your music speaks to my soul."
"Your music is part of the problem." Almassy patted the youth’s blue velvet back. "Those love songs have made us yearn so that now we can’t rehearse properly."
"Well, then, get to your billing and cooing. I'll go downstairs and talk to your Signor about these bothersome words that none of us like. You have half an hour before Papa said he’d return from visiting Herr Doctor Mesmer. Be sure you are done by then."
Chapter 9
They had all gathered around the clavier. On this visit, Akos had brought several fellow musicians to create a small rehearsal band, so now they had a clarinet, a flute, a violin, and a viola to accompany the singers. Herr Adamberger, his daughter, Adele, Klara, and Madame Wieland, the principal roles were present. The small space was full of performers.
Klara leaned over Wolfgang's shoulder, rested a hand upon his shoulder where the fine curls straggled.
"Can you sing this?" He indicated a cadenza he'd just splashed down.
Klara studied the score. Manzoli joined her.
"Not really." Klara touched her throat. “Not with any kind of beauty of tone."
"Yes she can," Manzoli disagreed, nodding to
Mozart. "Only she doesn't know it yet. It does lie a little high for her normal range."
"Dear heaven, Mozart!” Akos leaned over to scrutinize the notes. "Couldn't you get something similar by doing this?" He took up the pen and scattered notes into the margin.
"Similar, certainly, but the effect on the ear will not be so profound. What I have written is truly birdsong."
"Wolfgang, you are not to tax Fraulein Silber, who is still recovering." Akos sighed and shook his head.
Such discussions often ended in a compromise. They were spending time in various places, sometimes the Mozart's rooms, sometimes Klara's – to manage composition and rehearsal.
Papa Leopold wasn't always in attendance, for sometimes he was pursuing business. Manzoli was more often present, seated, leaning forward on his cane, an apple-headed bewigged doll who occasionally voiced an opinion. Rehearsal was squeezed in between Mozart's various performances at private houses, and in between Akos' duties. The most productive times came when it was just the three of them, working at music.
Akos played his violin, Mozart the harpsichord, and Klara would sing, trying this and that. Singer and violinist were amazed time and time again by how easily this thirteen year old could compose. Almost any change Klara asked for could be made in a matter of minutes.
"Wolfgang, how on earth do you do it?"
"Well, it's in my head, so it’s not hard to move the notes around. I can't remember a time when music wasn't always with me, although Papa made me and my sister study endlessly."
"Ah, your sister! I remember hearing that she played most beautifully,” said Klara. “Where is she now?"
"She's back in Salzburg. I do miss her. Papa, for some reason, won't let her travel with us anymore. I can't understand it, for she is an excellent musician and we used to have such fun together."
"Does she compose?"
"Some, of course, but she is a marvelous, marvelous clavier player. Better than almost everybody, though not better than me, of course."
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