Excerpts

part one Mannheim and the Webers, 1777 Up five flights of cracking wood steps of a modest town house in the city of Mannheim, Fridolin Weber stood peering over his candle, which cast a dim light down the rounded banister below. ìMind the broken step,î he called convivially to his visitors. ìCome this way, come this way.î Of middle years, he was a lean man but for a small round stomach under his vest, and he wore a long coat to his knees and mended white cotton hose to his breech buckles. His lank graying hair was caught with a frayed black ribbon at his neck and hung limply down his back. He craned his long neck to see down the stairs. Behind him, the front parlor of the cramped apartment had been dusted, polished, and abundantly lit with eight candles. There, near the clavier, his four daughters, age eleven to nineteen, stood dressed in their best ordinary gowns, hair glistening with curls that one hour before had been tightly wrapped in rags. It was Thursday. Things somehow always turned out well on Thursday evenings when friends came. The rest of the rooms were dark, except for the fire in the kitchen, for all the candles were in here. The parlor had been tidied, and a shawl draped over the clavier; all the music had been sorted in neat heaps on the floor. Weberís corpulent wife, Maria Caecilia, emerged from the kitchen as if she had not been baking there for hours, and stood by his side, murmuring the words he knew she would speak. ìThere wonít be enough wine. Your cousin Alfonso drinks like a fish.î ìPour small glasses,î he said, squeezing her arm, and then, turning to the dark stair again, called down happily, ìYes, come up, come up, dear friendsóIíve been waiting for you.î From the darkness of the stair emerged Heinemann, a violinist from court, extending his always damp hands, and balding Cousin Alfonso, who wore his wig only for his cello performances. The four girls stood nudging one another, whispering, curtseying. Their hands were a little worn and pricked from washing and sewing. There was about them the scent of youth, youth that, with a little soap and a clean petticoat, was as fresh as flowers. Wine was poured in small glasses, and two more musicians arrived. Every now and then Fridolin Weber peered through the window down to the street. He knew everybody, everything. He knew the world of music especially, because he copied it page after page for a small fee. In addition, he was a versatile musician. For what occasion had he not played his half-dozen instruments at which he was adequately proficient, or poured forth his meager, congenial, slightly hoarse singing voice? But he was modest, his narrow shoulders rounded. ìWho else do you expect this Thursday, Weber?î asked Alfonso, already enjoying his third glass of wine. ìYou seem to be waiting. Is it Grossmeyer, the choirmaster? He had rehearsal this night, I thought.î ìSome new friends, recommended to meóa matron from Salzburg and her twenty-one-year-old son, who has composed a great deal already.î He leaned against the window frame to look down, and then drew in his breath with pleasure. ìPerhaps that ... yes, that must be them. Theyíre making their way to the door below.î Negotiating among chairs, music stands, and guests, he crossed the room and opened the door to the landing once again. The cold breeze whisked into the room, and the candles fluttered. ìCome up, come up,î he cried. An ample-busted woman with a long mournful face under her piled hair appeared panting on the top step. Behind her, trying to slow his climb in consideration, was her son, a pale young man with large eyes and a large nose, somewhat below middle height but neatly made with supple hands beneath his lace cuffs. ìFrau Mozart, a pleasure, and Herr Mozart, I presume?î ìYouíre most gracious to invite us,î replied Frau Mozart. In a flurry of consultation the four girls disappeared into another room and returned with two more chairs that they offered, and Weber himself brought more wine. Introductions were made, and bows exchanged. Frau Mozart balanced her wine cautiously on her knee. She wore no rouge, and she gathered her dark skirts closely, as if wanting to leave as little of them as possible flowing about her; her mouth was compressed like a tightly drawn purse. She looked into every corner of the room, taking in the piles of music and the few sconces without candles. Weber rubbed his hands and rocked back and forth in his pleasure. ìDo I understand youíve arrived from Salzburg just two weeks ago? And that your husband is employed there as musician by the Archbishopís court?î ìIndeed, sir; weíve come here looking for greater opportunities for my son.î ìWhy, there are opportunities enough here, Alfonso will tell you. I copy, I compose a little, I play several instruments. If music is wanted, Iím there to make it.î All this time Herr Mozart said nothing, but looked about the room seriously, bowing when he caught someoneís eye. Cakes and coffee came; the wondrous fragrance of the hot beverage stirred with cinnamon and cream filled the rooms. Weber would not stint on his Thursday evenings, not even if they had nothing but porridge for three days following, thick and lumpy, with no sugar and only third- quality milk. ìNow weíll have music,î Fridolin Weber cried when the cake lay in crumbs on coat fronts and across the parlor floor. ìWhatís an evening without music? Alfonso, have you brought parts for your new trio? Come, come.î At once the four girls clustered against the wall to make room, while Weber, with a sweep of his coattails, sat down at the clavier and candles were moved to illuminate the music. The sound of strings and clavier soared through the small chamber, Fridolin Weber playing deftly, nodding, exclaiming at passages that pleased him. They finished the last movement with a great sweep of Heinemannís bow, after which he lay his violin on his knee, perspiring and wearing a great smile. Some other brief pieces followed, and then Weber stood and called, ìAnd will you play something as well, Herr Mozart?î The young man leapt up to the clavier; he pushed back his cuffs and began a sonata andante with variations. Each successive variation gathered in depth. Weber leaned forward. There was a rare delicacy to the young manís playing, and an unusual strength in his left hand, which made the musicians look at one another. Heinemann grinned, showing small, darkened teeth. He sat breathing through his mouth, fingers drumming on his breeches above the buckle. Maria Caecilia Weber maneuvered her full skirts through the crowded room, refilling the coffee cups. She glanced briefly at the man with little white hands who played with such concentrated intimacy, noting that when a spoon she carried clattered to the floor, his shoulders stiffened slightly, and he did not lower them again for a few minutes. The music ended as abruptly as it had begun, and both Alfonso and Heinemann rose to their feet clapping firmly. The young manís face was still absorbed, as if he barely noticed the small parlor with its shadowy gathering. He said in his light tenor voice, ìA fine instrument, Herr Weber. It reminds me of one I knew in London when I was there years ago as a boy. The Tschudi clavier. My sister and I played a duet on it; it had a remarkable mechanism for color and volume.î ìSir, I thank you,î replied Fridolin, rubbing his hands. ìIf an instrument could have a soul, mine does. Yes, yes, whatever you all may say, we know it. We all know it. Youíre a gifted player! With what piece have you favored us? One of your own, I trust?î Mozartís large eyes were now almost playful, and he kept a few fingers on the raised clavier lid as if unwilling to leave it. ìThe last movement of a sonata I wrote in Munich a few years back. Iíve some themes for another sonata for the daughter of Herr Cannabich, your orchestral director here. Though young, sheís gifted.î ìBut you know Cannabich? We all play with him from time to time,î Fridolin said, while Alfonso poured another glass of wine and hooted loudly. Now by a sudden waver of candlelight Fridolin could see that the young manís face was faintly scarred with smallpox, old marks likely from childhood. Fridolin glanced at Frau Mozartís stolid expression, thinking how she must have worried and suffered! It was Godís mercy, he thought, that his own lovely girls had not been afflicted. He cried, ìAnother cup of coffee, come!î The last drop of coffee was sipped; the last piece of chamber music ended. Then the two older sisters, Josefa and Aloysia, wound their arms about each otherís waist and began a duet. Both voices were very high, but Josefaís had darker tones. From the corner the two younger girls watched the rise and fall of their sistersí full breasts, heard the quick fioritura, sighed at the higher notes that rang round and round the little room. Heinemann shook his head with pleasure. ìIn such parlors all over Europe, young girls are singing,î he said. ìItís an art every cultivated woman learns, yet none I believe can do so with more grace than your daughters, dear Weber.î ìSir, I thank you,î replied Weber in a low voice. The chiming of a clock some streets away announced that the hour of eleven had come. The guests thanked their host several times and descended; Fridolin Weber, easily made gay with a little wine, held the stub of the candle for them. ìGood night, good night!î he called as they went forth onto the streets of Mannheim. Husband and wife cleared away the glasses and retreated, yawning, to their bedchamber, which was furnished with a large iron bedstead, some trunks, a wardrobe, and a dark portrait of Christ as a child. Maria Caecilia Weber sank down on the mattress edge, which sagged beneath her; she had already removed her corset and pulled on her wool sleeping gown. She was now winding her hair in rags, her swollen fingers deftly dipping each rag first in the warm, milky broth of a cracked cup. ìYou and your old friends,î she muttered. ìAlfonso never returns the invitations; we never eat at his expense.î ìWhat does that matter?î replied Fridolin as he undressed. The last small candle flickered in the mirror, revealing his thin legs as he sighed a little to pull off his stockings. ìAs far as the young man and his mother are concerned, they havenít any money, thatís clear. ëWhat else does he compose?í I asked the good woman, and she puffed out her bosom and murmured, ëEverything!íóas if we should welcome another composer when there are two to be found under every market stall. Did you notice how much cake and wine they consumed, as if they made their dinner from it? Canít you find any better people to invite? Is this how you look out for the future of your poor girls? What will happen to them? How will they find husbands without dowries? Do you ever plan for the future? How can you provide for four girls on the salary of a music copyist and second tenor in the chapel choir?î Having finished her hair, she flopped heavily into a reclining position on the feather mattress that had been part of her own dowry long ago. ìSoft, soft,î her husband said. ìYou see, pigeon, itís not all that bad; what does it matter if weíre poor? We have music and friendship. And they sing beautifully.î ìWhat will that gain them?î came her voice from the pillow. She raised her head and looked at her husband intensely. ìFridolin, listen to me. You know what happened to my own two sisters, my beautiful sisters! Little Gretchen. You remember the story.î ìI canít forget it; it means so much to you.î ìYouth doesnít last forever; they must understand it. And the older two are certainly of an age to be betrothed.î ìYes, yes, my love,î he said, pulling on his nightcap and stretching out next to her. ìThatís wise and true. He plays well, that young man; I believe he has plans for an opera.î Maria Caecilia had fallen silent, only vaguely aware of her husbandís callused fingertips on her breast and his yawns. She thought of the beauty of her four daughters as they stood by candlelight in the parlor. ìFridolin,î she whispered. ìThey arenít ordinary girls; there is nothing ordinary about them. I have my plans for them. I have my plans.î But her husband was asleep. In the Webersí apartment on the fifth story of the old stone house in Mannheim, there were, other than the tiny parlor and dining room, a kitchen and two sleeping chambers, each also small. In the second stood two more iron bed stands with torn hangings, each narrow enough for one girl yet, out of necessity, sleeping two. A print of Caecilia, the patron saint of music, eyes raised to heaven and delicately playing a viola, was hung on one wall, while chemises and petticoats dangled everywhere from hooks. To get to the door of the room, you had to climb over one of the beds. Dawn was coming, creeping through the window over the four lovely girls, still in dreams, none yet twenty, half naked: nightdresses fallen from plump, clear shoulders, pulled up high on downy thighs. The warm scent of perspiration, of old gowns, of sensuality blossoming like a garden. Four girls trying to be beautiful on a few yards of good cloth, two pendants from their late, mourned grandmother, and an insufficient number of much mended white hose. With the first light the eldest, Josefa, sat up, her brown hair in tangled curls. She climbed over Aloysia, making the bed groan with her plumpness, her bare thighs as soft as warm bread beneath her old nightdress, and then climbed even less carefully over the feet of the smaller girls. Six oíclock by the church clock, and they had not gone to bed until one. She stretched to her full height, which made her head nearly touch the sloping ceiling, arching back her full shoulders. Oh, why was it her turn to begin the day? The first clavier pupil came at seven, and father must have his coffee and an ironed shirt. In the kitchen she coaxed a fire and put the heavy iron on the grate to heat. Outside the small window she could see the milk wagon. Little Sophie was to run down and make sure they had fresh milk for the day; if Sophie didnít, Josefa wouldnít for certain. Nothing woke her Sophie, the sloth. Well, they would have dry bread and no milk; it was not her concern. And it was the turn of Aloysia, who thought herself above such things, to trudge down to the common cistern to empty the chamber pots for the refuse collector. Beyond the church spires, the sky was growing light. Josefa spat on the iron to test its readiness, sprinkled the shirt with water from a bowl, and began to iron fiercely, the muscles in her firm arm working. What a life, she thought. Always having to pretend you have money when you donít; isnít that the way it is? How to bring them from their precarious existence where they were always late with the rent? It had concerned her the past few years since she had begun to understand that none of her darling fatherís musical endeavors had yet lifted them from the edge of poverty. She pressed the ironís nose firmly into the rough linen of the sleeve where it was set into the body, beginning to hum an aria from one of Piccinniís popular operas, and then to sing more fully, her rich tones ringing through the small rooms. From the half-open door of the bedroom came Aloysiaís more silvery voice. ìOh shut up, shut up, shut up. I need sleep.î ìYou need sleep! You took up more than half of the bed last night; you always do. Youíre always squeezing me out, and this morning there wasnít any room, and I couldnít move you, you lump, you cow.î ìNo decent person should have to sleep with you, Josefa, the way you toss and turn and shout things in your dreams! I want a bed of my own.î ìWell, youíll never have one. Youíll be married soon enough to some brute whoíll never let you sleep.î Josefa put down the iron and ran to the bedroom door, where now both Aloysia and Constanze had raised their heads from their pillows, and were looking bewildered at their angry eldest sister. Sitting up, arms half covering her naked little breast where her gown had slipped away, the delicate Aloysia declared, ìIíd rather sleep with Constanze; letís change. Sheíll come to me; you sleep with Sophie.î The iron sizzled, and Josefa rushed back, but it was only the cloth of the board. She began to iron again while Aloysia entered the kitchen and opened the cupboard for bread, her feet bare and her hair tumbled down her back. By this time only Sophie was still in bed, for she was seldom disturbed by anything. Aloysia began to grind the coffee beans. ìI know something you donít,î she said airily. ìWeíre singing this evening. Father told me last night after the guests left. Weíre singing at the Countessís, two duets and then a solo each. Constanze must let me have her lace.î ìAre you sure weíre engaged to sing?î asked Josefa, at once practical. ìHow much will they pay us?î ìThe saints alone know. If they think youíre pretty, maybe theyíll give extra. Donít let any of the men feel you. Mama says they will try for sure in those places, so you must be careful, for you donít want to be damaged.î The remainder of the household began to stir. Fridolin came out with moderately hairy legs showing under his shirt and said he was so weary he could die. The last up was Maria Caecilia, the bed creaking as she rose to her hasty breakfast. At seven the pupil, an impoverished lawyer in a threadbare coat, arrived, and as the sound of his excruciating mistakes echoed through the fifth- story rooms, the four sisters disappeared to their bedchamber to discuss what the eldest two could wear that night. Somewhat before the hour of nine, fourteen-year-old Constanze, having lent her lace and pearl pin, leaned out the parlor window to watch her father and older sisters rattle down the dark street in a hired carriage. The excitement rose from the dust of the wheels and floated up and through her. It was her sistersí third time to sing before good Mannheim society; on the last occasion a kind butler had sent them home with napkins full of sweet cakes and oranges, and Aloysia and Josefa had sat up by candlelight until past two describing the chandeliers, the livery of footmen, the rich wide gowns of the women, and all the faces staring stupidly at them. Constanze looked about the room, which smelled of burned candles. Papa had given them all lessons. As early as she could recall, he had lined them up by the clavier according to age, his sharp, stubbly chin nodding, the worn white lacing of his shirt trembling, his fragile veined left hand conducting the air while his right hand played the ivory keys, which were tuned regularly and almost always in perfect pitch. They sang in Italian, the language in which almost all fashionable songs were written. When Fridolin was drunk, however, he sang bawdy songs in German, gathered her squealing to his lap, and told her she was his cabbage, his dumpling. She remembered standing there all little and chubby, barely reaching the clavier, while her two older sisters, still little girls themselves, pushed and shoved each other under the portrait of the Virgin and Child near high dusty windows that overlooked the street. Sophie was then only a mewling infant; but Josefa had put forth her voice boldly, and Aloysia sang like a lark. Aloysia never had to work at singing, whereas Constanze always struggled. Her notes came tentatively as she gazed from under her lashes at her beloved Papa. She didnít want to sing; she wanted to please him. Recently, Josefa and Aloysia had sung without her. Something rustled, and she heard bare feet on the squeaking floorboards. Turning, she could see Sophie, who at nearly twelve was still quite shapeless, heading toward her across the room past the many chairs and piles of music. The edges of the girlís nose were red, and her eyes watery, but her face bore the same freckled, unperturbed look she had worn since the age of two. Even now as always Constanze could hear the homey click of Sophieís wood rosary beads, which the girl kept in her pocket. Sophie was devout. She had at least ten saints to whom she lisped prayers in a litany at bedtime, lulling the others to sleep; she had the hierarchy of saints and angels and cherubim in her head, and could draw you a picture (the figures blurred and clumsy) on the back of a discarded sheet of music of the throne of God if you wanted to know exactly what it looked like. She was also nearsighted; yesterday, returning from the candle and soap shop, she had mistook a tall nun for a priest, curtseying and murmuring, ìGood day, Father,î to the suppressed laughter of her three older sisters. Plans to purchase her spectacles had been discussed. ìAre you waiting up?î she whispered to Constanze. ìThe bedís cold without you.î She slid her arm around her sister. ìIím glad I donít have to go sing; I sound like a sick frog. But you donít mind not going, Stanzi?î ìNo, I donít like strange people staring at me.î They huddled closer, peering down at the dark street, Sophie rubbing her bare feet against each other for warmth, for the fire had long gone out. Sophie said, ìItís so cold for October! I heard Papa say itís going to be a snowy winter; I love snow falling. It makes me feel safe to be here when it falls. The butcher told Aloysia weíd have our first snow long before Christmas.î ìHeís always telling her things as he wraps the sausages. He canít keep his eyes from her. I think I saw her reading a note this morning on the scrap paper; maybe it was from him.î ìPerhaps it wasnít a love note,î said Sophie. ìPerhaps it was a list of the dresses sheíd like; sheís always making those. She looks in shop windows and writes them down.î ìNo, Iím certain it was a love note, but we donít have to worry. Aly wonít marry a butcher: never. She just likes to flirt.î Constanze peered out into the night at a single horse trotting by. ìYou know Mama doesnít want us to marry anyone in trade and live a plain life, as she puts it, with only one good dress for church and that not trimmed. She wants us to marry as high as we can, or at least she hopes Aly will. She hopes sheíll marry someone who is at least asked to dine in the Electorís palace, maybe even a baron. I heard her and Father in the kitchen earlier today, speaking about it the way they do. She says such a marriage could be made even if the girl has no dowry, if she has charm and beauty.î Sophie propped her elbows on the windowsill, her face serious. ìYes, and she was also quarreling with Papa earlier about Aloysia and Josefaís going out to sing at all. She says it cheapens a woman to sing in public. You know, of course, what Papa answered! Serious and sad, looking off as he does when heís crossing her. He said that itís only until our fortunes increase, that they are safe as holy sisters and no man dares come within ten feet of them!î Constanze stroked the long window draperies reflectively. As long as she could remember, she had lived in a house full of girls who loved to chatter and bicker. Her mother held opinions about everything, whether she knew that subject or not; and her fatherís philosophical friends weekly settled the worldís problems over a few bottles of wine, shouting and waving their hands. In the midst of all this she seldom offered an opinion but to Sophie, who had been placed in her arms smelling of milk when she was but a day old, and to whom, even then, she told everything. Now they snuggled close, rubbing their feet together. Constanze knew every angle of Sophieís little body, having slept with her since the age of five. They shared secrets; she never told her mother about the mangy neighborhood cats and dogs Sophie fed, hiding food in her apron and slipping down the stairs. Staring out into the street, along which only an old sentry walked, swinging his lantern, she said thoughtfully, ìI suppose Aloysia might end up marrying a prince; sheís so beautiful. Even Uncle Thorwart, whoís been in and out of the best houses, says it.î ìBeautyís a temporal gift,î replied Sophie, ìwhereas the real treasures are of the soul.î ìBeautyís more useful in the world. I wish I had it, and I know Josefa does.î ìJosefaís soul is beautiful.î Sophie raised her freckled face, her nearsighted expression making her look as if she had a clear insight into life. An old soul, her paternal grandmother had once called her. Constanze sighed. ìYouíre right, but our Josy stands inches over almost every man, and she doesnít keep quiet; she blurts things out. She loves books, not people, and she breaks all the nice things she has. The fan she holds when she sings tonight will be in splinters because sheíll twist it and twist it during the hard parts of the songs. I hope not, because Cousin Alfonsoís wife gave it to Aloysia last New Yearís. There will be a fight again, and theyíll be at each otherís throats. I hate that, and it kills Papa.î ìMamaís family were farmers before they became very prosperous, and she says Josefa takes after them,î Sophie replied, ìand that she wishes Josefa had stopped growing but of course she couldnít help that. How can anyone help growing?î The two girls rubbed feet again. ìMama could have been a lady if she hadnít fallen in love with Papa; she says that every time they quarrel. They still had their family fortune then before most of it was lost. But you do have beauty, Stanzi; your eyes are beautiful, and your face has a lovely heart shape.î ìNo man ever died of love for a womanís eyes.î ìWell, then, your soulís beautiful just like Josefaís, and thatís worth having.î ìHow would you know? Youíre not twelve yet; youíve hardly been in the world! You can hardly know whatís worth having and whatís not.î ìI see things. I know things. I sit in a corner making dumplings and observe. Iíve observed you all forever.î Constanze smiled suddenly, her dark eyes soft; it was a sweet, reflective young smile. In the dark parlor surrounded by the closed clavier, the piles of music, and the many books, she felt very comfortable. The heavy book on the lives of great dead composers was sliding off the others and any moment might fall to the floor. Itís best that Aloysia and Josefa keep singing, she thought. Perhaps then weíll have more money so Mama wonít worry as much and then weíll have hot creamy chocolate every single morning. But why do they want things to be another way? Arenít we happy the way we are now when we gather about the table and all talk at once about music pupils, motherís familyís silver before they lost it, court gossip, and whatís new at the small theater? Or the way we are on Thursdays, when all the people I love best come up the stairs? Donít they know that the only important thing is that all of us remain together forever? Papa holds us together, and Mama, and I will, as well. This is my place. Iíll hold us together by my love. Her hand tightened on the windowsill; she breathed deeply once and held on as if she suddenly understood the depth of the promise she had just made. But the next moment she was a child again, looking up at her mother who had just appeared at the parlor door in her huge white nightdress. ìWhy are you up? Come to bed, my little fleas,î Maria Caecilia said. ìWe couldnít sleep! Just a time longer. We want to wait up for them.î Their motherís contralto was benevolent. ìDrape your quilt around you then. Stanzi, I will never forget how ill you were when you were a little girl. Every time you cough I shudder.î The voice dropped to the low warning she used to tell one of her fearful stories. ìMy dearest friend as a girl always stood by windows. My saintly friend Therese. It was when our family still had our best silver. And she caught a consumption, and died young.î ìI thought you said she recovered.î ìNothing could save her. You are lucky to be so healthy, whereas my sisters, my poor sisters!î She sighed. Constanze squirmed a little, hoping that the story would not be related once again this evening. It was hard to pay attention to stories that had interested you in the first telling, but grew unbearably dull after time. But their mother demurred. ìFetch your quilts.î She yawned, and her voice trailed back at them as she moved heavily down the hall. ìAh, why do they always stay away so long when they sing? But perhaps if the Blessed Virgin wills it, someone will notice their beauty this evening.î As their mother departed, Sophie stared down at the floor, the corner of her mouth beginning to twitch. ìOur aunts,î she whispered. ìI forgot to tell you before! A letter came today. Theyíre coming for Christmas.î Constanze covered her own mouth with both hands. ìOh Sophie, when have they not come for Christmas? The ridiculous old things huffing up the stairs panting, ëBlessed Saint Elizabeth!í ëBlessed Virgin Mary!í ëBlessed Saint Joseph!íî They began to giggle, flinging themselves on the sofa and stuffing their faces against the pillows to smother the sound. Their motherís sisters were old, had always been old; when the world was created they were old. There was Elizabeth with her contradictory stories, who kept holy relics in her purse and pressed them against her niecesí foreheads. And Gretchen, who was simpleminded, though no one admitted it; they claimed it was merely bad memory brought on by some obscure sorrow. Both ate a great deal and were so fat that they did indeed have increasing difficulty in climbing the stairs, taking longer each year. Constanze had kept a record for the last three Christmastides. Now from the depths of the pillow cushion Constanze gasped, ìOh what will they bring us this time! Dresses six years too small for us, moth-eaten shawls that stink of mildew! And they think bathingís unhealthy so they never do it! Thank God we never have to go to their house.î Sophie raised her shiny face and whispered, ìNo, they always come here; itís been years since we went to Zell, where Mama and Papa lived and where they met. But itís not nice to laugh at others. Iíll have to tell it in confession. I try not to, but you know, theyíre ... so ...î ì... stupid ... and Papa says ...î ì... they smell like ...î Now they were shrieking, and only their motherís sharp call from down the hall made them stifle their laughter; but tears ran down their cheeks, and they careened into the pile of books, which finally tumbled onto the floor. Poking each other, they marched with contorted faces to fetch their quilts. When they could stop laughing but for a hiccup now and then, they knelt by the window, still not daring to look at each other, and shared a cup of cold, grainy coffee between them. The street wavered before Constanzeís eyes, and she lost track of how many times the sentry passed. Hours later they were awoken as the two older sisters burst into the room and opened the wicker basket they carried. Fruits and little creamy chocolates rolled across the top of the music table by the ink pot, and their father happily cried, ìA triumph, a triumph!î High among the roofs, chimneys, and church spires of Mannheim that very same evening, Wolfgang Mozart, the Webersí guest from the night before, sat in the smaller of the two garret rooms he and his mother had rented, writing the closing rondeau of a flute concerto. Chewing his lip, he hunched forward, the edges of his fingers inky, humming, now and then tapping his feet. He was so utterly engrossed, he knew nothing but the rapid dancing of the solo flute that flowed out from his mind through his fingers. The solitary candle sloped from the draft. Quickly his pen moved up and down the lines of music, filling in all the instrumental parts. Though the room was cool, he was hot as he worked, and had thrown off his coat. His old shirt was open down his delicate neck. ìWolfgang,î came the murmur from the other room. ìWolferl?î He grasped the pen, the small black marks on the page rushing forth, ink seeping onto his fingertips and into the crevices of his nails. His motherís voice called again. ìWolfgang, do you hear? Are you still working on that Dutchmanís commission?î He flung the words over his shoulder: ìIím well into the last movement.î His mother coughed; and then, ìYou wonít make the flute part too difficult, will you, dear? He is an amateur, remember, and he does have pride.î Mozart glanced down at the plethora of rapid notes. ìOh, heíll manage to breathe somewhere,î he muttered, and for a moment he wondered where and how. ìFor Christís sake, donít catch a chill,î Frau Mozart called. The rapid movement that had been inside his head was now slowly fading; it had flowed from his mind and now lay in cramped, rapid penmanship on the music staves before him. How many hours had he worked? He never remembered. If only I could finish it all tonight, he thought. The whole commission, second quartet, both concerti. If only my hand and eyes werenít tired. He slumped slightly, one hand on the side of the newly dried ink markings, listening to the sound of late carriages and merrymakers rising up from the street. After a time he drank some ale and began to gather the music pages. In the rooms below a girl was laughing. He recognized the strange quiet inside himself that always came after working for some hours. In the next room, also by one candle, Frau Mozart sat up in bed with a portable desk across her knees; she looked up from her writing, her small eyes blinking. Then she closed her eyes for a moment, lips moving in relief, and returned to her letter home to Salzburg. Dear Husband, Last evening we went on your recommendation to that music copyist. Listen. Weber is a good man but hasnít two pennies, and I canít trust his wife; she is interested only in her own opportunities. The two older girls sing not badly. Our evening there was not unpleasant, but I suppose there must be more important people in Mannheim to know than this. There was certainly no one there last night to further our sonís career. Strangely, here as in Augsburg, everyone seems to have forgotten the prodigy he was, how all of Europe clustered about him. It is as if that never happened. I wish you had come with us and did not have to remain in your wretched work for the Archbishop. Wolferl worked several hours tonight on the Dutchmanís commission, after two days of complaining how he dislikes writing for flute, particularly when it will be destroyed by the playing of an amateur like DeJean. However, three days ago he completed the first quartet and has promised to make a copy to send you; he wishes me to mention particularly the middle movement with the flute set against pizzicato strings. Two hundred silver florins for the commission when complete, husband! I thank God for our good fortune; this will pay for much. Tomorrow we go to a private gathering of the best people, where Wolferl is to play for the dancing. We do not know if we will be paid. I still believe something will occur here to forward his talents. I hope he will get a commission for an opera, for a successful opera of all things will truly establish his name, or, if not, at least obtain the position of vice kapellmeister at the court. (The present one, they say, is not long for this world.) Meanwhile, we try to save money and dine out at othersí expense when we possibly can, and only have a fire while dressing. Above all things I intend to keep him away from Augsburg. I still feel half sick to think of what might have occurred if I had not come suddenly upon your son and that wicked girl, her petticoats entirely raised above her thighs ... The rest of the sentence she wrote with the page half covered by her free hand, so that for a few days following her little finger was edged with ink. She finished the letter then and signed it, Your loving and devoted Wife, who trusts in Godís mercy. Maria Anna Mozart Many feet below the houses of the city lay one of the cityís beer cellars, which offered the local beer and plenty of it, in addition to plates of greasy chops so thick you could just fit your jaws around them, a sort of porridge, rich veined cheeses, large hocks of ham with knives stuck deeply in them to encourage the appetite, dishes of mustard and cabbage, and so on. It was a place where the hour and day were forgotten, for no light penetrated the vaulted, subterranean chambers that were inadequately lit by too few candles, enough to make a shapely buxom shadow of the hostess, and a lean knifelike shadow of the host. These shadows, and that of the resentful beer house boy, dipped and danced with their trays against the stone walls. The smell of beer was so great that one could imagine it rising in a flood beneath the flagstones, then seeping and leaking through the whole city, street by street, until it found its way to the river. To enter this establishment you opened a heavy door in an alley behind a group of stables and made your way at your peril down the steep, worn, centuries-old steps. Women were here, shrieking in laughter, sometimes suddenly throwing up their skirts to their knees, and in the dim light their white hose glimmered. Law students came, as did actors and poor musicians. Here Mozart came with his friend, the horn player Leutgeb, one week following the completion of the first flute concerto. They had taken possession of part of a long table in the rear, where the air was thick with pipe smoke. Mozartís shirt was open, and Leutgeb was pouring more beer. Leutgeb was also a native of Salzburg, where he played horn for the chapel orchestra; he was twenty-five, pleasantly fat and big, with a booming, raucous laugh that shook his whole body. His face was fleshy and never well shaven, as if to say to the world, See what an easygoing fellow I am! ìSo you had your cousin with her drawers half down, you dog,î he cried above the noise of music and voices. ìMy God, Mozart, Iíll make you drunk until you tell me all of it. How much did you have of her?î ìNear to all, by heaven.î ìYou were on the sofa at your uncleís, and her hand was ...î ìWhere Iíd have it, friend, where Iíd have it; but the story ends ridiculously. We heard the door open, and I raised my head over the sofa back; standing there was my own blessed mother. The high sofa back was between us; Iím sure she didnít know how close weíd come. I thought she was out having her hat trimmed, by God, but there she stood.î Leutgeb roared. ìDevil take it, my cock would have fallen off like the handle of a cracked china cup if my mother had stumbled on such a thing.î Mozart closed his small hands slowly, as if the girlís flesh was within them, and leaned back like a prince leisurely surveying his domain. He said, ìI wonít mince words with you; I wonít tell you anything but the truth. I could have had her all, I know I could have had her all, but my mother and I were leaving within the hour to come here, so I canít sleep contemplating it.î He gazed intensely into the smoky air. ìIf letter writing were copulating, my cousin and I would have done it a dozen times. I tell you it was the best part of our stay in Augsberg! The orchestra there, my friend, could bring on cramps.î Now he turned his head to study a few noisy students, and slowly leaned forward, arms on the table. ìI mustnít think about her,î he said seriously. ìYou led me on, you dog. I canít become involved with a woman for a long time. They donít want me to marry until Iím thirty. I must secure a decent income for my father, for without my earnings theyíll live wretchedly. I have to make good on the promise of my childhood.î He selected a bone with some meat left on it, and resumed eating. ìWhat promise?î the horn player asked, wiping his greasy mouth with a large white handkerchief. He thrust back his fair hair, which was already receding slightly. ìYou know, you crazed shit! Here I am at one and twenty trying to live up to what I was as a little boy. My good, honorable father thought to make a future with me and my sister by taking us on tour all over Europe.î Mozart took Leutgebís handkerchief and wiped his own mouth broadly. ìI was five years old when we began to tour, the protÈgÈ in a little white wig. Let me have that vinegar.î Leutgeb slid the bottle adroitly down the table. Mozart sprinkled it on the bone. ìIím told Empress Maria Theresa in Vienna took me on her knee and kissed me; I donít much remember. Now my sisterís grown, and my father is back once more in Salzburg licking the arse of the Archbishop, in whose dismal employment he has earned his bread as church musician these many years. He hints I must return there and play organ for his Arch Grossnessís chapel for a pitiful stipend and eat at table with the cooks if I canít do well here. What a fate; hang me first for a bastard thief.î Leutgeb offered a bowl of onions. ìWe wonít have to hang you. Iíve found some work here; you will as well.î Mozart shook his head. ìSome work, but not enough. Iíve this flute commission, and maybe a mass for the court chapel. Unfortunately, Iíve grown up, and people still expect the darling prodigy. They donít know what to do with a man below middle height whose nose is too big. Iím to play at the Electorís palace in a week. God willing, he wonít present me with another gold watch, as Princes are inclined to do. I speak lightly, but I tell you, old friend, thereís a sense of urgency in me.î Mozart began piling up the bones, absorbed, for a moment, as if it were a complicated game of chess he was playing for some great wager. Delicately balancing the top one, he drew in his breath as they all fell to a heap beside the onions, then turned away from them to face his old friend with a wry smile. ìIím much afraid if I donít make enough money, my father will insist I return to Salzburg where I was born and beg the Archbishop to employ me as His Holiness employs him, when the truth is His Holiness loathes the sight of me and knows I despise that mangy, provincial town. I may go to Paris; I may remain here. In any case, I must succeed for my family. My parents and sister have always given their lives for me. Leutgeb, old friend, what a thing to have to repay.î Leutgeb whistled for the boy to bring beer. Leaning on the table, he patted the young composerís hand. ìCome!î he said happily. ìWeíre young, why worry? Look, if music fails us, we can both retreat to my grandfatherís cheese shop in Vienna, and live on great mounds of the stuff, then invite the cousin and both share her. She seems to have enough to go round. Vienna is the most marvelous place in the world; this town is dung compared to it.î He thrust his arm around Mozartís shoulders, and shook him lightly. ìDoes your family really expect you to live like a monk for the best years of your life? At least enjoy the society of women if you must keep your breeches buttoned for nine more years. I know some sweet girls here. I believe you said youíve been to the Webers for one of their musical Thursdays. Two are little girls, but I tell you, Aloysia, the second eldest, is the loveliest apple cake with cream you ever saw; you could eat her in two bites and lick your fingers. But of course theyíre good girls, and a decent man wouldnítóî Leutgeb stood up suddenly. ìBy God, look!î he said, peering through the smoky room. ìThereís a couple of pretty tarts coming this way. Donít go home with them; theyíll make you sick (by God! I knew a fellow who lost his nose to syphilis!). Still, letís buy them beer.î And the girls rushed shrieking at them, feathers in their tangled hair, moist sweat beneath clustered powder on the skin visible above their low-cut dresses, one showing the edge of a hard, brown nipple. Beneath the smoke the two musicians and the girls in their faded dresses caught fingers. It was a dark, hot, secret world here, Mozart thought. One could be another man. Twenty or thirty feet up in the street the constables walked, and some men and women made their way home from a lecture about freedom of thought and free love. That very moment in her narrow bedroom in the garret rooms in Mannheim, with the portrait of Christ on the dresser as well as a miniature of her husband and daughter, Mozartís mother sat in her dressing gown and evening cap, blowing her inflamed nose now and then, her feet resting on a stool, rereading for the third time the letter that had come that day from her husband. My dear Wife, I have on your suspicion gotten the whole truth from my brother and his daughter, and I have begged him to lock her up on bread and water before she inveigles any more good young men. They still, I fear, will find ways to write to each other. Intercept any letters you can. He must not involve himself for many years, and I fear for the warmth of his blood. He is more emotional than prudent, though he wonít hear it from me. We have put our whole lives into him, and he must not permit distractions from his work. Yes, the flute quartet is exceptional, as is the little piano-violin duet he sent to Nannerl. His gifts blossom rapidly, so the amount of time we must be content to have you both remain in Mannheim must be carefully considered. If they do not recognize Wolfgangís genius soon, I must suggest you travel even farther with him. I have enclosed what money I can spare, though things are dear. Our daughter wears herself out giving clavier lessons; she is a saint of God. The enclosed longer letter you will give to him: my thoughts on the flute quartetís excellent middle movement and news of the latest musical intrigue as it will affect us, written in code. The world is a terrible place, one can get through it only being as somber a Catholic as one can and trusting in no man but those dearest to us. I am your devoted Husband, Leopold Mozart Maria Anna Mozart glanced at the enclosed letter with its code. Wise, she thought, nodding. Who could trust anything in the world indeed, and in Salzburg the Archbishop had his spies everywhere. Taking a new sheet of paper, she replied, My dear Husband, Yes, thank God he is far away from Augsburg. As for young women though, Husband, there is nothing as ubiquitous as young women. They are everywhere, and we must be very vigilant. If he does keep his wretched cousin in his heart (forgive me for speaking unkindly of a member of your family), his heart will at least be safe and he will not notice any other girl. Therefore, I find it best not to intercept these letters, as long as we remain so many fortunate miles away, for what harm can be done between a young man and woman with so many miles between them? I take care of my health as well as I can. She dusted the letter with sand to dry the ink, and folded it. Her long face, with its look of concern, was tired. She folded her hands, coughed several times, and began her evening prayers. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart sat before the looking glass in his garret room on a cold November twilight a week after the meeting with Leutgeb in the beer cellar. He was dressing for his first and long-hoped-for appearance at the palace at a gala celebrating the Electorís name day, the Feast of Saint Carlo Borromeo. Mozart was already several men, perhaps more than he realized, but the ones he knew well he kept strictly divided. The man who caroused in the cellar and closed his fingers around the whoreís brown nipple was worlds away from the serious young musician who meticulously put the finishing touches on his dress. As carelessly as he had eaten the beer hall chops, he now just as carefully buttoned on his shirt with the great lace, and his embroidered coat and breeches, each item of clothing unwrapped from under the more common cloth that protected it from the smut of the parlor fire and dust of the street. On his cheeks he dabbed the smallest amount of rouge. The white periwig had been newly brushed that afternoon. On top of that he placed his three-cornered hat, then descended the many dark flights of stairs to set off by foot for the palace, his low-heeled shoes tapping rapidly on the cobbles. A few flakes of snow were beginning to fall. At the palace gates he made his way through the many arriving guests until a footman took him to a little room that was without any manner of fire. After a time he began to walk up and down, rubbing his hands together to keep them flexible enough to play. When he pushed back the heavy draperies, he could see the snow drifting outside the window and resting on the tops of the gates. Rooms away he heard bright laughter; one servant rushed by with a basket of pale candles, and another wheeled a cart full of wines. Over the halls came the smell of hot food. By this time his hands were so cold he could hardly feel them. Then another footman poked his head about the corner and gave an exclamation of disgust. ìAre you the music maker?î he snapped. ìWhat are you doing here? Donít you have the sense to go where the others wait?î And you wait the very first in the line of the worse fools, Mozart thought. He clasped his icy hands behind him and followed the footman, who flung open a door to another small antechamber. It was already occupied. An unusually tall young woman clutching a fan was striding up and down in a wide blue dress that she kicked out of her way as she went. In spite of her powdered- white hair, which was mounted over pads on her head, he recognized her as one of the Weber daughters who had sung duets a few weeks before in the little parlor. Below the low bodice, her waist was tightly corseted, and every now and then she took a deep furious breath, as if she could not get enough air. He remembered how after his evening at her house she had run down the steps two at a time to return his motherís purse, which she had left behind, then bolted up the same way. Tonight she seemed a great, wild creature imprisoned in whalebone and satin. Her powdered hair smelled of lavender and orange blossoms. He bowed formally, and she curtseyed, keeping her head erect so as not to topple her hair. ìIíve forgotten which Weber sister you are,î he said. ìIím the eldest, Josefa. My younger sister Aloysia and I are singing tonight. Sheís talking to someone with our father in another room now. Itís our first time here. . . and you?î ìMy first time in many years.î He lowered his voice and inclined his head to the sound of chatter from the nearby assembly hall and the scrape of chairs over the music of a string trio. ìTell me, did they listen when you sang, or did they talk the whole while?î ìAh, you know how it is!î she whispered. ìThey ignore me, and I ignore them. Thereís a great deal of food in there, and we havenít been offered any. We left the house in such a hurry we forgot the basket my youngest sister packed for us. But this is only our fourth concert. They always talk, says my father, and they hardly ever consider that we might like to have a sip of wine or a bite of chicken.î They both became aware of the footman who stood by the door like a wax figure, wearing his shiny white wig and the trimmed livery of the Elector, and they lowered their voices. When Josefa was called again, Mozart stationed himself by the crack of the door and looked over the brilliantly lit room filled with people seated on gilded chairs. The sisters stood as close together as their great skirts allowed. The candlelight shining through the few loose strands of powder-dusted hair made those tendrils look like white fire. At the clavier he could also see their father, the copyist Weber, bobbing up and down as he accompanied them in an Italian love duet. Their voices rose higher and higher. Aloysia moved her tiny hands; Josefa clutched her closed fan tightly. One voice was brighter and took the highest notes, which rang small and pure over the heads of the audience. Aloysia. Aloysia, Aloysia, the mother had called her, lovingly, chiding. He recalled the warmth and laughter of the large family. He was the last to play. He heard his name murmured, and then the sound of his heeled shoes on the floor. There were candles everywhere, and the smell of perfumed clothing and hair powder, and under it always the stink of perspiration. How accustomed he was to this walk, having entered such palace rooms all over Europe when he was so small he had to be lifted to the chair before the keyboard to play, legs clad in white silk stockings dangling. They were looking at him now as they had then, quieter than they had been for the Weber sisters. Some remembered who he was, perhaps. And there in the center, in two high-back armchairs cushioned in red velvet, were the somber Elector of Mannheim, Carl Theodor, with his long, middle-aged face heavy from years of good eating, and his wife, Electress Maria Elizabeth, leaning her head on her hand slightly so as not to disturb her high cascade of powdered hair. Hand over his heart, he bowed. The majordomo stared straight ahead of him. ìHerr Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart from Salzburg,î he intoned. Mozart bowed again. ìSi son Excellence daigne le permettre!î If his Excellence deigns to permit it! ìGraciously begging your indulgence, I am most honored to present you with my new composition, a sonata in four movements in C major.î A few more who had been speaking turned to gaze curiously at him. He seated himself at the clavier keyboard, gazing at the familiar length of black naturals and the white accidentals. Candles glittered in the wood sconces carved with roses. What was the instrument like? You never knew until you tried it; then, if keys stuck, or the action was slow, it seemed like your fault. Fridolin Weberís playing had been stiff, and he had not been able to judge. He rubbed his hands to warm them, then began. Under his hands the instrument was responsive, and during the andante he could feel the two sisters watching him from the crack in the door. Someone was talking; he bit his lip and finished the last movement a little more quickly than he would have liked, then stood, bowing. Elector Carl Theodor and his wife beckoned to him, and at once he went forward, kissing their perfumed, limp hands in turn. ìHas it been truly fifteen years since you were here, Mozart?î the Elector said. ìI recall you as a child with your ceremonial sword and your elegant court dress, hardly to my wifeís knee! Donít you recall the little fellow, my dear?î From a chair near them the Electorís daughter stammered, ìOn ne peut pas jouer mieux!î No one is able to play better. She then added, ìYou told me of him, Papa!î Mozart smiled at her good nature, and kissed her freckled hand. ìDo you play yourself, my lady?î ìUn peu. Perhaps if you were remaining a time in Mannheim, you could give me lessons.î That will get me closer to an appointment, he thought, and kissed her hand again between the jeweled rings. ìThat would be a great honor, Gracious Princess!î Then the majordomo pressed a small velvet bag in his hands, and he bowed again, hand to his heart. Just as a great silver tray of cakes was carried into the room he was shown out, his mind filled with the possibility of the lessons and the certainty of moving closer to a position. Still deep in thought, he saw the Weber sisters and their father had not yet left but were just now fastening their cloaks. ìAh, young Mozart!î Fridolin Weber cried. ìA pleasure to see you again. A fine piece, beautifully played. The guests seemed suitably impressed, as they should have been. Now, have you a carriage? No? We hired one to save my daughtersí dresses from the weather. Let us take you to your lodging. Whereís your music?î ìIn my head, Herr Weber.î Through the window he could see how the snow was piling in the yard. ìI gratefully accept your offer.î ìCome, my dears.î The four of them ran through the snow and climbed into the carriage, squeezing together on the facing cushioned seats, for the width of the dresses took up a great amount of room. Both girls had to struggle to keep their heads erect. Slowly the small carriage, drawn by a weary horse, began to nudge its way through the many grander ones of departing guests; the air was filled with cries of ìMake way, make way, make way for the Bishop, for the Countess!î A few hot bricks, surrounded by bundles of straw, lay on the coach floor to warm their feet. Josefa reached behind her, tugged, and then sighed. ìI hate and despise tight corsets,î she exclaimed. ìIf it were up to me, Iíd sing in my dressing gown. Stupid, pretentious people! One man kept gaping at me until I thought his wooden teeth would fall in his wineglass. Hasnít he ever seen a tall woman before? Now Iím truly starvingówhereís the basket they gave us, Papa? If they hadnít, I swear I would have slipped half a dozen chicken legs in with my music.î ìThey have paid us, dear; we canít ask for more.î ìYes, darling Papa, and you played so well for us. Now, be the table chamberlain and serve us food.î Fridolin Weber removed the linen covering from the basket and, holding it in the air like a waiter at the finest table, said, ìWe canít eat if you wonít join us, Mozart. Will you? Good. Yes, when people make music, they must eat soon after. Come, reach in; thereís no ceremony here.î Hurled against one another with every jerk of the carriage, the four of them pulled forth fowl, fish, and cakes, and sat back to eat as neatly as they could, sharing the linen basket covering as a napkin. The horses clopped slowly, and the road was crowded, rumors circulated of a carriage broken down a little ahead. Fridolin reached below the food and pulled out a few bottles of wine that they passed about, having no cups; outside the snow fell softly over the city and drifted in through the slightly open window to their laps. Mozart glanced at Josefa as he passed her the bread. Her eyes were warm in her long, thoughtful face, and she laughed as robustly as she ate. Her nails were bitten to the quick, and she had a space between her front teeth. Between mouthfuls, she demanded curiously, ìDo you play in such houses often, Herr Mozart? The sort with twenty or fifty servants all looking as if they had died and been stuffed and then sewn dead into their livery?î ìMore than I can begin to count, Mademoiselle Weber. Unfortunately, they have paid me as I expected they would.î Wryly, he extracted a gold watch from the velvet bag and let it dangle back and forth with the movement of the carriage. Now he was smiling. ìI felt the shape of it when they presented it and withheld my groans. Can it be gold ducats, I asked myself. Ah no, said I.î Aloysia had chosen only sweets, and she was now taking cautious bites from a piece of chocolate almond cake. Her blue shoe was half off her heel, showing her white stocking, slightly discolored with blue dye. Mozart looked at her curiously; so this was the one who was driving his friend Leutgeb from his senses. How little she was! Rather like a porcelain doll he had seen once in an empty anteroom on one of his childhood tours, sitting all alone in a large velvet-covered chair, her legs stuck out before her, her head to one side. He wondered if, should he ever pass that way again, he would find it sitting there still. Her voice was light. ìHerr Mozart,î she said. ìMademoiselle Weber.î ìYou mentioned when we met a few weeks ago that you had been in London as a boy to play the clavier. (I also play excellently; we all do but for our smallest sister, who wants to be a nun.) Father says youíve traveled all about the world, to Vienna and Munich and Paris. But oh, Paris! Were you truly at Versailles?î ìI was indeed, mademoiselle.î ìOh to see it! I think I should faint at even approaching such an exquisite court, the most civilized court in the worldówalls trimmed with gold, porphyry, women in hair like sailing ships, or set with birdís feathers, or with flowers! Iíve seen drawings in a book, and a dressmaker we know was once there. Is it true you played for the King himself?î Her lips were almost trembling. ìAnd that, more, youíve even seen Venice and the Grand Canal, the palazzo of the Doge? Does he truly walk under a golden umbrella? Can there be no streets but only water and bridges and gondolas gliding in the night? Mon Dieu, you have lived a wonderful life.î ìSome of it was wonderful, and some not,î he replied, his hand over the top of the wine bottle so it would not splash about. ìI canít be myself much of the time in such places, and most of the people I play to donít listen or donít understand my music. Iíd rather make music with friends; if I didnít have to earn a living, thatís all Iíd do. I enjoyed playing at your house last month.î ìSir, I thank you,î cried their father, his voice bright with wine. Aloysia leaned forward, as if with the jolting she might fall toward him. She lowered her eyes as she spoke. ìMay I suggest, Herr Mozart, that you can afford to dismiss such things because you have them in abundance.î ìBut sometimes these things are cold and unwelcoming, mademoiselle.î ìDo you think so? If you say so, it must be so, and certainly I wouldnít know because, as a woman, I stay mostly at home. But even if we do, weíre highly educated in music. Weíve hardly ever been to school; weíve lived just the four of us, with Mother and Father. Papa taught reading and writing at home, and of course we speak Italian and French, as any educated person does, but all this was secondary to music, wasnít it, Papa? Mon Dieu, sometimes we have games to see who can play or sing the most difficult things at sight.î She wriggled the blue shoe so that it fell from her foot. Now she was laughing openly, joyfully. He could see her bare throat quiver under the opened cloak. It was unadorned: no pearl on a gold chain, nothing. ìI always win.î ìYou donít always,î said Josefa. But Aloysiaís thoughts returned to the previous subject. ìIím certain youíre mistaken, Herr Mozart! Iím certain I wouldnít find living in such a beautiful palace as Versailles cold! Iíd be lost at first in the thousands of rooms, but that would be for only a short time. Some kind nobleman would graciously show me the way. Imagine having servants to do everything for you, even dress you. Imagine having twenty dresses, and a personal chambermaid to wash your silk hose and brush your hair two hundred strokes every night.î Josefaís reply was sudden and severe. ìOh, there you go with your fantasies and great plans!î she said. ìTomorrow none of them will take down the family chamber pots and start the fire in the cold, but we will.î Her deep brown eyes darkened. She put one hand on her fatherís arm, as if to comfort him, to say none of these wants were his fault. She sank back in the carriage shadows, drawing her cloak over her dress. But Weber cried cheerfully, ìThere, there, who can say what tomorrow may bring? I repeat the maxim often; my daughters hear it daily, to their boredom! Hereís your street, Herr Mozart. Yes, tomorrow, we would much enjoy the pleasure of your company. May I expect you at seven? Very good, very good.î The young composer climbed from the carriage and heard their voices as they drove away, ìGood night, Mozart, good night, dear Mozart,î and then their laughter. Clocks striking over the city, rich, sonorous, the echo drifting over the houses, the roofs, the church spires. The good priests turned over on thick linen sheets in their beds; the merchants pulled their sleeping caps down over their ears. Musicians were snoring lightly: singers and flautists embraced their feather pillows. Outside the modest provincial theater the hand-lettered posters announcing the new performances were slightly stained with wet snow. The street cobbles smelled of horse dung, the alleys of sewage and old cooking. Later, before dawn, the maids would rise and light the fires and prepare the strong coffee and hot chocolate, then run into the street for fresh, warm bread from the bakerís boy. But now it was late, and the clocks each struck at a slightly different time, so that midnight in one street arrived some minutes before midnight several streets away. Mozart walked alone after the carriage had rolled away, a little tipsy, whistling to himself. He opened the door of the house and took off his shoes, mounted the creaking steps, unlocked the upper door, and passed into his ugly garret room, which served as parlor, dressing room, and bedchamber. There, waiting for him, was his narrow bed. The room was very cold, but at least he could feel the small fire from where his mother slept, paid for with money from home on the strength of what the flute commission and other work would bring. He took off his wig and set it on the table. He also took out the watch, grimacing slightly. He might sell it in another city, not here. Yes, he would sell it in a faraway city, where the princeís valet would never come across it hanging in a jewelerís window at a reduced price. ìWolfgang, is that you?î came his motherís sleepy voice from the other room; she coughed once or twice. ìWhy did you come so late?î ìThey made me wait forever before they called me in to play. Are you better?î he asked, joining her in her room. ìMy chest aches; the landlady brought me a mustard plaster and a hot stone wrapped in flannel for under my feet. The fireís such a comfort. But you have a clavier lesson for Mademoiselle Cannabich in the morning. Oh, what a shame they made you wait so long. Did you have the opportunity of speaking to His Highness about composing a new opera for Mannheim?î ìThere was no time; Iíll have to find another opportunity.î ìYour father wrote that your old friend Padre Martini from Italy sends you his love and prayers; he wishes youíd write and tell him how youíre getting on.î Mozart listened somewhat anxiously to her coughing, and then heated some wine on her low fire and sat on her bed as she drank it, stroking her hand. A few more age spots had appeared there since last he had looked. After a time she fell asleep, and he kissed her cheek, then returned to his own room. There he lay on his bed in only his shirt, his arm beneath his head, thinking of the rolling ride home in the carriage, and the two girlsí hair powder, which flecked onto their dark cloaks. He thought of Josefaís bitten nails and how she had retreated to the shadows of the carriage quite suddenly, and of Aloysiaís eyes as she spoke of Venice. Two of the clock. A song for soprano and keyboard had almost finished itself in his head. When dawn came into the room high above the houses, he would write it down from memory, and sign it W. A. Mozart, with his usual flourish. It was yet many hours before seven in the evening when he was expected at the Webers. The bottles of wine had arrived from the vintner by late Thursday afternoon; the scent of apple cake was rising from the kitchen; and the hour was just a little past six, which meant the guests would not climb the five flights of steep stairs for another hour. Aloysia Weber had shut herself in the narrow chamber that she shared with her three sisters, its two beds chastely hidden behind cheap white cotton hangings, its wardrobe, its dozens of hooks full of dresses, its scattered shoes, and its large jewelry box whose contents were mostly imitation. When Sophie was six years old, she had emptied the box to make it into a house for her pet white mice. (ìThey have feelings, too, you know. How would you like to live in a nasty hole in the wall?î) It had been restored, though it was never quite the same; it now always held a strange scent, and one corner of the dark velvet lining had been nibbled. Aloysia had just finished unwinding the rags from her hair, and one never knew just how they would hang until that was done. Would the thick curls at the back of the neck be crooked? No, they were perfect, much better than last night. But she had been lovely enough then; her father and others had said it. ìSuch a delicious girl,î she could hear one of the men murmuring after she had concluded her aria at the palace. The way one or two of them looked at her! Not that they interested her very much, but they were, as her mother said, possibilities, their names to be added to a list in a little book, discussed over many hours of coffee. It was a leather- bound book tooled in flowers that her mother kept hidden in secret places (lastly behind the flour canister), which none of them had ever been allowed to look in or touch. Last night, however, Aloysia had been given permission for the first time to come to the kitchen and list a few men who had heard her sing. Most she could only describe; she did not exactly know their names. She also did not know if they were already married. Some years ago, when Josefa had first started to have a shape beneath her chemise, her mother had gathered her two older daughters together and had begun to discuss the subject of marriage with them. To be an old maid was a terrible thing: no fate could be worse than that. To be unchosen was horrid! Was not even death preferable? They could not begin, their mother said, to think of their futures too soon. Now and then a girl trained to music could eke out a precarious existence. The occasional woman wrote for her bread, or was a clever dressmaker, but even with these things her true goal was to marry as well as she could. Aloysia remembered that evening in the kitchen, both girls sitting close to their mother, listening to her every word. At first the names of suitors were modest prospects: printers, a furniture upholsterer with a small workshop, a schoolmaster. Then two years later Frau Caecilia Weber had looked at her newly blooming second child and, smacking her lips gently, observed, ìAn old school friend of mine has a daughter without dowry who has just married a Count, and she is not nearly as beautiful as you. Oh no, my sweet, not nearly as lovely. If such a blessing could occur, you could have all the pretty things you deserve, my Aloysia, my own little flea.î That was the day everything changed. It was a spring day, and she had run up the steps with her nose buried in sprigs of linden blossoms. She could hear her motherís voice. ìI know how you long for fine things, my Aloysia.î Today on her way back from delivering a pile of copied music, she stood for a long time in front of a French dressmakerís shop window, where she could make out, behind the small panes, a length of pale pink brocade. Pressing her forehead against the cold glass, Aloysia almost felt her soul leave her body and wind itself in the cloth. She so wanted first a dress from that cloth, and then another in milkmaid style made of the finest white muslin, with a wide, pale pink silk sash that would tie around her waist and bow so extravagantly at the small of her back that the ends would flutter down the skirt. She had seen a drawing of such a dress worn in the court of France. ìAloysia, are you coming? Have you polished the candle sconces? It is Thursday, you know!î Why must the world stop for Thursdays? Must they all be rallied weekly to this running about so, tidying the parlor, finding enough candles, always making sacrifices when no one in particular ever came, whereas last night at the Electorís palace there had been the women with little dark beauty marks shaped like stars or moons. How could Josefa laugh at it? They had fought about it this morning while studying a new duet. And didnít it matter to Josefa that she was nineteen and not yet betrothed? Just like the younger ones, who never gave it a thought. ìAloysia!î called her sisters and mother. At least she could wear her pink silk hose, embroidered at the ankle with small scarlet flowers, which her father had bought her the first time she sang in public. If by chance her skirt pulled up an inch or so above her shoes, Leutgeb would notice. The blustering horn player was in love with her, and, though his name had never been mentioned by her mother, she found that when he looked at her, her body grew warm all over. But now, rummaging through boxes and under the bed, she could not find the embroidered hose. Dropping to her knees, she searched the bottom of the wardrobe, hurling things out. ìSomeone borrowed them, likely,î she muttered. ìWill I ever have anything not borrowed, remade, or lent?î Blessed saints, could it be true? There, stuffed under the shoes, wrapped in canvas, was the fan cousin Alfonsoís wife had given her, which Josefa had begged to borrow again last night, because she said she could not sing without a fan. Obviously, after they had finished singing, Josefa had hidden it somewhere because it was broken. From under it, Aloysia pulled out the hose with the flowers, splattered with street muck. She leapt up in her shift and petticoat and rushed into the hall where she collided with Josefa, who was carrying table draping. ìYou farmerís daughteróyou ruined it, you mauled it, look!î She opened the fan with its silk portrait of Venice, gesturing at the few cracked slats. ìYou ruin everything, everything! Thereís a split in the Grand Canal. I donít know who brought you into this family, Josefa Weber, what ugly gypsy brought you in his cart and sold you for two kreuzers, but youíre here to ruin my life, and I wish to the Blessed Virgin we could sell you back again.î ìI never broke the fan; you stuffed it away yourself,î cried Josefa, throwing down the linen. ìYou hid it under the shoes so you wouldnít have to share it anymore, and that broke it. Whatís a fan supposed to do under twenty shoes?î Aloysia slapped her, and Josefa took her by the hair and pulled her a few feet down the hall. The harder Aloysia tried to shake her off, the more her elder sister continued to drag her toward the parlor by the curls. Aloysia shrieked, her piercing, light voice ringing from room to room, and was about to dig her teeth into her sisterís arm when their father, half shaven, his bare chest dusted with gray hair, rushed toward them shouting, ìJosy, let go!î Thrown off suddenly, Aloysia stumbled against a parlor chair and a pile of music. ìYou did take it; you did!î she sobbed. ìAnd now you made me scream, and Iíve hurt my voice, you ugly bitch. You canít wait for me to hurt my voice, can you?î Her hands flew to her ragged hair and aching head, and tears spilled from her blue eyes. Her voice was shaking. ìAnd youíve ruined the curl. I wonít come out of our room tonight; thatís it. I have no voice; itís gone, itís gone.î Sophie, who had heard the shouting from the kitchen, bolted out like a weed driven by wind; seeing her father already held the girls apart, she retrieved the fan from under the table. ìOh, Aly,î she murmured, stammering a little as she did when there was a quarrel, ìlook, itís only two slats that need replacing. Why must you go into such passions for things that can be mended, things that are inconsequential?î She fished for her wrinkled handkerchief and wiped Aloysiaís face. Aloysia sobbed, ìThereís a tiny tear in the silk; it goes all the way from the canal to the base of San Marco.î ìIíll take it to the second floor to Hoffman; he repairs fans and umbrellas. Heíll do us a favor since I found his lost dog. Donít cry. Hush, hush, darling,î pleaded Sophie, just as Constanze also rushed from the kitchen holding her fatherís ironed shirt like a banner, its arms floating behind. ìGirls!î she commanded. ìMama says you must all be quiet or sheíll come with her wooden spoon and then the cakes will never be finished! Look at the mantel clock; itís nearly seven, and people will be arriving in ten minutes. Not one of us is dressed. Papa, hereís your shirt. You have soap on your nose. What will people think of us? It will be all over Mannheim.î But Aloysia stood stubbornly by the chair. ìThe fan isnít inconsequential,î she sobbed, the balled handkerchief in her hand. ìItís inconsequential to all of you because you donít care. Some of us might care, some of us might want to be at our best. Mon Dieu, cíest terrible! And the stockings are filthy; Stanzi, you promised to wash them after I wore them last time when I gave you ten kreuzers of my singing money. None of you care about me, and I havenít any hose. I couldnít find any.î ìThereís some in the kitchen. Be still: Mama says.î ìOh, her spoon, of course!î Aloysia cried. ìDoes she think we are children to threaten with a spoon? I earned fifteen silver florins last night and pay for the bread on the table, and she thinks Iím no more than a child!î And she rushed off without a glance at Josefa, who, with an angry shrug, marched off to retrieve the table linen from the hall floor. Now alone for the moment, Sophie stood by the window, untying her apron and looking down at the approaching evening. Her heart still beat fast from the quarrel. Few carriages passed. Squinting hard, she saw the shapes of what looked like two men walking toward the street door of their house; it was all she could make out with her nearsightedness, but when they opened the front door below, she cried, ìSomeoneís come early; Stanzi, help me!î From the kitchen her mother called out threats, prayers, and directions. The gingerbread was not ready. Constanze hurried out with her dress half fastened, her fingers lacing as fast as they could, and began to light the candles. Aloysia emerged fully dressed. I have never belonged in this family, she thought severely, suppressing her last sob. Still, she felt simultaneously the old pride that had brought them all through much. They were the daughters of the musician Fridolin Weber, from a family of Webers. It was Thursday, and, as her father once told her, tickling her and rubbing his unshaven face against hers, on this night in this house, no one is unhappy. So she moved closer to her sisters, and they all stood as one, hands touching, smelling of clean brushed clothes perfumed with lavender, hair drawn plainly back for two younger girls, still curled for Aloysia, and pushed under a cap for Josefa, who had stayed too late at the book shop and had not had time to fuss. Constanze in her plain dark dress looked at the door. Sophie unlatched it. Leutgeb strode forward to kiss the hands of the girls; by his side was the smaller Mozart, large, kind eyes looking about at all of them. In his bass voice, Leutgeb boomed, ìWeíre too early, but perhaps weíll be forgiven when you see the nice cakes and wine we have for you.î Sophie rushed forward to look at the basket placed on the table. ìOh, chocolate cake with cherries,î she cried, jumping up and down a little. ìAnd sweet wine . . . Father loves sweet wine.î Her freckled face brimmed with gratitude as she squinted at both musicians. From her parentsí bedchamber, she heard her father curse in the name of Saint Elizabeth as he dropped something on the floor. He would bend, groaning, to pick it up, his back curving. Her mother was still in the kitchen banging pots, wiping off dishes. Mozart held a narrow paper portfolio in both his arms. ìIíve brought something as well,î he said. ìWhat, more cakes?î asked Sophie. ìNo, not cakes. A challenge. I am come to set a challenge for Mademoiselle Aloysia.î ìWhat? What?î cried the girls all at once, clamoring about him, but he shook his head. Suddenly he was not shy at all; instead, his face was full of mischief. ìBut youíll have to wait a time until all the guests come.î Within the half hour the room was crowded, a pupil of their fatherís had arrived, and a church musician, then a few members of a horn band, followed by dear Heinemann and Alfonso with violin and cello, as always, by their sides. The younger girls ran back to find extra wineglasses and plates, and the cake was set among the music, the glazed cherries nestled among the chocolate thick as fine velvet. Sophie gazed at all with relief as the guests consumed the cake and her father grew visibly merrier. And at last there was their parentsí oldest friend, honest Uncle Thorwart, whom they had known from childhood; this heavy man who panted from the stairs winked at them. He had brought from the best chocolatier in town a painted wood box of chocolates, likely filled with sweet nuts, drops of blackberry liqueur, and marzipan, whose sugared-almond taste lingered for hours on the tongue. It was a generous box of at least four layers. If the guests mostly addressed themselves to their motherís gingerbread with cream and the several additional bottles of wine that remained, there would be enough chocolate to enjoy in secret later on. Thorwart, meticulously dressed, placed his ringed hand over his heart. ìThose stairs! My breath! Girls, come kiss your old uncle.î The roomís configuration changed: chairs were rearranged, people moved about. Mozart had taken his place at the clavier and drew several pages of music from his portfolio. Fridolin demanded quiet, and the parlor became so still that the only sounds were the crackling fire in the fireplace and the rousing November wind outside the window. ìNow,î Mozart said, ìI present a challenge to Mademoiselle Aloysia in the presence of her family. Mademoiselle, I heard you say last night in the carriage that you can read all music at sight. Very well! Iíve written this song for you from a text by Metastasio, and if you can read it straight off without an error, you may have it. If not, I tear it up.î A flurry of voices rose up, a few hands drawing her closer. ìAmusing; heís likely made it difficult. Aloysia, stand behind him to see the notes clearly. The lightís poor; whoíll hold the candle?î For a moment Aloysia could not remember the boast she had made coming home in the carriage, expansive with her success and the quickly drunk wine, and flush with the odd sensuality of sitting almost knee to knee with this intense young man who had ridden in the gondolas of the Venetian canals. Whatever it had been, now she had to make good on it, or be shamed that she had not been taught music well enough. Mozart adjusted the music so she could see it better, then he beckoned for Sophie, who held a candle for her sister, to step closer. He played the first bars. Aloysia sang the opening line of the recitative in a small, tremulous voice, as if she had never sung before anyone, but by the tender melodic line of the andante sostenuto, encouraged by the nods of the others, who saw she had made no mistakes so far, she began to gain courage. ìNon so díonde viene quel tenero affetto Quel moto, che ignoto mi nasce nel pettoî She knew music; she had heard it as she was curled within the womb and after she lay swaddled in her cradle. By the first gentle spill of sixteenth notes and the sustained high Bb that followed shortly after, she felt those about her stir with admiration, and her voice took on an authority of its own. Forgetting everything but the music before her, she sprang into the allegro agitato. Her voice opened like a heart in love, and she became one with the notes. Dresses, cake, muddy hose fell away as insignificant. She sang as if she had never sung before. She stood erect, one hand at her side almost imperceptibly beating time. The song returned to the first tempo, and her silvery voice rose in glittering scale to the high Eb. Mozartís hands on the keys flashed, lifting her up. She was not reading the song; she became it. When the last trill rang out to the dark corners of the room, beyond the piles of old music and the empty wineglasses, she stood poised, startled and motionless. ìThe purity of that voice,î someone said. For a moment she had been in another world. Vaguely, she felt her hand taken and someoneís dry kiss above it. She withdrew it distractedly, as if someone had mistakenly taken up something that belonged to her. There was a strange desire to cry. Could the song be over? Could it have ended and left her? Everyone was clapping; Sophieís arm was about her waist. The words with their melody repeated themselves in her mind; she moved her lips, drawing a little close to the clavier as if she would begin again. ìNon so díonde viene quel tenero affetto ...î (I donít know from whence comes this tender affection ...) Mozart stood up clapping as well, but she looked at him as if he were a stranger. What had he to do with this moment? What was she thinking? The notes were his. Still, without her voice, werenít they but dry marks? Yet how could it be? She stood confused. Was it his song? Or was it hers? ìMademoiselle,î he said, ìyouíve won the wager. The songís yours. Iíll orchestrate it so that you can sing it in concert, and all who hear it will be as amazed as we are here today.î She felt a momentís fierce tenderness for him. He looked at her. For a moment nothing was ordinary, and she reached for his warm hand. Oh, she thought, come with me. Yet they were pressed in on all sides, and there was her father being the dear fool, calling in a loud voice for the best three remaining bottles of wine to be dusted off and brought at once. How could he think of wine at this moment? With that the music stopped within her, and she knew herself to be only a sixteen-year-old girl in a stuffy parlor. Could she have so quickly lost the mystery of those moments and the happiness of the singer when she becomes the song and touches eternity? But family and guests were all pressing about them, candles tilted and dripping wax. ìMind the candle,î Josefa cried, receiving the wine bottles from her father. Now she was being hugged by all, aware of how intensely a few of the men looked at her, even Thorwart, who was called uncle by the girls even though he wasnít really a blood relative. There was the self-contained composer, his left hand still resting soundlessly on the keys, also looking steadily at her. If she embraced him, she would regain the moment. Slip away, her eyes said; slip away and come with me. Come with me, dear Wolfgang Mozart. Her heart was beating very fast. She left the room as a string trio began, escaping to the unmade beds and scattered clothing of her shared bedroom, even closing the door a little, but not all, so that she might hear the composerís footsteps following her down the hall. The door from the parlor creaked softly, and she opened hers. In the shadow she saw a man walking softly under the portraits of long-dead Weber ancestors posing in their horrible dull garments. She lightly ran forward the few steps and felt her hands caught by anotherís; they were not Mozartís supple hands, but wider, meaty ones. It was Leutgeb who had followed her. ìDo you know what happens to kisses not given?î he said softly, looming above her. ìThey become sorrow, like words never spoken. You are the most beautiful girl in the world, and your voice is like that of an angel.î Lifting her face, she allowed him to kiss her mouth. And as he kissed her, she felt all the magnificence of the song return. Some minutes later she straightened her dress and slipped back into the parlor, where the second movement of the string trio had just begun. She could see her fatherís good head nodding as he played his violin. Sometime after the song had been sung and acclaim was yet ringing about the parlor for Aloysia, Josefa Weber slipped from the room to hide on the cold hall steps. She had observed her sisterís departure, and shortly after it Leutgebís; now Josefa sat with her arms hugging her chest. Why had she made up with her before? Here in their very own parlor Aloysia had taken the prize of admiration, while Josefaís own voice was larger and more passionate, able to make the very pictures on the wall tremble and the candle flames waver. She could have sung equally well at sight, but, not having been asked to enter the competition, she was vanquished. Oh, it was always this way, always since Aloysiaís birth. Josefa remembered peering over the cradle at the very tiny fragile child who, anxious relatives muttered, hovered between life and death. For weeks following Aloysiaís birth Josefa had stumbled over kneeling aunts whispering over their rosary beads. The child lived, and, from shortly after that time, everything changed. Josefa had been the darling of her parents for three and a half brief years of life as an only child. Later, even after it seemed Aloysia would live, it was Josefa who was the first to read, the first to have a music lesson, the first to sing to aunts and grandmothers as she stood on a chair and was held steady by her adoring mother, and then, dressed in her childish best, the first to sing to her fatherís musical friends on Thursdays. Suddenly, though, there was another songbird, a higher, lighter, purer voice, yanking at her dress as she sang, almost pulling her from the chair. At the age of seven Josefa had had enough; she pushed her sister down ten minutes before guests arrived, and had then been slapped for it. Friends who had first lifted Josefa into their arms now exclaimed playfully at her weight, and they lifted tiny Aloysia instead. The younger girl darted like a sparrow; she was more appealing. And yet Josefa loved her small sister as something finer and sweeter than she could ever be. Hadnít there been that day at the menagerie so long ago to prove it forever? The tiger, behind the slats of its wood, wheeled cage, was old and lethargic. Josefa and Aloysia had approached the cage hand in hand, each drawn by the otherís courage to go forward. Were they six and nearly three? Aloysia wore a little crushed bonnet, and the few feet to the heavy wood cage seemed very long as they pulled each other closer. Then the beast roared. He rose, glaring at them, and swiped one paw through the bars. Aloysia stood petrified, some inches away from the great curving claws; someone was shouting, but before the large keeper could reach them, Josefa yanked her baby sisterís limp arm and pulled her away so fast that Aloysia tumbled in the dust. Josefa was shaking so hard she had to lean against the wall. Still trembling, she picked up her sobbing sister and dusted her off. Was it minutes, hours, before their parents found them? ìWhy didnít you protect your little sister?î her mother had cried later. ìYou know you have to take care of her; how could you let her go so close?î Her fatherís voice had replied angrily, ìItís not the girlís fault, Caecilia; she saved her.î Josefa still recalled the sensation of his mustache against her cheek as he knelt and held her close. Now, years later, she sat on the landing outside her familyís apartment, trying to keep her tears within. She could hear that the trio was done, that now someone accompanied a violin. Then everyone called for a duet, and the cry went up, ìBut whereís Josefa? Whereís our Josefa?î That was her fatherís voice calling, ìWhereís my girl?î The door creaked open, and Sophie emerged, blinking, onto the landing. ìJosy?î she murmured. From the shadows the eldest sister held her breath. The love in the smallest sisterís voice sounded again. Josefa could not bear to hear Sophieís questioning plea and leapt to her feet. ìI was too warm inside,î she said. ìThatís why I left.î Inside she crossed, smiling, to Aloysia. The sisters each wound an arm about the otherís waist and, lifting their faces, sang purely and truly as if nothing had occurred at all: as if one had not been fondled in a dark hall under the small dour portraits of their ancestors, and the other had not fled to the stairs to confront her unhappiness. Their voices rose in thirds to the top notes, glistening off the low flames of the candles and echoing about the empty wine bottles. Then another magical evening came to a close, and the guests reluctantly began to depart. The parlor was empty, the music of Mozartís song lay on top of a pile of other musical scores, and the four sisters gathered close on the two iron bedsteads. Wooly, worn nightgowns pulled down over their drawn-up knees, their faces scrubbed free of rouge, the girls climbed bare-legged from bed to bed and shared a cup of cold coffee while Sophie foraged through the remaining one and a half layers of chocolates in the painted wood box. She had just finished a marzipan enclosed in dark bitter chocolate and flavored with a hint of boysenberry. ìDonít eat them all.î ìI only had six.î ìOh, how can you all be such pigs!î Aloysia said. ìYouíll be fat and wonít have fashionable figures, no matter how tightly you lace your corsets!î Laughter burst out, quickly followed by a sharp admonition from their mother in the next room. Father had a headache; Mother was taking care of him. Then Constanze turned to her smaller sister and whispered, ìTheyíre almost asleep; donít wake them. Sophie, did you manage to steal it?î Wiping her fingers on the quilt, Sophie reached under the bed and, with a crooked smile, drew out from under her pile of clothes the leather-tooled book of suitors. Aloysia sat straight up in horror. ìYou shouldnít have taken that,î she whispered sharply. ìYou know Mother doesnít want us to touch it.î She put the coffee cup carefully on the dresser and reached for the book, but Sophie rolled away. Constanze said, ìWhy shouldnít she touch it? You did the other night. I saw you.î ìIt was the first time she said I could enter possibilities, and I looked at only the one page. Where did you find it tonight? She moved it; I looked. Well, I did look.î ìWhy, to enter that horn blowerís name?î whispered Josefa. ìSophie found it under the flour barrel.î ìYouíre not supposed to open it! There are things in it that are private! Itís Motherís.î ìI am going to open it!î Sophie said. ìShh! Be quiet! Weíll just look at it tonight, and Iíll tiptoe and put it back. Itís her plans for our futures, and we have a right to know her plans.î Sophie, Constanze, and Aloysia gathered closer, Aloysia with some confusion in her face, the same expression she had been wearing ever since disappearing down the hall earlier that evening. Her lower lip, thrust forward, gave her a look between childish and arrogance, and she cast a resentful look at Josefa, who sat with arms folded. Sophie turned the pages carefully, holding the candle close. A bit of glowing wick flew off and landed on a page, and she pressed it out with her fingers and rubbed at the mark. It had been several days since Constanze and Sophie made plans to steal the book this very evening. ìIt is our futures,î Constanze had said. Josefa had sworn to have nothing to do with the plan, and even now she sat a little apart, rubbing her big bare feet with their large toes and looking disapproving. Her dark hair fell uncurled down her back to her waist, making her inquisitive face seem even longer. The early pages were crammed with sketches of dresses that had been fashionable twenty years before, and a number of old family recipes. A curious printed invitation to a ball fell out, along with some bit of fabric. They turned the pages more rapidly now, past family accounts meticulously kept and then abandoned, until they reached the names of possible suitors; then they looked mischievously at one another. The first of these pages listed the names of tradesmen, the names of their fathers, and their approximate yearly income. ìOh, these are from some time ago,î Constanze whispered. ìLook, the inkís faded. Will you all be still? Look, hereís Weidman. I remember him, but heís married now and has three sons. Hereís Lorenz Holsbauer: something odd happened to him. I think they made him go for a soldier; he was in some kind of scandal.î ìHow do you know?î Josefa asked, moving closer to look over her sisterís shoulder. ìI notice things. You donít. Youíre always reading philosophy or Rousseau.î ìI notice whatís important, not nonsense. Donít let the wax drip! When were these written? I wasnít even twelve years old. Matthias Aldgasser. Oh, dear God, Matthias! He became a priest, had to, because he preferred ... donít listen, Sophie. He preferredóî ìWhat did he prefer?î the youngest girl cried, bouncing on the mattress. ìHush, or weíll stuff a pillow over your face. He was ... there was a scandal. Never mind; it would corrupt you to know.î ìIím already corrupted having stolen the book,î Sophie said. ìIíll have to make my confession and do penance, say at least a full rosary on my knees on the stone church floor. Donít push, Aloysia.î ìIím not,î Aloysia whispered. ìI donít think we should be looking at this at all. You could bunch a shawl under your knees, Sophie. And since when are you interested, Mademoiselle Maria Josefa?î Still they turned more pages. ìAh, this list is more recent,î Josefa said. The rest of their small room was now in shadow, with the shapes of their hanging dresses and hats like the ghosts of their lives watching over them. Josefa glanced toward the mirror, where she could see only the reflections of their dark faces and the sputtering light of the candle. Constanze pulled the quilt over her knees. ìEven if they are more recent, half these men are married already. The decent ones are snatched from the shelves as fast as fresh bread in the market, and the ones left we wouldnít want to rub bare feet with under a quilt.î ìTheyíd be rubbing something more than that!î Josefa whispered with a smile. ìSophie, did you eat the very last marzipan chocolate?î ìWill you be still?î Constanze ran her finger down a few more pages. ìWhy, now it becomes fantastical!î she murmured seriously. ìLook here. Hereíre her plans for you, Aloysia; your nameís on the top of the page. Hereís the name of a Swedish baron. She canít be serious. Where does she get such ideas? Swedenís very cold in winter, and they say the days are only a few hours long. You wouldnít be able to borrow things from us, Aly, if you lived so far away.î Aloysia wound her curls around her fingers. ìI wouldnít need to borrow anything if I married a baron. And itís not as if she got the name from a book she read. The Baron visited here some months ago; he may have been at the court concert last night as well, but I couldnít see everyoneís face when I was concentrating on the sixteenth notes in the duet. And Mama described him only once, rather vaguely. Did you steal this book just to tease me? Perhaps you donít care what you do, but I care very much! Iíd have all the dresses I wanted then, all of them!î ìAnd what about Monsieur Horn Player Leutgeb, Mademoiselle Go-Hide-in-the-Dark?î Aloysia pulled the book away so suddenly they heard the page tear, and all four looked down at it in horror. Constanze rummaged in a box under the bed until she found some paste, and they mended it as neatly as they could, heads together, fingers smoothing the page as if it were a holy relic. Aloysiaís eyes shone with tears again even as they finished. ìNever mind,î she said. ìIíll tell her I ripped it accidentally. Or maybe she wonít notice. Put it back under the barrel carefully. Leutgebís nothing to me. I donít like everyone knowing my thoughts; you canít know them anyway. You couldnít understand them. Youíre not me. You havenít my reasons. And I will marry well, and youíll be fortunate if I let you visit me!î She withdrew under her quilt, turning away from them a little, and did not look up when Constanze came back from returning the book to the kitchen. Though she closed the door as quietly as possible, her bare feet creaked the boards. ìSafely back?î one girl whispered. Constanze nodded grimly. ìIs there a chocolate with sweet chestnut paste?î she asked, her long loose hair falling over the box like a benediction. ìThe candle wonít last but a minute more.î ìThere it goes!î They all watched as it sputtered once; the wick slowly fell over into the last puddle of wax, glowed briefly, and died. The room smelled of waxy smoke and sweet chestnuts. In the smoky darkness, the paper in the candy box rustled as the girls rummaged. ìPapa says Herr Heinemannís teeth are blackened from too much sugar,î Sophie whispered with her mouth full. ìAnd Uncle Thorwart ate the whole top layer. Heís getting awfully fat; he wears those English coats and will have to have a larger one made. Ah, itís cold outside. Can you feel the wind creeping under the sill?î Constanze pulled her quilt closer. ìListen,î she whispered even more softly. ìDonít go to sleep yet. I almost forgot. This is terrible and sad! When I ran down the stairs before to say goodnight to Cousin Alfonso, I saw the tailorís daughter, whom we havenít seen in weeks, and now I know why. Sheís with child for certain. She couldnít hide it.î Aloysia now crawled closer to the others. ìWhat? Without the blessing of the Church and the sacrament of marriage? We must thank God we were not brought up to do such things and bring terrible shame on our family.î Now they could see a little by the moonlight through the curtainless window. Huddled together, their wool nightgowns pulled down to cover their toes, they grew serious over the plight of the tailorís daughter. What a terrible thing! Every good girl knew that she must withhold until certain conditions, financial and social, were met. Flirtation was allowed, of course, even a passionate kiss on the lips on rare occasions. (The others felt Aloysia stiffen.) In empty alleys, in cloakrooms of great houses, near any room with a soft, inviting bed, however, vigilance must be upheld. 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. ìHow did Papa meet Mama exactly?î she asked eagerly. ìBoth 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.î ìI thought Mamaís family lost their money when she was ten.î ìNo indeed, seventeen.î ìIíll ask her.î ìSheíll tell you something different every time.î ìOh, shut up! We were speaking of marriages in general.î 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, ìYou could have sung that song at sight, Josy.î ìYes; when he writes another, I will.î ìI like Mozart; he has a nice smile. I thought he would follow Aly down the hall, but he didnít. I wonder why he didnít. Maybe heís in love with someone else. Maybe itís 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?î ìOh, really, I donít care. Such nonsense.î ìI noticed something about the book. The first several pages have been cut outóthe early writing.î ìMore nonsense. Good night.î 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. ìAh, your Thursdays,î 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, ìI must speak to Aloysia tomorrow. I saw Leutgeb follow her. I have my plans for her. Donít smile, Fridolin. Thorwart moves in high circles and will help us. Heíll find some good prospects. I swear before a year more turns, someone with an old family name will marry our girl. One canít have these matters arranged too soon before some other more unworthy girl gets the best opportunity.î ìYouíre not thinking of the Prince of England, I hope?î ìYou jest with me, Fridolin.î ìYou fill her head with too many things, my dear. I want only her happiness. Sheís very gifted, but rash.î Fridolin handed her the wet cloth, which she again dipped in water and wrung out. ìPerhaps one of our girls will marry Mozart. I like that young man, my wife. I like him very much indeed.î ìYes, he has a kind nature,î answered Caecilia. ìBut he doesnít know how to get on in the world. Thorwart doubts heíll do well in Mannheim; heís 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.î ìWhy does he have enemies?î ìBecause he doesnít know how to manage people; people donít know what to think of him. He doesnít fit in. Thorwart tells me that. But we canít consider him as a suitor. He has promised not to think of marriage until he succeeds. I heard him say so.î ìLetís hope that wonít 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?î ìOh, she falls into dark moods and sulks! You know she never listens to me. Yes, she despises me for all Iíve done for her. Sheís 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 donít know if she herself knows truth from lies, and sheís 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 itís unlikely sheíll find a husband at all.î ìGod will provide, as He always has. Will you pinch out the candle, dear? Iím quite tired, and have lessons to give in the morning.î He kissed his wifeís fragrant cheek, touched her full breast under the wool nightdress, then, with much tenderness, took her in his arms. Three 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 Mann-heim 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. ìAh, the scent of coffee and baking!î he said, kissing her cheek. ìSometimes 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, donít 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.î 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, ìYou will have extra cream with your coffee as always?î ìAs always, Maria Caecilia.î 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. ìThis can belong to no one but Josefa, for only she would be reading Rousseau,î he said, frowning at the title, then reaching carefully into his pocket for his reading spectacles. ìDangerous stuff,î he said. ìHere 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. Itís obvious they are wasteful and spend their earnings in drink.î He tapped the book. ìRousseau is wrong. If weíre 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!î With the edge of his hand he pushed the book away and into a little dusting of flour. ìI tell you, I donít 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 weíll never see such a revolution on our beloved European shores.î Maria Caecilia shook her head as she filled the plates. ìMy little Sophie now reads these things as well.î ìTake it from her. Mad, foolish young people.î ìHopefully, theyíll soon grow out of them. You and your wife will come for Christmas dinner? My sisters will be here for some weeks; I expect theyíll arrive any hour. You will have a cake with your coffee? Do take some home. I remember as a boy you loved cakes.î ìAnd you loved them as well, still do. Ah, your lebkuchen.î He sat for a moment inhaling the steam from his coffee cup, then ate a bite of the cake. ìMy dear Caecilia,î he said, ìhow clever you are, managing all these years on I donít know what. But you know, Iíve 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 didnít know I saw you; the light was gray, and there you were. You blush.î She brought her floury hand to her cheek. ìMy dear Johann, youíre kind to remember all these years.î ìDo you recall how I took you for pastry in Zell with your sisters just before you met Fridolin? But time is passing, and Iím 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.î ìAh, have you?î she said, sinking down to a chair opposite him and beginning to breathe more rapidly. ìIs there a chance of this occurring?î ìA rather good one, my dear.î ìJohann, for the love of Saint Anne, tell me! This is my dearest hope! Iíll make six novenas to the Blessed Saint for any good news.î ìHeís 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 Electorís 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.î ìMy friend! So he heard her sing?î ìIndeed, he both heard and saw her.î Thorwart patted his lips with his handkerchief, and drank again, then sat back expansively. ìAnd 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.î She was too moved to touch her coffee. ìHow can we ever thank you?î ìI am repaid in honor, in doing the best for my old friend Fridolinís daughter.î 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, Mannheimís 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. ìCome back,î she whispered, but time did not come back. Still, there was a way. She could live her youth through her daughters; as difficult as it might be, she could have through them all she had lost. They would meld with the girl she had been so many years ago when she looked from the window of her fatherís house in Zell, and felt all the worldís possibilities in the soft, wet air. For if Aloysia could marry well, would not the rest follow? Standing by the hearth with a large pewter spoon in her hand, she could see her daughters some few years from now living in gracious houses with maids and serving men at the call of a bell. Upon rising each morning, they would slip on dressing gowns trimmed with Venetian lace. The hairdresser would arrive, gossiping shrilly in French. Then, when the morning was half done and the rooms smelled of lavender hair powder, Maria Caecilia would come to call. Each girl would float toward her, kiss her warmly, and welcome her to hot chocolate drunk from porcelain cups painted with flowers. Yes, this had been her secret dream for a long time, the one that most comforted her as she trudged along the slush of streets with her heavy market basket. Even as she had written the names of more ordinary men in the past few years, her pen hesitated as she remembered her real hopes. Now they might begin to come true. She wiped her hands on her apron. She had forgotten where she had hidden the book of suitors and, after some minutes of searching on her knees, located it on the lowest cupboard shelf under the clean sheets. Impatiently she skimmed the pages of household budgets and home herbal remedies until she came to the one she sought. Strange, it looked as if it had been ripped and mended. That puzzled her, but she was too taken with the words written there to dwell on it, with the almost holy feeling that filled her. There was the name of the Swedish Baron. Taking a pen and the ink bottle, she pushed aside her baking and carefully added the new information she had learned: forty years of age, widower, loves music, has house of forty rooms in Gothenburg; pack very warm clothes for Aloysia. A muff, she must have a fur muff. Warm petticoats; it was by the sea after all. Weekly letters to her, yearly extended visits. To marry her beautiful child well, and then the others. Maria Caecilia felt calmer now. But she heard her own sistersí voices on the stair, the panting and complaining as they ascended. As she slipped the book under the clean sheets again, her memory flew back in time to twenty or more years earlier in Zell at the guild hall dance. There was her younger sister Gretchen, fresh as spring with yellow braids tumbling down her back and much sought after by the officers, and Elizabeth, as lovely as a Madonna, modest, tall, devout, dipping her knees to the music, turning to smile at Caecilia over the sound of the wind band. Then the three of them were going home laughing, arms linked. Now as she opened the door she saw only two ungainly, shapeless women straggling up the stairs in their crushed, lopsided hats, dragging several baskets from which dangled pairs of wool hose. A slipper tumbled out from one basket, and the neighboring boy who helped them muttered, ìJesus Christus!î as he fled to retrieve it. Maria Caecilia felt her smile stiffen on her lips. What had happened to them all? Youth must not be wasted; it must be made to last forever. Aloysia would be a Swedish baroness by the sea. She went forward with her arms out, tears in her eyes. Three weeks passed. The voices of the choirs singing masses had risen up as usual in the churches that Christmas, accompanied at home by the baking of cookies and pastry and the roasting of geese until golden brown. Then the worst of winter set in. Cold wind blew through the streets; there were no fresh vegetables or fruit to be had; gingerbread stands were closed; and fires, no matter how hearty, seldom warmed rooms sufficiently. The only sensible thing was to go to bed with a hot brick wrapped in flannel to keep one warm. Snow fell, and fewer travelers came through. Many people had departed before this time to winter in more lively cities. And now Maria Caeciliaís two sisters were also leaving to return to Zell. They passed Aloysia, who was sitting on the cold landing before the door. Bumping into her drawn-up knees, they cast morose glances toward the rooms they had just left and the sound of bitter shouting. Aunt Elizabeth stood upright to her full height, her crooked hat with the ancient bowed feather almost touching the ceiling. ìI find it lacking in charity that your parents should argue so loudly, niece! Where are the consoling joys of man and wife?î Gretchen added in her stuttering, vague way, ìI have my theories on such things. Darling Aly, have I mentioned them to you?î Her face, which was plain as lumpy pudding, looked hopeful. ìI think so, Auntie,î replied Aloysia dully. Elizabeth sniffed. ìHave you wrapped your feet well, Gretchen? It will be cold in the carriage.î Both aunts bent down and planted sticky kisses on Aloysiaís pale cheek. ìGood-bye, dear Aloysia,î they said, blessing her. ìDonít sit here too long; we had a dear friend who died of sitting on cold stairs. There was nothing that could be done for her, though physicians came. She was laid out in the parlor with candles. Weíll return for your marriage. Your mother has hinted of fine things. You will wear the black petticoats we sewed for you girls? Black is a practical coloródoesnít show dirt, needs less washing.î ìOh yes, Auntie, of course. Good-bye, dear Aunties.î After the aunts had managed to get down the stairs, yelling all the while at the boy who helped them, Aloysia remained outside her familyís cluttered rooms, clasping her knees and shivering. It was the very spot to which Josefa had retreated two months before, but then that landing had always been the place of retreat when one of the four sisters wanted to be alone. Still written on the wall from years before in Josefaís tiny, bold print was a list of ten things that would make life perfect. (A bed all to myself, never having to recite my French verbs, being loved best ...) One had to bend down low to see it. It could only have been written by a lanky, grubby child stretched low on a creaking step. Tiresome! Josefa never could speak good French, though she read Rousseau. Your mother hinted of fine things; we will return for your marriage. Aloysia played with a lock of her hair. The Swedish Baron had departed for his own country; Uncle Thorwart had been apologetic. There were other fish in the sea, he had said. If the court moved to Munich, there would be more opportunities. Aloysia rubbed her hands, sticking them deep in her skirts to warm them. The name of the Baron had been angrily crossed out in the book. The enchanting handful of singing engagements in houses lit by hundreds of candles were over as well, and all the money the family had earned had been spent on entertainment and food. Yesterday Sophie had trudged to the pawn shop again with their motherís jewelry. Even now Sophie slipped grimly out of the familyís rooms; her new, gold-framed spectacles made her look like some young university boy. She was followed by Constanze, who sank to the steps and began to sew. ìHow can you hold the needle? Itís so cold!î Aloysia murmured. ìAnd how can you have the patience?î ìI must do something.î The small face bent over her work. ìI hope the neighbors donít see us sitting here.î ìWhy? Theyíve heard everything already. Mother has broken two plates and thrown a pile of music at Father. I saved the blue serving bowl and hid it in our wardrobe with the wineglasses.î ìDonít squint at the stitches, Stanzi; it will make you look older earlier.î ìIím older already,î Sophie said. ìTroubles age one, but what can be done? We live in a fallen world. If we were still in the Garden of Eden, there would be no need for money. May I share Mamaís shawl, Aloysia? Weíll be here an hour or two, maybe more, and Iím freezing.î ìSit closer. Thereís a little coal left in the parlor, but I canít bear to be there. I thought you were good at making them stop quarreling, Sophie! Canít you make them?î The youngest girl shook her head and wiped her nose. ìYou go,î she muttered. ìMama melts for you.î ìI tried, but they didnít pay any attention to me. I even cried. I wonít go in, though Iíll catch a wretched cold here and wonít be able to sing even if anyone asked me, which they havenít since Christmas.î Sophie said, ìIt always gets worse in winter. Have you noticed itís always this time of year it happens? We must just somehow hold out until spring comes and thereís more work. I suppose other peopleís parents quarrel also.î She sighed, looking about her as if astounded to be able to see the world so clearly with her spectacles. ìUncle Thorwart doesnít quarrel with his wife.î Aloysia answered sharply, ìHe doesnít speak to his wife; heís had a mistress for years. How can Mother and Father forgive him so easily about setting my hopes up for a Swedish marriage and then dashing them again? He should have known the Baron was already married. Donít you dare laugh at me, any of you!î The shouts arose even louder from the depths of the rooms within, with their fatherís defensive, breaking voice, followed by their motherís accusations. Aloysia pressed her hands over her ears. At that moment Josefa came up the steps, her market basket swinging from one hand and an open book in the other. She was always reading, sprawled on the bed, hidden on the roof, finding a better world. Now she read so intensely that she bumped a little into one wall, then glanced at it in disgust. Her face filled with more disgust on seeing her three sisters huddled there and hearing the shouting from within. ìOh saints above,î she cried. ìEveryone on the street will be talking about us now; I guess weíll have no dinner. Why must she always berate Papa? He does the best he can.î Constanze clutched the sewing against her dress. ìIt makes Mama sad having always to make do. Still, I think that man and wife should never turn on each other, even in the worst of times. Itís providing for all of us that does it. If they married us off, they wouldnít have to feed and clothe us.î Sophie stood up. Since Christmas her tiny chest had developed some roundness, but not enough to make her sisters hope she would ever have any real curves, not that she minded in the least. ìI refuse to see us as merely mouths to feed,î she said. ìWe each have our own sacred purpose.î Josefa closed her book with a snap. ìMarriage? No, thank you, Iíve seen enough of marriage not to want it. This is how it ends up; you hear the quarrels down the street. Ugh! And Mamaís no saint; do open your eyes, Constanze Weber. Papa is what he is, and never promised more. If she wanted wealth, she shouldnít have married him. But likely heís the only one who asked her; thatís what Aunt Gretchen said.î ìThatís not true! Dozens asked her!î Aloysia cried. ìAgain, the differences of story.î ìEarth doesnít promise happiness,î said Sophie. ìI was reading Josefaís Rousseau. ëMankind is crushed by a handful of oppressors, a famished crowd vanquished by sorrow and hunger, a multitude whose blood and tears the rich drink peacefully ... í Oh, never mind. Josy, tell us what to do.î Josefa glanced toward their rooms. ìIíll do what I must, and God help me,î she said. ìConstanze, take this food inside; Sophie, you tell them weíve gone out. Aloysia and I are going to see Fatherís brother, our Uncle Joseph. Itís time I brought out my plans.î Joseph Weberís office was on the second floor of his large house in a more elegant neighborhood of Mannheim. It was filled with heavy antique German furniture, large portraits of severe strangers, and a few shelves of well-thumbed ledger books tucked near others of theology and law. On the mantel above the fire stood an engraved silver cup given years before by his merchantsí guild. Nothing has changed since the last time we were here, Josefa thought. Even the wine decanter and the plate of small pork pies. ìThe Frauleins Weber,î droned the servant as he closed the door behind them. ìGood day, dear Uncle,î said the girls, making their curtseys. The man in the tasseled wool cap who had been working behind the desk looked up. He was Fridolinís elder brother by some ten years, and he had Fridolinís spryness, except that he was almost entirely bald. ìWell, nieces!î he said abruptly. ìYou find me at a very busy time. You might have sent word. Are you here to inquire about my health? Unlikely. Thereís so little commerce between my brother and myself since our quarrel, I canít recall when heís last come. Heís sent you perhaps. No? Youíre well? Good. Have a pork pie. How much do you want to borrow today?î Josefa smiled, curtseying again deeply. ìDearest Uncle,î she said in her singerís voice, which reverberated under her cloak. ìYou speak abruptly only because weíve surprised you at your work, for which we are so very sorry. Still, you canít conceal the goodness of your heart, for even now, every Sunday at dinner, our Papa tells us of how kind you were to him as a boy, and how much he admires and loves you. Surely you understand that all men are not equally fortunate in all areas of lifeís endeavors. I recall you bought me a hat once. Unfortunately, it is long outgrown.î Once more she made the smallest curtsey. ìYes, I confess it,î she said, looking aside modestly. ìWe are in need of funds. Dearest Uncle, I would not ask you to part with any of your money unwisely. I would not dream of asking you for any if I could not offer sound collateral and a note of terms of repayment.î Assuming a queenly manner, she gazed at him. Her uncle stared at them. ìRepayment?î he croaked when he found his voice. ìCollateral? What can you offer me that any money put into your hand will ever see the inside of my cash box again, eh? Tell me.î Uncle Joseph put down his scratchy pen and narrowed his small eyes. ìI could have timed your arrival by the season,î he said. ìWas it not this time last year that the two of you appeared just as abruptly at my door? And, in the name of sweet Saint Elizabeth, what collateral?î Josefa faced him with chin upraised. ìMy work,î she said clearly. ìI have been planning this for some time. I intend to open a music shop with Papa to advise us. We will sell printed music, clavier strings, violins, and violoncellos.î ìAnd where will you find the money to begin this venture?î ìFrom you, dear Uncle, with a little extra added on so that we can subsist until we succeed and Papaís work increases. Now you can certainly see I am not asking for a mere loan, but capital for my shop. Here, if you will, look at this paper. The costs and profits are clear; I have been calculating them for weeks. The payments, interest added on, of course, will begin within a year. Our friends Heinemann and Alfonso will help us.î Joseph Weber rose a little, leaning on his desk. ìWhat, what? How?î he stammered. ìDoes my brother know of this? What do you know of the world? From books, which I am told you buy incessantly with your little musical earnings? Blessed Savior, youíre cut from your familyís cloth! Of course my brother canít sustain such a large family with their longings for books, French hats, chocolates, and wine! I told him two years ago to leave Mannheim to find more work elsewhere. Would he go? No. Will he do anything practical for you girls? Engage you as ladiesí companions? No. Apprentice you as seamstresses or milliners? Send you out into service with some good family? Never. He has mad, ambitious ideas for you and himself, none of which will ever come true, and now you have inherited them.î The clerk hid his scrawny face by busying himself with a pile of papers, while Uncle Joseph rose a little more, fixing his cold eyes upon them. ìMusic, music, music,î he cried. ìAnd now, on my hope of salvation, more music! You all do nothing but starve on it, and still you persist. Loans last year, and the one before, and nothing repaid. Here I am selling cloth and have made a fine living, while he grows poorer and pretends it doesnít matter. Will he join me in my work? No. Will he cease his ridiculous and expensive entertaining? No. He could have at least remained single; indeed, he should have joined the priesthood before he married that mother of yours.î Josefa had drawn herself up now so much she seemed twice her height. ìYou can say what you may against our mother, though itís unjust, unjust, but you wonít speak of our darling papa,î she shouted. ìCanít you see Iím sincere? You donít; you donít believe me.î ìSincerity does not buy firewood; I certainly do not believe you.î ìItís futile to come to you; you have no heart. Papaís a saint. Weíll get on without you. Iíll make my way in the world, I swear, and wonít turn my back on my family. Aloysia will become a great singer and make an advantageous marriage, as will my younger sisters. She will make one soon; see how beautiful she is!î Uncle Joseph smiled crookedly and sadly. ìA great singer?î he murmured. ìAn advantageous marriage? Youíll starve on music as your fatherís done, and where is the splendid suitor to climb all those flights of stairs to marry one of you? Men of good fortune want modest women; modest women donít sing in public. Heinrich, pack the pork pies for them.î ìStuff the pies up your arse!î ìFine words, young woman! Get out! Good day to you.î Josefa rushed out of the house and down the street, with Aloysia running behind her. After some streets, she managed to pull her older sister to a stop. ìIím cold, so cold,î Aloysia panted. ìMy legs arenít as long as yours; I canít run so fast. Letís have a coffee. Itís not real coffee, only roasted barley with syrup, but they also give you a crescent roll. Did you have breakfast? I didnít. I have two kreuzers. Itís all I have left from the last time we sang.î Shivering, they drank their bowls of coffee in the wood shack while the old vendor spoke to some workmen who had also come in. Aloysia ate her roll slowly, pulling off fragments bit by bit. ìWe should have taken Uncle Josephís pork pies,î she said sadly. ìLet him choke on them!î ìJosefa, you scared him. You scared me.î ìI hate him. It would have been a wonderful music shop. I was going to call it Weber and DaughtersóMusic, Instruments, and Sundries. I will call it that. Iíll find someone else to spon- sor it.î ìJosy, we canít go back there again to ask. Youíre too horrible to have told our uncle to stuff the pork pies up his ...î She glanced at the workmen and ate the last crumb of her roll. ìQue tu es horrible de dire ý notre oncle de síenculer avec sa tourte au porc! Cíest terrible, cíest trËs impoli! It was very impolite.î Aloysia suddenly burst into giggles and then struggled for poise. ìIíd die before going back. Heís a turd.î ìStill, thank you for saying Iím beautiful.î ìYou are, you know,î said Josefa angrily, then she squeezed her sisterís arm warmly. ìThough between you and Mother youíll make something wretched out of it. Come on. We canít go home to the others without some shred of good news. Letís try to think something up.î The sisters linked arms and hurried on, their cloaks whipping out behind them, until they found themselves before the Christuskirche with its statue of the Archangel Michael blow-ing his horn to the heavens high above the dome. Their father had played violin there often for choral masses. Catching her breath, Josefa still nursed her anger. ìHow dare our uncle speak badly of Papa? He works so hard for us; he buys us hose when his are in tatters, he watches up for us all night when weíre sick and then goes to his work. No one understands how much he does, but I do. Iíve seen it as long as I can remember.î She folded her arms and stared up at the trumpeting archangel. Her eyes narrowed. ìStill, Uncleís right in one thing,î she muttered. ìWhat chance do we have of making things better at home? Perhaps the music shop would cost too much. Thereís not even much work singing in churches; the priests prefer the singing of the old castrati. Come, letís go in. At least weíll be out of the wind.î They pushed open the heavy doors and curtseyed slightly to a few elderly priests in narrow black cassocks. One of the wizened castrati, with his throat wrapped in an enormous gray scarf wound several times around, sniffed suspiciously at them, as if he had heard Josefaís scathing words. Candles flickered before statues here and there, but the air was not still. Cold as it was, it reverberated from the sounds of the organ that someone was playing from the loft high above, with the great clunk clunk of the working bellows. They took seats toward the back, holding hands. The castrato, a man of nearly seventy with his face like an old wrinkled apple, again glared at them. Beggars huddled in corners, making themselves as small as possible. By the back door behind the gold altar a small line of poor people gathered, waiting for alms. ìWe could have given them our uncleís pork pies,î Josefa said almost to herself. ìThat is, if you wouldnít have eaten them all at once like the piggy you are.î They hardly noticed when the organ ceased, leaving a great hum in the air for a moment, and when footsteps sounded on the steps descending from the loft; they did not know their fatherís friend Mozart was approaching them until he touched their shoulders and bowed. They had seldom seen him since he had come that Thursday night with the song Aloysia sang at sight. They had heard he was visiting great houses outside the city to play. Once they had noticed him in the market, and he had waved to them. Now he looked as he did when he had ceased playing the clavier that first night at their house, half in another world, small and neat, with his natural light brown hair uncurled and fastened with ribbons at the back of his head. He said, ìMesdemoiselles Weber, what is it? Why are you huddled here? You look as though something has troubled you. May I sit with you?î With that he took a place courteously beside them. Aloysiaís eyes filled with tears. Her life, which she felt ready to spring out to magnificence, had retreated since that magical night when she had stood among a pressing, admiring group of friends and family and sung his lyrical song on first sight. The music now lay under some other things, and she could not bear to look at it. It reminded her of how, in the openness of her heart that evening, she had agreed to secret meetings with Leutgeb, and how, during them, she had allowed him to put his hand where no good woman should. She should never have given so much; the faithless horn player had abruptly returned to Salz-burg and, in spite of his heated promises, had never written a word to her. She had said nothing of this to anyone, of course, because she was ashamed, but now with her unhappiness over that and the lost Swedish opportunity combined with the rejection of Uncle Joseph, she blurted the story of her familyís misfortunes. She said more than she would have otherwise as she tore at her handkerchief and wiped the corners of her eyes. Josefa only nodded grimly. This young composer from Salzburg for all his kindness and her fatherís favor toward him was not one of them, and she had her motherís horror of showing their dirty linen to a stranger. Her mouth compressed tightly, and she felt as she had in the carriage when she had tried to hide in the shadows. Once she nudged her sister sharply to stop the flow of her grieved, high voice. As Aloysia spoke, Mozart looked at the shivering girls as intensely as he had looked inside himself in the loft the hour before, searching for a fugue by the lamented Bach, which he had heard once years before. His eyes filled with compassion at their faces reddened by the wind, their wind-loosened hair that fell in strands down their necks, their chapped lips, and their pale clasped hands. He thought of his motherís neat gloves. The smaller girl shivered spasmodically, and flung her arms about her chest. ìMesdemoiselles Weber,î he murmured. ìYou honor me to trust me with these confidences. Believe me, I wonít betray them. Thereís little work for musicians here but for the orchestra. My mother and I are thinking of leaving when she returns from her visit to my father and sister in Salzburg. Still, there must be some way to take your family from its difficulties. You sing charmingly, beautifully. You yourselves are charming and beautiful.î He caught at their hands in both of his, chafing them, rubbing his supple fingers over them. ìGo home now; youíre cold. I know some people, and I have some influence. Perhaps I can do something to help you.î Mozart took his midday meal of large veal chops and soup a few hours later in a smoky eating house with the orchestra director, Cannabich, and other musician friends who were passing through the city. They spoke of symphonies, of chamber music, of masses, of where work was; they spoke of good livings to be made that someone else always seemed just to have taken. They gathered around the table looking out at the muddy street that, in the dim light, retained the history of those who had passed this hour: the surly indentation of wheels left for a time until swept over by a beggarís broom or the trailing, ragged skirts of a half-drunken whore. Mozart had managed some weeks before to move with his mother to the comfortable house of the privy counselor, where she was warm and happy, and coughing less. She was treated as a family member, gossiping at table, and was altogether less (he arched his shoulders to think of it) of a burden on him. Still, they needed money, and, as he had not yet completed the second concerto and flute quartets of the Dutchmanís commission, he had not received any payment. In his pocket even now was a letter from his father that had arrived yesterday. ìMy dressing gown is in tatters. If someone had told me two years ago that I would have to wear woolen stockings and your old felt shoes over my old ones to warm myself ...î And he had written back rapidly just that morning: ìBut you know, my dearest Papa, this is not my fault.î Was it? It haunted him. The clavier player and violinist who had played in a corner of the eating house had left, and Mozart scraped back his chair to go sit down at the instrument. Yesterday afternoon he had gone with friends to hear Holsbauerís opera G¸nther von Schwarzburg, and now he began to play some of the beautiful music from memory. Cannabich listened for a time, and then came to stand beside him. His hair, pulled simply back in a ribbon, here and there showed traces of white, lavender- scented powder from his recent performance. He was a family man, with three gifted children. ìEnough of that opera!î he cried stoutly. ìLetís have a better tune.î Leaning over the small composer, he began to play with his right hand, clenching his pipe between his teeth. ìLa finta giardiniera,î he said, words and smoke rising with the music. ìYou wrote it three years ago for a Munich performance. I recall parts from memory. How old were you then, you gray beard? Eighteen? And how old when you penned that gorgeous little singspiel Bastien? Twelve in Godís name?î Mozart said, ìNothingís better than opera for meómusic, drama, poetry. Play that bit again. Use both hands; Iíll sing it.î Cannabich drew up another chair and they played competitively, crossing hands. ìHere come the strings. Ah, thatís a nice tenor! What is happening, Wolfgang? No word on the position here?î ìNothing, and more of nothing. I managed to corner the Elector himself on his way from chapel in a hall of the palace and asked him again about the position. ëI am sorry, my dear child,í he said solemnly, ëbut there is no position.í My dear childóthose words.î Mozart played more intensely, leaning forward, and began to sing again. ìThatís the girlís aria. Youíll rival the women the way you sing! I met Joseph Haydn last year, you know; he has the patronage of Esterh·zy in Hungary. He much admires your work. Didnít his sister-in-law sing in Finta?î ìYes, and his brother is konzertmeister at Salzburg. Iíve never met Joseph Haydn. Hereís the tempo change.î ìYou know his quartets?î ìI admire them deeply. The tempoís slower here. I canít sing and play at once! What do you think opera should be, Cannabich, eh? Comic and serious, common and heavenly?î In the early winter dusk Mozart returned to his new rooms in the comfortable house of the privy counselor. He looked at the score of another of his unfinished operas; then, putting it aside with a sigh, he began to work again on the second flute quartet. When he put down his pen, he did not know if the church bells were signaling the last service of the night or the first of the new morning. Mozart stood up, stretched his aching back, and began to walk up and down the room. Then he noticed another letter to him standing by the washing bowl; the writer was his cousin in Augsburg. Their hosts must have brought it in. He felt the old stirring in his breeches and laughter rising in his chest. Tearing open the seal, he stood reading it with his hand over his mouth. By God, she was witty, sexy, and priceless, and next time he would have all of her. He would travel there somehow, and tear off her petticoats and her lace-trimmed drawers. Why not? She was willing. And then what? They should both be compromised. He would have her to support as well, and perhaps a baby, and he could not even manage his mother, father, and sister, who always waited patiently for him. No, he could not manage it all. Then, turning to some words written small in the margin, he frowned, swore, and threw down the letter. What, had she ... he was breathless, and read it again. ìI have a lover now,î it read. ìSo very sorry it wasnít you, Wolferl. Waitingís awful. Donít worry, Iíll be careful. My dull old father knows nothing; heís never felt these things. Old people never could. You donít mind so much, do you, old cousin? Weíre best of friends.î Mozart stood, staring straight ahead of him. Fury filled him, not only jealousy that someone he had thought of so much had not had time to wait, but that she had gone on to experience this thing and left him behind. He put the letter facedown on his flute quartet and continued his walk back and forth in his narrow bedroom. Why had he ever taken any pleasure with his cousin? Even if they had made love fully, she would have turned her attention elsewhere the moment he left the city. If he were to love someone, it should be a good girl. He stood quietly for a moment, remembering the voices of the Weber sisters as they sat together in the church confiding in him, and then their excellent singing, the one soprano darker and more sensual, the other high as an angel. They were good: nothing but virtuous and selfless thoughts passed their minds. Josefa was too tall; he did not want a woman to tower over himóbut there was Aloysia. He saw her, the line of her neck to her breast under the heavy cloak, the pretty open hand that floated on the air as she spoke, her beautiful eyes. That boor Leutgeb had played about with her feelings. Just last week Mozart had had a letter written from Salzburg from him. Dear Mozart, dear idiot, Itís over between Mademoiselle A. and me. Iím uncertain I want to pledge my future to a singer, even such a delicious little one. Not that I compromised her: only a kiss and a touch in the dark, and what is that? But mainly, old friend, my reluctance lies with the family. They have a huge pull on her. If I marry her, Iíll have the lot of them on my hands, and my grandfatherís shop in Vienna doesnít sell that much cheese. Theyíre a heavy lot, particularly that mother of hers. The fatherís a sort of crooked saint, kindliness himself, but with more goodwill than sense. I advise you, old friend, fall in love with some merchantís wealthy widow. We donít have much money, either of us. I have cheese, and you have genius. Forget love and look after money. Frau Weber does, believe me. Mozart did not move. The words of the letter repeated themselves in his head until they faded before his memory of the two sisters in the church, their breath in the cold air, Aloysiaís chapped, pale lips, the elder sisterís bitten fingernails. Was not the world full of hopeful women, untouched, waiting? But what had it to do with him? Yet what had happened in that room between the two of them when she had sung his song? What had happened and what had not? Mozart remained still but for his hands drumming on his music, thinking of her. What had been created between song maker and singer in that little parlor that night? Should he have followed her when she left the room? Had she intended it? No, of course not; she was simply too beautiful and good. Such women were to walk about shyly, and to be dreamed about. And besides, he knew her mother wanted a titled man of old family for the girl, and with her grace and charm she could likely have one. What had he to offer? And yet he was not half bad. He could have had his love affairs if he had wanted them, and yet he always drew back. There was that confidential, drunken hour with Leutgeb in the beer cellar when the girls had come, and the hour after when he and the horn player had spoken so frankly of their hopes. Why hadnít he told Leutgeb, whom he trusted, that he had never taken a woman to bed? ìBy Christ,î he murmured aloud in the room, ìI couldnít say that.î He was flushed even to think that the painted wallpaper of this pleasant room, the books, his coat thrown over a chair could have heard him. He fell into his bed late that night, tossing his bedclothes to the floor. In the morning he sprang up naked from bed and stood shivering in the cold room; he threw on a dressing gown, uncorked the ink, and wrote hastily. ìMademoiselle Aloysia Weber, in all friendship, will you meet me at the Confectionery at three? Your servant in all respect, W.A.M.î and sent it over by a boy. She wonít come, he thought. But she did. Aloysia Weber floated across the Confectionery under the gold-and-white ceiling. In the mirrors around him, he saw her approaching in her dark cloak with the muddy hem, past the small marble tables and the sideboard heaped with cakes. She was so perfectly made he could have taken her under his arm and swept her away. By the time she reached him and made her curtsey, he was not sure who he had been before she entered the doors. He bowed, and again she curtseyed; he seated her. Then he said as calmly as he had intended, ìI have come up with a plan to solve your difficulties.î ìTell me,î she said. ìMy father will be so grateful. No one helps us, no one, and here you are, yet a stranger to our family.î She leaned forward on the chair. In her throat, the unblemished flesh of an innocent girl not quite seventeen, was a hollow where her breath quivered. He could not take his eyes from it. ìWeíll give concerts together; weíll tour all Europe.î ìOh, could we? What are you saying? All Europe? With me singing and you playing as we did that evening in our rooms? Would we go to Paris? Oh Herr Mozart, would we give a concert even in Paris?î She could hardly speak the words; her white throat quivered. A loose thread from her dress lay against her collarbone. ìYes,î he said, ìParis, of course. Why not? Iíve just begun to plan it in my mind. Iíll write many songs that show your voice off to the best effect. First weíll tour Austria, and give a concert in Vienna; I have friends there who would help us. We would go to Venice, to Florence, to Rome, and then we would go to Versailles.î ìVersailles,î she murmured. The loose thread moved as she breathed. He could see her reflection in every mirror over the silver cake plates. ìVersailles,î he repeated. ìMademoiselle, I assure you on my honor that wherever you lift your voice in song, strangers will beg for tickets. I can do this, for my nameís known. Iíll take your father and Mademoiselle Josefa as well. Weíll return with so much gold your family will never have to worry again.î He spoke with deep assurance, though his heart beat strongly and he leaned so close across the table that he could see a few faint freckles across her cheeks. ìAnd then, both the Viennese opera houses will want you to sing once they have heard you. Thereís never been such a voice, theyíll say.î ìParis,î she murmured. ìVienna. Can it be?î ìWithout a doubt. Give me a few days, and Iíll come to lay plans more clearly.î Aloysia could hardly find her voice, and when she did she put her hand on his. ìWeíll all be so very glad,î she stammered. ìMy sister and I particularly. I will need a new concert dress, perhaps of pink brocade. Donít you think a dress of that fabric and color would suit me particularly, Herr Mozart?î After a few hours they emerged from the Confectionery, hands almost touching. She kissed his cheek and, in her dark cloak and little flat shoes, disappeared around the corner of a church, while he remained gazing after her, his hand to his face where her lips had touched it. Frau Mozart always unpacked her bags at once when she came from traveling, but this time she had gone to bed upon her return, and now morning had come with the cold day pressing outside the iron bars of the window. She had dreamed of her house plants, which she had left once more on the windowsills of her Salzburg home; she alone trimmed the dead leaves from them so lovingly, murmuring to them old Austrian endearments. But it was not in her own home where she awoke, rather in their hostsí house in Mannheim, in which she now found no charm. Her son had gone out. Rising and pulling on her dressing gown, she began to walk up and down her room past the still- buckled traveling bags, starting to make the bed and then forgetting it, until at last she sank into the chair and began to write. Dear Husband, I have returned from my two weeksí stay with you to a catastrophe. What else can it be? Your son. He did not wait for me to take off my cloak yesterday before presenting me with what he assumed I would take as good news: that he intends to go on concert tour with the impoverished Webers, particularly Mademoiselle Aloysia, with whom he is beginning to fall in love, but of course he denies that. Instead of finishing the Dutchmanís flute compositions, which will bring us money, or the piano/violin duets in honor of the Electress to win her goodwill, he does little but write songs for the mademoiselle. Indeed, he performed a concert with her at some estate, and gave her and her family half the fee! Now what will occur with our plans to leave soon for Paris, where he will surely find the great success he deserves? He cannot quite recall we planned it; he waves it off with a dismissing hand and goes back to explaining his new idea. The Webers! He hopes to create their fortune, but what, I ask you, of our fortunes? We will all end paupers, begging on the corners of Salzburg. She looked up, hearing footsteps, quickly blew on the letter to dry it, and turned it facedown. There was her son at the door, hair ruffled wildly as if the wind had once more gotten the best of him. Once more, as he often did when not in concert attire, he looked like an unmade bed. What was she to do with him? She said coldly, ìWolfgang, I didnít close my eyes all night. I can only presume that you have come to your senses and thought better of the ridiculous proposition you set before me last evening.î ìWhat, Mother, how can you call it that,î he cried, coming close to her with his face full of affection. ìIíve arranged it all. The tour with the Webers will bring a great deal of money, enough for all of us.î ìYou still intend to do that? Your own father will be beside himself when he receives my letter. Do you think just to post word that this unknown chit of a girl and her farmwife sister will be singing will be enough to fill hundreds of seats? Youíre the only one whose name is known at all, and you yourself struggle for enough concerts and patronage. Your father goes about in such shabby garments he can barely show his face to the Archbishop (I couldnít believe the state of his shirts, truly past mending) and now you propose to divide what you earn between us and them.î She turned to finish making the bed, threw up her hands, and covered her face. Between her fingers, she said, ìYou havenít the power to uplift them, and it will drag us further down.î He pulled her hands away from her face. ìMother, I know voices,î he said. ìAloysia has the makings of a great singer. She could be one of the finest prima donnas in Europe.î ìWhat do I care about her abilities? She only wants what she can get from you, and I wouldnít trust her, nor any of them. I knew it from the first moment I mounted those many flights of steps.î ìYou say that about someone I esteem so highly? You say that? Well, Iím going, I donít know if I will be back. Youíve slandered her and wounded me.î He ran out and walked the cold, windy streets for a long time, until he had lessons to give. By the time they were done, and his pupils had noticed his distraction, darkness had come. Going home was an impossibility. If only Leutgeb were here. All his friends had left the city for one reason or another; even Cannabich was traveling. It was likely the court would be moving to Munich. A wet snow had begun, and he found refuge in a familiar eating place. He bought paper and borrowed pen and ink, then began to work on a piano/violin sonata. ìMaster, we must close,î said the host, and Mozart looked around, startled to see everyone had gone but him, and the exhausted boy who was mopping the floor, leaning half asleep on the mop. He rushed out into the wet snow with his cloak open, and the host ran after him, crying, ìMaster, master,î and gave him the flopping, forgotten pages. Two slipped from the manís hand and went blowing down the street. Mozart retrieved them where they had caught about a horse post, a little wet and blotted, and stood gazing at the melody under the gaslight. He wished that the eating house had not evicted him, or that he could have gone to some other quiet place where he could write more and forget his motherís blanched face, the mournful eyes that accused him and spoke against his proud and imaginative plans. He leaned against the door of a house. So much had happened since his promise in the Confectionery. He had written two more songs for Aloysia, recalling the rare range and timbre of her voice, which extended from a few notes below middle C to the very highest range far above the treble staff, the E, the F, and the untouchable flicker of the G, which only the rarest of voices could reach. He was a musician, and he knew the quality of her voice: even in his love he knew the voices of both the older Weber sisters were rich and enviable. And how the whole casual, warm family had welcomed him, but more than that, much more, had been Aloysiaís arms flung about him on those steps smelling of other peopleís cooking, and her soft lips against his, and her little breasts pressed against his chest, and her tears of relief and joy at their sudden strange blurting of love for each other. I didnít see at first, Mozart, I didnít know. ... My God, she loved him. The most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and she loved him. It was as if she had been waiting for him all his life. Then she had drawn him upstairs to her family, into the room with the clavier, the burning fire, and a bottle of wine and a polished glass. He felt suddenly the contrast between the heaviness and bleakness of his dutiful life and the bright gaiety of the girls and their family, the clothes and music all thrown about, and good, kind Fridolin Weberís welcome. He had been accepted as her suitor then; he had been accepted as her betrothed. He drew his cloak closer; a watchman passing by inspected him for drunkenness but, seeing him sober, said, ìGo home, young man.î And Mozart straightened and began to walk very slowly toward the house where he and his mother were guests. Would his plans to tour with the sisters lift the family from their obscurity and difficulties? Could he do it? Did he not owe his own family everything? Had they not given all for him? Perhaps his mother was right. He ought to make better fortune himself, and then raise her up. Within a few months of being in Paris, he should be wanted everywhere, and then could simply send for her and help make her career. Yes, then he could help lift her sweet and agile voice to fame. By now he had reached the house; admitted by a weary maid servant, he mounted the stairs to their rooms. His mother was already in bed in her nightcap, but he could tell she was not asleep. ìWe are going to Paris,î he said. ìI have decided.î Without turning, she spoke, the voice a murmur against the blue bed hangings. ìThen say youíll also forget her.î He stood quietly with his wet sonata under his coat. ìI can never forget her; sheís my muse. Iíll go with you and make our fortune and then come back for her. Sheíll be more than muse then; sheíll be my wife.î There was nothing Sophie loved to do more than sleep, carefully plumping the pillow just so, slipping one arm under it, drawing her knees up under her wool nightgown, so nested in the old quilting that the world disappeared. In her dreams she heard voices, raised her head, and looked about. The early morning air was still dark, and an icy rain beat at the windows. The light snow of last night had turned to rain in the unpredictable weather of the world. Surely it was not time to rise yet, and where were her sisters? Their bedclothes were thrown back, and only the impressions of their bodies remained on the lumpy mattresses. Outside there was only rain, not even the bells of the ancient bread cart horse. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and trundled to the door. Last night had been her twelfth birthday, and she had been given new wool slippers, but she now had no idea where they were. Perhaps, she thought sleepily, some sister had already borrowed them. Where were Constanze and Josefa? She wound her bed quilt about her and shuffled down the hall barefoot, following the voices that came from the parlor. Who was there at this hour? It could surely not be time for pupils. Creaking open the door, she looked about bewildered, wondering at first if she had mistook morning for evening. All the family members sat or stood about the room in their night clothes, their expressions grave. Constanze was wrapped in her quilt, huddled on the sofa, with her feet drawn under her for warmth, Aloysia leaning against her; Josefa and her father stared out the window while her mother sat close mouthed in the best chair, a cap pulled over her curling rags. The fireplace was cold and dark, and the clavier still huddled under its wool shawl. Standing in the middle of them all was Wolfgang Mozart in his cloak and hat, unshaven and wet, his shoes leaving moist spots on the floor. There was no sign of her new wool slippers. ìWhy, whatís happened?î she murmured, feeling for her handkerchief; her nose was already beginning to run. Her mother turned to her, face long with sadness. ìMozartís come early with bad news. He must go away for a time to Paris. The tour with your two sisters must be temporarily postponed.î ìTo Paris, away from here? But if you must, you must. Itís not your fault,î Sophie said at once, going to him and taking his hand. Mozart said, ìWe leave in an hour by coach, or I wouldnít have come so early. I had to come myself, and not merely send word. Iíll send my address as soon as I arrive, the very day, and write to all of you.î Words failed him then. He kissed all their cheeks, even Maria Caeciliaís, who turned away a little; he embraced Fridolin Weber with both arms. Then he took Aloysiaís hand and left the familyís rooms with her, closing the door behind him. The others heard their voices for some time, though the words were indistinguishable, and then his footsteps going rapidly down the stairs. When she came back, her face was wet with tears. ìHe promised me,î she said, her mouth very tight. ìHe promised me and now he asks me to wait. It will be at least a year before we can be married. Now itís all settled, but the question is when? Heís going to Paris without me. Oh, will I always have to wait, all my life? Will I be twenty before anything happens to me?î and she walked down the hall into the communal bedchamber, closing the door. Soon they heard her soft weeping, and Constanze, with a look of misery, ran off to comfort her. Maria Caecilia said nothing more but turned heavily to her bedchamber, followed sadly by her husband. That door, too, was closed. Now alone in the parlor, Josefa and Sophie snuggled under one quilt, the eldest girl rubbing the feet of her little sister. Josefa did not speak at first. After a time she said, looking straight ahead, ìHeíll come back. Heís honorable, heíll come back and try to keep his promises to us if he can, but I feel sorry for him because he loves her and she has no heart. God forgive me for saying it, for Iíd do anything I could for her, but itís true. Itís true, Sophie, donít protest, you kind childó but sheís also weary of Motherís fantasies and her own. He at least is real. Now Iím going to make a fire and coffee. Surprisingly, Fatherís brother did send over some money yesterday, though it probably shortened his life to do so. Thorwartís also promised some. Weíll manage for a time.î Sophie nodded. ìIt will all come out for the best,î she said. ìPerhaps, but which way is that, darling? How do we know whatís best? How do any of us know?î Below, through the rain, Sophie heard the sound of the bread wagonís bells, and there, under the music table, as if they had been contently waiting for her, were her new wool slippers. Gratefully wriggling her feet into them, and borrowing a dressing gown that someone had left draped over the clavier, she hurried down the stairs. In the gray rain the wretched dripping horse stood waiting, water glistening on its brass bells, which were tied with bright, soaking ribbons. The street was slowly coming to life. As the girl took the two warm loaves and ran upstairs, to be greeted by the smell of newly ground coffee beans, she wished that the events of this early morning had been nothing but a dream, and that she were still asleep, warm and dry in her lumpy bed. Excerpted from Marrying Mozart by Stephanie Cowell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.