My dearest dear Aloysia,
I rejoice at your incredible news and good fortune
to go to Vienna. Dearest love, you see I was right from the start
about the value of your voice. The only thing that hurts me is that
this move will take you still farther from me. It’s been too long
since I’ve held you in my arms. God willing it will be soon that I
can hold you in my arms forever.
My sister didn’t bake for Christmas either; she was
too sad. I found her by the open flour bin with gingerroot on her
lap, still mourning our mother.
I serve daily here with discouragement for the
works I want to write, and the places I want to play are so far
away from me. I’ve been inquiring about a good post elsewhere, but
every time I hear of one, someone else has been given it first.
Leutgeb has returned to Vienna and writes that the Emperor is
promoting opera in German, which I could compose with joy, and also
that they may be looking for a kapellmeister. I have written at
once to a few old acquaintances who are in His Majesry’s circle,
but with discretion, for if my Archbishop knew of it, he would
throw me from his service. I swear faithfulness with one hand and
hold the other behind my back.
Oh my love! They think because I am small and young
there can’t be anything great and old within me. They shall,
however, find out soon.
A thousand kisses; no, more ...
Mozart
The four sisters and their mother packed a hamper
of food for the coach journey, then rattled off toward Vienna with
trunks of refurbished clothing and an opera contract, their
household goods to follow shortly.
Sophie Weber, April 1842
A RAINY APRIL, AND YET IT DID NOT DETER MY
FREQUENT visitor, Monsieur Novello, from coming, sheltered by an
enormous black umbrella; his large wet feet, which he wiped on the
mat, left faint tracks on the floor. After presenting me with
chocolates as he always did, he took out his pen and journal from
that folding desk. “You’ve been well, madame?” he asked.
“As well as old age allows.”
“I will venture to ask more questions then, and to
listen.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to send for coffee. No,
it never keeps me from sleep; I can drink it as late as I
like.”
He looked at me in a kind and interested way. “So
Aloysia won the contract,” he said.
“Yes, she did; I think everyone knew she would.
You’ve seen her portrait made a few years later in the role of
Zémire, haven’t you? The half turban on the hair, which was twined
around gold beads, the delicate hands, the smile. Oh, if you only
knew how very beautiful she was. It took the breath away of all who
saw her; it bewitched them. Even in those days she didn’t truly
understand it.”
“Tell me about your journey to Vienna.”
“Dreadful. The roads were snowy, and I was
feverish. Josefa was stony and wouldn’t say a word the whole
way.”
He leaned forward, the tip of his pen glistening
with blue ink. “Josefa. My father heard her sing once. Did Mozart
ever write anything for her?”
“Yes, some songs and a great opera role years
after.”
“Of course, now I recall. His German singspiel,
Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute, we call it in
England), full of dark and good forces. She sang the evil Queen.
That’s what my father heard her sing when he was a student in
Vienna for a time, and he never forgot it. He said she had such
passion.”
“You may want to see something,” I said. “Bring me
that box there. Be careful. I have always meant to have the lining
replaced. In it you’ll find a silver locket; you see I am telling
you true things. Yes, you may touch it.”
My guest had wiped his fingers on his handkerchief
before taking up the locket. “So this was hers!” he exclaimed,
weighing it in the palm of his hand. “And what curious engraving.”
He looked at it more closely, turning to the window. “Quite worn. I
can’t make out the initials. May I?” I nodded, and he opened the
clasp and bent over two strands of hair, touching them with the tip
of one finger. “So this is her hair and ...”
“It’s her hair, yes.”
“But the other strand is her lover’s, of course.
The man by the bookstall.”
“Perhaps not.”
His eyes widened. “Then whose is it, pray?”
I lifted my hand a little to indicate the bell on
the table beside him. “Ring for my landlady to bring us coffee,” I
said. “I think I’d like to have a large sweet cup now, Monsieur
Novello. Do ring the bell.”
He had been listening so carefully to my words that
he had forgotten, and now he apologized and rang the bell several
times.
As the last tone ceased to reverberate, I said,
“You know, when we were girls still at home together, we supposed
we knew everything there was to know about one another. Now that
I’m old and alone, I wonder at times about the things I didn’t
know. Here’s my landlady’s step in the hall. There are so many
stories to be told, and if we meet enough hours, you shall hear
most of them, and perhaps understand a little more of what you have
come to find.”