“Wolfgang Mozart is a genius, young
woman.” Those had been the Munich conductor Cannabich’s words to
her when they met in the street after Mozart had returned to
Salzburg. ”A genius, and a good kind man, loves you; never forget
that.” The conductor’s face had been serious, and he had looked
tired. The two of them stood by a bakery talking for a time, before
he bowed to her and walked away.
Aloysia thought about their encounter that spring
day as she sat on a bench in the garden behind their new house,
writing a letter to her fiancé.
Mozart’s own rich and charming letters came
regularly to Vienna. How many plans, schemes, determinations he
had; how clever he was. But more than that, they gave her advice on
the style and technique of her singing. She studied them. In the
first weeks at the opera, when other sopranos had snarled at her
and tried to edge her offstage or drown her delicate voice with
their larger ones, she had despaired and he had understood; he
pointed out her gifts and how she could use them to her best
advantage. She had depended on her father’s teaching more than she
knew, and now she depended on the young composer.
Wolfgang, send me all styles of cadenzas you’ve
heard on your travels. And come to me quickly, for I’m longing for
you. I’m longing for our marriage. Why don’t you come and turn the
city upside down with your music, and take me away from this
wretched boardinghouse to live in splendid rooms?
Two strangers have sent me flowers. Last night
after the performance, several of us were invited by the director
to a fine supper. You don’t know how I felt having to return home
after all the laughter. Mother expects a large portion of my
earnings. I want some pearls for my hair desperately.
My regards to your dear sister and father.
I haven’t forgotten Josefa, you know, I managed to
have her engaged for small roles. Oh, I love opera with all its
gossip and scandals, its lovers and mistresses and promises and
betrayals.
Aloysia hesitated, the letter unfinished in her
lap.
Why didn’t he come? She wanted to go to masked
balls and dance until the dawn, when the stars have left the sky
and only the pale ghost of the moon remained, and she must, she
should. She had been given a new role, and the audience had called
her name: Aloysia, Aloysia.
“Dearest come quickly,” she ended the letter to
him, but then forgot to mail it. Weeks later she found it under the
garden bench, illegible from the spring rains.