In which Constanze meets her destiny, in the form of a little man who is already world famous: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

MOZART’S WIFE
by
Juliet V. Waldron




"Tradito, schernito
Dal perfido cor,
Lo sento che ancora
Quest’alma l’adora,
Lo sento per essa
Le voci d’amor"

--Cosi Fan Tutte

(Roughly: Traitor, perfidious one, though you betray me, I still cannot silence the love I feel for you.)_



Chapter One

At sixteen my big sister Aloysia looked like the painted goddesses who reclined voluptuously above our heads on the ceiling of the opera house. Like them, she was blonde, rosy, round breasted, and narrow waisted. Although she didn’t fall in love with Mozart, as both he and my parents so ardently desired, I did.
It happened because Papa staunchly maintained that no matter how tight things were, we could “always spare a little beer and some of Jo’s fine liver dumplings.” He was forever bringing home traveling musicians from the Court, absolutely certain that one of these fellows would be useful. Mama never believed his hospitality would yield anything to our advantage, but this peccadillo was the only one my father owned.
Some of our guests were famous, most were not. All, however, had exciting stories to tell about the great courts they’d seen and famous performers they’d heard. Besides, once they set eyes on Aloysia, they were glad to spend an evening giving impromptu lessons.
The most notable wanderer Papa brought home was Wolfgang Mozart. He had stopped at the Mannheim Court on his way to Paris. After composing a piece for one of our noblemen, Herr Mozart had required a copyist.
He was, naturally, directed to my Papa, whose desperation was such that he took on every kind of odd job. Of course, Papa knew of him; this “miracle of nature” who’d been entertaining kings since his sixth year.
After the copying job was done, Papa took the pay he’d just been given and invited the famous Herr Mozart to The Ox. After downing a stein of our justly famous beer, they would join in a harmony of a familiar tune; the treachery of the nobility. It quickly became apparent that our families had much in common. The story of Papa’s fall, without the questionable details with which Mama liked to embellish it, was central. Years ago, as a bailiff for one Baron Schonau, Papa had provided handsomely for his growing family.
His master, finding him compliant (what poor man with four daughters to dower is not?) involved him in a crooked business deal. When the deal went bad, Schonau had the perfect scapegoat. In the end, we had to flee the Baron’s lands in the middle of the night to escape arrest.
On horseback, Papa decoyed the pursuing politzei away, while Mama and the rest of us were driven across the border of the electorate in a farm wagon. Under the hay was hidden our klavier and a wardrobe; the latter stuffed with a random collection of whatever had come first to hand.
Mozart listened to this story of betrayal and ruin with great sympathy. He hated his master, Archbishop Colloredo, as thoroughly as Papa hated Baron Schonau. Mozart explained that his father, an educated man and an able musician, was constantly humiliated and bullied by the Archbishop. In fact, Wolfgang was in Mannheim because he had resigned his commission and was traveling through the world looking for another.
Archbishop Colloredo was Mozart’s devil and Baron Schonau was Papa’s. They called for more beer and pondered the great question of the day: whether a talented, hardworking man could make his way in a world dominated by aristocratic privilege.
“Would you share my table some evening, Herr Mozart?” asked Papa. “Nothing special, of course. Only what a poor unlucky German can offer. But my oldest girl cooks like an angel and my beautiful Aloysia, just sixteen, Herr Mozart, sings like one.”
Papa had sized up his companion well. Such an invitation, a combination of earthly and musical pleasure, proved absolutely irresistible.
For days before the visit, Papa primed us. Herr Mozart might look like a boy, but he had already been commissioned to write operas for the most important Italian cities.
To honor his guest, Papa found copies of two arias from Lucio Silla, an opera Mozart had written five or six years earlier, and set Aloysia to practice them. Unfortunately for us, they were both bravura arias, written for a prima donna who loved to display not only the power of her voice, but a three-octave range. Aloysia was so diligent that our ears rang, and the neighbors kept coming around to complain.
On the day which was to prove so fateful for me, Josepha was excused from cooking and I was excused from sewing; such was our division of labor. Fat Josepha cooked, beautiful Aloysia sang, and I, curly-headed, chubby Konstanze, sewed.
In those days, I imagined my task the most rewarding. For what happened to the fruit of my sisters’ long labor? The cook’s delicious dinner disappeared into someone’s gullet and the singer’s aria vanished into thin air. On the other hand, a nice embroidered petticoat or shirt gives pleasure again and again.
I’ve always had an impulse to practicality. As the third daughter, my life was full of hand-me-downs. How else to get clothes that fit?
“Herr Mozart mustn’t see you doing servant’s work,” said Mama.
“Oh, Mama,” I fretted.”Why do we always have to pretend we’re better off than we are?” That day I had been sewing a badly needed new petticoat for myself.
“Why don’t you do embroidery, Darling? That always looks genteel.”
Her favorite word! Nevertheless, the afternoon would be easier to endure with busy hands. From beneath a pile of mending, I dug out a hoop of long neglected petit point.
No sooner had I settled down with it, when Herr Mozart, surprisingly diminutive and wearing a jacket stiff with the most exotic French needlework I’d ever seen, arrived at the door. I’ll confess my eye dwelt upon the lavishly ornamented jacket for a long time before I gave as much as a second to the man inside.
Slender, boyish, and short, Herr Mozart looked nowhere near his twenty-one years. To me, Papa’s “little mousekin” (or, in Jo’s nastier parlance, “the runt”) our visitor’s lack of size was rather interesting.
His eyes were the feature, however, which finally seized and held my attention. They were the largest, most luminous, sky-blue eyes I’d ever seen. They shone with alert good humor.
I liked his hair, too, a curly blonde mop which had already begun an escape from his queue. As you’d expect in a klavier player, his hands were shapely. They were also restless. He kept fidgeting with his tricorn, turning it round and round.
Aloysia had on her best dress, a peach satin that perfectly complimented the bloom in her cheeks. Our maid, Marie, had spent an hour brushing Aloysia’s hair, drawing the chestnut strands over a cushion to give it extra height.
Men had already drowned in my sister’s eyes, but she was far too good for any of them. Too good especially for the young musikers of the orchestra who continuously besieged her with flowers, painted ribbons, and necklaces. Broken hearts littered our small garden; the place where she disposed of all such importunate suitors.
As Herr Mozart bent over Aloysia’s hand, I saw his blue eyes lift and fasten upon the bow ornamenting her bosom. At once I knew that, world-famous wunderkind or not, he was going to be as big a fool as all the others.
Aloysia always carried a fan during these parlor skirmishes. She snapped it open and fluttered it about as if it was a languid summer day instead of midwinter.
The little gentleman wasn’t immune. Already his pale cheeks were coloring. Jo made a disgusted face, but Mama delivered a pinch to one of her fat arms.
“My other daughters, Herr Mozart.”
One by one Papa presented us. For me, perfect posture was inevitable. My dress, one of Aloysia’s hand-me-downs, had been taken up, but during the altering I hadn’t realized that the waist was too tight. By the time I did, it was far too late to do anything about it. To wedge me into it, Mama laced the stays so hard that I couldn’t get a proper breath.
Feeling a little faint, I bobbed a very straight curtsy and kept my chin up, all the time praying the seams of the dress would hold. As I rose, I met Herr Mozart’s bright eyes; a man’s eyes, and, for once, so very close to mine.
Was he laughing at me? I remember blushing, my embarrassment about the dress, and myself, palpable.
After some polite chat, Mozart took Aloysia’s hand and led her to the klavier. As soon as he saw his arias on the music stand, he gave my father what could only be called a sunburst of a smile.
“Wandering children returned to their Papa!” He lifted the scores and gazed at them fondly.
“Frau Wendling often sings these for our Elector, but just wait until you hear my girl, Herr Mozart,” Papa said.
After a little more about how pleased he was that his music had found its way back to Germany, Mozart sat and began the prelude, dropping into music as effortlessly as a muskrat slides into water. There was none of the preliminary fussing I’d seen other pianists affect.
Soon Aloysia’s coloratura was rising, fire to the heavens. The high notes floated effortlessly; the lows were likewise perfect, full, rich, and round.
My sister’s voice wasn’t the only faultless music I heard that afternoon. As Herr Mozart’s handsome hands flew over the keys I was amazed, not only by his easy manner, but also by the beauty he produced from the strings of our weary, old klavier.
Jo’s eyes became slits. Clearly, she wasn’t enjoying the show. The sad fact was that her voice was every bit as fine as Aloysia’s, but she was plain, overweight, and a very good cook. All of which had combined to keep her worldly endeavors, thus far, confined to our kitchen.
On that long ago afternoon, our father was ready to burst with pride. Even our unmusical Mama seemed genuinely interested, although perhaps it was only the richness of our guest’s jacket, and what that implied, which so intrigued her.

~*~