The Christmas party at the Weber's new house, and Mozart returns from Paris in a new jacket.
As soon as there were guests, there was music. We started with parts singing, a favorite at any musiker’s party. My parent’s old friends sat in a circle near the stove, joking that the arrangement of the room was quite apropos. They could bask in the warmth, while the young people had better light for music and flirtation by the windows.
“They will make their own heat,” quipped the old tenor Herr Raaff as he surveyed the bright throng gathered around the shiny new klavier.
In the humming center, Aloysia held court. When handsome Baron von Schfhautl and his equally aristocratic friend, Wilhelm von Ramler, swept in, the musiker boys diffidently made way.
After paying compliments, the young Baron and his companion began to exercise their wit. Every word was cruel and most were wildly imprudent; remarks whose target seemed to be Aloysia’s influential but none too young “protector.”
The party was in full swing when I heard a distant knock. Both of our servants literally had their hands full, so I ran to answer.
In the hall, I encountered a bitter north wind which poked icy fingers through every join in the building. I could see my breath and feel cold pricks upon my bare skin beneath the gauzy fichu. Mama had tucked that around my shoulders to obscure the too-full bodice of the dress, but it didn’t lend much warmth. As I clopped down the stairs, balancing on unaccustomed heels and holding my skirt out of the way, I heartily wished I’d brought my shawl.
Whoever was banging on the door must have heard me coming, for the knocking stopped as soon as I began my noisy descent. The latch was so cold that my warm fingers stuck to the metal.
When I opened the door, a little man wearing a worn, gray traveling cloak blew in with the brutal wind. Teeth chattering, I slammed the door shut and then bobbed a hasty curtsy.
“Gods! I’m glad you heard me! I’m about frozen!” He slapped his hands vigorously together and I recognized my mittens. Dirty and a year older, but still with him.
His eyes, that cherubic blue, widened as they took me in.
“Whew! Stanzi Marie! What a dress!”
With a grin that lit up his face, he carried my fingers to a pair of very, very cold lips. Apparently, Paris hadn’t made him any less of a tease.
“Dear Herr Mozart, it’s wonderful to see you again, but let’s go up straight away.”
Without a word, he charged the stairs, pulling me unsteadily along after him. “Is there a good stove in this fabulous new Weber abode?” he cried as we tramped upwards.
“Yes,” I panted, “if you don’t mind sitting with Papa and Herr Raaf.”
“At this moment I’d welcome an hour in the fires of hell,” he said. “I must have walked two miles to get here.”
Once inside the parlor, our Marie, who had taken a shine to him in Mannheim, came rushing to take his coat and hat.
Mozart was usually the mirror of fashion, but when his coat came off, we saw that he was wearing the strangest jacket. Although it was a respectable black, each buttonhole was circled by a funny little fan of red crepe. The effect, when coupled with his size and delicacy of feature, was of some particularly effeminate sartorial fantasy. It looked as if a line of scarlet butterflies had landed on his chest.
Papa came to shake his young guest’s hand. The greeting was warm, but nervous. Of course, Papa was wondering if Mozart had heard the news about Aloysia’s promotion to seconda donna—and the reason.
If he knew why we were suddenly so sleek, Wolfgang at first gave no sign. After politely greeting the elder musikers gathered by the stove, he excused himself and went to greet his adored Aloysia.
Frankly curious, I trailed along. There was quite a crowd around the klavier, but I could keep Herr Mozart in sight by perching on the rung of an unoccupied chair.
Baron von Schfhautl and Herr von Ramler, lips curled with disdain, watched as Mozart, so diminutive and dressed in that funny jacket, made a courtier’s bow to Aloysia.
“And who have we here? Some dangerous new rival for your affections, Mademoiselle?” von Schfhautl said, winking broadly at Aloysia.
“I am Wolfgang Amade Mozart, Sir,” came his steady reply. “A friend to our good host, Herr Fridolin Weber.”
“Oh, yes.” von Schfhautl appeared excessively bored. “Aren’t you the same musiker fella who was hanging around the Court at Mannheim last year, begging for work?”
Mozart stood his ground, erect and alert as a small fighting cock.
“I don’t believe I know either of you…gentlemen,” he said, looking these great dandies up and down with an expression of nerveless disdain.
“Well, sir, I am Graf Karl Emil von Schfhautl and this is my friend, Herr Friedrich Wilhelm von Ramler. And we are here,” he continued, “at the invitation of Mademoiselle Aloysia Weber.”
There was a smirking pause to let this sink in. Then von Ramler stepped close, far too close, and tapped Wolfgang on the chest. “Do tell us, Herr Mozart. Because we’re absolutely on fire to know. Has your tailor lost his mind?”
“Indeed!” Aloysia joined her new friends in the game. “Don’t expect us to believe that this…” She gestured helplessly, as if groping for the exact word. “This…jacket…represents the latest Parisian fashion.”
“I think those, ah…whatever they are around your buttonholes should be green.” Karl Emil spoke slowly, as if he’d been giving the matter deep thought. “Then, from the side, you know, it would look exactly like a row of new beans.”
“Beans?” von Schfhautl chimed in. “Beans? Oh, no! Don’t be gauche.” He fluttered his long fingers, rolled his eyes, and pitched his voice high, “Why, they’re butterflies, my dear von Ramler, not beans!”
The whole crowd, including Aloysia, laughed.
Now, you must understand, Wolfgang was usually soft-spoken, but even over the party noise I had no trouble hearing his reply. “As a matter of fact, gentlemen, this is Parisian mourning—for my mother.”
The noble “vons” traded sidelong looks with Aloysia. They seemed somewhat abashed by this, but not much.
“You’ll pardon me, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I can’t match your wit,” Wolfgang continued. “I’ve tramped a long way through the cold in order to play something that I’ve composed in honor of our dear Mademoiselle Aloysia Weber.”
Without another word, he pushed between them and took a seat at the klavier. Propelling himself into music with unceremonious grace, his strong hands pounded out an infectious tune. When everyone began to nod in time, he added words, singing loudly and with a thick Salzburg accent:
I’m proud to be a German
A musiker by trade,
A damned fine one, too,
Though I’ve been Fortune’s jade.
So if you don’t like me,
You can kiss my ass!
Kiss my ass!
If you don’t like me,
well—kiss my ass!”
My sister’s face went scarlet. There was another round of laughter, but this time it came from those outside her clique. For the first time I realized that there were plenty of plain musikers here who were primed to relish a jab at her and her “noble” friends.
Von Schfhautl and von Ramler glared furiously. “Damned nerve, sir!” Von Schfhautl stepped forward and gripped Mozart’s shoulder fiercely. “How dare you?”
“What?” Mozart looked up, his face a mask of surprise. “Don’t you gentlemen like my plain German song any better than my fancy French suit?” His smile had rather more teeth in it than before.
“He’s not worth bothering about, Karl Emil,” Aloysia declared, her voice pitched to carry. “Like all Salzburgers, Herr Mozart is hopelessly vulgar.”
Her scorn, and her hand upon his shoulder, had a calming effect upon von Schfhautl. Slowly, he released Mozart and stepped back.
“You are fortunate, sir, that Mademoiselle Weber is willing to overlook your crude behavior. Otherwise, I’d have my servants—”
With an insolent smile, Mozart rose. Ignoring what was being said, he bowed in a way that was expressive of little but total insubordination. “Esteemed gentlemen! Lovely Mademoiselle! I’m distraught that my jolly little tune gives offense.”
Giving her hand to von Schfhautl, Aloysia turned her back. As their clique protectively enclosed them, I heard one of them sputter: “Mademoiselle Weber ought to box that coarse little man’s ears.”
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As soon as there were guests, there was music. We started with parts singing, a favorite at any musiker’s party. My parent’s old friends sat in a circle near the stove, joking that the arrangement of the room was quite apropos. They could bask in the warmth, while the young people had better light for music and flirtation by the windows.
