Constanze reaches the end of her tether with her mother, but it's the Baroness W. to the rescue!
Just when I had come to the end of my tether, the Baroness Waldstatten, one of Mozart’s aristocratic klavier pupils, came to the rescue. First amused and then intrigued by Mozart’s anguished confidences, she’d been moved to take the situation in hand.
The face I looked into was handsome and aristocratic, though decidedly past its first bloom, the makeup flawless, the eyes large and colorless. Her long jaw was delicate, an elegant refinement on the usual Hapsburg nutcracker. The Baroness sat on our old sofa, erect and gorgeously dressed. She had not spoken long with my mother before directing her to summon me.
Not quite sure of what to do, I went down on my knees. That must have been what she wanted, for at once she took my chin in her jeweled fingers and studied me carefully. “For your peace of mind,” the Lady said to Mama, “I think I should add that I’m strict with my girls. They spend every minute of the day with me. At night my chatelaine,” she indicated the tall, severe looking woman who had come in after the two footmen, “locks them in.”
Her pale eyes returned to me. “Can you sing, pretty little musiker? Play a little?”
“A little, Madame Baroness.”
“Well, I’m willing to offer your Mama an allowance of a florin a quarter for your services. Don’t look so alarmed, my dear. There shall be no menial work. You are to attend me.”
For a few pennies it was possible to hire a sturdy, experienced housemaid.
The Baroness, no mean judge of character, acknowledged the change in Mama’s expression with a brisk nod. “Good! A wise decision, Widow Weber,” she said briskly. “I shall have a new companion; the girl will benefit, and so will you.”
It was only a few days later when my new mistress sent her chatelaine, Madame Podleska, to collect me. I felt scared as I kissed Mama and Sophie good-bye, but I was excited, too. They followed me downstairs and watched as a footman handed me into a brilliant yellow carriage that displayed the Baronesses’ coat of arms.
Behind a pair of matched chestnut mares, we rattled beyond the ancient outer walls of the city to the suburbs where the houses were lower and the gardens larger. I remember that it was afternoon and the air smelled wonderful; fresh, and full of freedom.
At the Baronesses’ I was expected to rise as early as at home, but now I had a maid. I had never had anyone help me dress or do my hair.
It made me shiver as I sat, head attentively still, beneath the girl’s skilled fingers. After swallowing breakfast, some coffee and a roll, I’d run downstairs to minister to the Baroness in her bedroom where she was preparing for the day.
I had heard tell of this aristocratic rite, but had never before seen the operations of a lady of leisure. The Baroness spent at least three hours before the mirror with her servants, a couple of gentlewomen, and several small fussy dogs in attendance.
Her hairdresser, an outlandish creature, gossiped and worked on the Baronesses’ hair, her various hairpieces, and wigs until she was satisfied with the result. The stages of dressing, of lacings in, the “erection” of her hair, her powdering and makeup, went on and on.
I soon learned that she was perfectly willing to clap her hands loudly and command it all be undone if the effect didn’t please her. More than once, it was nearly noon before she finished dressing.
Almost every morning, one gentlemen friend or another would appear at the door and ask to come in. The most regular of these was Count Palffy, a handsome, easy-going aristocrat who was pleasant and easy to like.
Initially, however, even in the case of this special friend, the Baroness would insist that no one could be admitted while she was still “en deshabille.” After a couple of days, I understood the game.
When she sent back her refusal, the gentlemen simply sent in another request. The notes would go from the doorman, to the elderly major domo, to me, and then back again. After three or four such rounds, the Baroness would relent and admit whoever it was to her dressing room while she completed her toilet more or less hidden behind an elaborate lacquered screen.
When breakfast was brought up from the kitchen, I served chocolate, fruit, and biscuits to the Baroness, Madame Podleska, and any friends that were present. Sometimes an early morning glass of champagne assisted the conversation.
When I was told that one of my tasks would be to read to the Baroness in French, I was utterly terrified. I’d never had any regular instruction, nor much inclination to study on my own.
At my first attempt, the Baroness sharply corrected my pronunciation and commanded me to translate. That, of course, let the cat out of the bag.
The lady was so fierce and disapproving that I was sure she would send me home. When I started to cry, she brushed a couple of small dogs off the ottoman, grabbed my skirts and pulled me down beside her.
“Why, you have no French, you pretty little barbarian,” she said. “Your fiance Herr Mozart is a mere musiker, too, but his French is impeccable.”
Italian, of which I had a better command, was substituted for my daily reading aloud. Madame Podleska was given the job of remedying my French, a task she clearly thought a nuisance.
My new teacher cultivated an air of great severity which was abetted by the dark colors she habitually wore. That illusion, however, was dispelled when she put her arm around her mistress and they began to whisper and giggle like two girls.
I had no study habits, so the first lessons were agony. Just as I feared, Madame Podleska was a demanding teacher, but she turned out to be a clever one, too.
“The little phrases you learn,” she advised, “will eventually add up, just as a thousand tiny stitches finally make a dress. That’s how I learned all my languages. German from my Papa, Czech from my Mama, Polish and French from my late husband.”
Sitting with that miserable French book for the first time, however, I felt just as imprisoned as I had at the Auge Gottes. At tea time, the Baroness pinched my cheek and laughed at the face I brought with me.
“Turn up the corners of your mouth, child,” she scolded. “You ought to be happy here. Happy that such a talented fellow as Herr Mozart wants to marry you, happy that you get French lessons, and happy that you are no longer in that dark bedroom where I’ve been told your Mama locked you.”
I began to dip an obedient curtsy, but she seized my hand. “None of that sulky formality,” she said. “Just give me that pretty smile Mozart is always talking about.”
I tried to obey, but she made me feel so shy. And besides, all the other servants were smirking. Not content, even after I expressed my thanks and kissed her cheek, she made me sit beside her on the divan. All through tea she caressed me and put tidbits into my mouth as if I were the newest lap dog.
Despite it’s strangeness, I grew to enjoy living with the Baroness. I loved the sight of the silver laid out on the sideboard and dining on the whimsical English china, where the cups and saucers and teapots imitated apples and roses and cabbages.
The linen on my bed was fresh, clean petticoats appeared every day, laid out by my dress on a chair. Although my room was small and up a wall of stairs, I didn’t share it. There were no hand-roughening servant’s chores, no nagging, slapping Mama, no mocking Josepha, and no boarders wanting their dirty clothes mended.
I grew comfortable very quickly. All I had to do was wrestle with my French and fetch and carry for the Baroness. I learned to watch her carefully as she wandered from vast room to room, endlessly scattering things.
Eventually I’d be called upon to find whatever it was that she was missing; her watch, her reading glass, french novels, fans, or letters. Sometimes I would have to coax exotic, petulant cats from under sofas or beds, or chase defiant lap dogs who were running loose in the garden. Sometimes I carried messages to the cooks or to the haughty butler. Compared to the drudgery I’d been doing at home, this was easy. Mozart came every other day to give the Baroness a klavier lesson. While that went on, I was allowed to watch.
These lessons weren’t at all what I’d expected. Half the time the Baroness would simply recline on the sofa and ask Mozart to play. If the lady did sit at the klavier, he would spend a great deal of time taking her hands in his and placing them upon the keys.When she made a mistake, she would lift her hands and giggle girlishly. Then he was supposed to kiss the offending fingers and replace them on the keyboard.
Sometimes the Baroness would plead a headache or faintness; the latter being quite believable when I remembered how tightly we had laced her. If that happened, she’d lean back in a chair and I would be asked to bathe her forehead with rosewater while Mozart played “something soothing.”
When I asked Wolfi how she could possibly call that a lesson, he sighed and smiled ruefully.
“Well, Stanzi, that’s how it is with aristocratic ladies.”
“But she wants you to kiss her all the time.” It was starting to bother me as he kissed her hands for what seemed like the thousandth time.
“Yes.” He sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of his elegant nose, a gesture which generally indicated discomfort. “But she is most generous, Stanzi, and she introduces me everywhere.”
Well, that seemed an indisputably good reason for indulging her. Besides, it was plain enough that he didn’t like it much.
After lessons, the Baroness let us sit together in a corner of her spacious parlor, in sight of, but out of hearing, of the others. There we chattered like two blackbirds, reveling in our freedom.
Sometimes we were even allowed to get away by ourselves, walking on nice days in the garden; otherwise in the conservatory. Hidden from sight, behind the shrubbery or beneath a vine-covered trellis, Wolfi would urgently take me in his arms.
Encased in full dress as we both were, there wasn’t much we could do. At the Baronesses’ I was always fashionable; laced tightly, my skirts swelled with panniers or carrying the half-moon of a pillow bustle at my backside.
Obstruction only made my sweetheart more inventive. He kissed my fingers, my palms, my wrists, my mouth, my eyes, my throat. He nibbled on my ears and the back of my neck until my knees nearly gave way.
The best place for kissing was the conservatory, where a divan was hidden behind a row of the Baronesses’ precious orange trees. Here, along with caresses, my sweetheart gave me a silver ring, ribbons, and a heart-shaped locket on an expensive golden chain.
We talked, too. Mozart was full of stories about the theater and about his opera. There had never been a real opera in German before, and he wanted to prove that Italian and French weren’t the only languages that could be sung.
When he talked about his Abduction from the Seraglio, I knew there wouldn’t be a way to get a word in. It was never boring though, because he was a wonderful story teller. After awhile I felt I knew each of the principal singers; the cocky, handsome tenor, the magnificent, yet tractable, bass, the two temperamental sopranos.
Wolfi customarily tailored each role to the performer, but these singers, the best in Vienna, placed few limitations upon him. He especially admired the voice of Caterina Cavalieri, a tall blonde with a queenly deportment who would sing the heroine’s part.
Madame Cavalieri’s beauty was marred by an eye patch. Mozart claimed that she had confided to him which jealous lover had been responsible for that dreadful injury. He always praised Cavalieri lavishly, saying that she was the only soprano in Vienna who could best Aloysia.
At parties Mozart had renewed his acquaintence with my sister. Madame Lange, as she was now, was pregnant, he reported. Although she was in the last few months and wearing hoops to mask the swelling, she still continued to trail a crowd of admirers.
When I asked how Aloysia was feeling about the prospect of becoming a mother, Wolfi made a face.
“Babies, I gather, are a horrible inconvenience,” he said. “All she does is complain about how long it’s going to keep her off the stage.”
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