Marrying Mozart (13 page)

He drew his cloak closer; a watchman passing by inspected him for drunkenness but, seeing him sober, said, “Go home, young man.” And Mozart straightened and began to walk very slowly toward the house where he and his mother were guests.

Would his plans to tour with the sisters lift the family from their obscurity and difficulties? Could he do it? Did he not owe his own family everything? Had they not given all for him? Perhaps his mother was right. He ought to make better fortune himself, and then raise her up. Within a few months of being in Paris, he should be wanted everywhere, and then could simply send for her and help make her career. Yes, then he could help lift her sweet and agile voice to fame.

By now he had reached the house; admitted by a weary maid servant, he mounted the stairs to their rooms. His mother was already in bed in her nightcap, but he could tell she was not asleep. “We are going to Paris,” he said. “I have decided.”

Without turning, she spoke, the voice a murmur against the blue bed hangings. “Then say you’ll also forget her.”

He stood quietly with his wet sonata under his coat. “I can never forget her; she’s my muse. I’ll go with you and make our fortune and then come back for her. She’ll be more than muse then; she’ll be my wife.”

T
here was nothing Sophie loved to do more than sleep, carefully plumping the pillow just so, slipping one arm under it, drawing her knees up under her wool nightgown, so nested in the old quilting that the world disappeared. In her dreams she heard voices, raised her head, and looked about. The early morning air was still dark, and an icy rain beat at the windows. The light snow of last night had turned to rain in the unpredictable weather of the world.

Surely it was not time to rise yet, and where were her sisters? Their bedclothes were thrown back, and only the impressions of their bodies remained on the lumpy mattresses. Outside there was only rain, not even the bells of the ancient bread cart horse. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and trundled to the door. Last night had been her twelfth birthday, and she had been given new wool slippers, but she now had no idea where they were. Perhaps, she thought sleepily, some sister had already borrowed them.

Where were Constanze and Josefa? She wound her bed quilt about her and shuffled down the hall barefoot, following the voices that came from the parlor. Who was there at this hour? It could surely not be time for pupils. Creaking open the door, she looked about bewildered, wondering at first if she had mistook morning for evening. All the family members sat or stood about the room in their night clothes, their expressions grave. Constanze was wrapped in her quilt, huddled on the sofa, with her feet drawn under her for warmth, Aloysia leaning against her; Josefa and her father stared out the window while her mother sat close mouthed in the best chair, a cap pulled over her curling rags. The fireplace was cold and dark, and the clavier still huddled under its wool shawl. Standing in the middle of them all was Wolfgang Mozart in his cloak and hat, unshaven and wet, his shoes leaving moist spots on the floor.

There was no sign of her new wool slippers.

“Why, what’s happened?” she murmured, feeling for her handkerchief; her nose was already beginning to run.

Her mother turned to her, face long with sadness. “Mozart’s come early with bad news. He must go away for a time to Paris. The tour with your two sisters must be temporarily postponed.”

“To Paris, away from here? But if you must, you must. It’s not your fault,” Sophie said at once, going to him and taking his hand.

Mozart said, “We leave in an hour by coach, or I wouldn’t have come so early. I had to come myself, and not merely send word. I’ll send my address as soon as I arrive, the very day, and write to all of you.” Words failed him then. He kissed all their cheeks, even Maria Caecilia’s, who turned away a little; he embraced Fridolin Weber with both arms. Then he took Aloysia’s hand and left the family’s rooms with her, closing the door behind him. The others heard their voices for some time, though the words were indistinguishable, and then his footsteps going rapidly down the stairs.

When she came back, her face was wet with tears. “He promised me,” she said, her mouth very tight. “He promised me and now he asks me to wait. It will be at least a year before we can be married. Now it’s all settled, but the question is when? He’s going to Paris without me. Oh, will I always have to wait, all my life? Will I be twenty before anything happens to me?” and she walked down the hall into the communal bedchamber, closing the door. Soon they heard her soft weeping, and Constanze, with a look of misery, ran off to comfort her. Maria Caecilia said nothing more but turned heavily to her bedchamber, followed sadly by her husband. That door, too, was closed.

Now alone in the parlor, Josefa and Sophie snuggled under one quilt, the eldest girl rubbing the feet of her little sister. Josefa did not speak at first. After a time she said, looking straight ahead, “He’ll come back. He’s honorable, he’ll come back and try to keep his promises to us if he can, but I feel sorry for him because he loves her and she has no heart. God forgive me for saying it, for I’d do anything I could for her, but it’s true. It’s true, Sophie, don’t protest, you kind child—but she’s also weary of Mother’s fantasies and her own. He at least is real. Now I’m going to make a fire and coffee. Surprisingly, Father’s brother did send over some money yesterday, though it probably shortened his life to do so. Thorwart’s also promised some. We’ll manage for a time.”

Sophie nodded. “It will all come out for the best,” she said.

“Perhaps, but which way is that, darling? How do we know what’s best? How do any of us know?”

Below, through the rain, Sophie heard the sound of the bread wagon’s bells, and there, under the music table, as if they had been contently waiting for her, were her new wool slippers. Gratefully wriggling her feet into them, and borrowing a dressing gown that someone had left draped over the clavier, she hurried down the stairs. In the gray rain the wretched dripping horse stood waiting, water glistening on its brass bells, which were tied with bright, soaking ribbons. The street was slowly coming to life. As the girl took the two warm loaves and ran upstairs, to be greeted by the smell of newly ground coffee beans, she wished that the events of this early morning had been nothing but a dream, and that she were still asleep, warm and dry in her lumpy bed.

L
ate spring came, and the sisters hurried about Mannheim, saying good-bye to old friends, exchanging locks of hair and trinkets, and promising to write. The Webers were moving to Munich. The Elector there had died, and Mannheim’s Elector Carl Theodor and his court had already moved to the palatial
Residenz
there. Alfonso and Heinemann had gone with them. They expected there would be even more opportunities for music in Munich.

At the last hour Sophie walked through the empty rooms looking for things they might have left behind. How odd! What life was left here when every chair and wardrobe was gone, when the hooks were empty of clothing, when not one pot in the kitchen remained? There was the dark stain on the kitchen wall where Josefa, at the age of twelve, had bled copiously after slicing her thumb while cutting apples. The floorboards of the bedroom bore the gouged marks of the iron bed feet.

She noticed a pen and some ink left on a windowsill and, finding a paper scrap, leaned over to write a note. “Dear friends, we have gone to Munich by God’s grace for a more prosperous life. Come see us there. We are as always altogether, and altogether we wait for you.” This she stuck on a nail on their door, hoping the new residents would not take it down right away. She was about to run down the stairs to where her family was waiting when she remembered the book of suitors, but her mother had taken it from its latest hiding place. Would that she had left it there, Sophie thought with a grimace, for she had secretly looked into it some days before and had not been pleased with what she had seen. What could she do about it now, though? Later, surely, she could do something.