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1208 lines
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FICTION-ONLINE
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An Internet Literary Magazine
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Volume 3, Number 1
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January-February 1996
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EDITOR'S NOTE:
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FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
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electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis. The
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contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts
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of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
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magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
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Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
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Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
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and publishes material from the public.
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To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-mail a brief request to
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ngwazi@clark.net
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To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same
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address.
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Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
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the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from
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ftp.etext.org
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where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines. AOL users will
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find back issues under "Writer's Club E-Zines."
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
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material published is retained by its author. Each subscriber is
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licensed to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
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personal reading use only. All other rights, including rights to copy
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or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings
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or to stage performances or filmings or video recording, or for any
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other use not explicitly licensed, are reserved.
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William Ramsay,
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Editor
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CONTENTS
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Editor's Note
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Contributors
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"New Year Verses," poems
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Diana Munson
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"Aloysia," an excerpt (chapter 10) from the novel "In Search of Mozart"
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William Ramsay
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"Paris," an excerpt (chapter 11) from the novel "In Search of Mozart"
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William Ramsay
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"Time Trials," short story
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Otho Eskin
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CONTRIBUTORS
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OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
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affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read
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and produced in Washington. His play "Duet" was recently produced
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at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in Washington, as
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well as at other theaters in the United States, Europe, and Australia.
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DIANA MUNSON is a therapist in Washington, D.C. She writes
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short stories; her latest, "Earrings," was recently published in _Rent-A-Chicken_. She has published numerous poems in magazines and
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anthologies.
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WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
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energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
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Northwest Fiction Group. He and Otho Eskin recently had "Sorry
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About the Cat," an evening of short comic plays, presented at the
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Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland.
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NEW YEAR VERSES
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by Diana Munson
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ANOTHER SPRING
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Yet another
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Spring mocks me
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my enemy, my foe,
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Spiteful forsythia flaunts,
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Creeks overflow,
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Wetness consumes,
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Blossoms blind,
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wanton lovers walk
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sharpening loneliness.
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Would that
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it were winter still
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and frost
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abhorring life
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send all
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into
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a
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dream
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of sleep.
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DUCKS
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Plump lumps of plumage,
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pillows with handles,
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feetless in grass,
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by the riverside;
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necks vogue, eyes bead,
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heads preen as if to
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seek their best profile,
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to see and be seen.
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BEACH SCENE INDIVIDUATION: REHOBOTH, MD.
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You told me it was "magic,"
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how the sand
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castle fell away beneath the beach tide.
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You held my hand, my dandelion, my dandy lion, my son,
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eager strained toward the
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edge of the ebb.
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I closed my eyes , and said:
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"See how the sea tugs at our feet
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threatening to level us
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in leaving!"
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Time pulled, sucked, seduced
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you fast away from me, young wonder;
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From water
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to water
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a tide.
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More like death than growing, a tide,
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more like tearing than "magic,"
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pulled you out of my heart,
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minute by minute,
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leaving a hole
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and rubble and sand.
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ALOYSIA
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by William Ramsay
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[Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 10 of the novel "In Search of
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Mozart"]
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What's the matter with Wolferl? -- he's surely seen this opera
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before, thought Hans Wendling. The Weber girl's got a good crowd
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tonight, she'll be pleased. He made a rough count of the house in the
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Schloss Theater. There must have been over two hundred people in
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the audience in the small but elegant theater, with its baroque
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curlicued moldings and gilded candelabra set into ornate white and
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gilt wall sconces. From the back boxes where he and Wolferl sat, the
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crowded orchestra seats looked like a sea of white-powdered hair,
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broken up by the elaborate high wigs and coiffures of some of the
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ladies. Hans had to crane his neck to see, because the lady in front of
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him was wearing one of the new monstrously large coiffures in the
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latest Parisian mode. He glanced again at Wolfgang, sitting beside
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him. His friend looked to be a million miles away.
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***
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Wolfgang felt like Robinson Crusoe on his island in the South
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Seas. The rest of the world didn't exist. Outside, the Rhine and
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Neckar rivers flowed silently, blackish green, joining just beyond the
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palace gates for the journey to the North Sea. Their dark roiling
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waters might as well have been the swirling currents of the Ganges:
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Wolfgang's sight was dazzled by the vision on the candlelit stage.
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What a darling!
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Center stage, the beautiful teenaged soprano sang the part of a
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Grecian princess. Doll-like in her pale pink costume, her smooth
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cheeks rouged, her petite body moved with apparently effortless
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grace.
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Like a tiny, fluttery bird!
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She gestured toward the blue-painted ceiling and then knelt in
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homage to the ancient gods. She was singing of love, and hate, and
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horror -- but mostly of love.
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And, he thought, could she sing! -- a truly impressive voice. Not
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well trained. But there was plenty of time for that. She couldn't have
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been more than fifteen or sixteen years old.
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She was magnificent! How gracefully she moved. That pure, true
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voice. And the expression she gave to the meanings of the words.
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How was it possible that a girl her age would know enough about life
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to be able to sing like that?
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He came out of the theater, impatient to meet _her_ -- Aloysia
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Weber. He badgered his friend Christian into introducing him to her
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father. Friedolin Weber was a singer of sorts, and he also did
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prompting and copied music. All the Webers were musical: Aloysia's
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older sister Josefa had a fine voice, and her sister Konstanze played
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the keyboard creditably, though her talent was not great. The mother,
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Caecilia, was the dominant member of the family -- aggressive,
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ambitious, not markedly intelligent, Cannabich said, but clever
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enough when her interests were at stake.
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"She'll be nice enough to you, Wolferl, she has four dowerless
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daughters, after all. Just don't get trapped!"
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"All right, all right," he said, annoyed.
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"Watch your step, Wolferl," said Cannabich. "Aloysia's a beautiful
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girl -- but she's ambitious. Watch out for the rest of the family too,
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they're all lean and hungry."
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The next week, Friedolin invited him and Cannabich to tea at his
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lodgings to meet his family. Wolfgang wore his new rose-colored
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nankeen suit, with a pale pink shirt. His hair was carefully powdered,
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and his silver shoe buckles glistened. There she was at last! The
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doll-like figure was set off plainly but elegantly in brown muslin,
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with an intricately pointed lace collar.
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"Dear," said Friedolin, "let me present Herr Mozart. The one
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we've heard so much of."
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"A great pleasure," said Wolfgang, "I'm an admirer of your
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singing. I had the privilege of hearing you in the Handel last week."
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"Enchantee, M. Mozart, quel compliment!"
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Oh, wonderful, she even spoke French. He said, "Je voudrais bien
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que l'on put vous persuader a nous chanter quelque chose -- tout en
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famille."
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Aloysia looked startled, then cast her eyes demurely downward.
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Cannabich said, "Yes, it would be nice to hear you sing something
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tonight, Miss Weber, just informally."
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Coolly, she raised her big, lustrous green eyes to Wolfgang and
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said, "Of course. I couldn't refuse the request of such an eminent
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musician." She made a slight curtsey.
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God! That cute little sharp nose. And those eyes. She was even
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lovelier in person than she was on the stage.
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If that loveliness could only be his!
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***
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"Lord," Konstanze whispered to Josefa, over by the harpsichord.
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"He's really gone on her. Look at him."
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"I hope he's not expecting someone who will darn his socks,"
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answered her sister.
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"I don't think she's so pretty," said little Sophie.
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"She's pretty enough, sister dear," said Josefa. "And he's famous.
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Just watch her attach herself to him!"
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"You mean to marry?" said Sophie.
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Konstanze sputtered: "No, dummy. To make her a famous prima
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donna, that's what."
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"And for that Aloysia needs all the important friends she can get,"
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said Josefa, and the two older girls nodded savagely at each other.
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***
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Aloysia continued to fix Wolfgang with her large round eyes.
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"How do you like Mannheim, Herr Mozart?" she said, moving up
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close to him and staring up at him intently.
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"Fine, quite fine, very fine," he said, his throat shaking so that he
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could hardly get out the polite words. The rest of the brief visit
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passed in a blur, a lovely, radiant fog of warm giddiness. After the
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cuckoo popped out of the door in the timepiece for its nine o'clock
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appearance, Christian got up to leave and Wolfgang had to gulp out a
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whispered "good-bye." He swirled home, breathless, face burning, to
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his lodging in the Pferdgasse. Christ, it was a miracle!
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***
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Aloysia lay awake for almost a quarter of an hour that night. In
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the morning, Josefa asked her what she thought of Mozart.
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"I think he's a real gentleman, he has such fine manners." She
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frowned thoughtfully and pulled off a dead blossom on the potted
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hibiscus.
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"Yes, he's a cut above what we're used to in Mannheim."
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"Not much to look at, though," broke in Sophie.
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"Shut up," said Frau Caecilia. "Herr Mozart is a fine-looking man.
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And a very talented and famous one." Sophie shrugged, and went
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back to her dolls. Aloysia picked up her hairbrush, put it to her dark
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curls, and then stopped and examined herself in the oval mirror.
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***
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Wolfgang had seen beautiful women before -- Lady Hamilton, the
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Countess Pallavicini. But to find a beautiful -- and intelligent --
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young girl with such a magnificent musical talent! She was like a gift
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from heaven. Was she the unknown goddess he had always
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worshiped secretly in the depths of his heart? Rosa, just think,
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_Rosa_ _Cannabich_! He had been infatuated with that little girl.
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Unbelievable. How silly it now seemed: "The soul of Rosa
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Cannabich." It made him blush.
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Aloysia. He imagined composing songs, arias, melodies -- all
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written to be given life by the lovely voice of the lovely Aloysia. Ah,
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there could be such sweet hours at the piano, accompanying his angel.
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Aloysia should be his angel forever, he was sure of that. They were
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meant for each other! At their second meeting at dinner at the
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Cannabiches, she sang for him the lyrical "De Amicis" arias from his
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opera "Lucio Silla."
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She had extraordinarily good taste in music.
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Lying awake that night in his narrow, lumpy bed, he shivered with
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the cold. What beauty, what talent. Yes, real talent! Like his own.
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But where -- his thought shifting -- had his own talent gotten him?
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And, waking with a start from a bad dream, everything seemed to be
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lost promise, humiliation. The world looked black, black as the
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moonless sky outside.
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But then the dawn began to appear, he got up to go out to the privy,
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still in his nightshirt, and the cold morning air picked him up.
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Aloysia was potentially his first big success as a man. She could
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make his whole life worthwhile. Christian had labeled her "the
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adolescent seductress." Well -- suppose she was? Why not?
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Seductive? Sure! Adolescent, of course she was young. She liked
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his conversation, she loved his work. Now if she would also love
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_him_ for himself!
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In the weeks following, he saw her as much as he could manage.
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He wrote a concert aria for her, 'Alcandro lo confesso,' and some little
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songs in French, about lonely forests and birds that were faithful to
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their mates, no matter what the weather. He would have written
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more, but he found it difficult to concentrate. Hans Wendling turned
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to him one day in the tavern, and pounded on the table with his stein.
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"Wolferl, It looks like love may be good for inspiration but doesn't do
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much for getting the music down on paper."
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"Oh, go to hell!" he said.
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"Poor Wolferl!"
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Ha! -- isn't he funny! thought Wolferl. Here I am, going crazy,
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madly in love with this wonderful girl. And Hans makes stupid jokes.
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And I don't know if she loves me or not. And even if she did love me
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back, how could we get married? There's no money -- plenty of
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talent, but not a kreutzer between us. My God, I almost wish she
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weren't respectable -- but then how could she be such an angel?
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She really was divine!
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His goddess.
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Life was suddenly exciting, passionate, thrilling -- but impossibly
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complicated. He couldn't get enough of her. Their time together was
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so brief, a rehearsal, a dinner, a cup of tea while her family watched
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and whispered around them. Then, just after New Year's, he received
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an invitation to the country place of the Princess of Orange at
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Kirchheim-Bolanden. He had met the Princess when he toured the
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Netherlands as a boy, and he remembered how she always sat and
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listened with quiet attention when he played the harpsichord.
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This could be his opportunity -- if the Princess would agree!
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***
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"So Wolferl's going off to the country," said Hans Wendling.
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"Well, it will be good for him to get away alone."
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"What do you mean, 'alone'?" said his wife.
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"Oh, who else is going?"
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"Guess who?"
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"No!"
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"Yes, Aloysia! He told the Princess he was bringing along a
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singer. With her father as a chaperone, of course.
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"Good for him!" said Hans. "He's got nerve."
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"The question is, whether he has enough nerve to handle
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_Aloysia_."
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***
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"Your shirts will be ready for your trip to the country, Herr
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Mozart," said Frau Weber.
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"Thank you," he said, not looking up as he practiced his scales on
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the old harpsichord in the Webers' parlor. It was almost
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embarrassing, he thought, the Weber ladies had been mending his
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breeches and seeing that his shirts got washed. It was nice being
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taken care of. But the Weber sisters did get to be too much! Josefa
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was all right, but Konstanze and Sophie were so childish and silly.
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'Hello, Herr _Aloysius_,' or 'I know who's got a secret!' Shit! "It
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will be wonderful for Aloysia and Friedolin to have this experience,"
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said Frau Weber. "I'm sure you'll all have a good time."
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What a raucous voice! My future mother-in-law? God, it would
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be good to get away, just the two of them. Almost alone. A chance
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to tell her what she meant to him. A chance to try to make her
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understand the sincerity and depths of his feelings. And a God-given
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respite from the rest of the Weber menage! He went over to the
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house on the Singergasse to say good-bye to Hans and Dorothea. It
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was raining, and his feet were wet. He put them close to the
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Wendling's fire.
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"So, you're off to the country," said Hans.
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"Yes, the Webers and I are to leave tomorrow."
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"With clean shirts, I hear. It's something I never thought of in my
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bachelor days."
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"Oh, Hans," said Wolfgang, covering his forehead with his hand.
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"Oh, the pleasures of feeling your way through a pile of clean
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shirts! It must be heaven! Stockings, stockings, twist them around
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your neck, sniff them, hug them to your bosom!"
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"Hans!" said Dorothea.
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"Dolly, what have I been missing? All these years. Wolferl really
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knows how to enjoy himself. Linens galore, towels, sheets, oh,
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heaven!"
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"Hans, you're drunk -- again," said Dorothea.
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"Sancho Panza got Don Quixote to take along a clean shirt on his
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travels. But Don Wolfgang here finds laundresses everywhere. Oh
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my gracious, what fun!"
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"Up your ass, Wendling!" said Wolfgang.
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"Leave him alone, Hans," said Dorothea. "Have a good time at the
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Princess's, Wolferl, you and Aloysia both."
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"Yes, yes, Wolferl!" said Hans with a leer. "Have a _good_ time!"
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God, Wolfgang thought, it would be good to get away from
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Mannheim, even for a short time! Everything here was frivolity,
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farce, mean-spiritedness. Nobody here understood a person like him!
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***
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He gazed idly at the ormolu clock on the marble mantelpiece in
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the Princess' music room at Kirchheim-Bolanden. Aloysia was just
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changing out of her traveling clothes. Four tall Chinese vases flanked
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the clock. Fraeulein Weber. Frau Weber. Mother-in-law. What a
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dream! Marriage seemed so impossible, and here he was thinking
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about mothers-in-law! He carefully picked up the white porcelain
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Kwan Yin figurine on the Louis XV table. Woman! What a mystery!
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Would he ever really understand Aloysia? Was she at least beginning
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to love him?
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The next morning, there was a patina of glassy white frost on the
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ground when he awoke, but after breakfast it had melted. The two of
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them went for a walk. They passed out through the formal gardens
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and along the edges of the fields speckled with the burned stubble of
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last year's rye crop. At the end of the fields, they made their way,
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crunching on a carpet of leaves and needles, into a thick forest of
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second-growth beech, birch, and fir.
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"It's beautiful, isn't it?" said Aloysia.
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He thought: how sensitive she is! "Yes, it's wonderful," he said.
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"And that's not all that's wonderful."
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"Oh, yes, just being away is a godsend."
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"No, I didn't mean just that, I meant being here with you." He
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picked up a forked stick with a solitary beech leaf on it and a thin,
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orange, conical bud on the end.
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"Yes, we are having fun, aren't we? I was so happy to be invited.
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I wonder whether the Princess will tell all her friends about me."
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'Her friends!' "Yes," he said, feeling a pout coming on, "anything I
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can do to further your career."
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She said hurriedly: "I mean it's especially nice to be here with you,
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Herr Mozart." And she pressed his hand. "You're such a great
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musician."
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He gritted his teeth and felt that his heart was cracking, getting
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ready to shiver into bits.
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"And so amusing," she added quickly, looking at his face.
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As he turned away, he saw her shake her head. She was evidently
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impatient with him. "So amusing"! How could he make her see he
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was more than that?
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***
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That evening by the fire, he luxuriated in gazing at Aloysia as the
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firelight glittered on her high cheekbones, at times grasping her hand.
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How nice it was that she was allowing him that liberty! He felt
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himself floating in a warm dream of contentment. He had given up
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trying to kiss her, or to even attempt greater intimacies. He burned
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for her, but he knew he could not have her -- at least not yet. Musical
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success, that's what he needed. It would be the key not only to the
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realization of his genius, but to his possession of Aloysia, having her
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in the only way he could -- or would -- have her. The name of the
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BOY Mozart was known throughout Europe. Now what was needed
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was for the name of the MAN to be known as well. To be an
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established musician holding a secure post, somewhere, anywhere,
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but especially some place where opera was appreciated, where he
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could bring music and drama together! Aloysia would be not only his
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wife, but also his star, the leading soprano who would realize roles of
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an emotional profundity greater than any that the world had ever
|
|
seen! Operas which he could not even as yet imagine -- but operas he
|
|
was sure he could write, operas that would revolutionize the art. If
|
|
they would only give him the chance. He could bring new levels of
|
|
emotional beauty into the world of music and the theater. With hard
|
|
work on his part -- and inspiration from his goddess!
|
|
How should he approach Aloysia about all this? She must be made
|
|
to comprehend and sympathize with his plans for their future
|
|
together!
|
|
***
|
|
The trees lining the allee were covered with ice from the freezing
|
|
rain of the night before. Through the whiteness of the twigs and
|
|
limbs, Karl Theodor could see smooth brown meadows, flecked with
|
|
streaks of frost. On the left side, another, uneven row of trees marked
|
|
the line where the Neckar flowed toward the center of Mannheim.
|
|
The horses' breaths were visible in the cold, as he slowed his down to
|
|
a walk. The Bishop slowed down too, his fat belly jiggling slower
|
|
and slower.
|
|
"It's good to get out in the air, isn't it, Your Grace?"
|
|
"Yes, Your Highness." The bishop gasped a little for breath. "It's
|
|
also more private."
|
|
"Precisely, my dear friend. Now. Let's talk about Munich. The
|
|
Electoral Prince is dead. Rather unexpectedly, but there you are.
|
|
There's to be no trouble about the succession. I will announce that,
|
|
according to my long-standing agreement with Prince Maximilian, I
|
|
will assume the throne of Bavaria immediately. Until I can arrange
|
|
things here, I want you to be my representative in Munich."
|
|
"I am honored, your Highness."
|
|
Karl Theodor drew back the hood of his traveling cloak. "Now
|
|
about the negotiations with the Emperor."
|
|
"Yes, Your Highness, do you want them broken off?"
|
|
"No, we'll go ahead with the agreement Joseph was trying to force
|
|
on poor Max and let him take over the Bavarian districts he's been
|
|
hungering after so long."
|
|
The Bishop of Chiemsee looked perplexed. "But, Your Highness,
|
|
is it necessary now?"
|
|
"As long as Joseph has a large, well-equipped army and I have
|
|
only the miserable rabble Max bequeathed me, it's necessary. Believe
|
|
me, Your Grace," he said, turning to him full face, "it's a price I'm
|
|
going to have to pay. Besides, in return, he's going to give me quite a
|
|
nice subsidy on the side."
|
|
"It's still a steep price."
|
|
"It might be. Except for one thing."
|
|
"What's that?"
|
|
"The Emperor is such a damned fool. He thinks he can take over
|
|
those districts without the French or Prussians objecting."
|
|
"And they will object?"
|
|
"I don't know about the French, but did you ever hear of Frederick
|
|
passing up an opportunity like this to bull his way into a territorial
|
|
dispute? No, I think my Bavaria will survive this deal with Joseph.
|
|
He gets some territory, which he may or may not have to give back. I
|
|
get a good deal of money -- which I will most definitely _not_ give
|
|
back."
|
|
"I hope you're not mistaken, Your Highness."
|
|
"I doubt that I am." He waved his arm. "My confidential agent in
|
|
Vienna tells me that Kaunitz is opposed to this land grab, but my man
|
|
doesn't think Joseph is listening to him. That doesn't surprise me --
|
|
after all, did you ever hear of Joseph's doing anything right?"
|
|
"Watch out, Your Highness, there's always a first time," said the
|
|
Bishop, spurring his horse into a trot. The new Electoral Prince of
|
|
both Bavaria and the Palatinate followed the Bishop of Chiemsee
|
|
down the allee and into the forest beyond.
|
|
***
|
|
The Princess of Orange, her face fat now but still pretty, smiled
|
|
brightly at Wolfgang, gave him four ducats, and allowed him to kiss
|
|
her bejeweled hand as he and Aloysia took their departure. The sky
|
|
was leaden as they passed by the twin stone lions guarding the gate of
|
|
Kirchheim-Bolanden. The creaking of the coach returning to
|
|
Mannheim was ugly to his ears. When he got to his lodgings, there
|
|
was a message from Hans. Another commission? No, it was Herr De
|
|
Jean, who wanted to know what had happened about the flute
|
|
concerto he had commissioned. Nothing, that's what had happened --
|
|
there were more important things in life than commissions from fat,
|
|
self-satisfied businessmen!
|
|
More important things -- like love. And like a position at court
|
|
that would make marriage possible.
|
|
He met Cannabich on the street the next day. He was sorry,
|
|
Cannabich told him, but there would be no position at Court open for
|
|
the foreseeable future. That night Wolfgang woke up at about three
|
|
o'clock. He was sweating, and he threw off the feather bed and pulled
|
|
up a blanket. No job for him in Mannheim -- and he was running out
|
|
of money. He would have to write Papa.
|
|
In the snowy brightness of the morning, he had a new idea.
|
|
Mannheim was a failure. But why did he necessarily have to go to
|
|
Paris? Why not instead combine his own job-seeking plans with
|
|
some way of promoting Aloysia and rescuing the rest of the Webers
|
|
from their financial problems? He thought about it as he splashed the
|
|
cold water on his face and then cleaned his teeth with a willow stick.
|
|
He and some of the Weber menage could go to Italy, where Aloysia
|
|
could try to become a prima donna. He would write operas for her
|
|
and try to organize himself a position in one of the many petty courts
|
|
scattered all over the peninsula. That old fart Friedolin and older
|
|
sister Josefa could go along too, as chaperones. Wolfgang could take
|
|
them to other countries too, Holland, Switzerland, making money
|
|
everywhere -- composing, giving concerts, putting on operas.
|
|
But he had to get his father's permission. Not only was his father
|
|
his father, but the bankers in Italy wouldn't give him credit without
|
|
Papa's say-so. Too bad that his father didn't know Aloysia -- her
|
|
beauty, her voice, her strength of character -- so that he could realize
|
|
how remarkable she was! He wrote a long letter outlining his
|
|
scheme and posted it to Salzburg. The answer came back a week
|
|
later. he read it as he drank coffee and finished his breakfast:
|
|
|
|
Salzburg, Feb. 12, 1778
|
|
|
|
Mein Lieber Sohn!
|
|
I've read your letter of the 4th with amazement and horror...
|
|
Suddenly you strike up this new acquaintance with Herr Weber. Now
|
|
this family is the most sincere, the most Christian family, and the
|
|
daughter is to have the leading role in the tragedy that is to be enacted
|
|
between your own family and hers!... You are thinking of taking her
|
|
to Italy as a prima donna. Tell me, do you know of any prima donna
|
|
who, without having first appeared many times in Germany, has gone
|
|
on the stage in Italy as prima donna?... As for your proposal -- I can
|
|
hardly write when I think about it -- to travel about with Herr Weber
|
|
and his two daughters, it has nearly made me lose my mind!... Berne,
|
|
Zurich, and the Hague are places for lesser lights, for half-composers,
|
|
for scribblers! Name me one composer who would deign to take so
|
|
abject a step! Off with you to Paris! And soon! Find your place
|
|
among great men. Aut Caesar aut nihil. The mere thought of seeing
|
|
Paris ought to have preserved you from these flighty ideas. From
|
|
Paris the name and fame of a man of great talent resounds
|
|
throughout the whole world... Win fame and make money in Paris;
|
|
then, when you have some money, go off to Italy and get
|
|
commissions for operas... Then you could promote Mlle. Weber,
|
|
which you can do better in person...
|
|
|
|
MZT
|
|
|
|
P.S. Your sister has cried and cried these past two days...
|
|
|
|
There was another letter for his mother. She walked in, wrapping
|
|
her peignoir about herself, and picked it up. He watched her open it
|
|
and read it. Her face grew self-righteous.
|
|
"What is it?" he said.
|
|
"It's about Paris, he says he's explained everything in his letter to
|
|
you." "I'm not ready to leave yet, Mama."
|
|
"He also says he's written to Herr Hintendorf, telling him we have
|
|
no further need of credit here, except for our expenses for the Paris
|
|
trip."
|
|
"He just doesn't understand."
|
|
"Papa understands, all right. Just remember, Wolferl."
|
|
"What?"
|
|
"Strong as a lion -- that's the motto." She kissed him on the brow.
|
|
He turned his head away. It must have been simpler just to be a lion
|
|
-- or to be just anybody else, anybody who didn't have to be separated
|
|
from his love.
|
|
***
|
|
On March 13 he made a last visit to the Webers. He would leave
|
|
for Paris the next day.
|
|
Aloysia was all smiles. "Well, I envy you going to Paris, Herr
|
|
Mozart," she said cheerily.
|
|
"I would rather stay here if I could," he said softly, feeling his high
|
|
collar eating into his throat.
|
|
"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't. Paris must be wonderful."
|
|
"I've grown very attached to Mannheim, " he said, his eyes starting
|
|
to fill with tears.
|
|
"We'll miss you too, don't be too sad, though, think of the
|
|
opportunity." She touched his arm gently. He shivered.
|
|
He mustered a wan smile, not knowing what to say. He tried to
|
|
press her hand, but she glanced at Konstanze watching them with an
|
|
ironic smile and pulled it away from him.
|
|
God, she was lovely!
|
|
In the morning, he leaned on the railing of the ferry crossing the
|
|
dark waters of the Rhine, looking back through sheets of rain at the
|
|
city. Paris it was, but he felt that his heart remained behind in
|
|
Mannheim. His heart was her prisoner.
|
|
Forever.
|
|
|
|
=================================================
|
|
|
|
PARIS
|
|
|
|
by Willliam Ramsay
|
|
|
|
[Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 11 of the novel "In Search of
|
|
Mozart"]
|
|
|
|
|
|
Paris.
|
|
City of marvels and romance.
|
|
Hah! City of mud and rain!
|
|
As their coach entered Paris by the Porte de Vincennes, Wolfgang
|
|
felt the growling of his stomach, as hungry and upset as his soul. His
|
|
love was three hundred miles away -- and it was raining. It had been
|
|
raining almost all the way from Mannheim. Dark clouds, fog, and
|
|
then gales of wind and torrents of water from the skies. Water-logged
|
|
roadways, mud splattered everywhere, the light-colored sides of the
|
|
coach were now dark with streaks of black grime and smears of
|
|
dark-brown mud.
|
|
As they approached their inn near the Quai d'Orsay, the
|
|
cobblestoned streets promised a welcome letup from the morass of
|
|
mud. A temporary haven. The following day, as they crossed the
|
|
Pont Neuf to the right bank and into the Marais quarter where Baron
|
|
Grimm had arranged for permanent rooms for them, they saw they
|
|
had not escaped the mud. The cobblestones ended, the streets
|
|
became a sump, and Wolfgang and the coachman had to help carry
|
|
his mother the twenty feet from the carriage to the doorway of the
|
|
house on Rue du Gros Chenet. Then they had four flights of stairs to
|
|
climb to reach their rooms. He was shocked by the small dingy
|
|
apartment -- the price they had arranged to pay would have procured
|
|
them a palatial suite in Mannheim or Salzburg. The splendors of
|
|
Paris! -- they would have been better off in a well-built pigsty in
|
|
Munich. There was not even room enough for a piano! How could
|
|
he hope to live there? He thought of the garret room in Augsburg,
|
|
light and warm. And Baesle.
|
|
Poor Baesle, from now on there was only his Aloysia, there was no
|
|
place for other women.
|
|
At the top of the stairs, his mother wiped her brow. "Wolferl, I
|
|
won't be able to climb these stairs, I'm all out of breath."
|
|
He sighed. She hadn't seemed well since they arrived. "We'll talk
|
|
to Baron Grimm."
|
|
His father's friend Baron Grimm lived in the Faubourg Saint
|
|
Honore, in a different sphere from the Rue du Gros Chenet. "It's
|
|
delightful to see you again, dear Frau Mozart and Wolferl -- I mean
|
|
'Herr Mozart'." The Baron's German had a hint of French accent in it
|
|
-- he had lived in Paris for twenty years. "Sorry about the rooms, but
|
|
it's dreadfully difficult to find anything at a reasonable price. But I
|
|
hope you'll feel free to make yourself at home here in my small
|
|
place."
|
|
"It's very elegant, Baron," said Wolfgang. "And I love the garden,
|
|
with the pansies and geraniums."
|
|
"We're especially proud of the oranges and lemons. Louise takes a
|
|
special interest in them."
|
|
'Louise' was the famous Madame d'Epinay. Rousseau's friend. All
|
|
the greatest men in France came to her soirees -- Diderot, d'Holbach,
|
|
the Abbe Galiani.
|
|
Grimm turned to his mother. "And I'll begin seeing what I can do
|
|
about talking to people about Wolferl. You understand I can't
|
|
guarantee success here. Paris is not Mannheim or Munich." He took
|
|
his monocle out of his eye and polished it with his handkerchief. His
|
|
jaw jutted out below his long, tapering nose, but the appearance of
|
|
strength was weakened by his wobbly double chin.
|
|
"People will like my playing," said Wolfgang.
|
|
"Hah!" The Baron raised one finger. "It's good to be confident,
|
|
but in Paris, just being confident _or_ good is not enough. You have
|
|
to work at things in Paris. And you have to be able to stand criticism
|
|
and neglect."
|
|
"I understand."
|
|
"I hope you do. The Parisian public is spoiled."
|
|
"Thank you again, Baron," said his mother.
|
|
"Gar nichts, gnaedige Frau," said the Baron, kissing her hand. The
|
|
rain freshened outside. The sky grew darker near the horizon over the
|
|
tops of the tiny orange trees. Wolfgang wondered if the sun would
|
|
ever shine in Paris.
|
|
The thought came to him whether the Baron knew any
|
|
good-looking young ladies. Then he remembered Aloysia. His heart,
|
|
in Mannheim forever. Still...
|
|
The following weeks were filled with finding students, giving
|
|
private recitals, trying to set up public concerts. And getting used to
|
|
the French language again, and to the jostling and filth of a big city.
|
|
But not a girl in sight -- at least no respectable girls. A pretty whore
|
|
near the Place Vendome told him, "Cheri, je vous ferai tres content."
|
|
Aloysia was far away -- and who knew when he would see her again.
|
|
So in a dank-smelling room over an inn, he did let a thin, hawk-nosed
|
|
young girl make him happy -- one half hour of joy.
|
|
A month later he went back to visit the Baron. The servant bowed
|
|
to him, motioned him inside, and showed him into the library. "Well,
|
|
how is it going, Wolferl?" The Baron gazed at him with his piercing
|
|
brown eyes.
|
|
"Oh, fine, Baron, I guess," he said. He sat down near the window
|
|
looking out on the garden. The May sun sparkled off the chandelier
|
|
over the Louis XV table.
|
|
"How are the lessons with the Duc de Guisnes going?"
|
|
"All right. But these people," he said, "think that I have nothing
|
|
but time, these aristocratic idlers don't know what it is to have work
|
|
to do. Do you know what happened to me with the Duc de Chabot?"
|
|
"I told him you would be coming over last Tuesday."
|
|
"Well, Tuesday it was. A big mansion, very impressive, very
|
|
vulgar display, I thought. I left my name with a servant. He looked
|
|
at me as if I had crawled in under the door, than he showed me into
|
|
an empty room. There was no fireplace and it was freezing. They
|
|
kept me waiting there alone for an hour and a half."
|
|
"Incredible," said Grimm, making a Gallic moue with his lips.
|
|
"Yes, indeed. Then finally the Duchess, a cute little thing, dressed
|
|
in a kind of smock and turban, showed up. She was polite, she
|
|
apologized for the piano, she asked me to play. I said that my hands
|
|
were numb with cold, and could she first take me to a room with a
|
|
fire. So she said, 'Yes, you're right.'"
|
|
"So you got warmed up?'
|
|
"No, not at all. Instead of taking me to a fire, she sat down and
|
|
started to work on her sketch pad. I waited for the promised fire.
|
|
And waited. Then some gentlemen came in, sat down at the table
|
|
around her, and also began sketching. I waited some more. The
|
|
windows were open, there was a terrible draft, and my head began to
|
|
ache. Finally I gave up and decided to play. What a piano!"
|
|
"Bad, eh?'
|
|
"Yes, awful. So I played. And do you know what?"
|
|
"No," said the Baron, taking a sip of his wine.
|
|
"Neither she nor any of her friends looked up for one moment
|
|
while I was playing. They just kept on happily sketching away. So I
|
|
had the privilege of playing, cold, headache, tinny piano and all,
|
|
giving a recital for the benefit of the tables and chairs."
|
|
"Well, tell me, at least did they get you that introduction to the
|
|
Duchesse de Bourbon? That could be a good entree at court."
|
|
"Not a mention of it."
|
|
"Terrible! Have another glass of wine." The Baron stood up and
|
|
began to pace across the room, looking at the large Leipzig clock,
|
|
decorated in mother- of-pearl, which stood in the center of the
|
|
mantel. "It's important that we get you into Versailles -- but at the
|
|
right level. I think that if we do, they'll offer you a position. God
|
|
knows they have plenty of musical jobs at the court."
|
|
"As a matter of fact, they already have offered me something."
|
|
Grimm raised his head abruptly. "What? A job?"
|
|
"Yes. A job at Versailles. Rodolphe, in the Royal Chapel, only
|
|
mentioned it to me the other day. Court Organist, it would pay two
|
|
thousand livres."
|
|
"Wonderful, I'm so happy for you, Wolferl. It sounds ideal."
|
|
"I'd have to spend six months in Versailles every year. And it's only
|
|
two thousand livres."
|
|
"But that wouldn't be so bad." The Baron started pacing even
|
|
faster. "You could spend the other six in Paris, London, Vienna.
|
|
And the salary isn't exactly munificent, but it's respectable. Besides,
|
|
you can earn money on the side, composing and giving lessons."
|
|
"I suppose."
|
|
"You'll take it, of course."
|
|
"I'd like to think about it first." He began tapping the ends of his
|
|
fingers together.
|
|
Grimm made a face. "You know, getting established at Court in a
|
|
job like that could be marvelous. Especially now."
|
|
"Why now?'
|
|
"Because last year your beloved Emperor Joseph the Not-So-Great
|
|
finally persuaded the King to get his penis operated on so that he can
|
|
perform his husbandly duties with the Emperor's sister. You know, of
|
|
course, that the Queen is pregnant."
|
|
"Yes, of course."
|
|
"Well, royal children mean, as far as you are concerned, more
|
|
music, music for births and christenings -- and later, music lessons.
|
|
Why shouldn't the music tutor of the next Dauphin be the young
|
|
Court Organist, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?'
|
|
"I still want to think about it."
|
|
"Think. But when you're through thinking, accept it! Meanwhile,
|
|
stay to dinner."
|
|
"My mother's expecting me."
|
|
"I'll send word that you'll be late. Louise is anxious to talk to you
|
|
about your travels, about the Empress, especially. Your mother will
|
|
be all right."
|
|
He thought of his mother in the garret room. He should do
|
|
something nice for her. Next week, maybe.
|
|
Maybe he could take home some cake to his mother.
|
|
***
|
|
"Did you hear about Mozart's coup last week, Baron?"
|
|
"No, Herr Ramm, is it something I want to know about?" Grimm
|
|
had run into the German musician at a reception for the players and
|
|
patrons of the Concert Spirituel in the drafty old Sabran Palace.
|
|
Ramm's beefy, square face was unusually red. Grimm wondered
|
|
whether it was from playing the oboe, or drinking wine, or both.
|
|
"It's certainly worth hearing about. You see, there we were at Le
|
|
Gros' place, a few of the boys, Wolferl and I and Punto and Ritter and
|
|
so on. And of course the latest star of the Concert, Maestro Giuseppe
|
|
Cambini himself. Old fuss and feathers."
|
|
"I don't know him," said Grimm, putting down his wineglass.
|
|
"Well, Signore Cambini has a great deal of respect for Maestro
|
|
Cambini, if you know what I mean. Anyway, it turned out that
|
|
Wolferl had heard some of Cambini's quartets in Mannheim, and he
|
|
sat down and played part of one from memory -- you know how he is
|
|
-- and he said how much he liked it."
|
|
"Yes, I know him."
|
|
"Well, of course Punto and I egged Wolferl on. 'Oh play some
|
|
more, Wolferl.' And he'd say, 'But I don't know any more,' and we'd
|
|
say, 'It doesn't matter, improvise.'"
|
|
"And knowing him, I'm sure he couldn't resist."
|
|
"Right. So he played more and more, improvising around
|
|
Cambini's material, and of course Wolferl's version was far more
|
|
interesting than the original. And all the time Cambini's brow was
|
|
getting darker and darker. So finally, after Mozart stopped, Cambini
|
|
said, 'Questa e una gran testa!' or what I render as 'What a brain.'"
|
|
"Well, that was gracious of him."
|
|
Ramm chuckled. His eyes glinted. "But he didn't look gracious!"
|
|
"Oh well, no harm done."
|
|
"Oh? Tell me why then in the meantime has all work mysteriously
|
|
stopped on getting Wolferl's 'concertone' into rehearsal? Could it be
|
|
that Cambini's friend Francois Gossec, who schedules the concerts,
|
|
heard something about our little evening of fun at the keyboard?"
|
|
Grimm shrugged and took a pinch of snuff. Ramm had bad breath,
|
|
but the two of them were wedged into a corner and it was difficult
|
|
for Grimm to move away. "How long are you going to be in Paris,
|
|
Herr Ramm?"
|
|
"Right now, I'm waiting impatiently, hoping to be appointed to the
|
|
new orchestra in Munich. Now that the Electorates of the Palatinate
|
|
and Bavaria have been combined, we're all waiting to see which of us
|
|
from Mannheim are going to be invited to Munich."
|
|
"I wish you luck."
|
|
"I've been hoping that maybe a place for Wolferl could be found in
|
|
Munich. I'm sure he'd like that."
|
|
"I think he'll probably stay in Paris," said Grimm. "He's been
|
|
offered the job of organist at Versailles."
|
|
"Oh, no, he's turned that down."
|
|
"He's _what_?"
|
|
"Yes, turned it down."
|
|
Grimm hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I don't
|
|
understand."
|
|
Ramm laughed. "That's because you don't know the fair Aloysia."
|
|
"You mean that soprano in Mannheim he's always talking about?'
|
|
"Yes, he's madly in love with her."
|
|
"You mean he'd turn down a job like that for some little German
|
|
singer?"
|
|
"She _is_ good-looking." Ramm placed his cheek on his folded
|
|
hands and smiled like a modest young girl.
|
|
"Why didn't he stay in Mannheim if he won't take a job in Paris?"
|
|
"Father insisted, I think. Unfortunately he's head over heels in
|
|
love with her. But..." He stopped.
|
|
"'But' what?"
|
|
"I don't think she loses much sleep over him."
|
|
Grimm shook his head from side to side. "What a waste."
|
|
"Don't take it so hard, Baron, he's only a man, just like all of us."
|
|
"Not quite, Herr Ramm, not quite." He pursed his lips. "No, not
|
|
_quite_ like _all_ of us."
|
|
"Yes," said Ramm. "But at least people like you and me _know_
|
|
who we are -- don't we, Baron? Not like poor Wolferl, who appears
|
|
not to know whether he's a man or a force of nature!"
|
|
***
|
|
Marianne Mozart sat at the one rickety table in her room on the
|
|
Rue du Gros Chenet. She was finishing a letter home:
|
|
|
|
...Here's an item for Nannerl. The style here is not to wear any
|
|
earrings or necklaces, no jeweled pins in the hair, in fact no sparkling
|
|
jewels at all, either real or false. The wigs are very tall, entirely even
|
|
all the way around, with a cap on top that's even taller than the wig.
|
|
The roofs of the carriages had to be raised because no lady could sit
|
|
upright in them.
|
|
I kiss you both 1000000 times. My greetings to all our friends.
|
|
She signed the letter and then added a postscript: "I send a kiss to
|
|
Bimperl. Is the warbler still alive?"
|
|
|
|
Maybe when the season started in the fall, they could rent a larger
|
|
apartment, buy their own furniture, and cook for themselves. They
|
|
could save some money and it would be more homelike. Maybe
|
|
even buy a pet -- even if only a canary.
|
|
She was tired. She would get into bed and rest, maybe she could
|
|
do a little needlepoint, propped up on the pillows. It was getting so
|
|
warm.
|
|
She woke in the middle of the night. She was covered with sweat.
|
|
She reached for the water, but the pitcher was empty. She called out,
|
|
"Wolferl. Wolferl." And then more loudly, "WOLFERL!" Silence.
|
|
Maybe he hadn't come home tonight. Again. She was awfully thirsty.
|
|
But she didn't want to have to climb up and down all those steps to
|
|
fetch water from the well in the courtyard. If Nannerl and Leopold
|
|
were only here. She lay back and waited for sleep. It was very
|
|
warm.
|
|
***
|
|
It was very hot in Wolfgang's room. The sunlight off the new
|
|
copper roof across the way was blinding. He could hear her heavy
|
|
breathing. Her diarrhea was becoming worse. The fever seemed to
|
|
come and go. She said "Bimperl" over and over. The bedpans were
|
|
sickening to carry down the stairs.
|
|
The next day Baron Grimm found a German doctor and sent him
|
|
around. The doctor gave her wine and bled her, but just a small
|
|
amount, which probably didn't hurt much, Wolfgang supposed, but
|
|
didn't seem to help much either. The doctor said if was a quartan
|
|
fever and she would probably be all right.
|
|
Paris in July seemed cooler than Salzburg, but the heat in her
|
|
small room was overpowering. Wolfgang felt completely disoriented
|
|
as he sat by his mother's bedside. She tossed a bit and her eyes
|
|
opened.
|
|
"Mama, how are you?'
|
|
A weak voice answered, "I feel awful." She tried to clear her
|
|
throat. Then she licked her lips. "The room is spinning around." She
|
|
tried to pull herself up. "Some wine, please."
|
|
"No, Mama, it's not good for you."
|
|
"Please, please, my throat's so parched."
|
|
So he poured her out a small glass, his hand shaking.
|
|
Some days she seemed better. One day she talked to him about
|
|
the Sunday Grimm had taken them all out to to the Baron von
|
|
Kidder's house in Boisemont to see the cherry trees in bloom.
|
|
"The flowers, the red anemones, weren't they beautiful, Wolferl?"
|
|
"Yes, mother, beautiful."
|
|
"Beautiful. What a lovely day."
|
|
But that same night she became worse. Over the following days,
|
|
her breathing became increasingly strained, she would begin to writhe
|
|
and toss in bed, sometimes lapsing into delirium.
|
|
After a few days, he began to feel restless. His mother was worse,
|
|
she was asleep or in a delirium most of the time. One afternoon he
|
|
got up, looked in on his mother, sat beside her bed for as long as he
|
|
could stand it, got himself washed, dressed, and his hair powdered.
|
|
Then he went off to visit the Princesse de Cleves. He was welcomed
|
|
and invited to sit down at the piano. He played two sonatas, a
|
|
fantasia, and improvised a cadenza. His eyes filled momentarily as
|
|
he thought of his mother, then he became distracted with the latest
|
|
gossip, especially about Marie-Antoinette and the Comte d'Artois, and
|
|
what the "locksmith," King Louis XVI, thought about it all. He drank
|
|
quite a lot of wine, a good deal more than usual. Finally he went
|
|
home, climbed the long flights of stairs, puffing a bit, opened his
|
|
mother's door slightly, glanced in at her sleeping figure, plunked
|
|
himself down on his own bed, vomited gently onto the carpet, and
|
|
that was the last he remembered. He woke up the next morning, fully
|
|
dressed, filthy, and nauseated. As he raised his aching head, the
|
|
nausea seemed to fill his soul, nausea at his desertion of his mother's
|
|
sickbed, the awful weakness that could not deal with the fear of her
|
|
dying.
|
|
By the afternoon of the next day, she had been writhing for hours
|
|
in her pain, her wasted body twisting and turning in the bed. She was
|
|
comatose, only muttering incomprehensible phrases, or calling
|
|
"Mozart!" from time to time, or "Doggie, sweet doggie." Suddenly,
|
|
her breath began to labor, it came with increasing difficulty -- and
|
|
then abruptly stopped. He caught his breath, then called in Wendling,
|
|
who felt her throat gently and then closed her eyes. Standing beside
|
|
the body, afterward, looking at the pale face, the eyes covered with
|
|
copper coins, he felt only embarrassment. And embarrassment at
|
|
being embarrassed.
|
|
At the funeral, Wolfgang shyly received the condolences of the
|
|
small community of German expatriates. He felt almost nothing --
|
|
except shame at his weakness as she lay ill.
|
|
As the days passed, life came back to normal. He wrote his father,
|
|
he wrote letters to his friends mentioning the death, putting in phrases
|
|
about "the will of God," and "an end to all her suffering." But
|
|
underneath, he felt only oppressed and bewildered by her death.
|
|
Then, a week after the funeral, he had a dream. His mother was
|
|
scolding him, he had been a bad boy, he had torn his sister's book and
|
|
ruined it. His mother in the dream was not a pudgy middle-aged lady,
|
|
she looked like a young, radiant princess. She seemed angry, but
|
|
even so, he could feel keenly -- as so many times in his childhood --
|
|
that she didn't really mean it. She smiled at him and called him her
|
|
own darling Wolferl.
|
|
He awoke, sweating, and couldn't go back to sleep. He took two
|
|
gulps from the bottle of wine at his bedside. He _had_ been her little
|
|
Wolferl. She alone of all the world had loved him entirely separated
|
|
from his being a musician. She had had to give him up when "the
|
|
world had wanted him" -- when his father had decided that his home
|
|
and his mother didn't matter, all that mattered was fame and fortune.
|
|
She had reluctantly but good-naturedly let him go. He had seen her
|
|
turn to her card games and her cooking and her coarse and homely
|
|
jokes and her little dogs. And he had averted his eyes and let it all
|
|
happen.
|
|
How the gift of her mothering had been stifled, passing him by.
|
|
Her love had been there, then it had disappeared, slipping away
|
|
silently and imperceptibly. He had been so greedy for love. He had
|
|
attracted love from women and men -- but never enough and never of
|
|
the kind that only his mother had ever given him. And now it was too
|
|
late -- she was gone forever.
|
|
She had left him only the memory of the lion strength of the Pertls.
|
|
He was alone in Paris. And Aloysia was still in Mannheim.
|
|
A memory of lion strength -- but what a coward he had shown
|
|
himself during her last illness. He was weak, unforgivably weak.
|
|
Maybe he didn't deserve success -- or Aloysia.
|
|
|
|
=================================================
|
|
|
|
|
|
TIME TRIALS
|
|
|
|
by Otho E. Eskin
|
|
|
|
|
|
"I do wish you would learn to play mahjongg," Eva says as she
|
|
puts her cup of hot chocolate on the table top.
|
|
Suddenly it is very important that I understand why I am in the
|
|
Fuehrerbunker talking with Eva Braun when we haven't even been
|
|
introduced.
|
|
"I don't have the time," I say.
|
|
She stirs the chocolate with a silver spoon. The spoon makes
|
|
a small tinkling sound as it strikes the side of the cup. Her hands are
|
|
thick and have faint red spots on them. She is putting on weight.
|
|
How is it that I have never noticed that before?
|
|
"I don't have the time," I say.
|
|
Dr. Sullivan lights a Marlboro with a gold lighter, then waves
|
|
away the smoke from between us. "I hope you don't mind my
|
|
smoking."
|
|
I hate smoking. I have strictly forbidden it. I know they sneak
|
|
out into the garden and smoke. I can smell it on their breaths. It's on
|
|
the tips of their fingers. It comes through their skin. It oozes through
|
|
their pores like pus. People who corrupt their bodies with tobacco
|
|
should be shot. No. Better they should be strangled.
|
|
"What's to mind," I say.
|
|
Dr. Sullivan picks a piece of tobacco from her lower lip. She
|
|
is wearing simple navy, wool gabardine separates with a fitted
|
|
double-breasted jacket. Poor stitching in the collar. It is beginning to
|
|
pucker. She probably paid too much for it.
|
|
The airless air, the smell of damp concrete suffocates me.
|
|
Somewhere through the meters of steel and mortar I sense the
|
|
throbbing of the generators.
|
|
What am I doing here?
|
|
Dr. Sullivan sees me looking at her hands. She seems to be
|
|
self-conscious about them. She stubs out her cigarette in a large
|
|
ceramic ashtray half-filled with burnt out ends and folds her hands in
|
|
her lap.
|
|
"What seems to be the problem?"
|
|
"I have terrifying visions. I think I'm maybe going crazy."
|
|
"Tell me about them."
|
|
"I'm in a room. Sometimes I'm alone. Sometimes there are
|
|
others."
|
|
"Are these other people strangers?"
|
|
"Yes. No."
|
|
She shakes a fresh cigarette from a package and holds it, unlit,
|
|
in her hand.
|
|
"Can you describe the room?"
|
|
"Just a square room. No windows. There is a desk -- or
|
|
maybe a table. A couple of chairs. Outside, mortar shells rain down
|
|
onto Wilhelmstrasse. Trucks and tanks burn in Potsdamer Platz.
|
|
That's all."
|
|
"What are you doing in that room?"
|
|
"I am waiting for someone. I haven't much time left."
|
|
"Does the room remind you of some place you have been?
|
|
Maybe when you were young?"
|
|
"I have never been in that room. No. That is not quite true. I
|
|
have always been in that room."
|
|
"These dreams..."
|
|
"These are not dreams. Dreams I can live with. What I see is
|
|
real. I'm telling you, they are more real than you, Dr. Sullivan."
|
|
She glances to see if I am looking at her hands. "Do you have
|
|
any health problems?"
|
|
"In the last few days I have been suffering from headaches.
|
|
And I've been getting stomach cramps."
|
|
She lights her cigarette and takes a long drag, then coughs.
|
|
"Jesus, these things are going to kill me." She puts the cigarette, still
|
|
lit and smoldering, into the ashtray. "I've been trying to stop. I've been
|
|
through self-hypnosis, TM, behavior modification. Nothing works.
|
|
Do you follow any regular regime of exercise?"
|
|
What should I know from exercise? I work twelve hours a day,
|
|
six days a week in my clothing store on twenty-fourth street to keep
|
|
food on the table. I should be in a fancy jogging suit and hundred
|
|
dollar shoes running around Central Park with all the low-lifes?
|
|
"I don't have time, Dr. Sullivan."
|
|
"Yes, you do. You have all the time in the world."
|
|
She's right of course. But how could she know that?
|
|
"Do you have a balanced diet?"
|
|
With the aggravations I have, what do I know from a balanced
|
|
diet. Sometime, if I'm lucky I have a lean corn beef on rye for lunch
|
|
and maybe in the afternoon a glass tea.
|
|
I hear sirens, muffled by tons of concrete and steel and time.
|
|
So much time. So little time. My hands shake. I can't move my left
|
|
arm. Eva is complaining that she is bored. She is wearing a simple
|
|
cotton dark-blue print frock with white polka dots. The seams of her
|
|
stockings are crooked. I can barely suppress my rage.
|
|
We are being invaded by the barbarians. Thousands of
|
|
Russian soldiers pour through the streets above us. And she is bored.
|
|
Big deal. Within hours she will be dead. The world is coming to an
|
|
end and she wants to play games. A rocket scientist she's not. I tell her
|
|
I don't have time. She pouts and drinks her chocolate.
|
|
"Have you been seeing any physicians?" Dr. Sullivan asks.
|
|
Dr. Sullivan thinks I am hallucinating. I'm not hallucinating
|
|
the Red Army on Frankfurter Allee. I'm not hallucinating the bombs
|
|
that fall on the city, the fire storms that are sweeping us away.
|
|
I've never been sick a day in my life. So why am I sitting here
|
|
with a crazy-doctor at $90 an hour when God knows what is
|
|
happening at the store?
|
|
"I occasionally see specialists to help with my arm," I tell her.
|
|
She holds the cigarette back and away from her. "You didn't
|
|
mention anything about your arm."
|
|
"It happened many years ago."
|
|
She is attractive in a coarse, Mediterranean way. She is
|
|
maybe in her thirties and has a nice figure. She sees me watching her
|
|
and she sits back in her high-backed chair and folds one arm across
|
|
her breast, the cigarette in the other hand, just in front of her mouth.
|
|
She has a full mouth with generous, inviting lips. I wonder if anyone
|
|
has ever told her that.
|
|
"I am seeing Dr. Kreuz," I say.
|
|
She flicks her tongue along her lower lip. The sight of her
|
|
pink tongue excites me.
|
|
"Dr. Kreuz is a fraud," she says. Dr. Sullivan stubs out her
|
|
half-finished cigarette. She stirs the butt in the ashtray among the
|
|
others.
|
|
Eva has gone and I am alone. She doesn't approve of Dr.
|
|
Kreuz and she doesn't want to be around when she comes. How long
|
|
have I been alone? Shouldn't there be people here? Have they all
|
|
gone? Have they sneaked out of the bunker? Are they scurrying like
|
|
frightened field mice through the burning rubble? The General Staff,
|
|
the guards, dear Eva. All deserters.
|
|
I won't miss her. Least of all Eva.
|
|
Maybe I'm the only one left in the bunker. There is no one I
|
|
can trust. I am surrounded by traitors. I am the victim of corruption
|
|
and cowardice. I go to the door and listen but hear nothing. I can't
|
|
even hear the generators any more.
|
|
Eva has become a trial. It was all right at the Berghof. Now
|
|
she thinks she can make claims on me. Now that we are married, she
|
|
has become impossible. She says she gave up a promising career to
|
|
be with me. Eva's getting to be a real pain. Who needs it?
|
|
Is it my imagination or is the air becoming more stale? Maybe
|
|
the air circulation system has stopped. I feel my heart pounding in my
|
|
chest. I can no longer breathe. How long does it take to die of
|
|
asphyxiation? I open the door a crack and look into the office
|
|
beyond. Bormann glances up at me. He is wearing a heavy, gray
|
|
worsted jacket. I shut the door quickly, embarrassed.
|
|
"Dr. Kreuz is a fraud." Dr. Sullivan is fiddling with her
|
|
lighter. She taps it on the desk top. Tap-tap-tap-tap. I hope she will
|
|
show me her tongue again. "She's not even a doctor, you know."
|
|
"She didn't help you," I tell her. The tapping is making me
|
|
nervous. Do I dare ask her to stop?
|
|
"She talks a good line," Dr. Sullivan says. "She makes all
|
|
kinds of claims. But she is incompetent. I paid a fortune to that
|
|
woman to cure me of my smoking habit. She said: no problem. She'd
|
|
done it hundreds of times, she said. But at the end, she tells me the
|
|
cure is too dangerous. I might not survive the treatment. By the time I
|
|
was through, I was a nervous wreck and smoking three packs a day."
|
|
The bombardment has begun again. The enemy has located
|
|
the bunker and the shells fall like hammer blows above my head. The
|
|
noise is so great I cannot think. The earth trembles. Fine dust drifts
|
|
from a crack in the ceiling. How can the walls support the stress?
|
|
The room is full of smoke.
|
|
What if something has happened to Dr. Kreuz. She has told
|
|
me many times that nothing can harm her. But can she withstand steel
|
|
and flame? She has survived worse, she says. She stands at the far
|
|
end of the room telling me the time has come.
|
|
"Are you ready?" she asks.
|
|
Now that it is time, I hesitate.
|
|
"Will I forget?" I ask.
|
|
Dr. Sullivan is looking at me intently. Her mouth is partly
|
|
open and her lips are moist. She seems to be breathing quickly.
|
|
"Are you all right, Dr. Sullivan?" I stand up and cross to her.
|
|
She is at least six inches taller than I am. "You seem...you should
|
|
excuse the expression...excited."
|
|
"I'm just upset. You'd be upset too if some bitch ripped you off
|
|
for six grand."
|
|
I lead her to the couch. "Sit down, Dr. Sullivan. You must
|
|
rest." She sits on the couch and I take off her shoes -- gray pumps --
|
|
totally inappropriate to her outfit. I lift her feet to the couch. She puts
|
|
one hand over her eyes and takes a deep breath.
|
|
"You can't imagine how I hate this job."
|
|
There is a knock at the door. "It's me. Eva. Can I come in?"
|
|
"We must hurry," Dr. Kreuz says.
|
|
Eva knocks more loudly. "We are running out of time," Eva
|
|
says.
|
|
"We are running out of time," Dr. Kreuz says. I hear the
|
|
impatient rapping at the door and have a hard time following Dr.
|
|
Kreuz's words. "I have the key to the Arcanum. I am immortal. Use
|
|
your powers and you will be immortal too."
|
|
"Can I speak frankly to you?" Dr. Sullivan interrupts. I'm
|
|
sitting on the couch next to her. "I know this isn't professional, but I
|
|
find you strangely attractive." She is looking at me intently. "I find
|
|
you somehow magnetic."
|
|
"Please pay attention," Dr. Kreuz yells at me. "You must
|
|
concentrate. Time's web that binds you is dissolving." There are so
|
|
many voices. The roaring in my ears splits my skull. The bunker
|
|
groans from the impact of a bomb fifty feet above us. The sound of
|
|
traffic drifts up from the street below. There is tapping at the door.
|
|
"Please answer me."
|
|
"I'm losing you." Dr. Kreuz's voice is a hoarse whisper. "I'm
|
|
losing you."
|
|
"Did you hear what I said?" Dr. Sullivan asks. "You don't
|
|
seem to be paying attention." She grasps my hand fiercely. "I am
|
|
losing you."
|
|
"What is happening?" I hear myself asking.
|
|
"Concentrate." Dr. Kreuz grasps me by the hand. "Use your
|
|
powers. The matrix of time no longer has you in its power. In a
|
|
moment your spirit will fall across space and time."
|
|
"Who will I be?"
|
|
"Even now I search for a vessel. Perhaps nearby. Perhaps on
|
|
the other side of the world."
|
|
"When?"
|
|
"Then is now. Somewhere, sometime, someone waits. The
|
|
world waits for you."
|
|
"What are you doing in there?" Eva's voice has a sharp edge
|
|
on it. "Let me in this minute." Such a yenta.
|
|
"Use your powers." Dr. Kreuz is calling me from a great
|
|
distance. "Even now you take possession of another. Do not fail me.
|
|
Do not fail destiny."
|
|
I can hear nothing except the incessant knocking on the door.
|
|
Will no one stop her? Will no put an end to my torment?
|
|
I make out the words of Dr. Kreuz. "We shall meet again," she
|
|
says from a very long time ago.
|
|
Torrents of icy darkness sear my soul. My flesh is stripped
|
|
away, the marrow sucked from my bones.
|
|
The woman lying on the couch looks at me eagerly. Her hand
|
|
is at the back of my neck and pulls me toward her. I am too startled
|
|
to resist. Her lips are soft and moist. I can smell her cologne, I can
|
|
smell her flesh. I am so close I can see the texture of her skin under
|
|
her makeup. She opens her lips and her tongue touches mine. I can
|
|
taste the tobacco.
|
|
I hear myself screaming; the words pour from my lips; words I
|
|
didn't think I knew. I am shaking her violently. She is unable to
|
|
comprehend what is happening. I taste the smoke in her mouth; I feel
|
|
the corruption of her body. My rage becomes incandescent. My
|
|
hands are at her throat. Her eyes widen -- in terror? -- in expectation?
|
|
-- in understanding?
|
|
My rage burns out as quickly as it began. Only my hands
|
|
tremble. Otherwise, I am entirely normal. I rise and go the desk. I
|
|
search through the Rolodex until I find the name of Dr. Kreuz. I
|
|
write the address on a slip of paper.
|
|
I am anxious to leave. I have a great deal to talk to Dr. Kreuz
|
|
about.
|
|
==================================================================================================
|