tiny body, which he could not hold close enough, seemed worth all the riches of the courts of Europe.
“I don’t want to quarrel with you,” he said into her neck. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, I beg you. I’ll become a great success for you. Aloysia, what do I have but you? I’ve disappointed my father and my sister; I’ve lost my beloved mother; and I’ve failed you. Isn’t this enough? Dearest, you must believe in me. You must believe that there’s reason for what I do. Aloysia, what do I have without you? Every hope I had was swept away, but I thought of your family and you, and it was my whole comfort.”
“You must understand why I was angry with you.”
“You won’t have further cause.” He wiped her tears with his handkerchief; he was trembling so his hands shook. “Listen, listen, dearest,” he said. “But I come with good news, too, not only terrible. Very good news. How oddly the best things come hand in hand with tragedy. I have an opera commission for the Residenztheater. His Excellency has sponsored it.”
“What? Here in Munich? For our exquisite theater?”
“I thought about writing you but decided to wait to tell you in person. So you see, I have not come back empty-handed. It’s an opera seria, my best work to date. It’s called Idomeneo. I have a chance to succeed and begin to make a great deal of money, and then we can marry at once, my Aloysia, and never be parted again. Don’t cry anymore, my beloved. Trust me.”
She stroked his face gently, looking at him; she had become suddenly very still. “You are very tired,” she said. “You are very tired, my love.”
For three days he slept and slept in the small room behind their kitchen. He would awake startled, thinking himself in Paris or in some inn, overwhelmed with sadness when he recalled his loss and theirs. Sometimes he felt he could hardly stand. Still, outside that room there was life; he heard the sisters’ chatter as they drank their morning coffee. Even in their recent grief they chattered. A knock would come at his door; a cup would be handed to him through the crack. They were there in their dressing gowns, he just behind the door in his shirt. Once, coming from his small room unexpectedly, he saw them all flee down the hall, laughing in their white smocks and bare feet, leaving behind them a drip of washing water on the floor and the smell of lavender. They surrounded him every hour of the day; they were in every corner of the rooms, asking him questions and telling him stories. In between them, Maria Caecilia moved languidly, always smiling at him when he entered the room. Sensuality hung so heavily in the air that he felt he could not breathe. Not only Aloysia but all the sisters. Even Josefa’s bare long legs, visible when her dressing gown opened, haunted him. Even Sophie’s chapped lips, her flat little body. He was drunk and distracted and could not compose a note.
He moved to the Cannabich house, for the famous Mannheim orchestra was now in Munich. There he wrote until his eyes could no longer focus; then he jumped up and, along with a few orchestra musicians, rushed over to the Weber rooms. With their arms full of cheeses and sausages wrapped in old news journals, the musicians bolted up the steps three at a time.
In the rooms he whirled Aloysia in his arms. “A whole day without the sight of you!” he cried. “This is more than heaven should ask of me.”
After supper they all played games, dancing and chasing one another around the furniture. The sisters fled from him and he caught them, leaping over the furniture and growling. Shrieking, they ran from room to room. When he was panting too hard to run anymore, he sat down at the clavier and cried, “One of you cover my eyes with your hands, and I’ll play any song you know backward.”
Fluttering his covered eyelids for a moment, he saw little fingers with dry skin and guessed it was one of the younger sisters whose hands were pressed against his face. He played faster, rocking more violently as he did so, to all their shrieks. Finally, he tipped himself entirely off the chair, dragging the girl with him. “Constanze,” he cried, opening his eyes. “I never thought it was you! Come, tell me what you like; I’ll make