to a length of pink brocade for a dress for Aloysia’s new role, they heard the sound of a man’s feet mounting the stairs. They listened as the footsteps passed the room in which they worked. Josefa stood up abruptly, put down the pins she was holding, and started for the door. “I won’t stand for it,” she said. “What would Papa say?”
First came the furniture movers, banging secondhand beds and wardrobes up the stairs; they brought tables, chairs, and hat stands. Two fat women who dealt in used sheets, pillows, and bed curtains followed, negotiating loudly with Frau Weber about the price; at one point they almost left in fury, carrying a dozen pillows in their arms. By the end of the week, the large house was stuffed with scratched furniture and mismatched linens.
The first three boarders moved in the next day: Hans Haussman, a silk merchant who at once complained about the meals; the cellist Giovanni Forza, who practiced scales in his room from four in the morning and stank of raw garlic; and a tall portraitist in his twenties, called Joseph Lange, who kept to himself. There were those sheets to change, shaving water to bring. Constanze was right in her assessment, for she and Sophie were pressed into service to help at meals, supplying knives, more ale, another helping of veal. Reluctantly, they became used to the despised strangers, lowering their eyes when near them, waiting to emerge from their own room when they heard one of the boarders in the hall.
Aloysia and Josefa would have nothing to do with the whole matter.
The men’s laundry was piled in a small stone room and attended to by a laundress who came twice weekly. Aloysia passed the dark room each day that early spring as she slipped into the still barren garden behind the house to study her music.
Once, she almost walked into the portraitist, Lange. “Ah, the air,” he said. “I can almost smell the linden blossoms already. Mademoiselle, there’s nothing more beautiful than Vienna in the spring.” He bowed to her slightly and she nodded curtly. As he went, she imagined she could detect the scent of linden blossoms in the air, until the linseed oil and paint smell that clung to the man’s coat erased it. Her father had tried painting for a time, Aloysia remembered. His easel was set up in the parlor when he decided he would paint portraits to supplement their income; only a total lack of ability had deterred him.
“Wolfgang Mozart is a genius, young woman.” Those had been the Munich conductor Cannabich’s words to her when they met in the street after Mozart had returned to Salzburg. ”A genius, and a good kind man, loves you; never forget that.” The conductor’s face had been serious, and he had looked tired. The two of them stood by a bakery talking for a time, before he bowed to her and walked away.
Aloysia thought about their encounter that spring day as she sat on a bench in the garden behind their new house, writing a letter to her fiancé.
Mozart’s own rich and charming letters came regularly to Vienna. How many plans, schemes, determinations he had; how clever he was. But more than that, they gave her advice on the style and technique of her singing. She studied them. In the first weeks at the opera, when other sopranos had snarled at her and tried to edge her offstage or drown her delicate voice with their larger ones, she had despaired and he had understood; he pointed out her gifts and how she could use them to her best advantage. She had depended on her father’s teaching more than she knew, and now she depended on the young composer.
Wolfgang, send me all styles of cadenzas you’ve heard on your travels. And come to me quickly, for I’m longing for you. I’m longing for our marriage. Why don’t you come and turn the city upside down with your music, and take me away from this wretched boardinghouse to live in splendid rooms?
Two strangers have sent me flowers. Last night after the performance, several of us were invited by the director to a fine supper. You don’t know how I felt having to return home after all the laughter. Mother expects a large portion of my earnings. I want some pearls for my hair desperately.
My regards to your dear sister and father.
I haven’t forgotten Josefa, you know, I managed to have her engaged for small roles.