order where the Archbishop kept his Viennese residence. A footman showed Mozart to a narrow room with whitewashed walls and two hard beds, where the young man kicked his trunks into the corner. The only consolation was that he would see his old horn player friend Leutgeb, who was now settled over his grandfather’s cheese shop with his very pregnant wife and took part in the concert life of the city.
“We’re playing for a mass with the Archbishop tonight,” the cellist with whom he roomed said, unpacking his trunks and pulling forth his evening shirt. “I always enjoy when state business brings him here, but I must say, you don’t look very jolly. Aren’t you glad to be in Vienna, Mozart? Where are you going?”
“To the devil.”
In the halls he passed several servants and Count Arco, who bowed to him with a slight smirk. The Archbishop was in residence; the very walls with their somber portraits of long-dead knights and clerics should also bow discreetly in the direction of his large suite of rooms and innumerable lackeys, his private chapel, and, undoubtedly, gilded and heavily draped sleeping chamber. He would make his calls of protocol about the city, followed by his entourage of musicians, who would raise flutes to their lips and bows to their violins at his almost imperceptible nod.
Mozart walked the city for an hour, circling near and about Petersplatz, where the Webers lived under the shadow of the green-domed church. Every girl he saw he thought was her, every small woman who turned around to smile at him. He was coming down the walk under the trees in the public gardens when he saw Sophie Weber, sun glinting on her spectacles, eating a coffee ice near an ice stand. It took a moment for him to understand that the woman with her—so swollen with child that she looked like a stalk bending for the weight of its pod—was Aloysia.
He came forward, bowing stiffly. Curtseys were returned, eyes lowered. Aloysias pretty mouth was like a slit, and she had the exhausted, sallow look women have at times when their growing unborn child is consuming their very bones. Six months now, he thought, calculating back to the time in late spring when her letters had become scant and then faded away altogether with excuses of her busyness and little time.
He said coldly, “God’s greetings; you’re well?”
“I’m well enough, as you can see,” replied Aloysia languidly.
I’m withholding my feelings, he thought with some pride, yet the next moment he could not be silent. His small hands twitched at his side. “How could you; how could you? I loved you more than any man has ever loved. Don’t you know that you have broken my heart forever?”
“What did you want of me?” she whispered, stamping her foot. A group of families with children turned around to stare at her, making her lower her voice even more. “Waiting and waiting for you to do better. I do quite well enough myself now. Once my baby is born, I’ll sing again, and earn more money than before, while you’re only one of many composers. You can blame only yourself. How long did you expect me to live on your letters?”
He nodded grimly, thinking how two years before Leutgeb had warned him about any involvement with the Webers. Now Leutgeb was married, whereas he, Mozart ... what had he made of himself? And to think the child might have been his! He could hardly make his last bow.
After walking swiftly away, he paused on a small bridge and looked down. Why not simply leap? Cold water choking his lungs. Death comes, death comes. But is not death the best friend of man?
He did not know how long he stood there before he heard his name called, and looked about to see Sophie rushing toward him, freckles all the way down her neck to her bodice top. “You walked so fast, and I was following behind,” she panted, “but there was a horse parade and a marching band that divided us.”
Coldly, he asked, “Why did you come after me?” Vaguely, he recalled how much they had had together during their time in Munich, crawling around the floor in games, sitting side by side at the clavier playing together (she with two fingers), making up nonsense words.
“Because,” she said, shaking his limp hand, “you’re our friend. She’s sorry, you know, but she’ll never say it. I can see your heart’s broken. Aloysia doesn’t have a heart