score of your Idomeneo, so rich and deep, too much perhaps for those who wished to be amused. That quartet, and the prince’s line: ‘Andrò ramingo, e solo’—I’ll wander forth and alone. I wept. I am sorry it was not successful, and yet I feel it’s with an opera that you will finally come to notice. Perhaps one not entirely so seria, eh? Not so very tragic in tone, but one that expresses the joy and the sadness of life, so entwined. Neither just one or the other.”
“Herr Kapellmeister, yes! That’s what an opera could be, and I could write one if I knew it would have a production, if such a commission came to me. I long for such a commission.”
Haydn opened his eyes wider. “But here’s good fortune, you see! I was just speaking before with the court opera’s director, Count Orsini-Rosenberg, and he told me he’s looking for a new work. The Grand Duke of Russia is planning a state visit to Vienna in the autumn, and they want something to appeal to him.”
Mozart leapt up, began to move quickly about the room, then came back to Haydn, his face a little flushed. His fingers drummed on the scarlet fabric of his coat. “Can this be true? I’ve tried for an introduction and have written twice, but he’s not answered my letter.”
“Then you’re fortunate to be here tonight to present yourself in person. He’s in the ballroom still. You know his face? Good. We’ll remain here a time. My orchestra played before, and my work is done for the night, praise God.”
Mozart could hear a flute and piano sonata beginning as he hurried toward the ballroom. Passing a smaller chamber lit with candles, he saw the Baroness von Waldstätten, at whose house he had given a few concerts on her enviable fortepiano. This handsome woman of about fifty years arose from the curved-back sofa and sailed coquettishly toward him, her great wide dress over its panniers brushing against the few young men fawning about her; one followed her, another carried her shawl. There were faint flecks of hair powder on her shapely shoulders, and she carried her head leaning slightly to one side so that a white curl drooped prettily. No doubt one of the young men was her current lover. Mozart gazed for just a moment at her slightly chapped, rouged lips, then he told her where he was going.
“Oh the Count!” she said. “The Count. I know his wife, a dull woman. But, more important, he knows the Emperor well, and that makes him even more valuable. In the end, pleasing the Emperor means far more than pleasing silly me! When are you coming to play for me again? Come, I’ll take you to him.”
In the large ballroom the many white-and-gold chairs had been pushed back carelessly by those who had left after the symphony ended. At one end of the room stood the music stands, with their extinguished candles and instrument parts; a violinist’s bow had been left on the floor. Before these stood Orsini-Rosenberg, a man of medium height wearing a silky white wig and a bit of rouge on his lips. His frontal lace spilled forth profusely.
“Ah Mozart, I do know your name,” he said when he turned to the composer at last. “And Haydn can’t cease to praise you, nor can our beautiful Baroness here. I think highly of your work, but you must understand there are so many composers and the Emperor’s devoted to the ones whose work he knows. He is very fond of Maestro Antonio Salieri, whose Italian operas are not unknown to you, I am certain.”
“I am familiar with Kapellmeister Salieri, of course. He is a fine teacher.”
“Still, there may be a possibility. It all depends on many things, one being the appealing subject of your work. Leave word where I can send for you. Do you know my secretary, Thorwart? He has said you are acquainted.”
Thorwart stood near the Count, his chest stiff, chin raised, English waistcoat buttoned tightly over his belly. Mozart had seen him about the boardinghouse now and then. What is he doing here? Mozart thought. Will this help or harm my effort?
He bowed and the secretary nodded curtly in return. But by now others had pushed close into the circle, so that there was no more opportunity at present to speak with the Count.
Bowing here and there, Mozart passed the empty music stands and made his way rapidly back to the small