white afternoon, only a small river of yellow piss around the area where it had prowled, and some paw-prints in the snow.
Climbing to his room later he passed near the kitchen, and heard the murmur of voices. With a friend Frau Weber sat near the fire, her swollen legs on a stool. She was eating thick slices of bread and cheese. Dinner was done and supper not begun.
“I shall be going away soon to England, madame,” he said coldly.
The reply was a curt nod as she stared at him, her mouth full of bread. He turned and continued up the stairs.
Mozart was on his way out the boardinghouse door three days later, off to give one of the final lessons of his tenure in Vienna, when he noticed a letter on the crooked round table by the door under the leaves of the potted plant. Opening it, he stepped out into Petersplatz, the sun shining on all the surrounding houses; he recalled the man whose signature was scrawled at the letter’s end. He was the actor and playwright Gottlieb Stephanie, with whom Mozart had had an intense evening of conversation (he did not recall about what) in a wine cellar. The letter described a libretto the actor was writing about Englishwomen abducted into a Turkish harem, which Gottlieb Stephanie thought might be turned into an opera. Several pages of the libretto in draft were enclosed.
Mozart pondered it that day in the odd way he had of doing one thing while thinking of several others. He had a meal in an eating house rather than return to the boardinghouse, then walked over to the Burgtheater. A rehearsal was in progress. He had been turned away here the other day, but now with Stephanie’s letter in his pocket, he walked up the steps again to the offices. The door to the director’s room was open, and he knocked.
Orsini-Rosenberg looked up warily. On the wall behind him was a portrait of the Emperor and, arranged in shelves, several dozen opera scores.
Mozart bowed. “I came to see you yesterday, sir, but you were out.”
“Yes, most unfortunately. I do believe someone said you were here.”
“I came at an inopportune moment.”
“Yes, I had just been called away.”
“I ventured to return, you see, concerning the opera commission. »
Orsini-Rosenberg rubbed the bridge of his nose and flung back his head. He had a way of speaking directly to someone with his face absolutely open, yet you never knew whether he spoke the truth or not. “Most unfortunately, I had spoken to Thorwart about you. I told him we had some interest, but he came to me yesterday and said you couldn’t have an opera for us, that you had no good ideas. Your music is, of course, quite extraordinary. I’ve told Haydn, who has all my respect, that I am aware of your talents, but Idomeneo was a very serious opera, dear Mozart, for all its beauty.”
“I have found a libretto you will like on a Turkish theme set in a harem.”
“That’s most interesting. Things Turkish are very appealing. Women sometimes have themselves painted in harem garb, though where they actually wear such things I can’t know. A harem, you say? That might please the Grand Duke. A good libretto’s hard to come by though. Who’s the writer?”
“The actor Gottlieb Stephanie; he described the piece to me. It’s comical with many serious moments. It’s about faithful love and an enlightened ruler.”
“That would please both our Emperor and our visitor. But I know Stephanie, and he makes more promises than he can keep. If I was able to pave the way for this opera, Mozart, how do I know he’ll keep his part of the bargain?”
Mozart gazed at him steadily.
“Very well then, let me propose a plan.” The Count folded his arms over his chest, returning Mozart’s gaze. “If you can show me a fair-sized portion of this opera, I might arrange for the commission to be yours. Shall we say within a few months? I will then arrange for the design of the production and costumes and the engagement of the singers. How fortunate you found me here this time, Mozart. The opera I planned to commission had nothing so exciting as a plot in a harem.”
The young composer rushed back to his room and began to work at once; the next morning he took his several pages of new music down to the parlor near Fridolin Weber’s beloved clavier to continue working at the music table there.