Salzburg, den 1. Mai, 1846

My dear friends and visitors,
As I sit at my writing desk on this warm spring morning in my apartment in the Marktplatz, my thoughts turn to my dearest nephew, Franz Xaver Mozart.

It was both a blessing and a curse for him to be the son of the great Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
I never had children of my own, and professed not to have favorites among my many nieces and nephews.
But if any child awakened the dormant mother in my heart, it was my beloved nephew.
I have nowadays much time for musings and reflections, having reached in October last the great age of two-and-eighty.
I believe that I was secretly pleased to remain a spinster until I safely passed the age of bearing children.
The fear of dying in childbirth or of losing children in infancy was unspoken but remained in my heart.

My beloved nephew, Franz Xaver Mozart, saw the light of day in Vienna on the 26th of July in the year of our Lord 1791, scarcely four months before his father’s untimely passing.
I recall so well that beautiful, joyous summer day in Vienna.
My dear sister, Constanze, experienced but a short labor, and our dear Mama and I were there to assist the midwife.
I remember my euphoria, since the beautiful baby boy was healthy and plump.
My sister let me hold him in my arms and cuddle him, and the strong bond between us was forged.
Franz Xaver’s older brother, Karl, aged nearly seven, was delighted with the appearance of a baby brother.
Mama and I took the infant to Saint Stephen’s Cathedral to be christened: Franz Xaver Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart.

Wolfgang was the name his mother called him, though she favored the pet name of Wowi, as all our family did.

My nephew bore a strong physical resemblance to his father.
Franz Xaver grew up to be a gifted composer and virtuoso on the pianoforte.
If only so much had not been expected of him!
If only his beautiful musical creations were not immediately and inevitably compared with his father’s immortal masterworks!
If only he himself had not also been guilty of these very things!
My dear nephew possessed a kind heart and a sensitive nature, and I miss him deeply.

For one thing I am most grateful: that the Almighty saw fit to take my dearest sister, Constanze, in March of 1842, aged eighty years, without having to endure the grief of losing her beloved son.
Franz Xaver Mozart passed from this world in Karlsbad on the 29th of July, 1844, aged three-and-fifty years, barely two years after his mother.

My nephew commenced his musical studies at an early age and aged six years, he sang the aria “Der Vogelfaenger bin ich ja” from his father’s opera, “The Magic Flute.”
He was fortunate to study with Joseph Haydn and Antonio Salieri and other notable composers.
My dear Franz Xaver enjoyed early success with his own compositions and his virtuosity on the pianoforte, but he felt most keenly the expectations heaped upon him to duplicate or even surpass the musical genius and success of his father.

My poor Wowi! What frustration he experienced in attempting to fulfill his youthful promise.
Oh, his music is sublime and beautiful.
No one can attest that he is not indeed a gifted composer and virtuoso.
But there is only one Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
No one can touch his dear father.
I wish that this gradually dawning knowledge would have pleased Franz Xaver rather than have cast a haunting shadow over his heart and his life.

My nephew traveled widely throughout the European lands–giving concerts, interpreting both his own and his esteemed father’s music.
He favored composing in his father’s style–even, alas, when it was no longer fashionable.
But had Wowi remained in Vienna, he would have been aware of more current, modern musical styles and fare.
You see, Franz Xaver settled in Lemberg, Ukraine, in a more isolated region of the Austrian Empire.
He served as a tutor in two aristocratic households, and subsequently became a music teacher in the town, all the while composing.
In Lemberg, Franz Xaver met his great love, Countess Josephine Cavalcabo, married to a man she did not esteem.
My nephew and the countess were very attached one to the other, and she bestowed personal happiness upon him.

Toward the end of Franz Xaver’s life, he returned to live in Vienna.
In 1842, only months after the passing of his dear mother, Franz Xaver participated in the erection of the Mozart Monument in Salzburg.
I so wish my dear sister, Constanze, could have lived to witness this great day.
Franz Xaver’s elder brother, Karl, and I were also present.

I shed tears of happiness and pride for my late brother-in-law, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
The Michaelsplatz was then renamed the Mozartplatz, and the statue of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was unveiled.
My dear nephew performed one of his own and one of his father’s works.
Sadly, two years thereafter, Franz Xaver’s health began to fail, and he died in Karlsbad in July of 1844.

I hope that you, meine lieben Freunde und Gaeste, have enjoyed hearing a little about my dear nephew and will recall him and his music with pleasure.
Franz Xaver Mozart can securely stand alone in his own right–as composer, viruoso, and Mensch.

“SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL: MY BELOVED NEPHEW, FRANZ XAVER MOZART” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without her written permission.

“SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL: MY BELOVED NEPHEW, FRANZ XAVER MOZART”
© Marti Burger 2003-2008

“THE DIARY OF SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL, MOZART’S FAVORITE SISTER-IN-LAW” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without her written permission.

“THE DIARY OF SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL, MOZART’S FAVORITE SISTER-IN-LAW”
© 2003-2008 Marti Burger

Wien (Vienna), den 1. Oktober, 1780

Dear Diary,
This day is my special day, my birthday.
I am celebrating reaching the age of seventeen years, and am near all grown-up.
This day, my elder sister, Constanze, presented me with this precious gift: you, dear Diary. I am so very happy to receive you! I love your beautiful red leather cover, how very special you are to me. Constanze herself keeps a diary, and thought that now would be an opportune time for me to likewise do so.
My dearest sister, Constanze, and I are very near of an age, she being but one-and-twenty months my elder. Constanze is very nearly nineteen. She is my closest and dearest friend in the world—my bosom companion.
Stanzi and I are kindred spirits. We discourse about everything of importance to us, and readily confide in one another.
No secret goes beyond our company, no confidence travels beyond our lips.
I might add that this brand new and precious diary shall also become my cherished companion and confidant.
Its rich beautiful red leather cover and sparkling gold key shall be the keeper of secrets, and be witness to my life, and to my thoughts and dreams.
I am this moment all excitement in welcoming my dear diary to the bosom of my family and my heart.
Dear Diary, the hour grows late, and tomorrow, I shall describe my special day and my birthday celebration to you.

Wien, den 2. Oktober, 1780

Dear Diary,
Today, Monday, is once more but an ordinary day.
Yesterday–the anniversary of my birth seventeen years ago–on the other hand, still lingers dreamily in my memory.
I should love to relive my special day with you, dear Diary.
I cannot help but smile as I begin…….
This year, my birthday fell on a Sunday, so the normal workday was far removed from our home, hearth, and city of Vienna.
I reside with my dear mother, Frau Caecilia, Widow Weber, and my three sisters, Josefa (Josi), the eldest, Aloysia (Loysi), the second eldest, and Constanze (Stanzi), the third in age—I, Sophie, being the youngest.
It has now been fully one year since we moved with my dear Papa, Herr Fridolin Weber, to Vienna.
We live in a large building on the Petersplatz (Peter’s Square) called “Zum Auge Gottes” (“at God’s eye”), on the second floor.
Our apartment looks over the Petersplatz, and I dearly love to gaze down on the busy street scene below–the ever-changing parade of people and activity unfolding before my very eyes.
From our front windows, we can see the side of the towering Saint Peter’s Church situated opposite our building, and behold its round, muted green dome.
Dear Diary, what an immense, grand city the imperial capital of Vienna is—so much larger and more vast than Mannheim or Munich.
When I was first arrived in Vienna, I would walk around spellbound, taking in the wondrous sights of all the many huge, wide buildings and the impressive baroque architecture, the many burghers here fashionably attired, the bustle and noise of the multitude of horses and carriages and of these city dwellers–which seemed to stretch on and on.
I am a brunette of middling height with curly hair, large brown eyes, and a slim figure.
Our dear, beloved father, Fridolin Weber, was suddenly called to the Lord barely one month after our arrival in this Habsburg capital on the Danube, so Mama, with our help, has had to turn our apartment on the Petersplatz into a boarding house to make ends meet.
We are from Mannheim, located on the confluence of the Rhine and Neckar Rivers, and had resided in Munich for one and a half years before coming to live in Vienna on account of Aloysia’s appointment as soloist at the Court Theater.
You see, my two eldest sisters are professional opera singers.
Aloysia, as I mentioned, sings at the Court Theater (Burgtheater—Imperial Theater) next door to the Hofburg–Imperial Palace–and Josefa at the Volksoper (Light Opera Company) on the edge of town.
You can imagine that there is much singing and a cacophony of music making in our home—my sisters practicing, our two pianofortes humming along busily.
This special atmosphere and I might call it—beautiful noise—is not for every likely boarder.
It needs be tolerable to their ears and hearts.
Therefore, what boarders we have are from the same sphere—namely, Musikers or actors, though usually music students.
My dear Mama is not shy in advertising for boarders.
She has had a vast number of cards printed up, and they are readily at hand.
If her garments contain no pockets, she will keep one or two hidden in her bodice for safe keeping, in case she should encounter a likely prospective boarder.
The cards read:

Rooms to Let, Reasonable Rates
Frau Caecilia Widow Weber, Proprietor
Petersplatz 11, Zum Auge Gottes (“at the eye of God”)
Opposite Saint Peter’s Church
Second Floor
Clean Rooms, Breakfasts Included
Delicious Meals can be Arranged

I recall how we encountered our very first boarder, the superb actor of our Imperial Theater, Herr Josef Lange.
Aloysia had invited Mama, my sisters, and myself to attend a play called “Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark” by an old English master, Herr Wilhelm Shakespeare. The star of that play was Herr Josef Lange. I must say that Herr Lange has indeed a beautiful countenance, and he emoted most impressively. After the play, Aloysia presented us to Herr Lange, and quick as a whip went Mama’s deft hand into her bodice and out came the card and into Herr Lang’s ready hand.
So there you are, dear Diary.
Our first boarder—and soon thereafter, Aloysia’s own fiancé.
The nuptials shall take place in but a month’s time, on October 31st.
Constanze and I are the sisters most likely engaged in the day-to-day chores of our boarding house: helping with meal preparation, at which Josi, by the by, excels, mending, cleaning our boarders’ bedchambers, helping our two maidservants with the washing, helping to serve meals, and above all, running errands for dear Mama, which she often has us do.
Constanze and I would be far more skilled on the pianoforte than we indeed are—if only we were granted sufficient time to practice, to solidify, and perfect our art. Perhaps later, this gift of time to practice shall come to pass.
Oh, I can play fairly well—and Constanze too—and I take great pleasure in playing the pianoforte and also in singing—as does my dear sister, Constanze.
Dear Diary, I sometimes ponder my fate…..if my beloved Papa were still among us, he would surely have taken pains to further develop Constanze and my music and singing skills, as he so devotedly guided to fulfillment the musical education of my two elder sisters.
Our apartment is directly opposite the side of the grand Saint Peter’s Church.
The peeling of its bells is our call to rise in the morning, and its sweet soothing repetition accompanies our day.
Our section of the city is bustling with inhabitants and activity.
Adjacent to our street is the Graben (“ditch”) Vienna’s main street—the hub and the heart of the city, filled with carriages, coaches, townsfolk, shops, coffee houses, soft drink stands, booths selling sweets, ice cream, and Mandelmilch (almond milk) and several theater stalls.
The Graben is absolutely my favorite place to be in all Vienna.
I immediately fell in love with its charming square, and count myself fortunate to live not two streets away.
I especially love the tall blazing golden sculptured column in the center of this wide Graben Square—the central part of the long Graben street.
The streets which intersect our building on the Petersplatz are the Graben on one side and the Milchgasse (Milk Lane) on the other.
Speaking of Milk Lane, that is where our two servant girls, Hedwig, aged seventeen years, and Kristl, her sister, aged fifteen years, reside with their family.
The girls have only to cross the road to go to and fro morning and night.
The butcher, Herr Bernatzick, in the nearby Hoher Markt (High Marketplace), highly recommended the sisters to Mama.
They are kinfolk to him—his cousins.
Sunday is our servant girls’ day off.
I excitedly woke up yesterday morn—Sunday–knowing it is my special day!
Mama, my sisters and I, and Herr Lange attended early Mass at Saint Peter’s Church, then returned home and breakfasted.
Besides Herr Lange, we have two other boarders, Herr Guenzburg and Herr Schaefer—music students.
They departed the house early—Herr Guenzburg journeying outside the city to visit his parents and Herr Schaefer to call on his Aunt this Sabbath day.
Herr Lange had promised me a surprise which would be forthcoming.
As yesterday was my birthday, Mama excused me from the household chores, and I was happily free to practice the pianoforte to my heart’s content while Mama and my sisters attended to the preparations for my birthday celebration.
Mama made ready some punch and wine, Josefa baked a sumptuous Schokoladentorte (chocolate cake), and Alosya and Constanze fashioned chicken and ham sandwiches, and cooked some beets on the fire.
Then came the grand moment of the opening of my birthday presents in the parlor: from Constanze came you, dearest diary, from Mama–warm woolen mittens for the coming winter, from Josefa–a lovely, charming small figurine of a little girl and her dog, from Aloysia—a new green muslin bonnet adorned with beautiful, delicate lace.
Herr Lange then excused himself from our party, explaining that his surprise would be coming forthwith and thereafter, his birthday gift.
He came back shortly thereafter announcing with a bow and a flourish his surprise: Herr Lange had rented a horse and carriage for the afternoon, and we were all to proceed at once to the Prater for a glorious, lazy Sunday afternoon of picnicking and enjoying nature’s bounty—and watching, as it were, the world pass by.
The empty canvas under Herr Lange’s arm was going to be my birthday gift from him—a watercolor etching of the Prater which he would draw this day from nature.
Mama explained to me that my guardian, Herr Johann Thorwart, had not been invited to partake in our merriment, as his stern, august, and slightly frightening presence would most likely upset my sisters.
So picnic baskets laden with foodstuffs and blankets in hand, off we went in the rented carriage to the Prater.
For October, the afternoon was pleasantly and comfortably warm—an echo and breath of summertime in early fall.
Herr Lange fastened the dappled brown horse to a hitching post, and we sat on our blankets and made merry—relishing the comraderie and the delicious meal, and later singing all together German folksongs which are familiar and dear to us. How I love to sing.
A strolling violinist happened upon our party, and Herr Lange bid him tarry awhile with us and play while we partook of our delicious victuals.
Herr Lange remunerated the Musiker for his entertainment and all the while, we savored his dulcet tones and our delectable lunch.
The musician played popular tunes and ditties for us. This is pure heaven, I dreamily thought–conversing with my family, enjoying their company, and happily looking up at the clear blue sky.
Then Herr Lange set to work on his etching.
Constanze and I took a promenade around the park, savoring the sights and sounds of nature and the abundant greenery all around us—a haven for us city dwellers.
Mama drank much of the wine she had brought along, and we others mostly imbibed the delicious apple punch. All the while, we were contentedly indulging in people-watching—not to mention observing all the horses and carriages–noting the passing parade of townsfolk, their manner of dress, their amusements.
I marveled at Herr Lange’s simple yet beautifully rendered watercolor etching. This thespian, born to tread the boards and my future brother-in-law, is likewise a painter of talent. He used primarily pastel colors: light blue, pink, and green, with a smattering of other, darker hues.
Herr Lange has etched the broad Prater walkway surrounded by grass and trees and a small pavilion, with people loitering about and conversing, some folk dressed in their Sunday best, and the horses and carriages passing through—in short: art imitating life.
What joy—I thanked Herr Lange profusely!
The painting shall have a place of honor, proudly adorning the wall of my bedchamber.
It shall forever be a reminder of a most magical day.

Wien, den 3. Oktober, 1780

Dear Diary,
There shall soon be a great change for us in our humble boarding house here in Vienna on the Petersplatz.
Loysi, my elder sister, will very soon leave the bosom of our family and hearth to set up her own household, together with Loysi’s intended, who will by then be her new husband, Herr Josef Lange.
The first daughter to marry and leave home—henceforth, we shall indeed be a “Dreimaedelhaus” (a house with three maidens)!
Another piece of news greeted us bright and early this morning at the breakfast table: Herr Lange exclaimed excitedly that he has decided to purchase his own horse and carriage. We already had learned of the apartment that he has rented for Loysi and himself on the Graben, quite near Saint Stefan’s Cathedral.
My sister and future brother-in-law’s new home is thankfully not far from ours, within comfortable walking distance in fact.
My sister and Josef (by which name I shall soon call him) will move to the Graben on their wedding day, but the new horse and carriage shall be quartered in our stables out back until then. (We Webers, of course, lack for a horse and carriage, though this luxury is not a necessity for us.)
And towards dusk this day, Herr Lange did bring his brand new horse and carriage hither!
It is an exhilarating moment to first glimpse and to welcome a new animal into our family, as it were.
Herr Lange’s new steed is an extremely handsome one year old. “We shall call him ‘Hamlet’,” he informed us, grinning jovially and with a twinkle in his eye.
Hamlet is tan and white with a white mane, and warm, soulful brown eyes.
Herr Lange’s new carriage is yellow-colored, a light two-person private carriage called a desobligeant.
Dear Diary, a short while ago, before disrobing, slipping into my night chemise, and blowing out the candles for the night, I could not resist dismounting the stairs, taking a lantern and a carrot out back into the cool evening air and getting to know Hamlet—we two starring into each other’s eyes while I gently petted Hamlet, talked softly to him, and fed him the carrot.

Wien, den 4. Oktober

Dear Diary,
Might I digress but a little and tell you a little more about our life here in Vienna?
Constanze and I are again sharing a bedchamber—but at least I have my very own bed there. Hurrah for that!
When Constanze and I were little, we had to share a bed.
One year ago, when my whole family moved into our apartment on the Petersplatz, I was permitted for the first time a room of my very own—and how I delighted in it and relished my newfound privacy!
But after dear Papa’s passing and the realization that we would have to take in boarders, Mama requested that I move into Stanzi’s bedroom—with my bed in tow–so that Mama could rent out my old bedroom.
Josefa and Aloysia also had to double their sleeping quarters, although Mama still keeps her bedroom overlooking the Petersplatz, which she had shared with Papa.
Down the street is a furniture-maker, and he fashioned for Mama two brand-new beds for Josefa’s and my empty bedrooms.
The rooms are now rented, along with the other spare bedchamber.
My dear sister Stanzi and I are as ever very close.
Since we are again sharing a bedchamber, it seems Stanzi and I hardly ever fail before bedtime to indulge in sisterly confidences and gossip, and even now on occasion—pillow fights, joking, and gales and peals of laughter together.
Dear Diary, let me describe Vienna and our lodgings a little more completely.
Residing here in Vienna is much to my liking, but the city suffers in some respects compared to Munich and my hometown of Mannheim.
Vienna is far noisier. One needs get accustomed to the frequent hawking of goods on our square and all about, the habitual sound of workmen chopping wood out front, the clatter of the horses’ hooves, the carriages and coaches on the cobblestones, the often unpleasant city smells (relating to the horses) which need be frequently cleaned and washed down, and ach, um Gottes willen—the wretched dust—so much dust flying about from the horses, carriages, and coaches!
In fact, our streets are sprayed twice daily in order to settle the dust.
In “Zum Auge Gottes” (“At God’s Eye”), there are four stories in all, and I mentioned, dear Diary, that our lodgings are on the second floor.
Our building, like many other large buildings here, has a large vaulted ground floor composed of trade shops, where many of the tradesmen dwell in back of their shops.
The entrances to the stables are to be found there as well.
Other buildings nearby, such as the building next door, contain a coffee house.
Dear Diary, I have not yet introduced to you my cherished house pets—three little dogs who own us more than we own them: Tammi, Kitzl (little fawn), and Paddi.
Tammi and Kitzl are very small, white female dogs with large pink ears—Kitzl has one pink and one brown ear—and pink noses.
Those precious pink noses steal my heart.
Kitzl also has a large brown spot on her back.
They are beautiful, affectionate little dogs.
Paddi is a terrier originating from Scotland called a west highland white.
He has the mien of an aged Scottish gentleman, with his white whiskers and lovable face.
Tammi is quite the tiniest dog I have ever laid eyes on; she must have been the runt of the litter.
Tammi sleeps on my bed with me—or rather, in it.
You see, when I place Tammi on my bed, she has a fondness for slipping under the bedcovers.
Earlier, both Tammi and Kitzl shared my bed with me.
But of late, they had begun quarreling fiercely, long after the candles had been extinguished—fighting over territory—and it did not take me long to deduce that the hotly disputed territory was—me. The quarrel had to do with who shall have the privilege of sleeping right next to me in a favorite spot.
At night, when I am fast asleep, the fighting between the two erupted-startling me into awakening.
Tiny Tammi cannot jump onto or off the bed by herself.
My dear sister, Stanzi, was at first amenable to the notion of Kitzl then sleeping nightly on or in her bed—that is, until the great barking counterpoint and chorus commenced!
Kitzl jumped off Stanzi’s bed and started barking ceaselessly at Tammi, who barked back.
The dialogue and duet between the two continued unabated until I let Kitzl out my bedchamber door.
Kitzl then returned to the parlor or kitchen, her usual domain with Paddi.
Curiously, when it is not bedtime and I sometimes do place Kitzl on my bed beside Tammi, they get on well together.
Tammi has a predilection for generously licking Kitzl’s ears—and it was only at night when I was in bed asleep that the fighting between the two burst forth.
That is why Kitzl now curls up cosily at night with Paddi in the parlor, on a small rug meant for our canine companions.
Our good mother is very partial to Paddi.
She talks to him frequently and Paddi, in a strange but welcome sense—since I know Mama is lonely—has partly taken the place of my beloved Papa.
Ach—a soft pillow thrown by Stanzi has just hit me in the shoulder and caused me to drop my quill!
I heard Stanzi’s reproachful voice from the bed, “Sister, you are practically burning the midnight oil! Cease your writing for now, Sophie! You know full well that Mama wants us to run errands bright and early tomorrow morning, and we must be up at the crack of dawn!”
“Sister,” she added grinning, “I am this moment almost sorry that I gave you that diary!”
“But Stanzi!”
I then added as an afterthought, “The burning of my candles need not disturb you, Stanzi. I shall put them out soon, by and by.”
“I am only teasing, sister dear,” Stanzi smiled and sighed, turning over in bed.
“Sophie, this is something I shall have to get used to after all.”

Wien, den 5. Oktober

Dear Diary,
This day dawned sunny and cloudless, as perfect and mild an early autumn day as my birthday was.
After breakfasting, Mama sent Stanzi and I out this morning to run errands for her—to purchase beef at Herr Bernatzick’s butcher shop, flour at the miller’s establishment, and muslin at the cloth shop, along with corn and carrots at the greengrocer’s.
Before Stanzi and I departed our lodgings, she told me she would also take me to visit the new bookshop, located nearby on the Kohlmarkt (“Cabbage Marketplace”), where she had found and purchased my diary.
Dear Diary, the tiny bookdealer’s shoppe is nestled cosily between two larger establishments—the milliner’s shop and workshop and the cloth shop.
A hanging wooden sign overhead in the form of a book reads “Egil Ekko’s Bookshop.”
The proprietor, Herr Egil Ekko, was alone within, smoking a long clay pipe.
“Gruess Gott, Fraeulein Weber! Delighted to see you again! And who is the lovely Mademoiselle accompanying you?”
He spoke German with a noticeably Scandinavian accent.
His accent is quite charming, I might add.
“Herr Ekko, this is my younger sister, Mademoiselle Sophie Weber.
Sophie, Herr Ekko hails from Christiania (Oslo), Norway.”
We both curtsied, and Herr Ekko bowed politely and eagerly.
“Yes, my dear ladies. I am a visitor—a new resident–here in Vienna.
I almost feel like an adventurer in this fair city, but am in truth but a bystander. Do not let my pipe smoking bother you, dear ladies. Rest assured that I have been granted a license by Their Majesties to permit my customers and myself to smoke within these walls.”
He smiled disarmingly. “My dear Mesdemoiselles; I dearly relish this vice and habit of mine, but I am the last person on earth to recommend it. It is a dirty habit, and should never touch the lips nor besmirch the constitution of you, fair Mesdemoiselles. I myself smoke far too much, alas.”
“I have never seen a woman smoke!” I hastily retorted.
“Dear Fraeulein, I am no clairvoyant with powers to see into the future, but let us hope it remains so,” Herr Ekko laughed unassumingly.
I looked straight at Herr Ekko, and felt a strange, sweet, intoxicating power come over my heart. What was this? Was it infatuation…..love?
I hurridly looked away, and dared look up at him again.
Herr Ekko is not a tall man. I know that he is much more advanced in years than I, and he has a round, sweet face with lovely features, blue eyes, and the most heavenly smile that I have ever seen. What an angelic and adorable countenance.
He wears not a wig, nor does he power his straight dark blond hair, worn at his shoulders. Framing Herr Ekko’s lovely face is a pair of dark, prominent spectacles. The glasses and the pipe give Herr Ekko an air of maturity—which in his years he undoubtedly has—wisdom, and experience—good and bad—an air of having been through the fires of hell, a slight world-weariness, born of experience and nurtured by sadness and by life.
By God, dear Diary—the sight of Herr Ekko in contemplation and deep in though, sitting with his rumpled hair and smoking on his water pipe–sets my heart aflutter.
Constanze interrupted my thoughts, “Sister, I want to go have a look at the hats and bonnets next door. Would you mind staying here awhile? I shall be back shortly.”
“Yes, dear sister. Do go and enjoy yourself. I shall be fine.”
Herr Ekko and I were alone.
We commenced to talk, and had a lovely conversation.
He told me that he is seven-and-forty years of age.
My goodness—Herr Ekko would be of an age with my dear Papa!
Herr Ekko is also with wife, and has two daughters, slightly younger than myself.
Ach, zum Teufel! (the devil)—How my heart sank.
However, I managed to mask my disappointment well, did not let it show on my face nor in my demeanor.
Herr Ekko spoke softly and modestly, “I wanted to see what life is like outside of Norway, dear Fraeulein. So I found myself here with my family in this glorious Habsburg capital. I am a writer by trade, and still write for the Christiania (Oslo) Gazette. I send my newspaper back at home articles about events here in Vienna. But I need support my family; I was also obliged to find an additional means of earning my bread and so, I yust opened my bookshop.”
I love the way he pronounced “just”—“yust”!
I told Herr Ekko about myself and my family, about our slowly getting accustomed to life in Vienna—something we recent arrivals both have in common.
I immediately sensed a mutual and profound attraction between Herr Ekko and myself.
In Herr Ekko’s presence, my whole being was energized and felt truly alive.
What were these new longings and pangs in my body?
I went over to the bookshelf and looked through all the many book titles.
Suddenly, I looked up and caught Herr Ekko starring at me through his dark, thick spectacles.
Without missing a beat, I quickly looked down again and pretended to concentrate on my book browsing, my body in an unfamiliar but sweet uproar.
I settled upon a small, thin volume of verse by Herr Wolfgang Goethe.
I was thankful that I had saved some money from my allowance and was able to purchase the book.
I love to read, and also gave evidence of my good intentions to this mysterious, somehow irresistible and lovable man.
My God, Sophie, I thought to myself. I know Herr Egil Ekko is married.
I would never go so far as to commit adultery with him, to lose my innocence, to form a serious attachment with an espoused man.
But yet, but yet. Ach, how I would love in this case to listen to the voice of my heart and utterly to obey it.
Yet hush, be still, my heart!
To take the leap and go all the way now and with this man–that, I would not do, Sophie.
My conscience and good sense overrides my passions.
But what would it be like—to lose myself in exquisite longing, to give in to it, to truly love a man with all my senses, to know that he loves me–and share our love without bounds and inhibitions—what would it be like; what would it feel like?
Just then to my regret, my dear sister, Constanze, came to rescue me.
We both bid Herr Ekko adieu until the next time, and continued with our errands for Mama.
This night, before blowing out the candles, Constanze and I, sat on the bed as is our wont–laughing and jesting.
All of a sudden, I felt apprehensive and asked my sister, “Stanzi, do you have any special feelings for Herr Ekko?”
I wanted the answer to be a resounding “no!”.
I could not bear the thought of Stanzi and I both being in love with the same man!
“Herr Ekko? The bookdealer? Why no, Sophie. Not at all. Why do you ask?”
“Sister, I find him particularly appealing—but never fear. I know that he is married. Oh, Constanze; a weight has been lifted from my shoulders! I am so relieved nonetheless. I know that I can not permit myself to feel seriously about Herr Ekko,” I giggled.
“Ach, Constanze,” I probed. “Are you sweet on someone in particular?”
I saw Constanze’s cheeks slowly turn beet-red, and she shyly answered, “Dear sister, this is between us alone. But I have never forgotten Herr Wolfgang Mozart. Dear Herr Mozart…..” her voice trailed off.
I so vividly remember our close friendship with the slight and endearing young man whom Papa and our family took to our hearts so long ago in Mannheim. This onetime Wunderkind, this amazing composer and musician.
Actually, it seems a long time ago, but has scarce been three years since first we met…….
“Sophie, I keep thinking of him. I want so much to be with him, to hear from him….Dear sister, I…..harbor such tender thoughts of Wolfgang Mozart.” Constanze lowered her eyes, almost ashamed to reveal the extent of her feelings.
A brilliant idea suddenly occurred to me, and I brightened.
“Sister, dear sister—Do write him a letter! Let Herr Mozart hear from you!”
“Oh my!” Constanze’s rosy cheeks seemed to burn fiercely.
“Sophie—How can I? Herr Mozart is probably married by now, or has a fiancée. He may no longer be in Salzburg; he very well might have found an appointment at another court. I am sure he is much occupied……”
“Stanzi, you will never know unless you try.”
“Ach, mein lieber Gott.” It seemed that Constanze’s blushing extended up to her forehead and down through her toes.
She grabbed my shoulder: “I shall do it!” Hesitatingly and haltingly, Stanzi pondered aloud, “I know not his complete address, Sophie. Only ‘The Dancing Master’s House, Hannibal Square, Salzburg’. And Herr Mozart’s father was not kindly disposed towards us Webers–unfairly so, since he does not even know us personally.
If I write to Herr Mozart, and the letter reaches its destination, perhaps Herr Mozart’s father might rip it to shreds, and Herr Mozart would never know that I have written him.”
I gently laughed. “Do not listen to your fears, Stanzi. Listen to your heart.”
“Sister,” Constanze smiled at me, relieved. “Go to bed! Close your eyes. Do not let my writing disturb you, dear sister! I am going to write to Herr Mozart now–and tomorrow, you and I shall make a trip to the post office and send my letter off.”
I lay my head upon my soft white pillow, and tiredly but excitedly closed my eyes.
I was still conscious of the flicker of light from the candles as Constanze sat at the desk writing, and I soon drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

Wien, den 14. Oktober, 1780

Dear Diary,
This evening, Mama, Stanzi, and I were seated at supper.
Josi, Loysi, Herr Lange, and our other two boarders were all out.
The doorbell clanged noisily, and I jumped up to answer it.
It was the delivery postman, who handed me a letter, “For Mademoiselle Constanze Weber!”
“Stanzi; it is for you.”
I handed my sister the letter.
“Oh!” Stanzi gasped, “A letter from Herr Wolfgang Mozart!”
Mama became extremely excited and agitated, and jumped up from her chair, clasping her pudgy hands to her ample bosom.
“From Herr Mozart!,” she exclaimed. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it all along!
I knew he never forgot us! Maria Constanze! Hurry up, girl! Open it up! Read it! Read it!”
“Mama!” Constanze protested. “I cannot, you see. It is private. Herr Mozart addressed the letter to me.”
“Nonsense!” Mama reacted impatiently.
“Mama,” Stanzi calmly began again, “I shall read the letter to myself first, and then give you the gist of it.”
Mama and I waited anxiously as Constanze scanned the letter, during which her countenance lit up and she smiled.
“Well, all right,” Stanzi stated matter-of-factly, endeavoring to seem casual.
“Herr Mozart and his father and sister are all well.
He calls me ‘Stanzi Marini’,” she giggled. “He writes what great pleasure and happiness it gives him to hear from me out of the blue.
Mama, Herr Mozart wrote this next part backwards; he is teasing me…….Really, Mama; I need not recite it,” she blushed.
“Go on, girl!” Mama cajoled, red in the face.
“Oh, Mama. Tis intended for no ears save mine! He asks about my life in Vienna, what I have been engaged in, mentions a symphony and a quartet he has of late composed, inquires after your health and all my sisters’ health.
This next section concerns Papa.
Herr Mozart writes that he is so sad and desolate to hear of Papa’s passing, sends us his profoundest condolences, how he is with us in our sorrow, and shares our loss.”
Mama suddenly erupted into tears and great sobs.
“What a kind soul! What a precious lad! My girl, Herr Mozart is one in a million!” she exclaimed through the copious tears which streamed down her plump rosy cheeks.
Tears welled up in Constanze’s eyes now too, and she struggled to keep in control.
“There, there Mama. All right,” she hesitated. “Herr Mozart asks how often I think of him……He writes in that vein about…..about thinking of me.
Oh Mama; I cannot repeat all this; it pains me. Do not request it again……..
He bids me adieu and kisses my hand 1001 times—backwards and forwards, and signs his name ‘Monsieur Trazom’.”
Stanzi seemed so ill at ease, and rose to leave the table.
Mama begged her to stay and added, “You must write that dear man back straight away! You two have a special friendship. It needs be nourished and cared for!”
“Oh Mama!”
Constanze looked thoroughly embarrassed and replied, “Tis nothing, I assure you, Mama. I will wager that Herr Mozart is just being kind.”
Mama seized desperately on Stanzi’s words, gasping, “Yes! Kind—and ach, so kind-hearted! A real jewel! Dear Herr Mozart is unique, one of a kind; we shall not see his like again! And so gifted, such talent, such a promising future!”
I knew intuitively that Stanzi did not want to raise Mama’s hopes and expectations and desired at the same time to preserve her precious privacy.
Were Stanzi later to be hurt, rejected, and broken-hearted, she did not wish Mama to know of her shame and humiliation.
Later, before blowing out the candles and retiring for the night, Constanze confided in me, “Ach, Du lieber Gott, Sophie! What rotten luck! That postman just had to come by while we were supping with Mama! And I—fool that I was—just had to say that the letter was from Herr Mozart!”
Constanze suddenly smiled blissfully and serenely, lost dreamily in a private world.
“Oh Stanzi,” I glowed, “You see; you did not need Herr Mozart’s complete address. ‘The Dancing Master’s House, Hannibal Square, Salzburg’ sufficed. And now you do have his full address.
And Herr Mozart’s father did not tear up your letter before it reached his son,” I added.
My sister retorted happily, winking at me, “Well, sheer luck again, Sophie—this time for the good—that Herr Wolfgang Mozart saw the letter first!”
“Stanzi, you see; I told you! Are you glad that you followed my counsel and wrote Herr Mozart?” I grinned mischievously.
I added, “I am happy for you, Stanzi.”
My grin was contagious.
My sister’s face was aglow as she quietly replied, “We shall see, Sophie.”
She then smiled, “Dearest sister, some day there shall be a special gentleman for you.”
I blushed.
And so the dark enveloping night gently embraces our dreams as we are then free to dream them.

Wien, den 15. Oktober, 1780

Dear Diary,
This sunny Sabbath afternoon, Mama declined our invitation to accompany us next door to Kaffeehaus (coffee house) Neumayr, saying she had much to do at home. Josi, Loysi, Stanzi, and I were to spend some time at Neumayr’s drinking coffee, reading newspapers and gazettes, and engaging in discourse with one another.
I discovered after awhile that my “monthly visitor” had made an appearance a trifle early, and I was obliged to return home to procure some clean cloth, promising my sisters to return shortly.
Inside our apartment, I immediately heard two voices emanating from our parlor. Mama’s voice was louder and shriller than the other which, I recognized, belonged to Herr Lange.
I wondered what was transpiring, and I crept towards the parlor and stood in the doorway.
Mama and Herr Lange had their backs to me. Mama exclaimed at fever pitch, “Herr Lange, in marrying my daughter, you realize that you are depriving me of her future livelihood! How is a poor widow like me to fend for herself and survive in this cold, cruel world?”
“Widow Weber, I feel obliged to you. I support my own dear widowed mother and, rest assured……mother……I shall provide you with a lifelong pension.”
Mama’s tone suddenly changed. “My dear boy! My dearest son!”
Just then, Mama turned around and noticed me standing there in the entranceway. She gasped, “Maria Sophie! What on earth are you doing here? Why, you and your sisters are spending the afternoon at Neumayr’s!”
“Pardon me, Mama. I needed to come back to fetch something. I am returning to Neumayr’s immediately to rejoin my sisters.”
Mama turned to Herr Lange and exclaimed, “Herr Lange, would you please excuse me a moment,” took me by the hand, and led me into the kitchen where we two were alone.
“Mama, pray tell; what is this about a ‘pension’?” I asked.
“My child, these are grown-up concerns. They need not trouble you.
You know full well, Sopherl dear, that we are deprived of the company, of the earnings of your dear, late Papa.
Dear child, the world is not fair for widows. We womenfolk are obliged to see that we are provided for when ere we can.
Your poor, careworn Mama has unburdened herself to you, dear Sopherl. And you know as much as you need know.
Now, my child–you must never repeat to Josefa, Aloysia, Constanze–nor to anyone else–what I just told you. Promise?”
“I solemnly promise, dear Mama.”
“That is my good girl, my Sopherl!” Mama beamed and threw her chubby arms around me in a warm embrace.
Mama then bid me accompany her in rejoining Herr Lange in the parlor.
She smiled broadly, saying cheerfully, “Dear Herr Lange, we shall now drink a toast to celebrate this happy occasion—your nuptials and becoming a member of our own family!”
Mama fetched the wine and also poured me a glass.
“But Mama, I am drinking coffee at Neumayr’s.”
“Just a glass, dear girl. Why, afterwards, let Herr Lange and I both join you there.”
“Splendid idea, Frau Weber,” chimed in Herr Lange.
He clinked his wine glass to each of ours, proclaiming, “Here’s to good health, and the joining together of our two families! After the wine, we surely could use a good strong cup of our delicious Viennese coffee!”
And so, all three of us adjourned to Neumayr’s, where all our family then made a party and a Kaffeeklatsch (discourse over coffee) of it.

Wien, den 21. Oktober, 1780

Dear Diary,
This day, I feel autumn clearly in the air.
The leaves are falling in profusion, and there is a new briskness to our climate.
Josi, Loysi, Stanzi, and I were all busy in the kitchen this afternoon.
Josi was cooking an Eintopfgericht (stew), and we sisters were chatting together and helping Josi by peeling potatoes and preparing and cutting vegetables and beef.
Josi said, “Sisters, I have made us some hot coffee; we had none this morning. Come, fill your cups.”
We all did so, save Loysi.
Josi exclaimed, “Loysi, you love coffee!”
“Not at present, sister,” Loysi frowned disapprovingly. “The smell and taste of it renders me sick. But I have such cravings for a delectable sour pickle!”
“A pickle? Loysi, you have never fancied pickles before!” Josi pondered.
Loysi grinned guiltily, as though she were hiding a huge secret.
She said softly, sheepishly, “Sisters, I am with child. Near two months gone. I am sure of it. My confinement shall be next May. But,” Loysi animatedly raised her voice, “do not think that Josef and I are forced to marry! We are truly in love, and would have become man and wife regardless!”
We each gasped in astonishment, and all of us went to embrace Loysi.
We wished her God’s blessings and favor.
Josi eyed Loysi archly and then uttered, “My dear sister, I cannot for the life of me imagine you—a mother!”
Loysi grinned, “Nor can I, sister.”
Josi remarked, “Sunday last, when we were all together at Neumayr’s, I noticed, Loysi, that you scarce touched your Kaffee.”
Loysi nodded and affirmed, “Ach, I could not, Josi! Ugh! Though normally, I love hot coffee. And do you recall how I had to excuse myself twice and go out back? I felt sick. I am glad it was not noticed or questioned.”
Loysi frowned, “Sisters, I shall have to hire a wet nurse right away! I cannot bear the thought of being away from the stage!”
She winked and exclaimed jauntily, “Do you suppose our Mama still has some milk stored away?” She laughed, “Mama could be stimulated into producing it again and being my wet nurse!” We all chuckled.
Josi replied resolutely, shaking her head, “Sister, I am afraid those days for Mama are long past.”
Loysi pouted, “When my condition is obvious to behold, sisters, I shall be obliged to bid my beloved Burgtheater a temporary adieu! Verdammt!”
“Loysi,” my cheerful voice contrasted with her whining complaints, “What a blessing to be a mother! How lucky you are, Loysi!”
In the back of my mind, while uttering those words, I was also mindful of the risks of childbirth. However, I am ever confident that all shall be well.
Loysi is strong, and with God’s help, she shall be safely delivered of a healthy baby.
Imagine—Mama shall very soon become a grandmama, and my sisters and I—aunts!

Wien, den 20. November, 1780

Dear Diary,
Yesterday, as the long afternoon was drawing to its close, I finished rehearsing a scene from “Der Bettler” (“The Beggar”) with its star, the renown Viennese thespian, Herr Manfred Mosetig.
The director, Herr Oskar Josef Bschliessmayer, and the other players scurried out of the Burgtheater (Imperial Theater), since the day’s duties and chores were done, and out into the early darkening Viennese dusk they went, relieved that a day’s efforts were well-accomplished.
There remains still much in the play to iron out.
Herr Mosetig and I remained behind in the corridor, laughing together, as Herr Mosetig smilingly reminisced with me about his debut in the theater.
“Have no fear, my dear Fraeulein Weber; we were all of us green once.”
Just then, a thunderous, deafening explosion, which was followed by strong pellets of rain, shattered our mirth.
“A cloudburst,” Herr Mosetig injected.
But the powerful, ceaseless rain and thunder continued unbroken, first, for one-half hour, then hour upon hour.
I had never before experienced such long, angry crying from the heavens.
Herr Mosetig shared with me some bread he had brought along, but yawning and a desire for sleep increased for both of us as the long night wore on.
Thank goodness that Herr Mosetig’s horse and carriage were safely quartered in the stables out back.
His horse is a beautiful white mare with tan spots named Frieda, and his carriage is a green two-seated Pirutsch, which suits Herr Mosetig admirably for the daily journeys to and from the suburb of Wieden.
“My dear Miss Weber, the rain shall cease by early morning at the latest.
Then I shall drive you home right away, before driving home to Wieden.
Sleep is overtaking me. I know of just the thing.”
He ushered me backstage, into a small antechamber, where a bed and blanket lay waiting.
“Fraeulein Weber, I saw to it that this cot was put here, in case the need ever arose again. You see, once a long time ago, it happened that I found myself caught alone in the theater at night, and a mighty thunderstorm struck. And I am the sole member of our company residing outside the city, in Wieden. Some nights after a performance, when the weather was so wretched, I was mightily thankful for this cot.”
“But Mama shall be beside herself with worry!” I exclaimed.
“Never you fear, my dear Fraeulein. Your Mama shall realize what has transpired and know that you are safe and are waiting out the storm.”
Dear Diary, I am entrusting the following confidences only to you and to my dearest sister, Constanze.
I trusted Herr Manfred Mosetig completely.
He is so guileless and kind.
You know, Herr Mosetig is seven-and-thirty years of age, exactly twenty years my senior, not much taller than I and wiry of figure, olive-complexioned, his hair the color of salt and pepper, mostly dark.
Herr Mosetig has a gentle, winsome, kindly smile.
Intuitively, and also for want of experience, I trusted this modest, gentle man.
In spite of the interminable storm, the air remained warm.
How it transpired, dear Diary, I cannot this moment say, but it seemed so natural and without shame that Herr Mosetig and I should shed our outer garments.
I looked deeply into Herr Mosetig’s hazel eyes; do they not say that the eyes are the mirror of the soul?
Herr Mosetig’s eyes radiate sincerity and honesty.
“How can a gentleman with such kindly eyes ever hurt me?” I reflected to myself.
Ach, I know I am but seventeen years of age.
I recognize my still childlike, trusting nature and naivety, and I desire to believe that my innocence and trust shall not be betrayed, though many life experiences, through God’s will, lie in the cloudy future.
Dear Diary, I trusted Herr Mosetig, and knew that nothing would happen.
For the very first time, I have seen a man entirely in the flesh, as God has created him.
While both of us lay relaxed and unclothed on the cot, Herr Mosetig spoke to me concerning infidelity.
“My dear Fraeulein Weber, you need have no fear of me. I am no dandy, no seducer of women. I make all that so complicated in my mind —the thought of being unfaithful to my wife and eventually hurting a Fraeulein. I cannot just do it and leave,” Herr Mosetig laughted softly. “So I do not do it,” he smiled.
“My younger brother, Kurt, on the other hand, dear Fraeulein, makes nothing of it, nothing complicated, no second thoughts. Sometimes I wish I could be like my brother, but I cannot,” he sighed and shook his head thoughtfully.
“Dear Herr Mosetig, please do not change and lose your conscience!” I earnestly implored him.
Dear Diary, this day dawned fair and unclouded.
The early morning sun was already shining as Herr Mosetig and I awoke beside one another as God has made us, and the air, cleansed from the storm, was crystal-clear.
Herr Mosetig and I hurriedly put on our clothing.
The streets and buildings appeared in extra sharp focus as under a microscope.
Many leaves and some tree branches lay scattered about on the streets, and the now almost barren trees of our city appear ever closer to the approach of winter.
Herr Mosetig accompanied me to our door and rang the bell.
Almost before the first ring had sounded, there was Mama at the doorway beside herself. “Ach, Josef Maria–my Maria Sophie! I was so worried and upset! Praise the Lord you are come back to your Mama safe and sound!
Pray tell, daughter, were you caught unawares at the theater by the heavy rains?”
“Yes, Mama. May I present to you our leading man and the star of our play, Herr Manfred Mosetig.”
Herr Mosetig bowed, took Mama’s plump hand, and kissed it gallantly, softly saying “Kuess die Hand, gnaed’ge Frau.” (“I kiss your hand, dear Madame.”)
After Herr Mosetig departed for home, Mama began to cry softly, “Maria Sophie, my dearest girl. What has that man done to you?”
“Mama! Herr Mosetig did not deflower me! Nothing happened!”
Mama’s intense, steady gaze bore into me. “Are you sure, my girl? I shall summon Herr Thorwart, your guardian, to have a talk with Herr Mosetig!
Maria Sophie, that actor shall be responsible if anything untold has transpired!”
“Oh Mama, do not summon Herr Thorwart, I beg you! I am a virgin, as I was yesterday. Herr Mosetig is not a rake. He would not be inclined to touch me, nor would I permit it.”
Mama replied, “Oh Maria Sophie, I am sorely tempted to go fetch a medical surgeon to examine you and ascertain that all is as it should be. But dear Maria Sophie, you know full well I am not a despot, but am ever a concerned Mama. No; I would not do that, my Sopherl dear, my dearest child. I trust you.”
Mama concluded her admonishment by pecking me on the cheek.
This night before bedtime, as the candles still brightly burned, I giggled with Stanzi as I recounted to her my adventure of the night before.
Stanzi smiled understandingly, “Do be careful, dear sister. Do not let it go so far again. Keep your stays fastened,” she laughed gently.
“But of course, dear Stanzi. And I am keeping myself for later, for my one true love.”
And with such romantic thoughts running through my head, I extinguished the candles, and sleep and sweet dreams beckoned.

Wien, den 30. November, 1780

Dear Diary,
I have the most dreadful news.
Herr Manfred Mosetig and I were rehearsing the garden love scene when Count Rosenberg-Orsini, the director of court theaters, suddenly appeared in our theater and announced to all those present that our beloved Empress, Maria Theresia, was called to the Lord last night at nine o’clock.
I felt a shock go through my being.
There was a stunned silence beyond all power of expression among our company.
I can scarce believe this turn of events.
It seems as though the Empress has always ruled over this kingdom—well, for well neigh over forty years.
I saw the look of surprise and sadness come over Herr Mosetig’s features.
Herr Manfred Mosetig—the dear friend of my bosom.
He is a native son of Vienna, born and bred in this grand city on the banks of the Danube.
I impulsively took Herr Mosetig’s warm, gentle hand in mine, and held on to it.
At that moment, I would have loved to hold him tightly and press my face into his comforting chest, remaining forever safe in that warm, cozy cocoon, and giving him comfort and sustenance as I too received it from him.
Count Rosenberg-Orsini cried, “The Empress is dead! Es lebe der Kaiser! (‘Long live the Emperor!’) Long live our Emperor, Josef II!”
The whole company echoed, “Long live Josef II!”
These past fifteen years, Maria Theresia co-ruled with her son–her husband, the Emperor Franz I Stefan, having died.
However, it seems Maria Theresia has always been Empress; her long reign has defined our age.
I hear tell that Josef II has great enjoyment in music.
He plays instruments and composes.
He greatly esteems concerts and the opera.
As the court is in mourning, there shall be no theatrical or operatic performances in Vienna for one month forward.
Count Rosenberg-Orsini added that the premiere of “The Beggar” shall take place one month from this day, on December 30th.
Rehearsals of our play, however, are to be continued during this upcoming month.
All our company then adjourned to the Hofburg Chapel next door to the theater, where we attended a Mass celebrating the life and praying for the soul of our late Empress, Maria Theresia.

Wien, den 16. Maerz, 1781

Dear Diary,
This morning, Constanze told me excitedly with flushed cheeks that Herr Wolfgang Mozart is arrived this day in Vienna, or should be arriving momentarily.
Her last letter from Herr Mozart was penned five days ago, before his departure from Salzburg.
Herr Mozart, the court organist, is in the employee of Count Hieronymus Colloredo, prince archbishop of Salzburg, who is in town to visit his ailing father.
Herr Mozart shall be residing with the archbishop’s other employees at his headquarters in the House of the Teutonic Order, near Saint Stefan’s Cathedral.
Late this afternoon, Stanzi and I were returning home after fetching victuals at the greengrocer’s, our arms laden with foodstuffs.
As we climbed the stairs to our apartment, we noticed a thin, blond-haired gentleman with powdered hair mounting the stairs ahead of us.
When he reached the landing and headed towards our door, Stanzi let out a gasp.
The gentleman turned around, spied us, and his face lit up in a wide grin. “Bonjour, mes demoiselles!”
Stanzi gasped, “Herr Mozart!” We rushed to the landing.
Herr Wolfgang Mozart ceremoniously bowed, and we hastily curtsied to him.
Stanzi and I are so overjoyed to be reunited with our old friend from Mannheim.
Our good mother, too, was elated to see Herr Mozart.
She bid him relax in the parlor, had me quickly prepare some fresh Kaffee (coffee), and brought in some delicious Schokolatentorte (chocolate cake).
What a jolly time we all had reminiscing and catching up on the past few years!

Wien, den 25. April, 1781

Dear Diary,
At present, our humble apartment is bereft of boarders—not one single solitary one.
For the time being, our household consists but of Mama, Constanze, and myself.
Herr Guenzburg, the violin student, has been appointed second violinist in the court orchestra this month just past.
Herr Schaefer, our other boarder and likewise a student of music, was persuaded last week by his family to return to his home on the outskirts of Vienna to be apprenticed to his father and enter the hat making trade.
Herr Schaefer had told me before departing that regretfully, he found he lacks the musical talent he hoped to acquire and nurture, and that a secure trade suits him better than remaining a mediocre Musiker.
However, our good mother yet desires for Stanzi and me to leave things as need be and continue to share Constanze’s bedchamber where, I must confess, at least I have my very own bed.
The free rooms are there for later, when they shall be rented by new lodgers.

Wien, den 1. Mai, 1781

Dear Diary,
This day, Herr Wolfgang Mozart called upon us.
The poor man seemed to be in an agitated state.
Mama served him red wine, Broetchen (rolls), and fresh, sweet butter.
“My dear ladies, I implore you to rent me a room this very day!
I cannot bear to reside one more moment under the same roof as my princely employer! He makes my life intolerable! I can no longer endure to be but a servant, to be placed at table with the other servants. And we musicians are assigned a lower rank than valets! I did not know I was a valet!
I at least have the honor of sitting above the cooks.
I am also forbidden to concertize or earn any money on my own.
I shall need the room for one week, Frau Weber; at such time, the archbishop and all his retinue must depart again for Salzburg.”
Mama gave Herr Mozart our best bedchamber save Mama’s.
Josef Lange, my new brother-in-law, was its last occupant.
The bedchamber is roomy, and affords a splendid view of the Petersplatz.

Wien, den 6. Mai, 1781

Dear Diary,
Herr Wolfgang Mozart has been lodging with us these last five days.
It is so very good to have him again within our domicile, almost as part of our family!
Those four and one half months in Mannheim after Herr Mozart entered our lives nearly four years ago were the happiest of my life till the present time.
Herr Mozart became a close friend of Papa and of all us Webers.
Dear Herr Mozart has such a childlike nature—has both child and adult within his heart.
At our home in Mannheim, Herr Mozart laughed with us, and played dice and jacks with Constanze and me upon the floor as though the three of us were children.
He brought Stanzi and me out of ourselves. He made us feel special and important. He joked with us and made us laugh.
Herr Mozart gave us sisters pianoforte lessons.
Our house was suddenly alive with laughter and merriment.
Herr Mozart’s presence among our family was magic; our family was transformed—and this endearing, short and slight of build, eccentric young man with the lovely countenance, prominent nose, sandy blond hair and prodigious musical talent—had stolen all our hearts.
I knew that Herr Mozart was then courting my elder sister, Aloysia, a budding opera singer.
Herr Wolfgang Mozart, then as now, seems always in motion, fidgeting with his hands, playing imaginary notes on the table, on the walls, sometimes even leaping over tabletops, jovial, joking, finding the humorous side of things, jokingly playing on words.
Nine months after departing Mannheim, in the dead and cold of winter, Herr Mozart called upon us in Munich on his return journey to Salzburg after the passing of his beloved mother in Paris.
He stayed with us a fortnight.
Ach, Aloysia turned him away then; she was now a star of the Munich court opera and no longer needed his help.
I felt so sorry for Herr Mozart.
Since Herr Wolfgang Mozart is come to lodge with us five days ago, he has once more transformed our humble Weber household.
Herr Mozart has given our hearth energy and purpose—and new life and warmth.
I observe that our good mother behaves differently as well.
Of late, she had seemed depressed, moody, and out of sorts, ofttimes not even bothering to brush her hair mornings.
I know that Mama misses my dear Papa dreadfully, as do I.
Mama slouched around the house with a woebegone, gloomy expression on her careworn countenance.
I know at night that Mama did not go to bed as is her wont; instead long after bedtime, she sat despondently drinking glass after glass of wine or rum at the kitchen table. Several times, late in the night, I was awakened by noises emanating from the kitchen. I had to rise from my bed, tuck Mama in her own bed, and put the wine or rum away in the cupboard.
Now, Mama does not tarry in the kitchen at bedtime.
There is no wine or rum bottle left on the table, no imbibing of wine or rum by her lonesome late at night.
Mama is up bright and early, her hair well-brushed, a contented smile adorning her face, as she bustles about our household.
Mama’s posture is ramrod straight and purposeful.
I hear her humming the old folksongs and ditties from Mannheim as she used to.
How Mama is doting on and spoiling Herr Mozart!
She has Constanze and myself tending without fail to his comfort and well-being, taking every care that his wardrobe is regularly clean, that he always has a snack or coffee if he so desires it.
Mama herself has overnight become a gourmet cook again—quite like my eldest sister, Josefa.
Dear Mama takes such pleasure and pride in planning sumptuous meals that would please Herr Mozart’s discriminating palate.
Mama is just as partial towards a simple but absolutely delicious meal for Herr Mozart.
She desires nothing save to please him and cater to his every need.
Mama has put our two pianofortes entirely at Herr Mozart’s disposal.
And this afternoon, my good mother took great pains with a late afternoon snack of fresh homebaked Brot (bread) and butter with the Kaffee (coffee) she lovingly prepared.
She had Stanzi and me put our best linen on the dinner table, and at four o’clock, she cordially bid Herr Mozart join us in the dinning room for a coffee-snack.
Mama even lit the candles.
They glowed cheerfully from the table, though it was not yet dusk.
Herr Mozart sat at table with Mama, Constanze, and myself, as we all savored the pungent Viennese coffee, the delicious bread straight out of the oven, and our lighthearted conversation.
Suddenly, the talk turned serious.
Mozart looked pensive and blurted out, “I must leave Vienna in but a few days’ time, my dear ladies. Oh, if only I did not have to depart; if only I could stay……”
“Dear Herr Mozart,” Mama kindly commented, “Your father……I fancy he would not take it well if you remained in Vienna?”
Mozart replied straightforwardly, “No, Frau Weber. I fear he might take it badly. The most important thing to my dear Papa is his family—my dear sister, Nannerl, and myself. It is dear to his heart to have us near him, to have me at home in Salzburg.”
“But, my dear Mozart,” Mama’s face lit up, “here in Vienna, you could do your Papa proud! You would surely enjoy good fortune here, Herr Mozart—and how could your dear father and sister then not rejoice in it! Why, we have our very own opera company here in Vienna, our own national theater, our Singspiel (opera in German).
And ach, so many fine patrons of music, as you well know—starting with the Emperor himself! Herr Mozart, you would be a celebrated, successful composer and virtuoso!”
Herr Mozart’s eyes brightened, and there was joy in his face. “Frau Weber,” he replied. “The opera is my passion! In Salzburg, we have alas no opera company. How I would relish the opportunity to compose more operas!”
Mama sipped her coffee and mused, “My dear boy, you should really think seriously of settling here in Vienna.”
Herr Mozart was silent.
He looked warmly at Stanzi, and out the window at the bustling Viennese street scene below.
The Kaffee and Brot were just the thing for a late afternoon pick-me-up.
I felt energized, and knew I was needed in the kitchen to help prepare supper.
Mama and I quietly left the dining room as Herr Mozart and Stanzi remained still there, absorbed in their conversation and in one another.

Wien, den 10. Mai, 1781

Dear Diary,
Yesterday, Herr Mozart came to his final decision.
He abruptly resigned his post with the archbishop of Salzburg.
This fateful step could no longer be postponed.
His princely employer bade him return forthwith to Salzburg—It was now or never!
Herr Mozart strode through the door at midday yesterday, in a high state of excitement.
“I have endured all I can take from the archbishop, meine lieben Damen!
He has insulted me and my honor beyond the point of return!
Oh, I am still so boiling mad! How could I have been in his service so long, have endured his injustices and not quit his employ before this day!
I tell you, that man is a monster!
I have not the slightest doubt that my decision is the right one, my dear ladies.”
Herr Mozart’s voice sounded calmer.
“I have cut loose those ties that were cruel and heartless and would have stymied my creativity.
There—I feel better. The worst is over. I must say, I am relieved and feel lighthearted,” Mozart laughed.
Mama also is so relieved and happy.
Of course, I am as well—and not to mention, dear diary, the feelings of my dear sister, Constanze!
Herr Mozart exclaimed, “Frau Weber, let us celebrate by the four of us spending the afternoon in the Prater! I shall rent us a horse and carriage for tomorrow!”
Thus this morning, Mama, Constanze, and I were busy as bees in the kitchen, preparing a picnic to take along to the Prater.
With three pairs of deft, nimble hands at work, our picnic meal was completed in a jiffy—the sooner to be off and deep within the soothing sanctuary of nature.
We all three readied ham sandwiches, cooked and mixed a savory tart potato salad, and rinsed off some apples.
Mama placed a bottle of red wine and a bottle of punch into our picnic basket.
Our good mother sat in the front seat of the carriage beside Herr Mozart at the reins and Stanzi and me in the back seat.
How we enjoyed the delicious lunch and each other’s company.
After our repast, Herr Mozart said, “It is a fine day to take a walk! Shall we?”
He and Stanzi arose, and I started to get up as well.
Mama quickly took hold of my skirt and suddenly, my backside gently and noiselessly hit the picnic blanket spread across the grass.
Mama whispered to me, “Sophie dear, it seems that Constanze and Herr Mozart have formed an attachment.
Let us leave them alone as often as may be, daughter, to better become acquainted and to enjoy their friendship.”
The two had not noticed my clumsy landing on my rump.
Herr Mozart and Stanzi turned around, facing us.
Mozart smiled, “Come and join us, dear ladies!”
“You are most kind, Herr Mozart,” Mama replied, “but I have been meaning to finish knitting this shawl. And Sophie has just told me how engrossed she is in Herr Goethe’s new novella; she wishes to keep me company and read aloud to me.”
Later, after they both returned to us, Mama spoke up, exclaiming, “Ach, what beautiful trees! It puts me in mind to take a constitutional and enjoy the scenery! Why, in the city, we have sore need of this profusion of greenery.
Sophie dear, let us take a turn around the park!”
Arm in arm, Mama and I strolled around blissfully, both at one with nature and avidly observing the passersby, the carriages, and horses.
I seldom have occasion to walk with Mama!
Usually, it is Stanzi and I out of doors together, engaged in doing errands for our good mother. 

Mama commented, “Dear, it is high time we cut flowers from the small garden we planted in back of the courtyard, and pot plants for the windowsills. Likewise, we need cut fresh flowers for indoors.”
When Mama and I were returning to rejoin Stanzi and Herr Mozart, we heard a soft, sweet duet in progress, wafting in the breeze.
We sat down on our large picnic blanket and listened contentedly to Mozart’s tenor and Stanzi’s soprano blended charmingly together.
They were singing a duet in Italian from Herr Mozart’s new opera “Idomenio”, premiered in Munich this past January.

“O Creta fortunate; oh me felice!” sang Mozart. “Oh fortunate Crete; oh happy me!”
“Torna la pace al core. Torna lo spento ardorare,” he continued. “Peace returns to my heart. The spent ardor returns.”
Stanzi, looking adoringly at Mozart, her head almost touching his, continued the melody, “Fiorisce in me l’eta. Tal la stagion di Flora. L’albero annoso infiora.” “Age flourishes in me. Just as the season of Flora—Embellishes the aged tree with leaves.”
They chimed in, in unison, “Nuovo vigor gli da!” “And gives it new vigor!”
And with a flourish, the enchanting song was ended.

Mama then cried, “Bravo, meine Kinder!”
Stanzi giggled like a schoolgirl. Mozart’s and Stanzi’s complexions were both flushed and rosy pink.
Shafts of light from the waning afternoon sun lit Stanzi’s dark, rich hair and Mozart’s sandy, abundant locks, their tresses gently touching.
Our party enjoyed a beautiful afternoon in the Prater, much like on my birthday.
After we were again come home, Herr Mozart returned the horse and carriage a block away, and walked back on foot to our apartment.
By that time, Mama had some fresh, piping hot Viennese coffee waiting for him, and we all sat at the dining table, sipping it and enjoying its richness.
Then Mama and I went to the kitchen to tidy up.
Soon thereafter from the kitchen, I heard a reprise of the duet from this afternoon.
Gingerly, I stole a glance into the parlor.
There were Herr Mozart and Stanzi seated together on the pianoforte bench.
They seemed so happy together, appeared to be in another world.
I looked at their faces.
Nothing mattered except this moment, this song.
It seemed as if their voices were searching for the other’s, belonging together, united.
As they sang, Mozart played the melody and harmony, but Stanzi’s beautiful, dainty hands joined Mozart’s strong, dexterous ones, crossing and touching, while Stanzi added some extra harmony.
I saw how truly Stanzi and Mozart delighted in singing together, in sharing the most sublime human experience—music.

Wien, den 31. Mai, 1781

Dear Diary,
This night, I am in a state of euphoria!
I am become an aunt, dear diary!
And Mama is now this day a Grandmama!
It all started early this morning.
Josef Lange, my brother-in-law, rode over in a gallop with Frieda, his fine and precious horse—attached to his carriage, ran up to our threshold, and hastily rang the doorbell.
“Guten Morgen (good morning), Mama, Constanze, and Sophie!”
Josef was practically out of breath.
“All three of you are urgently needed at my home! Aloysia is gone into labor not two hours past, and her contractions are beginning to quicken!
Do you think it is time to send for the midwife? Aloysia is bearing up well and not yet in great pain.”
Mama, all business and practicality, stated matter-of-factly, “Perhaps it is very near time, Josef. You are right, my son. There is no time to lose! We need make haste!”
I knew that underneath, Mama felt uneasy, as we all were gripped with uncertainty in such circumstances.
Thank goodness for Josef’s carriage!
Aloysia, lying in her bed propped up with pillows, was not feeling exceedingly unwell, and bore each contraction by taking deep breaths and endeavoring to relax her muscles and ignore the increasing surges of pain.
When she first cried out “Ow!” in the midst of a contraction, Mama observed, “Josef, now is the time to fetch the midwife!”
Frau Schotte, the midwife, resides not four streets distant in the Rotenturmstrasse (Red Tower Street) next to the Wiener Kanal, a tributary of the Danube, and Josef and his horse and carriage were immediately off and running to bring her hither.
Frau Schotte is an elderly woman, and has been engaged in midwifery nearly her entire life.
Josef has the utmost confidence in her experience and expertise.
Frau Schotte bade Constanze, the maidservant Hanne, and me boil water, and Mama soothe Aloysia’s brow with wet compresses.
The midwife promptly and firmly dismissed Aloysia’s worried husband to the parlor, exclaiming, “It is not seemly or decent to have the menfolk intruding upon this delicate business!”
Between bouts of boiling water for the midwife, I sat next to my sister, Aloysia, and read aloud to her from my new novella by Herr Goethe.
Aloysia took comfort and diversion from the story and smiled appreciatively though tiredly at me.
I naturally ceased my reading at the onset of each contraction and held Aloysia’s hand while Mama wiped her brow and Constanze took her other hand.
Our good mother spoke soft, soothing words of endearment, encouraging my sister on.
Aloysia’s confinement seemed interminable.
A slowly increasing fear gripped my innards, although my ceaseless occupation and activity masked it well from her.
Aloysia struggled mightily to refrain from crying out in pain, but could not help herself at this point.
Mama cooed to my sister, “It is all right, dear. I have borne so many children and believe me, I know this is quite normal. You are doing so well, my dear daughter. It will soon be over.”
And it was!
Towels were hurriedly called for; Frau Schotte was in rapt concentration and her steady hands, which had birthed thousands of babies, expertly accomplished their task.
The dark head crowned, then more and more of the little body appeared, and finally the feet, the placenta.
A firm wack on its little bottom, and oh so welcome tiny, tinny-sounding cries burst forth, piercing the air of Aloysia’s birthing room.
Smiles and cheers erupted all around!
Mama, Stanzi, and I all cried tears of happiness and relief.
Frau Schotte cleaned off the infant and exclaimed, “A girl! Frau Lange, you have a beautiful, bonny baby girl! What shall be her name then?”
Aloysia was all radiance. “Maria Anna Sabina,” she smiled.
“Oh, a beautiful name, Frau Lange! Why,” she laughed, “we have nearly forgot the father! Let us promptly fetch him!”
I ran to the parlor, exclaiming, “Josef! Wonderful news! Aloysia is safely delivered of a beautiful, healthy baby girl!”
Josef’s grin was a mile wide. Relief and joy etched his tired countenance.
Inside the bedchamber, we all rejoiced and embraced one another.
We congratulated the brand new mother, spoke words of joy and comfort to her, and took turns holding little Maria Anna.
When it was my turn, I tenderly looked at the precious little bundle squirming in my arms. New life! A miracle! Tears of joy spontaneously ran unchecked down my cheeks. I looked and marveled at the tiny hands and feet, teeny fingers and toes. Just look at that wee little mouth, that tiny nose, those beautiful eyes. What a beautiful infant!
Aloysia called out, “Sister, I would feed Maria Anna now! Do let me start! I am filled to overflowing with milk, and it pains me!”
I handed little Maria Anna into her mother’s welcoming, waiting arms, and Loysi modestly covered part of herself and pressed the infant’s eager mouth to the right spot. Loysi knew just what to do. “I have observed Mama often enough!” she grinned. My sister added, sighing, “Ach, I yearn for the stage—to go back to singing and treading the boards! But I feel at this moment—I shall not hasten my return prematurely. Welcome to the world, little Maria Anna!”
She gently kissed the infant’s cheek.

Wien, den 19. Juli, 1781

Dear Diary,
Before retiring for the night, Constanze and I were sitting on our beds.
She came over and sat down upon my bed and lowered her eyes.
“Sophie, Wolferl and I……last night—it happened. We both let it happen. Oh Sophie, Wolferl and I……we knew each other, as man and wife.
I felt a sharp pang of astonishment from Stanzi’s unexpected words and gazed intently at my sister.
Constanze looked exactly the same as yesterday; she sounded just the same.
That moment, I felt dumbfounded.
“Oh Stanzi! Stanzi……what was it like?”
“Sophie……it was……absolutely wonderful……although I also know now it is part of life, but the rest of life still goes on as before……”
“Stanzi, do you feel……different now?”
Stanzi smiled warmly at me and suddenly poked me with her elbow, giggling, “No, Sopherl!……And yes.”
We both burst into laughter.
Stanzi turned serious.
“You know, dear sister, do not ever breathe a word of this to Mama—not to anyone!”
“Cross my heart, Stanzi.”
Then I suddenly had a solemn thought. “Sister, what if you should become with child?”
Stanzi shook her head.
“Wolferl took every precaution, sister. He is very mindful and conscious not to get me in the family way. And you know, dear Sophie, I utterly trust my Wolfchen. And ach, I love him with all my heart. If such a thing were to happen, Wolfchen would do the right and honorable thing. I feel safe with him, Sophie. I know that Wolferl shall take me to the altar BEFORE a child is on the way.”
I saw my sister with new eyes. “Stanzi, you are a woman now.”
Suddenly, Stanzi burst out laughing—contagious peals of laughter; I had to join in the mirth.
Constanze’s face was glowing.
My sister softly echoed my words: “I am a woman now.”
She gently smiled.
“Yes, I am.”
In blowing out the candles this night, I feel that a new chapter in our lives is just beginning.

Wien, den 15. September, 1781

Dear Diary,
The frequent quarrels between Mama and Constanze over Mozart and the state of his relationship with my sister have taken a toll on us, and vanished much of the peace and quiet we have hitherto enjoyed.
A feeling of discontent and uneasiness hangs heavily over the Weber hearth.
I so wish for Mama to be unburdened and for Constanze to enjoy with happiness her special attachment with Wolfgang Mozart!
Constanze trusts Mozart, and how could I not also trust and have confidence in him, in his honesty and strength of character, in his faithfulness.
My heart tells me that where it matters, Mozart shall do the right and honorable thing by my sister.

Oh, dear diary, I seek refuge from the household turmoil in reading, in losing myself in a romantic novel or a history book.
I also place myself squarely between my good mother and my sister while we are engaged in domestic tasks; my presence and my changing the subject often stops their quarrels.
Last week, as I was exiting Herr Egil Ekko’s bookstore, a new novella by Herr Gotthold Lessing under my arm, Frau Ekko, his spouse, entered the shoppe with her two daughters.
Frau Ekko is a comely, handsome woman, like in age to her husband.
I was struck by her expression: beaming, happy, self-satisfied, and content with her lot.
And content in her marriage too? I wondered.
The two girls have blond locks, rosy cheeks, and round faces like their father, and are scarce younger than myself.
This day, badly in need of a new book to boost my spirits, I received Mama’s permission to venture out alone and unaccompanied.
“But do not tarry, daughter! Do hurry back, and be ever watchful of strangers! Anyway, I cannot spare Constanze this day. Darn that Hedwig and Kristl, our servant girls, are both home with colds!
I need Constanze in the kitchen, and you too, Sopherl—so be not long away!”

My mood improved and my heart quickened as I approached Herr Ekko’s bookshoppe.
There he was; his blue eyes and warm smile greeted me as I entered, and I set to task exploring the many rows of books for that one special selection I had saved my coins for and would take home.
How happy I am looking around the shoppe and browsing through books!
How peaceful it is for me to be in the company of books, to be surrounded by them on all four sides.
A new biography of our late Empress Maria Theresia piqued my interest.
This is the one I would buy!
I held the book in my hands, savoring the musty, comfortable look of this special place and the nearness of Herr Ekko—row upon row of books, bathed in a warm, light-brown aura cast by the flickering candles onto the book-lined walls.

We conversed and laughed together, standing very close.
Then—oh, dear diary—Herr Ekko shyly and tenderly kissed me on the cheek.
The feel of his mouth on my skin sent a sudden, unexpected quiver to my lower body and a tingling to my breasts.
Then Herr Ekko’s mouth was on mine—Ach, Gott im Himmel! (God in heaven!)
Through my garments, I could feel the gentle pressure of his hand lightly graze my nipple.
The overpowering desire to yield to my passions overcame me.
Our bodies were touching, locked in a tight embrace, while all the world was forgotten.
How well our two bodies fit together.
(Herr Ekko is but slightly taller than myself.)

The hourly peeling of the church bells from nearby Saint Peter’s jolted me back to reality.
It was five of the clock!
I am come alone to the bookshoppe and must return now, or Mama shall surely be beside herself with worry!
Herr Ekko dropped his head and looked ashamed and contrite.
“Forgive me, dear Miss. Forgive me. I forgot myself. Yumping Yimminy, what overtook me? My dear Fraeulein Sophie, I would not want to endanger our friendship. I was very wrong……to take liberties.”
He gently smiled at me—a melancholy smile, his two dimples gleaming.
Herr Ekko’s round, angelic countenance which I so love—the beautiful features and beatific warm smile, the face framed with rumpled, dark blond hair—was tinged with sadness as he whispered under his breath, “I have come to my senses.”
I too was all at once seized with the fear and dread of being unmarried and with child.
The shame and disgrace it would bring upon me and my family and the thought of hurting Herr Ekko’s wife and daughters flashed through my mind.
Herr Ekko’s somber words were like a welcome pitcher of cold water thrown onto my face.
“Sophie,” I thought to myself, “I cannot allow this to happen. My dear Herr Ekko is a married man after all……
But, yes, we can be friends.”
I smiled.

Herr Ekko offered to escort me home, as the daylight was rapidly fading.
I declined. “There is no need, Herr Ekko; if I make haste, though the street lanterns are now lit, there remains a trace of daylight. I can make it in the nick of time and,” I giggled, “no need to subject you to Mama’s barrage of questions at the door.”
“I do not mind your mother’s queries, dear Miss Sophie, and hope to have the opportunity of meeting your Mama later,” Herr Ekko replied in his charming Norwegian lilt.
“Vell, at least, take this hand lantern along; I shall yust light the vick (wick) for you. You can return it at your leisure, Fraeulein Sophie.”
I thanked Herr Ekko and, new book in hand, I bid him adieu.
This was one of the few times that I have ventured out on errands alone, and I want not for Mama to come down strongly and disapprove of my solo outings and lack of a chaperon.
As I raced homeward, a light fog crept steadily over the buildings and streets in the encroaching darkness.
The reflection in the fog of the street lanterns and my borrowed hand lantern gave off a strange glow of comfort, as at Christmastide, and not a curtain of darkness approaching.

I felt my heart beating rapidly as I entered our threshold.
Thankfully, no one was at the door, vexed and upset at my late return.
Why, quite possibly, no one had even noticed my tardiness—nor my absence at all!
There was not a soul in the parlor either.
Then I heard soft crying emanating from the kitchen.
“Gruess Gott, mein Sopherl!”
Mama, slumped over and dejected, spoke plaintively.
“Ach, your sister! What can I do with her?”
“Cheer up, Mama. Surely tis not as bad as you think!”
“Thank you, Sopherl.”
Mama wanly smiled. “Daughter, your kind words bring me comfort and hope.”
Mama struggled to regain her composure.
In our bedchamber, I found Constanze with red, swollen eyes.
My sister straightened herself up and seemed to muster the courage to enter Mama’s domain, the kitchen.
“Sophie,” she spoke in a low voice, “Let us go help Mama prepare the evening meal.”
Civility and normalcy was temporarily restored to the Weber household.

Wien, den 19. Dezember, 1781

Dear Diary,
Constanze is returned home yesterday from her stay of one month’s duration with the Baroness Waldstaetten.
I have certainly missed Stanzi dearly, and indeed have also missed our nightly confidences and heart-to-hearts.
Our apartment seemed so uncommonly quiet.
Stanzi is my elder by scarce one-and-twenty months, and it is hard for me to grasp the fact that soon, my beloved sister shall be a married lady.
In truth, she and Mozart are betrothed to each other in their hearts.
Stanzi shall be a wife before I enter the matrimonial state, of that, I am certain.
And were I to remain a lifelong spinster, I find spinsterhood strangely not disagreeable to me.
The thing I most dislike about never marrying is the pejorative moniker “old maid”.
And I cannot leave dear Mama were I to marry.
No; Mama is widowed; I would take her to reside with my husband and myself.
My future husband need be obliged and most willing to welcome Mama, and make a comfy place for her within our household.
And to eventually find a man—a soulmate—I can love and be a wife to—is my heart’s desire.
Though were I never to marry, I can still be content and happy.
If I do remain single, I shall not be subjected to the risks of childbirth and the grief of perhaps burying my infants and children.
I would long for all my precious, future children to survive, to grow to adulthood, to be happy, and live long lives!
It is possible, dear diary!
I have been witness to its happening!
In truth, I have known persons who have lived to a great age, and some women whose children all survived!
Regarding my sister, Constanze—I must therefore, dear diary, grow accustomed to her absence from our hearth, get used to Stanzi’s not being there daily.
I am the youngest of the four Weber sisters.
I have known my sisters—have known Stanzi—my entire life.
From my birth onward, Stanzi was there.
This kind of solitude is new to me, dear diary, though I mind not at all being alone and solely in my own company.
I can then dream, play the pianoforte, or read.
There were always snatches of quiet, but also the frequent company of my sister, Constanze—my best friend.
Ach, I know that afterwards when Stanzi is a married lady—Frau Mozart—we shall ever and always remain close.
Last night, I was fast asleep in my bed and already in dreamland, when I was startled awake by an uncommonly loud thud coming from the kitchen.
I sat up with a start, quickly lit a candle, and rushed into the kitchen to see what the matter was.
It was Mama—sitting at the kitchen table with her wine glass and two wine bottles on the table.
She had probably knocked over the chair while fetching the second bottle.
Ach, Du lieber Himmel! (Goodness gracious!)
Mama’s unwelcome behavior had been foreign to her since that happy time last spring when Herr Wolfgang Mozart came to lodge with us.
And now? Has Mama fallen back into her old ways?
“Pray, what is the matter, Mama? You must get to bed!”
“It is Constanze, my child! I am so worried!
I know she is in love with Herr Mozart.”
She furrowed her brow.
“Daughter, I can see it in her face and in his face.
Ach, I am sore afraid Constanze is going to become with child, Sopherl! Why, it shall lead to her disgrace, to her utter ruin!
Josef, Maria—what if Herr Mozart decides to return to Salzburg after he is finished composing his new opera “The Entfuehrung aus dem Serail” (“The Abduction from the Seraglio”)?
What then?
Herr Mozart has no firm position here in Vienna!
Ach zum Teufel (the devil)—He would leave Constanze in the family way; he would abandon her here to her fate!” she frowned.
Mama’s voice rose and became shriller, “Just you look at what happened to your sister, Aloysia!
One in the oven—ach, even before the marriage banns were posted!
Providence was favorable then, my daughter.
Aloysia was truly fortunate; Josef brought her to the altar in the nick of time! Constanze may not be so blessed, you know!”
I put my arms around Mama’s plump, round shoulders.
“Do not trouble yourself, dear Mama!” I soothed.
“Constanze is a sensible girl.”
Mama interjected, “—but in love!
Sophie dear, I have of late been thinking—of what I must do.
I shall need the help of your and Constanze’s guardian, Herr Johann Thorwart.
Gott sei Dank (thank goodness) for Herr Thorwart!
He shall be my savior—and Constanze’s—and the savior of all our family! Herr Thorwart shall not permit us to lose our honor, daughter!
We Webers have the right to lay down the law!
Indeed we do!
This moment, it comes to me, dear child.
I shall request Herr Thorwart to draw up a written betrothal contract and speak with Herr Mozart!
Herr Mozart shall be obliged to sign the legal, binding betrothal contract! Herr Mozart need agree to marry Constanze within three years’ time!
If he does not, then he shall be obligated to pay her 300 gulden a year!”
Mama breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sophie, my daughter,” she exclaimed, “do not ever take liberties with a man before marriage, pray.
I would not wish to see you brought to the brink of ruin and shame, my dear child!”
“Mama!” I smiled, “You need not fret over me.
Ach, Mama, I do not intend to.”
I then had a wicked gleam in my eye and added impishly, “Besides, would not Herr Thorwart also come to my rescue, Mama!”
I put the wine away in the cupboard and led Mama to her bed, where I gently tucked her in.
“Dear Mama,” I warned, “I implore you—do not drink so much wine or rum.
It is wasteful and destructive to you, and it ill becomes you.”
Mama, tired out, her head resting on the pillow, wryly gave me answer. “Maria Sophie, who is the mother here? And who is the child?”
I adjusted Mama’s wide, plump comforter over her large girth, took the candles back to my bedchamber, and for the last time this night, snuffed them out.
I know in my heart that everything should be all right.

Wien, den 21. Dezember, 1781

Dear Diary,
Herr Johann Thorwart, accompanied by Herr Mozart, came to call on us this day.
The betrothal contract is now a fait accompli, and the document was entrusted into the dependable hands of our good mother.
As soon as Herr Thorwart took leave of us, Constanze insisted that Mama hand her the document.
At that point, as Stanzi held the writ in her hands, she turned to Herr Mozart and addressed him, “Dear Mozart! I do not need any written assurances from you. I believe what you say.”
Thereupon my sister tore up the betrothal contract.
Mama gasped and fainted straight away.
Herr Mozart rushed over to Mama and revived her with smelling salts.
“There, there, Frau Weber,” he soothingly intoned. “Rest assured that I shall never forsake Constanze!”
My dear sister, Stanzi, and I had a heart-to-heart talk this night shortly before blowing out the candles.
Already in our night frocks and nightcaps, we sat on Stanzi’s bed.
“Stanzi,” I uttered in awe. “How can you do that—just tear up the betrothal contract with Herr Mozart?
How can you be so brave, Stanzi?
I admire your courage, though I do not think I would have the nerve to do as you did this day!”
“Sophie, I would not for the world coerce my Wofferl into marriage!
Were this ‘betrothal contract’ allowed to exist, I am certain that Wolfgang would soon suffer under its weight!
Its presence would distance him from me, sister. You see, instead of seeing me as his beloved, his cherished Stanzi Marini, his ‘liebstes, bestes Herzensweibchen’(‘dearest, best little wife of my heart’)—he would begin to regard me as an obligation, a duty.
That would surely be the death of his love for me.
Sopherl, it is akin to throwing cold water onto a flame.
I fear Wolferl’s passion for me would likewise be extinguished—the inexhaustible freshness, beauty, and depth of love would wither and die within his heart.”
I shook my head and mused.
“Wolfgang’s love for you shall not cease, Stanzi.
And a gaping hole of uncertainty is left now in the wake of destroying the document.
You now have no firm foundation to rest your feet upon, Stanzi—without the betrothal contract—no security, should your Wolfgang renege on his promise to make you his wife!”
“Ach, Sophie—I have no fear whatsoever about that,” she glowed.
“Remember when I confided to you that night six months ago after Wolferl and I consummated our love for the first time—that I trust Wolfgang, that I feel safe with my Wolferl, secure, at home with him.
Sophie, Wolfgang is my soulmate, my dearest darling.
I know that providence wills it that we are meant to be together; it was simply meant to be.
I am certain of that, Sophie.
It is very important to me that Wolfgang knows full well I trust him completely, sister!
And in my tearing up the document, he has undeniable proof of my trust and my undying confidence in him.”
Stanzi smiled peacefully.
“Sister,” she mused, “I am changing my tune slightly from what I just told you—upon further reflection.
You see, contract or no contract—my heart tells me Wolfchen would still be by my side.
You are so right, Sophie.”
“Ach, Sophie, I melt when my Wolfchen calls me ‘Stanzerl’. Is that not sweet?” my sister giggled, her cheeks a rosy pink.
I grinned, “I understand your feelings, Stanzi. And we Mannheimers have a soft spot for these local southern endearments.
Why, even in our family, I often now answer to ‘Sopherl’!”
“Stanzi,” I went on, “What about our good mother?
She does not have your faith in the outcome, Stanzi.
Mama wants a soft cushion to fall back on should things go wrong.”
“Sister,” Constanze countered, still radiant and at peace, “I am now full grown-up, and cannot allow Mama to live my life for me, nor prevent me from doing what I feel is right for me.
I know that Mama has a tender spot in her heart for Wolfgang.
Her true feelings for him are unspoken, to be sure—but I perceive how highly Mama esteems him, and I would say more, sister, how dearly Mama loves Wolfgang—as dearly as if he were her very own son!”
Constanze and I were quiet, and then as an afterthought, my sister said, “Mama goes with the flow, Sophie.
She is inwardly tough, a survivor.
What Mama cannot change, she learns to accept.”
“Stanzi, you astonish me!
This may be true—but Mama’s apprenticeship in adjusting to change is mighty long, and you likely have much to bear before she comes to your reasoning!”
I smiled and playfully elbowed Stanzi in the ribs.
Stanzi laughed and hurled a pillow at me, and I rushed to my bed and countered with my own pillow!
Soon, our bedchamber was rollicking with peals of laughter and merriment.

SOPHIE’S ACCOUNT OF MOZART’S DEATH:

SOPHIE HAIBL TO GEORG NIKOLAUS von NISSEN, SALZBURG

Diakovar, 7 April, 1825

Now I must tell you about Mozart’s last days. Well, Mozart became fonder and fonder of our dear departed mother and she of him.
Indeed he often came running along in great haste to the Wieden (where she and I were lodging at the Goldner Pflug), carrying under his arm a little bag containing coffee and sugar, which he would hand to our good mother, saying, ‘Here, mother dear, now you can have a little “Jause”’. She used to be as delighted as a child. He did this very often. In short, Mozart in the end never came to see us without bringing something.
Now when Mozart fell ill, we both made him a night-jacket which he could put on frontways, since on account of his swollen condition, he was unable to turn in bed. Then, as we didn’t know how seriously ill he was, we also made him a quilted dressing-gown (though indeed his dear wife, my sister, had given us the materials for both garments), so that when he got up, he should have everything he needed. We often visited him, and he was really delighted with the dressing-gown. I used to go into town every day to see him. Well, one Saturday when I was with him, Mozart said to me: ‘Dear Sophie, do tell Mamma that I am fairly well, and that I shall be able to go and congratulate her in the octave of her name-day’. Who could have been more delighted than I to bring such cheerful news to my mother, when she could barely expect the news? I hurried home therefore to comfort her, the more so as he himself really seemed to be bright and happy.
The following day was a Sunday. I was young then and rather vain, I confess, and liked to dress up. But I never cared to go out walking from our suburb into town in my fine clothes, and I had no money for a drive.
So I said to our good mother: ‘Dear Mamma, I’m not going to see Mozart today. He was so well yesterday that surely he will be even better today, and one day more or less won’t make much difference.’ Well, my mother said: ‘Listen to this. Make me a cup of coffee, and then I’ll tell you what you ought to do.’ She was rather inclined to keep me at home; and indeed my sister knows how much I had to be with her. I went into the kitchen. The fire was out. I had to light the lamp and make a fire.
All the time, I was thinking of Mozart.
I had made the coffee, and the lamp was still burning. Then I noticed how wasteful I had been with my lamp, I mean, that I had burned so much wax. It was still burning brightly. I stared into the flame and thought to myself, ‘How I should love to know how Mozart is’. While I was thinking and gazing at the flame, it went out, as completely as if the lamp had never been burning. Not a spark remained on the big wick, and yet there wasn’t the slightest draught—that I can swear to. A horrible feeling came over me. I ran to our mother and told her all. She said: ‘Well, take off your fine clothes and go into town, and bring me back news of him at once. But be sure not to delay.’ I hurried along as fast as I could. Alas, how frightened I was when my sister, who was almost despairing and yet trying to keep calm, came out to me, saying: ‘Thank God that you have come, dear Sophie. Last night, he was so ill that I thought he would not be alive this morning. Do stay with me today, for if he has another bad turn, he will pass away tonight. Go in to him for a little while and see how he is.’ I tried to control myself and went to his bedside.
He immediately called me to him and said: ‘Ah, dear Sophie, how glad I am that you have come. You must stay here tonight and see me die.’
I tried hard to be brave and to persuade him to the contrary. But to all my attempts he only replied: ‘Why, I have already the taste of death on my tongue.’ And, ‘who will support my dearest Constanze if you don’t stay here?’ ‘Yes, yes, dear Mozart,’ I assured him, ‘but I must first go back to our mother and tell her that you would like me to stay with you today. Otherwise she will think that some misfortune has befallen you.’
‘Yes, do so,’ said Mozart, ‘but be sure and come back soon.’
Good God, how distressed I felt! My poor sister followed me to the door and begged me for Heaven’s sake to go to the priests at St. Peter’s and implore one of them to come to Mozart—a chance call, as it were.
I did so, but for a long time, they refused to come, and I had a great deal of trouble to persuade one of those clerical brutes to go to him.
Then I ran off to my mother who was anxiously awaiting me. It was already dark. Poor soul, how shocked she was! I persuaded her to go and spend the night with her eldest daughter, the late Josefa Hofer. I then ran back as fast as I could to my distracted sister. Suessmayr was at Mozart’s bedside.
The well-known Requiem lay on the quilt, and Mozart was explaining to him how, in his opinion, he ought to finish it, when he was gone.
Further, he urged his wife to keep his death a secret until she should have informed Albrechtsberger, for the post should be his before God and the world. A long search was made for Dr. Closset, who was found at the theatre, but who had to wait for the end of the play. He came and ordered cold poultices to be placed on Mozart’s burning head, which, however, affected him to such an extent that he became unconscious and remained so until he died.
His last movement was an attempt to express with his mouth the drum passages in the Requiem.
That I can still hear.
Mueller from the Art Gallery came and took a cast of his pale, dead face. Words fail me, dearest brother, to describe how his devoted wife in her utter misery threw herself on her knees and implored the Almighty for His aid. She simply could not tear herself away from Mozart, however much I begged her to do so. If it was possible to increase her sorrow, this was done on the day after that dreadful night, when crowds of people passed by and wept and wailed for him.
All my life, I have never seen Mozart in a temper, still less, angry.
My dear, forgive me if I have been rambling and long-winded in my letter. I don’t quite recall whether or not I’ve told my sister about the very strange incident—in my opinion–with the light, as I’ve always carefully avoided renewing her wounds.
Oh how concerned Mozart was when his dear little wife needed something! So it was once when she lay very seriously ill, and I was by her side and tended to her for eight long months. I even sat on her bed, Mozart too.
He composed next to her; I observed her sweet slumber after she had been unable to sleep for such a long time.
We were both quiet as the grave so as not to disturb her. Suddenly, an ungainly domestic servant came into the room. Mozart was startled with fear that his dear wife would be disturbed in her gentle slumber, signaled to him to be quiet, moved the chair backwards behind him; Mozart was holding his pen knife in the palm of his hand. The knife became skewered between the chair and his thigh, so that the knife penetrated deeply into his thick flesh up to the handle.
Mozart, who was normally plaintive, didn’t move a muscle and clenched his teeth to suppress his pain, and signaled to me to follow him out of the room. We went into a room where our mother lived concealed because we didn’t want dear Mrs. Mozart, my sister, to know how ill she was, and our mother could render assistance at once.
Our mother bandaged up his leg and put Coubey into his very deep wound. And with Johannes-oil, she succeeded in restoring him to health.
Although Mozart limped because of the pain, he was successful in keeping his accident a secret, and his dear wife didn’t find out about it.
Write and tell me if you knew all this already.

FOOTNOTES:

1. Mozart, who had been in poor health for some time, became very ill early in November and bedridden about a fortnight before his death on 5 December, 1791. A vivid and moving account of his last days is given in the above letter, written many years later by Sophie Haibl to her elder sister Constanze’s second husband, Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, formerly Counsellor at the Danish Legation in Vienna, who at the time was collecting materials for his biography of Mozart.

2. Sophie Weber’s husband, Jakob Haibl, (1762-1826), musician and composer, was choirmaster at Diakovar.

3. Frau Caecilia Weber, Constanze’s and Sophie’s mother, who died on 22 August, 1793.

4. A Jause: i.e. afternoon coffee

5. Josefa Weber-Hofer, who in 1797 had married as her second husband the actor and singer Friedrich Sebastian Mayer (1773-1835), died on 29 December, 1819.

6. The Requiem: K.626. Six months previously, Mozart had been commissioned by Count Franz Walsegg-Stuppach to compose this work, which, however, had been delayed by his journey to Prague early in September for the production of “La Clemenza di Tito” and by his work on “Die Zauberfloete”, first performed on 30 September.

7. Albrechtsberger: As Mozart intended, Albrechtsberger, the court organist, succeeded him as assistant to the Kapellmeister at St. Stephen’s Cathedral, Leopold Hofmann.

8. Mozart died at 55 minutes past midnight on 5 December, 1791.

9. Mueller: Count Josef Deym von Stritetz (1752-1804), alias Mueller, was the owner of a collection of wax-works, casts from the antique, and miscellaneous attractions, which from 1797 onwards was housed in a building on the Danube canal. Mozart’s death-mask has disappeared. According to Nohl (“Mozart nach den Schilderungen seiner Zeitgenossen”, p. 393), Constanze, one day while cleaning, smashed the copy in her possession. She is said to have remarked that ‘she was glad that the ugly old thing was broken’ (A. Schurig, “Leopold Mozarts Reiseaufzeichnungen, p. 92).

SOPHIES BERICHT UEBER MOZARTS TOD:

Sophie Haibl an ihren Schwager Georg Nikolaus Nissen, Konstanzes zweiten Gatten, als Beitrag zu seiner Mozart-Biographie:

Diakovar, den 7.ten April, 1825.
…Nun zur letzten Lebenszeit Mozarts.
Mir bekam unsere selige Mutter immer lieber und selbe ihn auch, daher M. oeffters auf die Wieden, (wo unsere Mutter u. ich beym goldenen Pflug logierten) in einer Eile gelaufen kam, ein Saeckgen unter dem Arme trug, worinnen Cofee und Zucker war, ueberreichtete es unserer guten Mutter und sagte: Hier, liebe Mama, haben Sie eine kleine Jause. Dies freute sich denn wie ein Kind. Dies geschah sehr oft. Kurz, M. kam nie leer zu uns.
Nun, als M. erkrankte, machten wir beyde ihm die Nacht-Leibel, welche er vorwaerts anziehen konnte, weil er sich vermoeg Geschwulst nicht drehen konnte; und weil wir nicht wussten, wie schwer krank er seye, machten wir ihm auch einen wattirten Schlafrock (wozu uns zwar zu allem das Zeug seine gute Frau, meine liebste Schwester, gab), dass, wenn er aufstehete, er gut versorgt sein moechte, und so besuchten wir ihn flessig; er zeigte auch, eine herzliche Freude an dem Schlafrock zu haben. Ich ging alle Taege in die Stadt, ihn zu besuchen, und als ich einmahl an einem Sonnabend hineinkam, sagte M. zu mir: Nun, liebe Sophie, sagen Sie der Mama, dass es mir recht sehr gut gehet, und dass ich ihr noch in der Octave zu ihrem Namensfeste kommen werde, ihr zu gratulieren. Wer haette eine groessere Freude als ich, meiner Mutter eine so frohe Nachricht bringen zu koennen, nachdeme selbe die Nachricht immer kaum erwarten konnte; ich eilte dahero nach Hause, sie zu beruhigen, nachdem er mir wirklich auch selbsten sehr heiter und gut zu sein schien. Den andern Tag war also Sonntag; ich war noch jung und, gestehe es, auch eitel–und putzte mich gerne, moechte aber aufgeputzt nie gerne zu Fuss aus der Vorstadt in die Stadt gehen, und fahren war mir ums Geld zu thun; ich sagte dahero zu unserer guten Mutter: Liebe Mama, heute gehe ich nicht zu Mozart–er war ja gestern so gut, so wird ihm wohl heute noch besser sein, und ein Tag auf oder ob, das wird wohl nichts machen. Sie sagte darauf: Weisst du was, mache mir eine Schale Cofee, und nachdeme werd ich dir schon sagen, was du thun sollst. Sie war ziemlich gestimmt, mich zu Hause zu lassen, denn die Schwester weiss, wie sehr ich immer bey ihr bleiben musste. Ich ging also in die Kueche. Kein Feuer war mehr da; ich musste ein Licht anzuenden und Feuer machen. Mozart ging mir denn doch nicht aus dem Sinne. Mein Cofee war fertig, und mein Licht brannte noch. Nun sah ich, wie verschwenderisch ich mit dem Licht gewesen, so viel verbrannt zu haben. Das Licht brannte noch hoch auf, jetzt sah ich starr in mein Licht und dachte, ich moechte doch gerne wissen, was Mozart macht, und wie ich dies dachte und ins Licht sehe, loeschte das Licht aus, und so aus, als ob es nie gebrannt haette. Kein Fuenkgen blieb an dem grossen Dochten, keine Luft war nicht, dies kann ich beschwoeren; ein Schauer ueberfiel mich, ich lief zu unserer Mutter und erzaehlte es ihr. Sie sagte: Genug, ziehe dich geschwinde, aus und gehe hinein, und bringe mir aber gleich Nachricht, wie es ihm gehet. Halte dich aber nicht lange auf. Ich eilte, so geschwinde ich nur konnte. Ach Gott, wie erschrak ich nicht, als mir meine halb verzweifelnde, und doch sich moderiren wollende Schwester entgegen kam, und sagte: Gott lob, liebe Sophie, dass du da bist; heute nacht ist er so schlecht gewesen, dass ich schon dachte, er erlebt diesen Tag nicht mehr. Bleibe doch nur heute bey mir, den wenn er heute wieder so wird, so stirbt er auch diese Nacht. Gehe doch ein wenig zu ihm, was er macht. Ich suchte mich zu fassen und ging an sein Bette, wo er mir gleich zuruffte: Ach gut, liebe Sophie, dass Sie da sind. Sie muessen heute nacht da bleiben, Sie muessen mich sterben sehen. Ich suchte, mich stark zu machen und ihm es auszureden, allein er erwiederte mir auf alles: Ich habe ja schon den Todten-Geschmack auf der Zunge, und: Wer wird denn meiner liebsten Constance beystehen, wenn Sie nicht hier blieben. Ja, lieber M., ich muss nur noch zu unserer Mutter gehen, und ihr sagen, dass Sie mich heute gerne bey sich haetten, sonst gedenkt sie, es seie ein Unglueck geschehen. Ja, das tun Sie, aber kommen Sie ja bald wieder.–Gott, wie war mir da zu Muthe. Die arme Schwester ging mir nach und bat mich um Gottes willen, zu denen geistlichen bey St. Peter zu gehen, und (einen) Geistlichen zu bitten, er moechte kommen, so wie von ungefaehr. Das tat ich auch, allein selbe weigerten sich lange, und ich hatte viele Muehe, einen solchen geistlichen Unmenschen dazu zu bewegen.
–Nun lief ich zu der mich angstvoll erwartenden Mutter; es war schon finster. Wie erschrak die Arme. Ich beredete selbe, zu der aeltesten Tochter, der seligen Hofer, ueber Nacht zu gehen, welches auch geschah, und ich lief wieder, was ich konnte, zu meiner trostlosen Schwester.
Da war der Sissmaier bei M. am Bette; dann lag auf der Decke das bekannte Requiem, und Mozart explicirte ihm, wie seine Meinung seie, dass er es nach seiem Todte vollenden sollte. Ferner trug er seiner Frau auf, seinen Todt geheim zu halten, bis sie nicht vor Tag Albregtsberger davon benachtrichtigt haette; denn diesem gehoert der Dienst vor Gott und der Welt. Glosett, der Doktor, wurde lange gesucht, auch im Theater gefunden; allein er musste das Ende der Piece abwarten–dann kam er und verordnete ihm noch kalte Umschlaege ueber seinen gluehenden Kopfe, welche ihm auch so erschuetterten, dass er nicht mehr zu sich kam, bis er nicht verschieden.
Sein Letztes war noch, wie er mit dem Munde die Pauken in seinem Requiem ausdruecken wollte, das hoere ich noch jetzt. Nun kam gleich Mueller aus dem Kunst Cabinett und drueckte sein bleiches erstorbenes Gesicht in Gips ab.
Wie grenzenlos elend seine treue Gattin sich auf die Knie warf und den Allmaechtigen um seinen Beystand anrufte, ist mir, lieber Bruder, unmoeglich zu beschreiben. Sie konnte sich nicht von ihm trennen, so sehr ich sie auch bat; wenn ihr Schmerz noch zu vermehren gewesen waere, so muesste er dadurch vermehrt worden sein , dass den Tag auf die schauervolle Nacht die Menschen scharenweis vobey gingen, und laut um ihn weinten und schrien. Ich habe M. in meinem Leben nicht aufbrausend, viel weniger zornig gesehen.
. . . Lieber, vergebe mir, wenn ich weitlaeufig in meinem Brief gewesen; allein ich weiss mich nicht zu erinnern, ob ich meiner Schwester die mir so auffallende Begebenheit mit dem Licht gesagt habe, indem ich immer sorgfaeltig vermiede, ihre Wunden zu erneuern.
O, wie war M-t besorget, wenn seinem lieben Weibgen etwas fehlte. So war es einmal, als sie schwer krank war und ich bei ihr durch 8 volle Monate Kranken wartete. Eben sass ich an ihrem Bette, Mozart auch. Er componierte an ihrer Seite; ich beobachtete ihren nach so langer Zeit gehabten suessen Schlummer. Stille hielten wir alles wie in einem Grabe, um sie nich zu stoeren.
Ploetzlch kam ein roher Dienstbote in das Zimmer. Moz. erschrak aus Furcht, seine liebe Frau wuerde in ihrem sanften Schlummer gestoeret, wollte stille zu sein winken, ruckte den Sessel rueckwaerts hinter sich weg, hatte gerade das Feder-Messer offen in der Hand. Dieses spiesste sich zwischen dem Sessel und seinem Schenkel, so dass es ihm bis an die Heft in das dicke Fleisch hinein ging. Moz., der sonst wehleidig, machte aber keine Bewegung und verbiss seinen Schmerz, winkte mir nur, ihm hinaus zu folgen. Wir gingen in ein Zimmer, in welchem unsere Mutter verborgen lebte, weil wir der guten Mozart nicht wollten merken lassen, wie schlecht sie seie, und die Mutter doch gleich zur Hilfe da seie. Die Mutter verband ihn und legte Coubey in die sehr tiefe Wunde; mit dem Johannes-Oel gelang es ihr, ihn wieder herzustellen, und obschon er etwas krumm vor Schmerzen ging, machte er doch, dass es verborgen blieb und seine liebe Frau es nicht erfuhr. Schreibe mir, ob du (das) alles schon wusstest.

SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL’S MEMORIES OF MOZART

My dear visitors, here are some more of my reminiscences of my late brother-in-law, Mozart, which appear in Nissen’s biography of him:

He was always good-humored, but even in the best of moods very thoughtful, looking at one with a sharp expression.
He would look you keenly in the eye and give a thoughtful answer to anything you said, whether the subject was merry or sad, and yet he always seemed to thinking deeply about something entirely different.
Even when he washed his hands in the morning, he paced restlessly up and down the room, never standing still, tapping one heel against the other, and deep in thought.
At the dining table, he often took the corner of his napkin, crumpled it up tightly, rubbed it up and down his upper lip, and appeared to be unaware of what he was doing, and often making grimaces with his mouth at the same time.
In his leisure, he was always passionately attached to the latest fad, whether it was riding or billiards.
To keep him from company of an unworthy kind, his wife patiently shared everything with him.
Otherwise his hands and feet were always in motion; he was forever playing with something, for instance his hat, pockets, watch-chain, tables, chairs—as if he were playing the piano.

SOPHIE CELEBRATES TURNING FORTY: THE BIG FOUR-OH

“SOPHIE CELEBRATES TURNING FORTY: THE BIG FOUR-OH” is dedicated to an unforgettable person–my lifelong beloved friend and mentor from Frankfurt an der Oder, Germany, later Murnau am Staffelsee, Upper Bavaria, to whom I am greatly indebted for inspiring me to write about “Herr Meinke-Haibl”.

DR. MARCEL ROGER
May 19, 1924 – December 25, 2003

If you love someone and that person dies, your love for that person does not die.

Thanks for the memories, Marcel.
You are dearly missed.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“SOPHIE CELEBRATES TURNING FORTY: THE BIG FOUR-OH” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without
her written permission.

“SOPHIE CELEBRATES TURNING FORTY: THE BIG FOUR-OH”
© 2003-2008 Marti Burger

To Madame Maria Anna Thekla Mozart
Im Windhof 4a, Augsburg

Wien, den 1. Oktober, 1803

Gruess Dich Gott, meine liebe (my dear) Marianne,
This day, the first of October, 1803, I celebrate the milestone of reaching the venerable age of forty years.
I was born on October first in the year of our Lord 1763.
Has it really been so long ago as that?
I am as ever the youngest among my sisters, and am still sometimes regarded as the “Nesthaeckchen”–the baby (in its nest).
Well, I feel still young and chipper, and the main thing is how one feels, is it not, Marianne.
All my life, my good mother has been of an indeterminate age to me, and I have not reached that stage as yet.
Marianne, I hope that this letter finds you, your lovely daughter, Josepha, and your son-in-law, Herr Streitel, in the best of health!
Since my dear mother departed this earth these ten years ago, I have been lodging with my dear sister, Constanze, Widow Mozart.
Marianne, we have another lodger.
Constanze has formed an attachment with a Danish diplomat, Herr Nikolaus Nissen.
Such a good, honest, serious, and affable a gentleman as ever there was!
I cannot compare another man to my beloved, late brother-in-law, Mozart.
There was never another man like him.
However, I am speaking only of the living……
Nissen and my sister have been together for some years now and, alas, his position as diplomat expressly forbids his taking a wife.
I believe Constanze and Herr Nissen ARE as man and wife, although she is the landlady and he the renter, so no scandal, you see.
And, Marianne, my beloved friend Herr Meinke-Haibl and I are still attached as ever–united in spirit and in deep friendship.
Marianne, my dearest one has a wife all these many years who is still living, though their unfortunate marriage has been but on parchment.
Marianne, I have not the boldness of character to openly court scandal.
Therefore, I reside demurely with my sister, though Herr Meinke-Haibl and I manage to see one another often enough.
He lodges with his father in a spacious, light and airy apartment very near the Freihaus-Theater, where he is engaged as composer, actor, and singer.
Herr Haibl Senior, his father, still does play character parts there in operas and plays as does, of course, his son.
More and more, my dear Herr Meinke-Haibl gives himself over to composing operas.
I rejoice in his success, Marianne, since several of his works have been performed in recent years.
One opera in particular, “Der Tiroler Wastel”, has enjoyed great success here in Vienna.
Herr Meinke-Haibl’s study is the ideal room to compose in, where his muse visits him–such a warm and cheerful place!
I myself am still engaged at the Burgtheater, where I play and sing supporting roles.
I am content with my lot, Marianne and–I being the youngest–was not encouraged by my parents to aspire to prima donna rank.
I thus also lacked the ambition to pursue that goal.
I thought that by now, I should have long since been married with children, but such is life; one never knows.
On this day in the beginning of October, as the waning summer unites with the cool winds of autumn, our family has made it a tradition, starting with my seventeenth birthday, to spend the afternoon in the Prater when the weather permits.
Providence must look favorably upon our party, or else we have had fantastic good luck, Marianne, since most years this early autumn day has been mild and without rain.
So is it today, Marianne.
This afternoon, therefore, Herr Nissen, my sister, Constanze, and myself shall take the carriage to the Prater–homemade victuals in hand, and we shall be joined there by my eldest sister, Josefa, and her husband and daughter, as well as my second eldest sister, Aloysia, and her children.
My beloved friend, Herr Jakob Meinke-Haibl together with his father, Herr Alois Haibl, shall also most certainly be present at our celebration this afternoon.
My two beloved nephews–Constanze’s sons, Karl Thomas and Franz Xaver–are alas living abroad at the present time.
We always look forward so to their letters and visits home!
Dearest Marianne, I must make haste and finish packing the sandwiches and fruit.
I am so looking forward to the soothing breath of nature to be found in the Prater!
I shall pack some champagne as well, and my family shall not fail to heartily drink a toast to your good health, well-being, and happiness.
Dear Marianne, that is our news.
Now we both are one year older and for us, let the New Year commence!
Many affectionate greetings from your faithful friend,
Sophie, nee Weber

A BIRTHDAY TO REMEMBER IN OLD VIENNA

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“A BIRTHDAY TO REMEMBER IN OLD VIENNA” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without
her written permission.

“A BIRTHDAY TO REMEMBER IN OLD VIENNA”
© 2004-2008 Marti Burger

To Madame Maria Anna Thekla Mozart
Im Windhof 4a, Augsburg

Wien, den 25. September, 1804

My dearest Marianne,
Gruess Dich Gott, meine liebe Freundin! (Greetings, my dear friend!)
My warm greetings also to your mother, your daughter, Josepha, and your son-in-law, Herr Streitel!
And my congratulations and very best wishes to you this day of your birth, Marianne, for eternal good health and happiness!
My sister Constanze, Widow Mozart, and I are enjoying good health, as is our family, praise the Lord.
Marianne, you know of our boarder, Herr Georg Nikolaus Nissen; he continues to lodge with Constanze and myself, and, above all, offers his steady companionship, comfort, and faithful and true friendship to my widowed sister.
My dear nephew – Constanze’s son and your cousin, Franz Xaver Mozart – also resides with us; he is returned from his stay in Prague.
Wowi, as we call him, is now thirteen years of age and shows great talent and promise as a pianist; we have high hopes for his future, though the burden of his father’s fame and Wowi’s being inevitably compared to the great Mozart are vexations Wowi shall have to deal with, should he indeed follow in his father’s footsteps, as we believe he shall.
And Wowi is an acutely sensitive lad.
Marianne, these last years, Wowi has been a pupil of your late cousin Mozart’s dear friend and colleague, Maestro Josef Haydn, who instructs Wowi in pianoforte technique, music theory, and composition.
Herr Haydn takes an uncommon, grandfatherly interest in Wowi and concern for him.
Our dear friend Haydn was as shaken by Wolfgang Mozart’s early, untimely passing as all of us family members.
Wowi is making excellent progress under Maestro Haydn’s strict but kind and affectionate tutelage.
Herr Haydn has said to Constanze and me that Wowi does indeed possess a strong talent for music.
He hopes Wowi shall further his father’s great legacy and light the wick—so to speak—so we can again experience that bright incandescent light and flame which was extinguished far too soon.
And Marianne, I feel certain nonetheless that your cousin Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s own flame shall continue burning brightly.
We continue to reside in Constanze’s apartment on the Michaeler-Platz opposite the Imperial Theater, and greatly enjoy the convenience of living squarely in the Inner City, in the heart of Vienna.
It is much to my liking to observe the often-bustling passing scene in front of our dwelling, and the special elegance of this square pleases me.
And my goodness, Marianne – the Michaeler-Platz is but a stone’s throw from the Hofburg (Imperial Palace).
Can you imagine: I, a Mannheim spinster, am transplanted to the hub and core of Vienna – for me, the center of the world.
At times, I feel I am dreaming.
Nevertheless, I shall get off my high horse immediately, Marianne – ha ha!
Pay me no heed!
Vienna holds no candle to the elegance of your Augsburg squares, vistas, and promenades.
Marianne, my longtime, beloved friend, Herr Jakob Haibl, is now hard at work on a new opera, a singspiel called “Die Hoffnung” (“Hope”) for the Freihaus-Theater.
He is very near to completing it, composing the last aria of the third act this very day.
Then in a fortnight, rehearsals begin.
Herr Haibl insisted on adding a small role for me, Marianne, and one for his Papa, Herr Alois Haibl.
Oh my, I do feel all excitement and anticipation to be singing before an audience again – little though my role may be – and in taking part in an opera.
Herr Alois Haibl shall sing the role of the hero’s father and I, the heroine’s best friend and confidant.
The principal singers have already been engaged for “Die Hoffnung” – the well-known Viennese tenor, Herr Anton Otto Ortlieb and his wife, Frau Hella Maria Ortlieb, originally from Prussia.
I have appeared on stage before with each Ortlieb, though not with both together.
Colleagues say that the two are no longer on speaking terms – at least, not at present – yet on stage, not only must they discourse with one another, but sing and portray a couple passionately in love.
Herr Haibl says we plan to open in mid-December.
By the by, Herr Haibl has discarded and is no longer using his full name of Herr Jakob Meinke-Haibl, but has decided this anno to simplify it solely to Jakob Haibl.
And, dear Marianne, my own birthday follows closely on the heels of your own.
This Friday next, the first of October, I shall celebrate my one-and-forty years.
And as always, with cooperation from our fickle Viennese weather, we – my family and the Haibls – shall enjoy a picnic in the Prater.
Oh, dear Marianne, I have great news to tell you!
My dear sister, Constanze, has arranged a concert for Saturday next (the day following my birthday) at the Theater-an-der-Wien, largely featuring and celebrating your cousin’s – my late brother-in-law’s – sublime music.
One of Wolfgang Mozart’s symphonies and a pianoforte concerto of his shall be performed.
Constanze has successfully secured the services of an esteemed pianoforte soloist – the famous sensation of Vienna – the young and dynamic Bonn composer, Herr Ludwig van Beethoven.
Herr van Beethoven shall also play a new, original composition, penned by himself.
How intense and turbulent Herr van Beethoven’s music is!
And our conductor?
Why, tis our dear friend, Herr Maestro Josef Haydn, who shall also honor us with one of his own symphonies!
Marianne, next Saturday evening, Herr Haydn shall fetch us and his pupil, Wowi, in his own carriage and transport us to the concert.
Marianne, Constanze and I have driven all over Vienna in our carriage, putting up posters to advertise the concert.
We are at present selling the tickets here within our dwelling.
The tickets can also be procured at the Theater-an-der-Wien.
Frequently, the doorbell sounds, and Constanze and I are much occupied as ticket vendors.
I very much look forward with eager anticipation to next Saturday’s concert, Marianne.
What a memorable moment it shall be to again see our old and revered friend, Herr Josef Haydn, now aged two-and-seventy years, on the podium, and to savor your cousin’s – Mozart’s – heavenly music.
Well, that is all our news, Marianne.
To you and yours a healthy, very happy and blessed birthday, with many affectionate greetings from your faithful friend,
Sophie, nee Weber

VIENNESE VIGNETTES

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“VIENNESE VIGNETTES” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without
her written permission.

“VIENNESE VIGNETTES”
© 2006-2008 Marti Burger

To Madame Maria Anna Thekla Mozart
Klinkertorstrasse 9, Augsburg

Wien, den 25. September 1805

My dear Marianne,
Gruess Gott, meine liebe Freundin!
(Greetings, my dear friend!)
I am so very sorry to hear of the loss of your beloved Mama.
Though her passing is hard to bear, she now rests serenely with God.

Dearest Marianne, on this warm, early autumn afternoon, my thoughts turn to you and your blessed day of birth.
I hope that you are spending it happily celebrating with your loved ones.
And I hope that you, your daughter, Josepha, and her husband, Herr Streitel, are in the best of health.
My family and I are all well.

Marianne, it has been too many years since last we saw each other.
I have it in mind that once more on this earth, I shall see my hometown of Mannheim once again and shall indeed pass through Augsburg or thereabouts, and spend some time with you.
We shall drink Kaffee together and have Bier, Sauerkraut, und Wuerstchen and converse, giggle and laugh together, just like old times.

I have of late taken more than a slight interest in preparing foodstuffs, as I know full well the old saying: “Die Liebe geht durch den Magen”. (“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”.)
Ja, my dear friend, Herr Jakob Haibl is very much a part of my life.
You know, Marianne, Herr Haibl and I work for the most part at different theaters–I work but seldom in the theater these days–I at the Burgtheater and he at the Theater an der Wien–yet I find myself often in my dear friend’s company, and Herr Haibl is and shall remain my shining prince, as he has been these many years.

Well, Marianne, as I was saying: Of late, I have taken an uncommon interest in the culinary arts.
I am often at my eldest sister’s–Josefa’s–apartment, and you are acquainted with her superb cooking and knowledge of delicious recipes, Marianne.
Josefa and her maid have been showing me new ways of preparing foods, and I use my newfound knowledge for Herr Haibl, who appreciates it no end.
Of late, Josefa has shown me different ways of preparing flavored sauces for Wiener Schnitzel: Ja, Lemon-Schnitzel, Paprika-Schnitzel, Cream-Schnitzel, and the like.
Herr Haibl quite dotes on food, you know, Marianne.

Occasionally, Josefa and her husband dine with my sister, Constanze, her great friend and companion, Herr Nikolaus Nissen from Copenhagen, Denmark, and I.
And Herr Nissen has introduced me to Danish cuisine as well, and has shown me and our maid, Trautl, how to prepare it.

My nephew, Franz Xaver–Constanze and her late husband, your cousin Wolfgang Mozart’s son–now all of fourteen (almost a man!), is hard at work launching a most promising career as a pianist. He resides with his mother, Herr Nissen (who boards with us), and myself in our apartment on the Michaelerplatz, across from the Burgtheater, where I work.

Ja, by the by, I have just started rehearsals for a brand new play, “The Miller’s Daughter”, and I play the heroine’s mother, in short–the miller’s wife – haha.
Not a big role, mind you, but I have a few good scenes with my daughter and with my husband.
We open in two months’ time.

A fortnight ago, my sister, Constanze, and I returned from ten days at Baden-Baden, where my sister, who is sometimes greatly bothered by leg cramps and swollen limbs, took the cure.
Now she is feeling quite her old self again.
I took the waters a few times too, and they were warm, bubbly, and quite refreshing.

My own birthday is Saturday next and, if the weather holds, my family and I shall again bring a picnic to the Prater and celebrate there, with some wine and good cheer.
Oh, there is certain to be some song and merriment in our party–what with Herr Haibl, who, you know, apart from his composing and acting talents, also sings tenor roles at Herr Emanuel Schickaneder’s theater, and with my three sisters and I–two of them, Josefa and Aloysia, professional opera singers–and, you know, Constanze and I are exceedingly fond of singing.
And Herr Nissen is a bit reserved and shy about this sort of thing, but he takes in the good fellowship and warms up to singing. And our Wowi (Franz Xaver) will not hesitate to sing.
You know, his elder brother, Karl Thomas, now one-and- twenty years of age, resides still in Milan, where he is employed as a civil servant.

Marianne, you have no doubt heard the news from France; it is most distressing.
If the French monarcy had ruled like our Habsburg rulers, and the French populace been more like the Viennese, with their laissez-faire, nonchalant attitude, then I believe there would have been no violent uproar and revolution in France–with its very sad and violent outcome.
Though I do understand that there was desperate poverty in France, even more so than here in Vienna, and the French King and Queen (our own Grand Duchess Maria Antonia) took no steps to alleviate this mass suffering.
And now that upstart, General Napoleon Bonaparte, is thinking that he is too big for his breeches.
Ach, I hope that he does not hungrily eye our enlightened and benevolent (in comparison) Habsburg kingdom, and stays clear of our Austrian borders!

Well, enough of politics, Marianne.
This day is your special day, and may the future hold many more happy birthdays for you and your family to enjoy!
Many greetings from your true and faithful friend,
Sophie, nee Weber

MOZART’S MOTHER-IN-LAW, CAECILIA WEBER: AN EIGHTEENTH CENTURY MATRIARCH–MY PAGE:

Let me introduce myself, my dear visitors. My name is Caecilia, Widow Weber, nee Stamm.
I have lived a life of hard work and sacrifice, fretting over all my children, wanting the best for them, disappointed, of course, when they have thwarted my expectations.
But they are good children.
I have raised decent children—four daughters who can make their way with the musical skills my late husband, Fridolin, so faithfully taught them.
We women have it harder than the menfolk.
For want of a husband, how can we sustain our livelihood?
I wistfully think that I wish my daughters would have married moneyed men—gentlemen of property and wealth.
Oh, my daughters are so romantic: “We would only marry for love, Mama!”
But I ask you: Is it not just as easy to love a rich man as it is to love a poor one?
Many of my family members are musicians and singers, as are many of my late husband’s kin.
Fridolin saw to it that all my girls were likewise trained as musicians and singers.
A great misfortune for me was losing my life’s partner, Fridolin.
Gracious God; I could ill afford to dower all my four daughters!
How were they, now being orphaned, to procure husbands?
Fate took a hand in the end because Fridolin had trained my girls to be singers and musicians.
And as one would expect—since the theater was their milieu—all my daughters’ husbands turned out to be musicians and actors.
Upon the death of my husband, now I had to think ahead that my daughters were now of an age to marry.
And through Aloysia’s connections with the Court Theater, I obtained a guardian for my four daughters, one Herr Johann Thorwart, Inspector of Music, a man of importance at the opera house.
Thank God for Herr Thorwart!
I was grateful during those hard times that this man of authority would see that my daughters could not simply up and away!
If they wished to marry, Herr Thorwart would have to grant his permission–to approve the match and arrange the marriage contracts.
Wolfgang Mozart came to lodge in my boarding house, and formed a close attachment with my third daughter, Constanze.
Ach, after awhile the gossipmongers’ tongues were wagging.
I set Herr Thorwart to task to secure my daughter’s future; dependable Herr Thorwald did not let me down!
I insisted that Herr Thorwart draw up a contract to protect my Constanze; namely, as a condition to have further contact with my daughter, Mozart was made to sign the contract to either marry her within three years or ever after pay her the annual compensation of 300 gulden.
Ach, Josef Maria—Mozart took his sweet time in hying it off to the wedding altar at Saint Stefan’s Cathedral!
He could have done the honorable thing far sooner!
But you know what practically knocked me for a loop?..….Oh, the sheer gall of it!
My Constanze! She tore up the precious betrothal contract that Herr Thorwart had labored on so thoroughly and insistently—tore it up with her own two hands!
Just ripped that valuable piece of paper in two—poof!—like that!
O grosser Gott–O Gott, O Gott, O Gott—I hit the ceiling!
How could she!
“Mama”, Constanze explained sweetly, then emphatically, “Because I trust Wolfgang completely.”
Ach, the trust of the young!
They so lovingly and unquestioningly believe the ardent sweet-nothings and promises of their intended swains.
“It will always be so as it is right now,” they dreamily think and reason.
Ja, they need to keep the back of their minds free and uncluttered from this romantic nonsense!
“How much shall he provide for me?” should also be in their thoughts.
My dear guests, I find it ironic that Constanze’s husband, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, would distance himself somewhat from his own devoted but domineering father, Leopold Mozart, and Wolfgang’s sister, Maria Anna, who is very close to the father, and instead, turn to me and my daughters and their husbands for family love and comraderie.
Well, after my gifted daughter, Aloysia, deprived me of her income by up and eloping with that actor husband of hers, I found it only right and just that he remunerate me with a lifelong pension—modest thought it may be.
And why, pray tell, would I ever need mention this fact to my new son-in-law, Wolfgang Mozart?
Life, my dear friends, is not fair! We women do not have the fortunate option of making a living and earning good money as men do!
So if some slight, deserved gift should come my way, I certainly need hide it, or else other possible favors which I surely merit would then be lost to me. As you know, being a woman, I have no well-paying employment to fall back upon!
I have discovered in my hard labor of running a boarding house in Vienna that money is only important when one does not have it.
Otherwise, one does not think of it, though in its absence, it is all that matters!
Believe me, a person does not want to be old and to be poor.
A full purse string would soften the discomforts of advancing years.
My friends, I was born in Mannheim in 1727, and am six years my late husband’s, Fridolin’s, senior.
Ja, Fridolin, my dear departed spouse: Ach, how different we were—he compliant, kind, and gentle, and I—forceful, strong, very opinionated.
We were opposites, but we were a team; we made it work.
I relied on Fridolin’s steady, gentle nature to nurture and support me.
Well, my friends, I am proud of all my children. My dear, late husband, Fridolin, and I did good—if I may say so myself.
And now, in my dotage, my dear youngest daughter, Sophie, lives with me and is my comfort and my solace.

“MOZART’S MOTHER-IN-LAW, CAECILIA WEBER: AN EIGHTEENTH CENTURY MATRIARCH–MY PAGE” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without her written permission.

“MOZART’S MOTHER-IN-LAW, CAECILIA WEBER: AN EIGHTEENTH CENTURY MATRIARCH–MY PAGE”
© Marti Burger 2003-2008

Salzburg, January 5, 1842

Why, come in, my dear guests! Gruess Gott! Please come into my parlor and sit yourselves down here in these comfortable chairs. Here; please take a slice of this delicious Schokoladentorte. I baked it especially for your visit. And let me pour you some piping hot Kaffee, ja? Ah! Does it not smell good! I am pleased to be able to share my thoughts with you.
No doubt, dear friends, the music of my dear, departed husband, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, has brought you here, to me. Well, I am delighted and honored. In fact, there is nothing on God’s green earth that I would rather converse about than my beloved late husband and his music. It does my heart good to know that his wonderful legacy—his music—lives still and is ever relevant. Nothing refreshes this old soul and these tired old bones more than to sit down at the pianoforte and choose from the wealth and great number of dear Mozart’s works: something to play, ofttimes something also to sing. For Wolfgang was proud of my skill and dexterity on the pianoforte and of my pure, lilting soprano voice. Although I celebrate my eightieth birthday this day, I have the tireless optimism and hope of a young girl.
I see my mission in life to keep working diligently to preserve Mozart’s music forever on the world’s stage, to not let it die and become obsolete as we move inexorably into the modern age.
You see, I can scarce remember a time when Mozart was not the central force in my life, when I did not love him.
Ach, how long ago was it when we first met?
Well, never you mind, but I was then a gawky adolescent, and I recall that Mozart was courting my older sister, Aloysia. In fact, he had become in a short time a dear and trusted family friend, and during the winter he spent in Mannheim when I was fifteen, my young and tender heart developed an acute and deep attachment to this lovely, precious young man, so very appealing and dear to me in his person and remarkable in his astounding talent and genius.
Ach, I still remember as though it were only yesterday the very first time that I met Wolfgang, my Wolfi, whom I sometimes also tenderly called Wolferl—the first time he came to our house.
And Wolfgang lovingly called me his “Stanzi-Marini,” a play on my name, Maria Constanze, and his “dearest, most beloved little wife.”
My young heart was instantly seized with unfamiliar longing and desire.
I was aware of brand new feelings in my whole body. I looked at this winsome, earnest young man’s face. I instantly fell deeply in love with him. Wolfgang had such beautiful, large and penetrating, soulful blue eyes.
And ach what an irresistible sensuous mouth he had, and such a delightful, winsome smile! And I adored his large prominent nose; it lent great character to his countenance.
Wolfgang was a short, slim man with medium blond hair and a pale complexion.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born in Salzburg on January 27, 1756, and was called to the Lord on December 5, 1791 in Vienna, aged almost six-and-thirty years.
Dear friends, I–Constanze–am the third sister, following in birth order two gifted, professional opera singers, Josefa and Aloysia. My dear Papa tendered me with music, voice, and foreign language lessons, as he did all his daughters.
But I never stood out. I seemed lost, drowned in the shuffle, buried and overpowered by two dynamic forces, Josefa and Aloysia.
I sensed a similar estrangement in Wolfgang.
Somehow, he also seemed lonely, as I was—an outsider—frustratingly trying to break away from the tyranny of being in service to the aristocracy, wanting to make his own way in the world.
The imprint Mozart made on my heart was deepened when, one and one half years later in Munich, where we then resided, he again came into our lives—this time on his return trip to Salzburg from his stay in Paris. Mozart realized that my sister, Aloysia, did not return his feelings for her, and his attachment to my sister ended.
Wolfi and I both realized that we were kindred spirits and were special and precious one to the other. But the blossoming of our love would have to wait another two years, when Mozart cut his ties to his noble employer, the Archbishop of Salzburg, and moved to Vienna, as we had two years previously, lodging with us—the Webers—who then consisted of my widowed mother, myself, and my youngest sister and best friend, Sophie—the only Webers still living at home–now a boarding house run by my Mama.
Mozart made me laugh, my friends.
He had a propensity for joking around, and especially with me.
Mozart found me special, and he made me feel special; I secretly rejoiced in that and drew comfort and strength from it.
Mozart and I shared a special world of laughter and acting silly together.
His joking with me endeared him to me.
Wolfgang was a man who often fidgeted around; he sometimes even jumped over tabletops, and he made a game with me of saying words backwards.
Mozart and I were deeply in love, and were married in Saint Stefan’s Cathedral when I was twenty and my husband six-and-twenty.
Our love and attachment was like a flowering spring—always vital and fresh!
At times, dear friends, I had to pinch myself. I, Constanze Weber, was living with and married to a genius. I knew from the start that this impish, convivial, jovial and sometimes serious lad produced music—and from such a young age—that was more than remarkable—that was sheer genius.
My husband was that comforting, beloved presence beside me—my soulmate—and also a person touched by the gods, endowed with the most extraordinary musical ability who ever lived.
My Wolfgang needed me and depended on me.
I would often sit up with him late into the night sewing or knitting while he composed, in order that I could offer him loving support when he looked up from his music pages, reassured to know that I was there. Often, we sang and played the pianoforte together and were lost in our own special world of tender, nonsensical banter.
Throughout our marriage, Wolfgang never tired of writing me endearing and tender letters.
But life, dear friends, was no picnic.
In nine years, I gave birth to six children, only two surviving infancy to grow up—our sons, Karl Thomas and Franz Xaver Wolfgang.
Exhausted and ill from the ceaseless pregnancies and births, I frequently sought the curative waters of the spas in an effort to regain my health.
All too soon, illness took my precious husband and I was alone, my beloved Wolfgang gone.
All I had left, quite apart from my precious sons, was my husband’s magnificent music. Soon, I saw what a legacy I held in my hands—and the urgent need—the absolute necessity—of making sure that my beloved husband’s music would never be forgotten!
Oh, my precious Wolfi, my dearest darling.
I loved him so.
And I shall forever love and cherish him. It is not accurate, dear friends, to say after one’s dear spouse dies, “I loved him.”
No; no. For the correct verb tense is “I love him”. Just because a loved one has passed on does not mean that we cease loving that person. I shall always love Wolfgang deeply, shall always cherish his precious memory, for love is eternal.
I organized concerts of my beloved husband’s music to keep it in the public eye, and then, my friends, I made an important decision to travel throughout the German lands, organizing and promoting concerts of Wolfgang’s music–something which, until that time, had never been undertaken by a woman.
My older sister, Aloysia, a well-known opera singer, accompanied me on one of these extensive journeys to publicize my late husband’s music.
My sister performed in his operas and sang his arias in concerts.
Even I sometimes sang in these opera performances alongside seasoned and established opera singers. The tour went very well, and in Hamburg, I made the amiable contact with Herr Christoph Breitkopf, a music publisher, whom I later had publish Wolfgang’s works.
And later, dear friends, I was fortunate to find love and companionship again in my dear second husband, Baron Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, born in Denmark and a diplomat by profession. Georg was the love of my middle years, a love not as emotional and passionate as my first love, but quiet, true, and steadfast! Nissen was as devoted and determined as I am to preserving the music and the memory of Mozart, and after Nissen’s death in 1826, I endeavored to publish his enormous project, his labor of love—the first comprehensive biography of Mozart.
And now in this year of our Lord 1842, our hard and devoted work is bearing fruit, my friends. The town leaders here in Salzburg are erecting in my dear Mozart’s memory a statue of him, even now being sculpted!
The statue will stand in the Michaelsplatz, which, by the by, is going to be renamed the Mozartplatz.
I am so joyed that my life’s mission is being fulfilled—my beloved husband Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart would be moved and gratified.
Yes; he would surely be pleased to know that his music and his legacy forever shall live.

“MOZART’S WIFE, CONSTANZE WEBER: MY PAGE” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without her written permission.

“MOZART’S WIFE, CONSTANZE WEBER: MY PAGE”
© Marti Burger 2003-2008

“MOZART’S WIFE, CONSTANZE WEBER: MY PAGE” is dedicated to an unforgettable person–my lifelong beloved friend and mentor from Frankfurt an der Oder, Germany, later Murnau am Staffelsee, Upper Bavaria, who inspired me to write about Constanze and Wolfgang Mozart and their love for each other.
If you love someone and that person dies, your love for that person does not die.

DR. MARCEL ROGER
May 19, 1924 – December 25, 2003

Thanks for the memories, Marcel.
You are dearly missed.

Salzburg, June 21, 1846

My dear friends, Gruess Gott! I rejoice in this day of the summer solstice—the longest day of the year! In the dead of winter and during our still cool springtime, I secretly longed for this day to arrive.
And I, at nearly three-and-eighty years of age, have again lived to experience it; I feel truly blessed and exhilarated.
I so love to commune with nature, to be a part of it, particularly in this mild, welcoming season. And at this equinox, nature is all around me in our fair town. So easy is it to take a nature stroll within its walls, for the green, verdant wilds are never far distant.
What a morning, my friends! As I strolled through the lively Universitaetsplatz this warm morning on this first day of summer, it was market day—a bustling, living panorama of sights and smells that never fails to engross me. And as I gazed upon the venerable ancient gray walls of Salzburg University opposite the square, who but Leopold Mozart came to mind—my dear and esteemed friend, Leopold, beloved father of my dear, late brother-in-law, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Yes; Leopold inhabited these very walls just a few short meters from where I stood this day. He experienced life, was a University scholar in this very place.
But then, from the time Leopold set foot in this pristine alpine region, he was never again to call another place home.
I recall Leopold Mozart with fondness and affection.
Yes, he had a strong personality, an air of authority about him, and strong opinions.
Leopold was in appearance of a stocky build, and though not overly tall in stature, a commanding presence.
Leopold had self-confidence in full measure and, in my view, an aura of charisma emanating from his very being.
I remember so clearly, dear friends, Leopold’s deep, rich, mellifluous voice.
As though it were yesterday, I can hear him saying to me and smiling, “Why Sophie dear; I am so pleased to see you! How are you, my dear?”
I shall never forget Leopold’s unique voice, nor indeed, his imposing and pleasing person.
Leopold was a born teacher, I feel, a teacher’s teacher if I may express it that way, and his most cherished pupil, to whom he was wholeheartedly devoted and wished only the best for—was his dear son, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Leopold was an unfailing mentor and teacher to his daughter, Nannerl, as well as to Wolfgang.
But at age eighteen, Nannerl gave up playing the pianoforte professionally, so thereafter, Wolfgang was Leopold’s focus, his world, his raison d’etre.
Though Leopold exuded an air of authoritativeness, a commanding presence, I felt also a kindness, a gentleness within him.
Leopold was born in the Swabian city of Augsburg in the Southern German lands on November 14, 1719, the son of bookbinder Johann Georg Mozart and his second wife, Anna Maria, nee Sulzer.
Leopold was one of nine children. His younger brother, Franz Aloys Mozart, was, like his father before him, a bookbinder by trade and the father of Maria Anna Thekla Mozart, a very special youthful friend and first cousin of Wolfgang, whom Wolfgang referred to affectionately as “das Baesle.”
Leopold spent his early school years at the Gymnasium and the Lyceum, both run by the Jesuits. He considered a religious vocation, but after his father’s death, he decided instead to enter the University of Salzburg, and studied philosophy and jurisprudence there.
Leopold told me that he was an excellent student, receiving top grades, but after some time, his interest in his studies slackened and Leopold was finally expelled from the University owing to poor attendance.
Leopold had always made music, primarily on the violin, and he now decided to make music his life’s work.
Leopold thereupon entered into service as a valet and an assistant Kapellmeister (music conductor) to Count Johann of Thurn-Valsassina und Taxis, a canon of the cathedral.
Leopold excelled at his work, and several years later, he became a chamber musician in the orchestra of the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg.
He rose to the position of Vice Kapellmeister.
Leopold was now in a secure enough financial position to be able to marry, and eight-and-twenty year old Leopold took to wife his Salzburg neighbor, seven-and-twenty year old Maria Anna Pertl, in the Salzburg Cathedral, on November 21, 1747.
Leopold and Maria Anna enjoyed a most happy union and loved one another dearly.
Years later, Leopold was to tenderly write Maria Anna:
“Today is the anniversary of our wedding day. It was twenty-five years ago, I think, that we had the sensible idea of getting married, one which we had cherished, it is true, for many years. All good things take time!”
Leopold and Maria Anna were to have seven children, all save Wolfgang and Nannerl not surviving infancy.
In the year of Wolfgang’s birth, in 1756, Leopold published his famous violin textbook “Violinschule”, which was also subsequently translated into Dutch and French.
Leopold was also a composer, but as he became aware of the remarkable musical abilities of Nannerl and Wolfgang, Leopold’s educating them in music became his first priority, and his composing ceased.
During Nannerl and Wolfgang’s childhood, Leopold was very fortunate to serve under the music-loving Prince-Archbishop, Count Sigismund Christoph Schrattenbach.
The Archbishop was tolerant and understanding of Leopold’s plans to promote his musical prodigy children and to undertake long tours with them where they performed in Europe and in London, England.
Archbishop Schrattenbach’s successor, however, was the dictatorial Archbishop Colloredo, who was not so kind-hearted, and treated his composers and musicians as servants.
Leopold, as well as Wolfgang, hoped eventually to obtain a secure position outside the confines of Salzburg and the reaches of the despotic Archbishop Colloredo.
In 1777, the Archbishop refused to grant Leopold leave to accompany Wolfgang on a job-seeking journey throughout the Southern German lands and on to Paris, so Mozart’s dear mother, Maria Anna, went with Wolfgang in Leopold’s place.
Alas, she passed on in Paris.
Devastated by his loss, Leopold later wrote, “It is mysteriously sad when death severs a very happy marriage. You have to experience it before you can realize it.”
Leopold wanted now more than ever for Wolfgang to return permanently to Salzburg, not to leave him for some other venue.
But now, Wolfgang was a young man, an adult with an independent spirit and mind, and he wished to make his own way in the world.
Wolfgang would no longer unquestioningly obey his dear Papa, though he always loved, honored, and revered Leopold for the whole of his life.
Wolfgang detested even more than Leopold his stifling, humiliating position at the Archbishop’s Court, where, as Wolfgang himself said, “I have to sit at table with the other servants.”
Wolfgang wanted more freedom and desired to be treated as an equal, which he indeed was.
Wolfgang made his way to Vienna, the city of musicians, where he found lodgings with his old friends, namely us: the Webers!
Papa had passed from this earth, and Mama was forced thereby to turn our apartment in the Petersplatz into a boarding house.
Well, Wolfgang and my older sister, Constanze, fell in love and married.
This act infuriated Leopold, who now feared that he had irretrievably lost his dear son.
Constanze, by the by, was my best friend and only one-and-twenty months my elder.
In 1785, Leopold visited Vienna, where he spent two months at the home of Wolfgang and Constanze.
He often came to call on Mama and me as well, and I greatly esteemed Leopold and took great pleasure in his company.
During this period, Wolfgang was very much in demand as a composer, performer, and teacher, and Leopold wrote home to Nannerl: “We never get to bed before one o’clock, and I never get up before nine. We lunch at two or half past. The weather is horrible. Every day there are concerts; and the whole time is given up to teaching, music, composing and so forth. I feel rather out of it all. If only the concerts were over! It is impossible for me to describe the rush and bustle. Since my arrival, your brother’s fortepiano has been taken at least a dozen times to the theatre or to some other house.”
Constanze, Mama, and I attended a concert of Wolfgang’s music with Leopold, where Wolfgang performed one of his works on the pianoforte. Also present at the concert was Maestro Josef Haydn.
Haydn spoke truly from the heart when he exclaimed to Leopold:
“Before God and as an honest man, I tell you that your son is the greatest composer known to me either in person or by name. He has taste and, what is more, the most profound knowledge of composition.”
While in Vienna, Leopold was initiated into Wolfgang’s Masonic lodge, so that the two were not only father and son but also “brothers”.
At the time of Leopold’s death on May 28, 1787, aged seven-and-sixty years, further rapprochement and reconciliation between father and son still needed to be made—and would have too—had not Leopold died at that time and Wolfgang some scant four and one half years later, aged nearly six-and-thirty years, in the early morning hours of December 5, 1791.
For Leopold and Wolfgang truly loved and esteemed one another and always—no matter what outwardly transpired between the two—lovingly and faithfully kept one another in their hearts.

“SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL: MOZART’S FATHER, LEOPOLD” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without her written permission.

“SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL: MOZART’S FATHER, LEOPOLD”
© Marti Burger 2003-2008

Salzburg, April 1, 1846

My dear friends, I again found myself this day at one of my very favorite landmarks in my adopted hometown of Salzburg, looking upon the venerable yellow exterior of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s birthplace at Getreidegasse Number Nine.
The day is again mild and sunny, and I find renewed pleasure in these early spring days in strolling about town.
The sunlight makes the exterior of that august yellow, narrow building brighter still.
How symbolic of the essence and personality of one important being who dwelled within its walls–Maria Anna Mozart, nee Pertl, Wolfgang’s own dear mother.
I had the pleasure of making Frau Mozart’s acquaintance in my hometown of Mannheim when I was but fourteen years of age.
Wolfgang was undertaking an exploratory journey through the Southern German lands in search of better employment than at the Salzburg court orchestra under the authoritative Archbishop Colloredo.
This time, the Archbishop had refused Leopold Mozart’s request for a leave of absence in order to accompany Wolfgang on this quest.
So instead, Frau Mozart was undertaking the long, arduous journey with Wolfgang in Leopold’s stead.
You see, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and my Papa, Fridolin Weber, had become close, dear friends, and Mozart was often at our home, as like a member of the family.
With Mozart was his dear Mama, Maria Anna Mozart, nee Pertl.
Mozart gave me and my older sisters lessons on the pianoforte, and was at that time particularly solicitous of my elder sister, Aloysia, a budding opera singer.
I remember what an altogether pleasant and agreeable person Frau Mozart was–always smiling, offering encouraging comments, down-to-earth, open and straightforward.
I remember thinking what a cheerful person she was.
And she had such beautiful alabaster skin.
Frau Mozart got on wonderfully well with Mama, and the two ladies were often seated in the parlor absorbed in games of whist and cards.
One time, I was playing cards with the two of them, and I remember Frau Mozart saying to Mama as Frau Mozart shook her head resignedly yet not angrily, “Wolfgang has reached an age where he listens little or not at all to my advice. He does what he wishes and pays no mind to my counsel.”
“Ach, Frau Mozart,” Mama retorted and laughed softly. “Just you wait,” Mama continued. “Your son is going through a difficult stage as all youths do, a rebellious stage. Why, you will see: In but a few years’ time, a sensible, respectful, adult Wolfgang will emerge.”
Frau Mozart looked bemused and amused, and her cheerful smile was again in evidence.
“That is something to look forward to!” she smiled broadly, pleased, her blue eyes twinkling.
Wolfgang and his mother were likes peas in a pod.
I remember how very much Wolfgang resembled his dear Mama.
He had his Mama’s prominent nose.
Wolfgang later told me that he also owes his cheerful nature to the dear person who gave him birth and life.
Wolfgang’s endearing, lighthearted ways of joking and teasing, and yes—even that slightly bawdy, ribald scatological humor–he has inherited from his mother, though joking in this rather bold manner was more in evidence in my youth than in our present day in the middle of the nineteenth century.
Maria Anna Mozart, nee Pertl, was born in Saint Gilgen, a lakeside village not more than a day’s journey from Salzburg, in December of 1720, being one year younger than her future husband, Leopold.
Her esteemed father, Wolfgang Nikolaus Pertl, was the mayor of Saint Gilgen.
He was called to the Lord when Maria Anna was but four years of age, so her mother moved with Maria Anna and her sister to Salzburg, residing in–but wait–this is no surprise, dear friends–the very same Getreidegasse!
Well, it was fate!
Sooner or later, the comely Maria Anna and the dashing, eligible bachelor-about-town Leopold, who had taken his bachelor lodgings in the very selfsame Getreidegasse, were destined to meet, and (I being a romantic, know this to be true)–to fall in love, and then to marry.
The wedding took place in Salzburg on November 21, 1747.
It was said about town that the young Mozarts were the handsomest couple in all Salzburg!
They had seven children, only the fourth (Nannerl) and the seventh (Wolfgang) surviving to adulthood.
Nannerl was born on July 30, 1751 and Wolfgang on January 27, 1756.
Frau Mozart accompanied Leopold on one of the great, long tours he undertook with Wolfgang and Nannerl as child prodigies.
This last tour to Paris, undertaken when Wolfgang was two-and-twenty years of age, proved too long and strenuous for the seven-and-fifty year old Mozart matriarch.
Lodged in Paris, knowing not the French language, she often had to remain at their lodging while Mozart made the rounds seeking employment and giving music lessons.
The room was alas often drafty and cold, with little coal for heating available.
Maria Anna sickened and died.
What a sad thing to happen.
Poor Wolfgang.
Poor Leopold.
How very sad for her family and friends.
I also vividly recall almost seventy years after the fact Wolfgang’s sad return visit to our family hearth on his journey home to Salzburg.
(At that time, we resided in Munich for a little over one year before our move to Vienna.)
Mozart was wearing a black jacket–each buttonhole circled by red crepe–that being the Parisian custom for mourning attire.
It was for Wolfgang’s beloved Mama.
I shall always fondly remember Maria Anna Mozart’s simple, winning ways, her cheerfulness, her smile, her friendliness, kindness, and approachability.
I found these very same qualities in her cherished son, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Through Mozart, we shall always remember his dear Mama.
Maria Anna Mozart has become unforgettable and immortal.

“SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL: MOZART’S MOTHER, MARIA ANNA” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without her written permission.

“SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL: MOZART’S MOTHER, MARIA ANNA”
© Marti Burger 2003-2008

Salzburg, March 21, 1846

My dear friends, the warm hand of spring is gradually displacing winter’s icy grip.
The days grow longer, and the ice and sleet on our streets here in Salzburg have finally melted and disappeared.
I no longer have trepidations in venturing out of doors to take my cherished constitutionals along our cobblestone streets and byways.
This morning, I walked along one of our main streets, the bustling Getreidegasse, with its charming profusion of wrought-iron signs, and happened upon the house—number nine—where my late brother-in-law, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and his sister, Maria Anna, nicknamed Nannerl, were born.
The stately, narrow yellow house has not changed.
The intangible memories also remain with me; the heavenly music emanating from its walls penetrate my mind.
The spirits of the Mozart family are here ever present.
How close the distance from this residence and the Mozarts’ later one across the Salzach River on the other side of town, on the Hannibalplatz, is to the apartment of my dear sister, Constanze, and myself, who resided together on the Marktplatz. Constanze was called to the Lord four years ago, aged eighty years, and I live alone now in the apartment.
As close as the distance between our dwellings and the stone’s throw to Nannerl’s later residence may be–the great spiritual gulf that separated my family, the Webers and my dear Mozart from his own father and sister–festered and endured for many long years.
I dearly wish that the chasm could have been closed during Leopold Mozart’s lifetime, and that family harmony and accord would have happily reigned.
At least, Constanze and Nannerl lived long lives and finally managed to heal the breach.
Ach, they are all gone now.
Nannerl was called to the Lord in 1829, aged eight-and-seventy years.
Born in 1751, she was twelve years my senior.
I remember that my dear sister, Constanze, recounted to me her feelings after the visit she undertook with Wolfgang to Salzburg in 1783, in order to visit Wolfgang’s father and sister.
Constanze spoke to me with sadness of Nannerl’s reserve towards her, of an invisible wall separating the two, keeping Constanze, who longed to become close to her sister-in-law, at a distance.
Unfortunately, at that time, Nannerl, though polite, never reached out to Constanze.
My sister did so wish that had not been so.
Maria Anna Mozart was born in Salzburg to Leopold and Maria Anna Mozart and was five and one half years older than Wolfgang.
She was the fourth child, and she and Wolfgang, the youngest, were the
only two of the Mozarts’ seven children to survive infancy and reach adulthood.
Wolfgang and Nannerl looked very much alike, both of them inheriting their mother’s prominent nose.
Leopold was a court violinist and composer in the employ of the Archbishop of Salzburg, and had written a famous textbook on how to play the violin.
He taught Nannerl from a very early age how to play the pianoforte, and she became a gifted, accomplished artist.
Her little brother, Wolfgang, wished to imitate his big sister in her music studies, and that is when Leopold first noticed his prodigious, remarkable, amazing talent—and in such a young lad.
Leopold knew that with the right training and exposure, the child prodigies Wolfgang and Nannerl could fully develop and make the most of their budding talent, could become renown and improve the lot of the Mozart family.
The parents took the children all over Europe and also to England as children, where they performed for the highest courts in the land and reaped huge successes.
After age eighteen, however, Nannerl performed no longer in public, and thereafter enjoyed making music solely in private.
Leopold thereafter focused all his attentions on the career of Wolfgang, who was truly a genius.
Nannerl fell in love with Franz Armand d’Ippold, a captain and director of a school for the sons of noblemen in Salzburg, and he was equally in love with her.
The two wished to marry, but Leopold forbade the match.
Widowed by then, I believe Leopold felt that he would then lose his only daughter.
However, when Nannerl was aged three-and-thirty, another suitor vied for her hand in marriage, and this time, Leopold gave his consent.
Nannerl’s husband was Johann Baptist Franz von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg, a widow with five children.
They were married in Saint Gilgen in 1784.
Nannerl and her husband had three children of their own.
Her first born, Leopold, was born in her father’s house in Salzburg and left in her father’s care when she returned to Saint Gilgen.
Why did Nannerl prefer for her son to be raised by Leopold in Salzburg, while Nannerl resided in Saint Gilgen with her husband and five step-children?
I surmise that this unusual living arrangement was because the old man was lonely and also could provide the finest musical education for little Leopold.
When my dear sister, Constanze, married Mozart, Leopold was very much against the match. I believe that Leopold perceived that he would now be losing control of his son—yes, that he would lose his only son.
Nannerl was always very close to Leopold–That is a key, I feel, to her coldness toward my sister and to the other members of my family at that time.
Constanze so longed for Nannerl’s sisterly love and approval and at first, wrote her warm, affectionate letters, hoping truly for a close relationship with her beloved husband’s only sister.
But during these years, this alas was not to be.
Constanze realized that Nannerl showed little pleasure in my sister’s company and little affection for her, remaining usually aloof and unfriendly towards Constanze.
I know that Nannerl’s actions deeply hurt my sister.
But now, you see, with the increasing estrangement between Leopold and Wolfgang after the latter’s marriage with my sister, Leopold now grew even closer to Nannerl, to Nannerl’s great satisfaction.
Nannerl had always longed for more attention from her beloved father, whom she dearly loved, honored, and respected, though for much of their lives, most of Leopold’s attention had been focused on Wolfgang.
Now Nannerl and her family were the center of Leopold’s life and affections.
And Nannerl now always took Leopold’s side in his relations with Wolfgang. She did not, would not abandon her father.
Dear friends, there was a period when I thought that the two sides of the family would finally be reconciled, in 1785, when Leopold came to Vienna and stayed with my sister and Wolfgang for over two months.
Mama and I lived but a short distance away, and Leopold was a frequent visitor to our home and I in particular and also Mama became quite close to him at that time.
This period in Vienna was a busy, successful time for Wolfgang, always busy and in demand, giving lessons, composing, concertizing.
I think that after awhile, Leopold longed for the quiet of Salzburg and returned there.
Well, my friends, things went from bad to worse between my brother-in-law and Leopold. Wolfgang was very hurt when his father refused to let his two little boys stay with him while Wolfgang and Constanze would undertake a concert journey to Germany and then to England.
After all, Nannerl’s son, little Leopold, was staying with Leopold, and his house was quite large—Why not also his own son’s dear children?
As it turned out, Wolfgang thereby abandoned his plans of the journey on account of this very thing.
Then alas, Leopold was called to the Lord in 1787.
Because of the estrangement with Wolfgang, Leopold did not divide his estate equally but left most of his worldly goods to Nannerl, bequeathing to Wolfgang only some household possessions.
The closeness between Wolfgang and Nannerl had gradually ceased, and this was the final blow.
Wolfgang had grown increasingly closer to my family, the Webers, and in the end considered us to be his true family, also becoming close friends with my sisters’, Josefa’s and Aloysia’s, husbands.
I am sure that Wolfgang and Nannerl, however, continued all their lives to love and respect one another and to hope for a rapprochement.
My sister, Constanze, told me that many years later, Nannerl told Constanze that had Nannerl known of Wolfgang’s by then somewhat straitened circumstances, she would have been more generous in settling their late father’s estate.
And thereupon Wolfgang, so young at nearly six-and-thirty years of age, passed from this earth.
After Leopold’s passing in 1787, the fragile bonds between Nannerl and Constanze began to grow stronger and eventually to flourish.
Nannerl’s husband passed on in 1801, and Nannerl then returned with her two surviving children to live in Salzburg, in the house of her friends, the Barisanis, and gave piano lessons.
Well, my friends, Constanze’s second spouse, Nissen, retired in 1820, and he and my sister then left Copenhagen forever.
For several years, they traveled here and yon, seeking out spas in an attempt to improve Nissen’s health, and they enjoyed a lengthy stay with my nephew, Karl Thomas, in Milan.
Before embarking on the journey to Italy, my sister and her husband paid a visit to Salzburg where they stayed with Nannerl.
Now, my friends, the long alienation between Nannerl and Constanze was thankfully coming to an end; the invisible distance between Nannerl and my sister–between Nannerl and the Weber family—was fortunately about to be broken.
Nannerl was by then an elderly woman, living alone and lonely and going blind. Several years later, Nannerl did lose her sight.
Nannerl had suffered the loss of her beloved sixteen-year-old daughter and two of her step-children.
Nissen was now a retiree and missed the mental stimulation his job had afforded him, but in Salzburg, staying with Nannerl, he, Constanze, and Nannerl began to reminisce fondly about their earlier years, and most particularly, about the very special times of yesteryear when Nannerl and Wolfgang were Wunderkinder, feted by all the European nobility.
Nannerl also lovingly relived with the Nissens her day-to-day life in those bygone days, when they were children, the growing-up years.
Nannerl, Nissen, and Constanze spent much time in thoughtful and animated discourse.
It was at this time that Nissen’s desire to write a comprehensive biography of Mozart took root.
Other biographies of Mozart had already been penned, but they were unsubstantial and riddled with inaccuracies.
Nannerl showed Nissen and my sister a great collection of family letters she had collected and amassed from that time—letters from Wolfgang and from Leopold.
Why, my friends; there were such a bundle of them!
You see, Leopold had been collecting and guarding these precious letters because he himself had planned someday to write a biography of Wolfgang. However, Leopold later lost interest in this undertaking.
Nannerl also got on well with Nissen.
In 1824, the Nissens returned to Salzburg and settled there permanently, in an apartment on the Marktplatz.
Now Nannerl and Constanze lived within short walking distance of one another.
This apartment on the Marktplatz, dear friends, was also to be my future home.
Nannerl then generously gave Nissen and Constanze a good part of her family letters–around four hundred of them–so that Nissen could write the biography of Mozart.
Nannerl was granted the profits from a publication of Mozart’s “Requiem”, and she generously divided this money between Constanze’s and Mozart’s two sons.
This kind gesture finally closed the gulf between the sisters-in-law.
Nannerl became completely blind in 1825, and by the time I was widowed in 1826–on the very same day as Constanze–and moved to Salzburg to live with my sister, Constanze–Nannerl was housebound and bedridden, being then paralyzed and blind.
Constanze cared for Nannerl; she was her frequent visitor.
Nannerl’s kindly next-door neighbor, Herr Josef Metzger, a city public servant, also helped care for Nannerl and make her days more comfortable.
I knew that Nannerl must at times lack for company, being mostly confined to her bed, and I also used to visit her.
In Nannerl’s will, she left some of her personal items to Constanze’s sons.
Constanze later left some money to Nannerl’s adopted daughter.
Nannerl passed away in 1829, aged eight-and-seventy years.
Constanze informed the world of Nannerl’s passing.
Dear friends, I find myself so often gazing up at that familiar yellow building, Getreidegasse Nine, the birthplace of Nannerl and Wolfgang, and promenading past the stately home over the bridge on the Hannibalplatz, where the Mozart family lived in later years.
I think back to the time when the Mozarts were a happy, united family, and I am certain that in eternity, for all time, that is how the Mozarts will ever remain—in happy harmony and accord.

“SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL: NANNERL—MOZART’S SISTER, MARIA ANNA” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without her written permission.

“SOPHIE WEBER HAIBL: NANNERL—MOZART’S SISTER, MARIA ANNA”
© Marti Burger 2003-2008

Caversaccio, Italy
September 21, 1858

Why, do come in, my friends. You are always most welcome, and I hope you feel at home here!
Your visit has caught me unawares, so please, dear friends, excuse the dishes I left over there at table.
Today is the cook’s day off, and my manservant is gone to fetch water.
I was just finished supping.
Let me tidy up quickly and serve you some hot tea and biscuits.
Yes, my friends, I quite understand your interest in my father, Herr Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
I am very proud of my father, love him dearly, and greatly cherish his memory.
Papa passed on when I was but seven years of age, but let me tell you, dear friends, somehow, Papa’s loving, comforting presence is always with me.
In many aspects of my life, I can never forget that I am Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s son.
My most cherished possession is a small portrait of my father, which I often lovingly hold in my hand as I drift off to sleep.
I feel Papa’s presence around me and within me even more strongly when I hold this portrait.
You know, we Mozarts and Webers have music in our blood as likely as not, and it was my late Mama’s fervent wish for many years that I honor Papa’s memory and develop my talents as a professional musician, do Papa proud, and continue his noble legacy.
My Mama harbored these same wishes for my younger brother, Franz Xaver. She saw to it that we both received a fine education in music.
I came into this world on September 21, 1784, and today, I celebrate my birthday.
As a child, I recall my father well, although my memories of him are not continuous and plentiful.
I remember well playing games of dice and soldiers on the floor with my Papa, and how joyously and enthusiastically he partook in these games with me. I remember Papa sitting beside me at the pianoforte and giving me instruction, and I recall how our apartment was so often filled with music.
I was an only child until nearly seven years of age when my mother presented me with a baby brother, Franz Xaver.
As a child, I already knew that tragedy and illness had visited my family, as it did so many families–more so then than in our modern times–because previously, my younger baby brother and then in succession two baby sisters had sickened and died. Years later, I learned that I had also had an older brother, Raimund, who likewise had passed away in infancy.
I am a dreamer, my friends. And my nature is a shy and retiring one.
I love to wander about in the garden for hours at a time, refreshed and renewed by the sweet breath of nature. I had that same disposition as a child, and I remember so well my frequent garden forays, how I loved to while away my time in that place of refuge—my secret garden–and daydream away.
I recall my Papa remarking to Mama about my unfortunate tendency to spend my days idling in this manner……
I have a vivid memory of the time my beloved Papa died.
I was seven years old.
It is very painful for me to talk about, and I have had recurring nightmares about that sorrowful time.
I was so frightened and terrified, hardly daring to look at my Papa, so ill in bed and suffering. His body was all swollen; I had a terrible premonition, and alas, it soon came to pass.
My beloved father, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, was no more.
I remember my mother’s anguished crying and wailing, the doctor, Herr Closset, and Papa’s student, Herr Suessmayr, scurrying about, and I remember my aunt Sophie’s love, kindness, and compassion as she held me in her arms and gently soothed me and rocked me to sleep.
My life was now irrevocably changed.
I remember the consistent and constant presence of my mother and Aunt Sophie in looking after me and Wowi, as we all called my younger brother.
And you know, dear friends, my memories of my beloved Papa are a child’s memories of his father.
I wish that when I became an adolescent and then a man, I could have known my father–as an adult—man-to-man, as a friend, on equal terms—a friend and beloved Papa—and have memories of him from an adult’s perspective.
I love both my parents and their memories dearly.
I had such a dear Mama, and I cherish the memory of my stepfather, Baron Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, my Mama’s second husband.
I was fortunate indeed to benefit from father’s (as I called Nissen) love and guidance.
And I certainly miss my loving, dear Aunt Sophie.
When I was nearly nine, my Grandmama Caecilia died.
I remember Grandmama’s strong personality, how my mother and aunts always deferred to her.
When I learned of Grandmama’s death, I was far from my native Vienna—in Prague.
When I was eight years of age, my mother made the important decision which did not come lightly, she told me—to take me to Prague to attend the Gymnasium and board with an old family friend, Herr Franz Niemetschek, a professor at the Gymnasium.
Another cherished family friend, Franz Duschek, taught me the pianoforte in Prague.
Mama explained to me that a male child such as I needed the guidance of a man in my life to raise me properly, that she believed a woman alone is not adequate to fulfill this important role.
I now look upon this period of my life, these five years I spent in Prague–as my happiest!
These two foster fathers gave me their love and guidance, and I thrived in this most charming of cities.
Another fortunate occurrence in 1797, during my adolescence, was the appearance of my future stepfather, Baron Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, a Danish diplomat, into my life.
You see, dear friends, my Mama had fallen in love for the second time and had the luck to again meet a man whom she could devote herself to and be her life’s companion.
Mama and Nissen were not able to marry until 1809 in Pressburg, Bohemia, during the time of Napoleon’s occupation of Vienna.
Nissen’s diplomatic job had specified that he remain single!
Mama and Nissen, however, were as man and wife and lived together, and Nissen always thought of my younger brother, Wowi, and I as his sons.
And we always addressed him as “father” and thought of him as a second father.
Nissen’s resigning from his diplomatic post in 1807 had enabled him and my mother to marry. Thereupon, my mother and Nissen moved to Copenhagen where they resided for eleven years.
My stepfather worked in Copenhagen as censor of political journals.
In 1810, he was elected councilor of state.
Nissen retired in 1820 and in 1821, Mama and he moved to Salzburg, where my stepfather passed away in 1826.
Aunt Sophie’s husband had passed away on the very same day, and my aunt moved to Salzburg and lived with Mama for the remainder of their long lives.
Mama was called to the Lord in 1842 and Aunt Sophie in 1846.
I had two other elderly, close relatives who lived out their later years in Salzburg—my aunts Aloysia, Mama’s older sister, and my Aunt Marianna, Papa’s big sister who had toured all over Europe and England with him when they both were children and celebrated as Wunderkinder.
I had thought during my childhood that the life of a composer and piano virtuoso, following in the steps of my esteemed father, Mozart, was for me.
However, I hated to practice the piano!
I could not stand spending the long hours—the many hours a day–practically tethered to my instrument–in order to perfect my craft.
I also regrettably discovered that I did not possess the creative gift—the genius—of my father.
At age fourteen, I was apprenticed to a commercial firm in Livorno, and at age one and twenty, I moved to Milan in order to study music with the court Kapellmeister, Bonifazio Asoli.
My mother then wrote to me:
“I leave everything to your judgment and shall certainly not advise you against doing so. But always bear in mind this warning which I give you with the greatest affection: any son of Mozart’s who is no more than mediocre will bring more shame than honor upon himself.”
Five years after arriving in Milan, I finally decided against becoming a professional musician and composer.
At six-and-twenty years of age, I became an official in the service of the Viceroy of Naples in Milan, and have from then on throughout my long life been a civil servant, in the employ of the government.
My position became more comfortable as the years passed.
I am now retired, dear friends.
Today–September 21, 1858–I celebrate reaching the venerable age of four-and-seventy years.
I had one child, dear friends, my cherished and beloved daughter, Constanza, whom the Almighty chose to take from me while she was still but a child.
I cannot explain to you the profound grief I felt upon losing my precious treasure, Constanza.
My dear mother was devastated as well upon the death of her only grandchild.
She loved that child deeply as I did! Mother took solace in her deep religious faith.
My daughter’s mother was the love of my life, but she herself was the wife of an army officer.
Her marriage was a marriage of convenience, dear friends, but I could ill afford to take a wife myself.
I did not have the means to support a high-born lady, as my beloved, longtime mistress was, and I did not desire to marry below my station in life, as my lifelong companion and I would have little in common.
My brother Franz Xaver found himself alas in the same predicament as I.
He also had not the means to support a wife of high standing and did not wish to marry below his own social standing.
He enjoyed a marriage—though not in name—with his great love, Countess Cavalcabo, herself married to a Count in Ukraine, near the Polish border.
My friends, all my life, I have greatly enjoyed playing the piano as an avocation, a hobby.
I love to sit at the piano and play!
I play solely for enjoyment.
How playing the piano refreshes and renews me!
But to do this as my livelihood?
If I had been endowed with the great talents, ambition, and propensity for that kind of life, I would have gladly embraced being a professional musician and composer.
Every week, I have concerts by the best artists performed here in my home, where my guests and I can enjoy my great father’s and other great masters’ works.
My brother Wowi, encouraged by my mother, did pursue a successful career as a composer and piano virtuoso, but Wowi was always haunted by the specter of his father, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and the great expectations placed upon his own shoulders.
Instead of taking his great legacy in stride, his heritage often discomforted Wowi and caused him at times to be depressed.
I am now the last Mozart still alive.
My brother Franz Xaver passed away fourteen years ago, aged three-and-fifty years.
My friends, if my late, beloved Papa, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, were still living—he would have celebrated his one-hundredth birthday two years ago, as the date of his birth was January 27, 1756!
Imagine! One hundred years! How different the world was then, so long ago!
I accepted the invitation from Salzburg in that centenary year to attend the festivities and music festival in my dear father’s honor.
It took place on the 6th and 7th of September, and many of my father’s compositions were performed.
On the way back to Italy, I stopped in Vienna, where centenary celebrations in honor of my father were also held.
Mozart’s famous “Requiem” was performed in Saint Stefan’s Cathedral, and there were many dignitaries present, seated at the front of the Cathedral.
I sat in the pew way in the back, and thought to myself that I am the last Mozart still alive.
No one noticed me there, but I am a retiring, unassuming person, and it was just as well.
These festive occasions so reminded me of the time I attended the musical celebrations at the unveiling of my father’s statue in Salzburg and the naming of the Mozartplatz in 1842.
Well, unfortunately, in my branch of the family, there will be no more Mozarts after me to carry on the family name.
My Aunt Nannerl’s children, of course, were Sonnenburgs, and are no longer living.
But in the long run, my friends, my father’s name—Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s name—will forever stand alone.

“MOZART’S SON, KARL THOMAS MOZART: MY PAGE” is the exclusive property of Marti Burger, and is not to be reprinted without her written permission.

“MOZART’S SON, KARL THOMAS MOZART: MY PAGE”
© Marti Burger 2003-2008