an excerpt from another original Mozart manuscript
by Juliet Waldron

          Excerpted from the recently recovered Diary of a Certain Lady who was said to have been die Geliebte of the famous and forever to be lamented Herr Wolfgang Amadeus von Mozart. The strange and disturbing account which follows may prove difficult for some readers, especially those of the gentler sex, but de mortuis nil nisi bonum – speak only good of the dead. Both the Lady and the faithful servants have, alike, passed from this earth and joined the object of their rescue.


          From Joseph Deiner I learned that Constanze had no intention of setting a cross upon Mozart's grave. The little money that she had "was best used for the living." She had dismissed Joseph rudely, telling him not to bother her about such things again.

          "She didn't love him, Fraulein," he said, wiping his eyes. "She just didn't love him." The notion bewildered Joseph. Although I probably knew as much as anyone about Widow Mozart's reasons, I gave no more response to this than a sad shake of my head.

          "The sexton at St. Mark's isn't such a bad fellow," Joseph continued. "He might be persuaded to look the other way if I plant a willow at the pit. Of course, that is verboten, but something alive will mark the spot for a long time."

          I imagined the winter rain beating down on that rectangle of mud in a corner of that dreary suburban graveyard. Not a single cross, no memorial for any of those forlorn dead. Joseph's tears mingled with mine, falling upon our clasped hands.

~  ~  ~

          At night, I drank a cup of Theresa's special sleeping tea and ate bread soaked in milk or a bowl of porridge, finding that preferable to a greasy supper. As long as I took her tea, I slept. As long as I slept, I dreamed.

          Oh, such intricate dreams! After performing, dreams were my greatest pleasure. I did not participate in life, only in The Magic Flute. In the evenings, I looked forward to entering Pamina, her magical, perfect world, a place where my Maestro still lived. I lived only for the Theater am Weiden, and dreaded the day the crowds ceased to come.

          Barbara kept insisting that I eat with them, but I simply could not. Most of every day passed in a haze of nausea. Breakfast was the hardest. Sometimes I'd vomit yellow bile into the basin before I had eaten anything. It was obvious, I think, to everyone but me, what had happened.

~  ~  ~

          Theresa came in to light candles, but I told her to wait. Candles were so expensive! Besides, I wanted nothing to cheer me. I sat wrapped in a shawl close to the stove with Mutzie, a warm bundle of comfort in my lap.

As predicted, my kitty was a fine mouser, but instead of laying them at the kitchen door like the other cats, she brought the bodies straight to the door of my room. It was hard upon a weak stomach to start downstairs and step upon the dismembered remains of a partially devoured offering.           I had taken to keeping an old dust pan and a stick handy so that I could collect them and toss them into the flower bed.  Neither Barbara nor

Theresa cared much where Mutzie laid her victims as long as she kept killing as many as she did, but it was hard for me to praise her, at least as wholeheartedly as I should, for her diligence.

          Tonight I was soothing myself by stroking Mutzie's silver sides and listening to the stove creak. I was feeling almost relaxed in that wine-stained and well-clawed chair, when Barbara entered the room.

          "Ah, Nanina. There you are. You and our fierce Fraulein Mutzie."

          At the sound of her name, the cat raised her head. She was a most intelligent cat, but if Barbara hadn't been one of her friends, she wouldn't have acknowledged the greeting at all.

          Barbara knelt beside me. With an index finger she began to artfully scratch Mutzie's chin. The cat extended her bibbed neck in pleasure; her eyes became green slits.

          "Was that you I heard the other night, out singing on the roof with the riffraff?" Barbara's smile was wry as she addressed my feline friend. "You'll soon get yourself in trouble, my girl."

          When I didn't say anything, she looked up at me and cheerfully added, "I'm looking forward to her first litter. Imagine, an army of mousers as good as she is."

          Then, suddenly, the joking expression died.

          "Easy enough to deal with her fat belly," Barbara remarked, "but what are we going to do about yours?"

          I was so far gone in my own world that I simply stared at her.

          "Yes, yours! Heaven knows how much longer you can get away with hiding it. I promised Emmanuel I would talk to you. Wolfi's opera is about milked dry, so this is as good a time as any to decide what's to be done about this."

          In order to keep me from dashing away to my room and slamming the door, Frau Gerl had seized my hands. It was beyond shocking to hear her speak so matter-of-factly about something I hadn't yet admitted to myself.

          "Listen, Nanina. I remember being in love, in love the way you have been."

          Tears flooded my eyes, and the ever present lump rose into my throat, nearly choking me.

          "You've got money saved, darling. Why don't you go to the country, have your baby, put it to nurse and then come back? I did it myself when I was about your age and a whole lot poorer. At this point, it's the only sensible thing to do."

          Her eyes held mine. Years later I understood it all, all the things that shrewd lady didn't say. The facts were that babies put out to nurse rarely survived. A young actress could go away discreetly for a few months, and then return unencumbered. Few would be the wiser, particularly if the child didn’t survive.

          Tears slowly trickled down my face, but I didn't speak. For perhaps the thousandth time since that fatal day in December, I wondered when I was going to wake up. . .

          Barbara continued to plan. "You better hope that Klopfer bitch doesn't turn Emmanuel's head and steal your parts while you're away. She sings quite well and God knows she beats you for shape—all that Holz vor dur Tur has really got him drooling."

~  ~  ~

          Joseph Deiner came, asking to see me, just a few days before I was to leave for the country. If Barbara had been there she would have sent him packing, but the maid was the only one in the house.

          "Fraulein Gottlieb is ill..."

          Theresa hadn't got well started on the usual speech when I came up behind her.

          "It's all right, Theresa," I said. "Herr Deiner is a good friend."

          I stepped around her, showing myself. In the last few weeks, just as Barbara had predicted, I'd precipitously graduated into a pregnancy hoop. Joseph's ruddy face went several shades brighter at the sight.

          I offered him a seat by the window. He took it uneasily, but after a few false starts, he reported what he'd come to say.

          The faithful fellow had gone weekly to St. Mark's, hoping against hope that Constanze had relented, had placed a cross. Sadly, he said, there was only a stretch of barren, sunken mud where the body of Kapellmeister Mozart and perhaps fifteen other poor folk lay.

          After telling me that, he was speechless for awhile. We sat silently, understanding each other very well, sharing the pain.

          "Last time I went out to St. Mark's, I brought a half bottle and shared it with the sexton. Der Herr Graber's not a bad old fellow. In the end he helped me cut a willow slip, and we planted it in the mud. He promised to let it be, at least as long as none of the priests complain. Perhaps before that happens, Frau Kapellmeisterin will change her mind and do the decent thing."

"You have been a good friend, Joseph Deiner, both to Kapellmeister Mozart and to me. Tomorrow maybe, if you have time, would you go with me to Saint Mark's? As you can see," I gestured at my belly, "I must leave Vienna for a time, but before I go, I'd like to bring the Maestro flowers."

          "I'm certain that would please him," he said, turning his hat in his hands. "You know, Fraulein, every time I'm there, I have the queerest feeling. It’s as if he knows I’m there."

          After the initial shock of seeing me in this state, he seemed pleased that there was still someone he could talk to about Wolfgang and we talked a little about happier days. Joseph seemed perfectly willing to help me, too. Without further delay, we arranged a time for our visit.

          Of course, Barbara would worry in case someone recognized me, but I'd go veiled and in that same black dress I'd worn to his funeral. After all, a widow in a churchyard is no uncommon sight.
~  ~  ~

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