Glissando

Glissando

December 1781

Leopold Mozart receives a letter from Wolfgang. (the real letter is at the foot of the story)

I don’t really know how long I’ve been sitting here. I realise that now my throat is parched and my head hurts. I remember a day and a night passing since his letter came, but it may be more for all that I know. The sun rose this morning and I find I have no recollection of what time or even what day it is. How long have I been sitting here with the pieces of his letter strewn about me mingled with shards of broken glass and spilled ink? My head buzzes and I cannot formulate my mind in any coherence.

Nannerl knocks, her sweet voice calling from outside the door; how many times has she knocked since the letter arrived? She is a sweet child, and deserves a better father and a far better brother. I deserve a better more obedient son.

The letter lies in as many pieces as my heart, and like my heart it has been trampled with much pacing since I shut my self away. What possessed the boy? It was bad enough with the other strumpet, although he took my advice and moved to Paris, but this new devastation rips through every stave of my life, and I, who have held on fast to life so that Wolfgang could reign over Europe like a Sungod, wish for nothing more than a glissando into hell and a swift reunion with Anna Maria.

Married. Married! She is so far below what he deserves, she will destroy him, drag him down. I know what she has done, she has ensnared him, for he is so kind-hearted (to all but his poor undeserving father) that she will have tears on her lashes and tell him she is enceinte and he will believe her.

I know this. My boy is passionate, unbridled. He runs before the sun, daring it to outshine him, to catch him and it lags behind, ashamed of his luminescence. Laughing, his voice like the sound of harp in sunbeams, never still, never serious. How joyfully I remember him dancing naked in the early morning sunshine the first time I let him sleep in my bed, just the two of us. How he sang to me, his little legs flashing in a staccato beat, his pretty eyes teasing me just enough to make me stern with him and demand his return to my arms. How he flew to me then, how he needed me.

He has always needed me, although I have burned for him for longer than he for me. Dandling him in my lap, as a chubby three year old as he bounced and made me show him how to stretch tiny fingers over the thirds and laughing, at the wonderful sounds they made. Sleeping in my arms as I composed over his sweet little head.

He needed me as he began to realise how much I loved him, as I would read to him in bed and stroke his slender body watching him react to me like taut strings, vibrating and quivering under the touch of my lightest bowing strokes, shuddering into my hand. He needed me more and more as he grew, in stature, in girth, in every part of his perfect body, he would beg me to kiss him in every one of his places that made the sounds of love fly from him. Our love was in tongues and in a wordless beauty no one else could hear. He sang to me of love, as I drew his hardness into my mouth, he sang to me of need, of gratitude. He sang the concertos he would write and dedicate them all to me.

I never denied him. I loved to have him arch against me, a living viola between my knees, our hardnesses in competition with each other for the best place, the most heat, the greater attention. He always won. I could never get enough of him, and he knew it, just as he knows how I am weeping for his loss now.

Look at this line, ” I kiss your hands a thousand times.” It kills me to think of it. His lips on my fingers, his wicked teeth clamping down on my knuckles as he rode me, the night before he left. Tears in his eyes pouring down his cheeks and over my hands, these talentless hands that can no more hold a tune than they can keep his feckless heart in their keeping. In my eyes the scars of his tears are still visible on my palms, precious silver stigmata.

How could he ever be satisfied with a chit of a girl? What can she know of his potential? What does she know of his hands? Those beautiful white hands, blue veined like aristocrat’s. The only calluses from gripping his quill, tight in his fist, the way he does. What can she know of his passion, as he writhes beneath me; his lip held between his teeth as I claim him as my own in the darkness of the night, how he calls on me and the Lord as his seed spills between us and how, always afterwards he writes better work than ever before, gives it to God, but dedicates it to me.

She will never wring that pureness from him. With her in tow, he will degenerate and his talent, suitable for Popes and Emperors will only be good enough for music hall.

Let him go. Let him smear himself with the filth of a wife. Responsibility for genius is a heavy burden and can not be shouldered by one who is not prepared to put aside everything.

Let him. Let him cling to the slut. Let them rot. I have placed everything of my life on the altar of sacrifice for my son. Did he think that I wanted to beggar myself? To throw away my health, my wife, my daughter, my career?

Now he takes the last thing I had left. Himself.

Fin

————————————————-

This is the letter (translation of) that Mozart sent to his father regarding the above matter.

Vienna, 15 December 1781

Dearest father,

You demand an explanation of the words at the end of my last letter. How gladly I would have opened my heart to you long ago, but I was discouraged from doing so by the reproach which I knew you might have made me for thinking about such a thing at an inappropriate time - although to think can never be inappropriate.

My efforts in the meantime are directed to acquiring a small but steady income here, for then one can live quite well with the help of the irregular extra sums; and then I intend - to marry!

Are you appalled at the idea? But, dear, kind father, please read on. I have had to reveal to you what is on my mind; now allow me to reveal my reasons too. The voice of nature speaks just as loudly in me as in anyone else, perhaps louder than in many a big strong lout.

It is impossible for me to live as most young men do today; in the first place, I am too deeply religious, secondly I am too compassionate and too honorable to wish to lead some innocent girl astray, and thirdly I have too much horror and revulsion, fear and apprehension of disease, and solicitude for my health, to romp about with whores, and I can swear to never having done such a thing.

[...] I know that this reason, strong though it is, is not sufficient in itself. But my temperament, which is more inclined toward a peaceful domestic existence than to riotous living - I who from my childhood have never been accustomed to look after my own things - clothes, linen, and so on - can think of nothing I need more than a wife. I assure you that I often spend more money than necessary because I do not pay heed to those things - I am quite convinced that with a wife, and the same income that I have as a single man, I would manage better. How much needless expenditure would then be avoided? - true, one then has other expenses, but one knows what they are and can allow for them - in short, one can lead a well-regulated life. A bachelor, to my mind, lives only half a life. That is my mind and I cannot change it.

[...] So who, then, is the object of my love? Once again, please do not be appalled - surely not one of the Webers? Yes, one of the Webers - not Josepha, not Sophie, but Costanza, the middle one. [...] My dear, good Constanze is the martyr of the family, and is, perhaps for that very reason, the kindest, most capable, in short the best of them all.

[...] She is not ugly but not at all beautiful. Her beauty consists entirely in two little dark eyes and a lovely figure. She is not witty, but she has enough common sense to be able to fulfil her duties as a wife and mother. She is not inclined to be extravagant; it would be quite wrong to say she was. On the contrary. she is used to being poorly clad, for whatever their mother had to spare was always given to the others, never to her. She would like to be nicely, neatly dressed, but does not aspire to elegance. Most of what a young lady requires she can do for herself, and she always dresses her own hair. She understands household economy and has the kindest heart in the world - I love her, and she genuinely loves me. Tell me, could I wish for a better wife?

[...] I kiss your hands a thousand times and am ever your obedient son W. A. Mozart