Read Online Vienna Nocturne by Vivien Shotwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Vivien Shotwell
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pretend to make love with him.
If she could have run away, if she had had anywhere to go, she would have done so on the instant.
“Are you all right?” he asked her. “They said you were ill.”
She could not look at him. This would be a problem when they were on stage. “Please burn my letter,” she said in a quiet voice.
He hesitated. “I already did.”
This, strangely, was a fresh pain. He had probably burned it as soon as he’d read it. She swallowed and gave a stilted kind of bow.
She saw, from his face, how unwell she must look. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My God, I’m sorry.”
He tried to take her arms, but she pulled away, her lips twisting. “We mustn’t speak,” she said. “We must only pretend.”
The cast perceived there had been a rift—Anna, at the intermission, retired to her dressing room to weep. But the audience knew nothing. And there, at least, showed the extent of Anna and Benucci’s skill, the depth of their training, the core of their strength and ambition. On stage they were still the happiest, the most blessed lovers who ever had been born. They bantered and chirped. They had amusing spats and made up with a kiss. They pined for and adored each other. Their voices were true and firm, their movements elegant and lively. They were not themselves, even as they were most themselves. They were Anna and Benucci—confused, rueful, hurt—safely enwrapped in the trials and rewards of Dorina and Titta.
But not so safely, no, for all that, for his hands were still upon her, his eyes still smiling into her own, his voice like beautiful thunder in her ear, and it was hard to believe that he did not love her, that they were not still in perfect happiness. Then the moment of remembrance would come and she would have to steady herself so as to keep going.
She was shamed, she was chastened. She had believed in something that did not exist, trusted in what was daydreams and air.
Letters
My dear Mother and Sister
,
The news that you are going soon to Vienna has filled me with pride. Fine stroke of luck that the emperor needs a buffa troupe just when you’re the brightest star in their firmament. They say it’s a better city for music than anywhere. You’ll live like a queen, I don’t doubt. I’m glad Mr. Kelly and Signor Benucci will go with you. May they protect and keep you well. You won’t have to do much work at first, I expect … you can sing the operas you already know …
I wish I could convey to you how good my life is here, how peaceful and free. Freedom above all is the best of life’s graces. Here the world has no urgency. Each day I rise and bathe in the near dark. If the weather is fine, I go outside with my brimmed hat and paint. If it rains, I study my scores and compose. In the afternoon I ride around on my little horse to visit my students. Is it not an envious life? Is it not the life of a perfect monk?
Vienna! Anna, you know Mozart is there. You must meet him and tell me what he is like
.
There’s a robin in the birdbath. For ten minutes together it has been standing ankle-deep in the water and making no motion. Does it care about ambition? Does it wish to be more beautiful than it is? No, it is beautiful as it is, because it is. I will fix it in my mind and paint it in the afternoon
.
I wish you a safe and comfortable journey. Tell me about that world. I hope my mother is in exemplary health, and I remain
,
Your Loving and Dutiful
,
Son and Brother
,
Stephen
Dearest Stephen
,
Mama fears you’ve lost your senses but I like all this talk of freedom. Of course I will meet Mozart. It will be such a lark. We arrive in April. The contract is for a year. But we talk already of staying longer. You must come to Vienna as soon as you can. We are to live in palaces and have all our firewood and candles provided for, etc. They say the emperor is just a regular gentleman: he wears plain clothes and doesn’t stand on ceremony. Doesn’t that sound like
If she could have run away, if she had had anywhere to go, she would have done so on the instant.
“Are you all right?” he asked her. “They said you were ill.”
She could not look at him. This would be a problem when they were on stage. “Please burn my letter,” she said in a quiet voice.
He hesitated. “I already did.”
This, strangely, was a fresh pain. He had probably burned it as soon as he’d read it. She swallowed and gave a stilted kind of bow.
She saw, from his face, how unwell she must look. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My God, I’m sorry.”
He tried to take her arms, but she pulled away, her lips twisting. “We mustn’t speak,” she said. “We must only pretend.”
The cast perceived there had been a rift—Anna, at the intermission, retired to her dressing room to weep. But the audience knew nothing. And there, at least, showed the extent of Anna and Benucci’s skill, the depth of their training, the core of their strength and ambition. On stage they were still the happiest, the most blessed lovers who ever had been born. They bantered and chirped. They had amusing spats and made up with a kiss. They pined for and adored each other. Their voices were true and firm, their movements elegant and lively. They were not themselves, even as they were most themselves. They were Anna and Benucci—confused, rueful, hurt—safely enwrapped in the trials and rewards of Dorina and Titta.
But not so safely, no, for all that, for his hands were still upon her, his eyes still smiling into her own, his voice like beautiful thunder in her ear, and it was hard to believe that he did not love her, that they were not still in perfect happiness. Then the moment of remembrance would come and she would have to steady herself so as to keep going.
She was shamed, she was chastened. She had believed in something that did not exist, trusted in what was daydreams and air.
Letters
My dear Mother and Sister
,
The news that you are going soon to Vienna has filled me with pride. Fine stroke of luck that the emperor needs a buffa troupe just when you’re the brightest star in their firmament. They say it’s a better city for music than anywhere. You’ll live like a queen, I don’t doubt. I’m glad Mr. Kelly and Signor Benucci will go with you. May they protect and keep you well. You won’t have to do much work at first, I expect … you can sing the operas you already know …
I wish I could convey to you how good my life is here, how peaceful and free. Freedom above all is the best of life’s graces. Here the world has no urgency. Each day I rise and bathe in the near dark. If the weather is fine, I go outside with my brimmed hat and paint. If it rains, I study my scores and compose. In the afternoon I ride around on my little horse to visit my students. Is it not an envious life? Is it not the life of a perfect monk?
Vienna! Anna, you know Mozart is there. You must meet him and tell me what he is like
.
There’s a robin in the birdbath. For ten minutes together it has been standing ankle-deep in the water and making no motion. Does it care about ambition? Does it wish to be more beautiful than it is? No, it is beautiful as it is, because it is. I will fix it in my mind and paint it in the afternoon
.
I wish you a safe and comfortable journey. Tell me about that world. I hope my mother is in exemplary health, and I remain
,
Your Loving and Dutiful
,
Son and Brother
,
Stephen
Dearest Stephen
,
Mama fears you’ve lost your senses but I like all this talk of freedom. Of course I will meet Mozart. It will be such a lark. We arrive in April. The contract is for a year. But we talk already of staying longer. You must come to Vienna as soon as you can. We are to live in palaces and have all our firewood and candles provided for, etc. They say the emperor is just a regular gentleman: he wears plain clothes and doesn’t stand on ceremony. Doesn’t that sound like
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