Read Online Vienna Nocturne by Vivien Shotwell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vivien Shotwell
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something you’d like? I shall talk to him and get you a commission. I miss you terribly
.
Your ever affectionate
,
And extremely fortunate
,
Anna
My dear Anna
,
What a proud singing teacher I am! When I read about Vienna I had to put down your letter. I went onto the street. I wanted to order a carriage and come to you. I don’t know why I didn’t, except you’d have nowhere to put me in your luggage. I suppose this pride is what a father feels. Forgive me. And yetyou should know that you have my thanks. You give me joy, even from afar. Sing well. Remember what I taught you. Keep your heart safe, your heart’s core. Keep it strong and safe
.
Ah!—a fine father I would make!
I remain, etc.
,
V. Rauzzini
Anna and the Thief
Joseph II, emperor over most of the civilized world, had to be kept rich in chocolate drops or he lost his optimism. Lost his cheery yet exacting personal fortitude, his relaxed and progressive outlook of can-do and savoir faire. Vienna had some of the finest chocolate anywhere, and Joseph, despite his disdain for extravagance, wished it no other way. He had hot, melted chocolate every morning for breakfast, brought to him in a teacup so thin that when placed, trembling, on his broad mahogany desktop, the chocolate inside showed like yolk through a shell. By that time Joseph would have been up for hours, writing, pondering, and the rich, extravagant liquid, like an embodiment of heaven, would warm and revive him.
In a way chocolates counterbalanced the other austerities of his life. The emperor wore the brown clothes of a layman, worked long hours, and aspired to reform all the excesses of his relatives and ancestors. He shut down churches and opened hospitals. He fired useless members of his court, no matter their birth or heritage. He bolstered all kinds of music-making. Even his new opera companywas for the people. Anyone, after all, could buy tickets. When the hall wasn’t in use he let it out for pennies to the musicians and composers he favored. In music, he felt, lived the soul of humanity. He played chamber music every day, and frequently and unaffectedly visited musical salons. He often said that if people around him forgot he was the emperor, he had done his duty.
He carried chocolate drops in his waistcoat pockets, wrapped like jewels in brightly colored tissue paper, and ate them at all moments—when taking exercise among his subjects in the Prater, when consulting with his ministers, when pacing with his pet beagle down the lawn or attending Shakespearean tragedies at the theater.
The audience at his royal opera house were nothing near as raucous nor demonstrative as those in the theaters of the Italian states. Beneath the music, beneath the soft murmur of gossip, beneath the pad of slippers on bare wood and the sigh and rustle of silk frock coats and full muslin underskirts, one might have heard the neat unwrapping of the emperor’s chocolates, the smacking of his full, placid lips, as pink as if they’d been painted, as he sucked and chewed. His appetite for chocolate reflected his interest in the performance. Anything over twenty drops meant the opera was a winner. On April 22, 1783, a Tuesday, on the occasion of the debut of the new Italian opera troupe with a comedy by Salieri, the emperor consumed twenty-six chocolates before the end of the first act.
Anna, on stage, heard none of the sighing of muslin, so discreet and well mannered were these operagoers. After Italy, it was like being in a deserted church. Nobody called out to her, nor applauded in the middle of her aria, nor threw food nor spat on the floor. Even the theater was austere, a white box with understated decorations, no gilt or frescoes anywhere, and so small and intimate that it was like performing in the emperor’s private salon.
The Italian company had been brought intact from Venice to Vienna: Bussani, Mandini, and their wives; and Benucci, Michael Kelly, and Anna. They were to replace the
.
Your ever affectionate
,
And extremely fortunate
,
Anna
My dear Anna
,
What a proud singing teacher I am! When I read about Vienna I had to put down your letter. I went onto the street. I wanted to order a carriage and come to you. I don’t know why I didn’t, except you’d have nowhere to put me in your luggage. I suppose this pride is what a father feels. Forgive me. And yetyou should know that you have my thanks. You give me joy, even from afar. Sing well. Remember what I taught you. Keep your heart safe, your heart’s core. Keep it strong and safe
.
Ah!—a fine father I would make!
I remain, etc.
,
V. Rauzzini
Anna and the Thief
Joseph II, emperor over most of the civilized world, had to be kept rich in chocolate drops or he lost his optimism. Lost his cheery yet exacting personal fortitude, his relaxed and progressive outlook of can-do and savoir faire. Vienna had some of the finest chocolate anywhere, and Joseph, despite his disdain for extravagance, wished it no other way. He had hot, melted chocolate every morning for breakfast, brought to him in a teacup so thin that when placed, trembling, on his broad mahogany desktop, the chocolate inside showed like yolk through a shell. By that time Joseph would have been up for hours, writing, pondering, and the rich, extravagant liquid, like an embodiment of heaven, would warm and revive him.
In a way chocolates counterbalanced the other austerities of his life. The emperor wore the brown clothes of a layman, worked long hours, and aspired to reform all the excesses of his relatives and ancestors. He shut down churches and opened hospitals. He fired useless members of his court, no matter their birth or heritage. He bolstered all kinds of music-making. Even his new opera companywas for the people. Anyone, after all, could buy tickets. When the hall wasn’t in use he let it out for pennies to the musicians and composers he favored. In music, he felt, lived the soul of humanity. He played chamber music every day, and frequently and unaffectedly visited musical salons. He often said that if people around him forgot he was the emperor, he had done his duty.
He carried chocolate drops in his waistcoat pockets, wrapped like jewels in brightly colored tissue paper, and ate them at all moments—when taking exercise among his subjects in the Prater, when consulting with his ministers, when pacing with his pet beagle down the lawn or attending Shakespearean tragedies at the theater.
The audience at his royal opera house were nothing near as raucous nor demonstrative as those in the theaters of the Italian states. Beneath the music, beneath the soft murmur of gossip, beneath the pad of slippers on bare wood and the sigh and rustle of silk frock coats and full muslin underskirts, one might have heard the neat unwrapping of the emperor’s chocolates, the smacking of his full, placid lips, as pink as if they’d been painted, as he sucked and chewed. His appetite for chocolate reflected his interest in the performance. Anything over twenty drops meant the opera was a winner. On April 22, 1783, a Tuesday, on the occasion of the debut of the new Italian opera troupe with a comedy by Salieri, the emperor consumed twenty-six chocolates before the end of the first act.
Anna, on stage, heard none of the sighing of muslin, so discreet and well mannered were these operagoers. After Italy, it was like being in a deserted church. Nobody called out to her, nor applauded in the middle of her aria, nor threw food nor spat on the floor. Even the theater was austere, a white box with understated decorations, no gilt or frescoes anywhere, and so small and intimate that it was like performing in the emperor’s private salon.
The Italian company had been brought intact from Venice to Vienna: Bussani, Mandini, and their wives; and Benucci, Michael Kelly, and Anna. They were to replace the
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