Read Online Vienna Nocturne by Vivien Shotwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vivien Shotwell
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disbanded German-languagesingspiel company, which had flourished briefly and then fallen into disregard.
In Vienna there were no street singers. There was no shouting. The side streets were paved with stones that seemed hewn, on purpose, to cause one to fall; the main roads were laid with white gravel that lifted up clouds of dust whenever anyone walked or rode on them. In summer the air became thick with dust and everyone had to cover their mouths with handkerchiefs. Outside of town, though, the air was fresh and clean. The inner city was flanked by a swath of green commons, the Prater, where Viennese of every class would go to recreate, listen to concerts, picnic, and dance. The Viennese loved to dance as much the Venetians had loved to sing.
It was good, Anna told herself, to be in Vienna. Everything was so brisk and orderly. Venice had been a city of passion. Vienna would school and restore her. Though she would be seeing Francesco Benucci nearly every day, at least she would be somewhere new; at least she would be learning German. She had already been complimented on her pronunciation.
Following the opening night’s performance there was a party in one of Joseph II’s ballrooms. Everyone of consequence was invited, and the emperor himself could be seen pouring out wine to his guests.
Anna had slept poorly the night before, from her nervousness. She had been afraid she would not be in good voice, but she supposed everything had gone well. In a corner of the ballroom Benucci flirted with some chorus girls. His face was damp and flushed and he let out great booming laughs. One of the girls had her arms around his neck.
Anna had sent Lidia to find a glass of punch but she could not bear to stand there waiting while Benucci made love to chorus girls. She bowed to the gentleman whom she had been talking to and fledpast the tables of faro and whist, past the diligent chamber orchestra, through some glass doors, and onto a terrace.
There was a garden arranged in geometrical shapes with a small orchard. It was a clear evening, although cooler than she was used to. She felt herself reviving to the coolness. With light steps she ran down the path to the end of the garden, where she found a bench and a statue by a tree. She would just sit here a moment, hidden away, she thought, and rest her feet. Then she might return to all of those strangers with a calm spirit and genuine smiles.
She had actually removed her shoes and was stretching her toes in the air when she noticed a gentleman standing in the shadow by the statue. He had been so still, and she so self-pitying, she had not noticed him. She let out a small exclamation.
He darted forward, caught up her shoes, and ran off with them.
“Oh, you wretch!” she cried.
He’d gone behind some bushes. She glanced back at the lights of the palace and bit her lip. Perhaps he was a murderer. But she could not appear before the emperor without shoes on.
Her stockings were new and they were silk. With a whispered curse she slipped them off and stuffed them down her bodice, and went after the villain.
The ground was wet and soft, cool to her feet. She lifted her skirts so as not to get them damp. He was waiting by a fountain, grinning, his hands behind his back.
“My boots!” she said in German, not remembering, in her agitation, the precise word for “slipper” or “shoe.”
“What boots?” he asked softly.
“Mine!” she cried. She opened her mouth to say more, but the horrible language betrayed her. “Oh, you wretch!” she exclaimed again in English, and stomped her foot.
He was a slight man, perhaps thirty, with a profusion of hair and a big, sharp nose. His clothes were fine—she could tell even in the dark: a nobleman making heartless sport with her.
“I know Italian,” he offered in that language. He had an elegant, well-produced tenor voice. She lunged after him and he took off around the fountain, a shoe in each hand, laughing. But the pebbles were
In Vienna there were no street singers. There was no shouting. The side streets were paved with stones that seemed hewn, on purpose, to cause one to fall; the main roads were laid with white gravel that lifted up clouds of dust whenever anyone walked or rode on them. In summer the air became thick with dust and everyone had to cover their mouths with handkerchiefs. Outside of town, though, the air was fresh and clean. The inner city was flanked by a swath of green commons, the Prater, where Viennese of every class would go to recreate, listen to concerts, picnic, and dance. The Viennese loved to dance as much the Venetians had loved to sing.
It was good, Anna told herself, to be in Vienna. Everything was so brisk and orderly. Venice had been a city of passion. Vienna would school and restore her. Though she would be seeing Francesco Benucci nearly every day, at least she would be somewhere new; at least she would be learning German. She had already been complimented on her pronunciation.
Following the opening night’s performance there was a party in one of Joseph II’s ballrooms. Everyone of consequence was invited, and the emperor himself could be seen pouring out wine to his guests.
Anna had slept poorly the night before, from her nervousness. She had been afraid she would not be in good voice, but she supposed everything had gone well. In a corner of the ballroom Benucci flirted with some chorus girls. His face was damp and flushed and he let out great booming laughs. One of the girls had her arms around his neck.
Anna had sent Lidia to find a glass of punch but she could not bear to stand there waiting while Benucci made love to chorus girls. She bowed to the gentleman whom she had been talking to and fledpast the tables of faro and whist, past the diligent chamber orchestra, through some glass doors, and onto a terrace.
There was a garden arranged in geometrical shapes with a small orchard. It was a clear evening, although cooler than she was used to. She felt herself reviving to the coolness. With light steps she ran down the path to the end of the garden, where she found a bench and a statue by a tree. She would just sit here a moment, hidden away, she thought, and rest her feet. Then she might return to all of those strangers with a calm spirit and genuine smiles.
She had actually removed her shoes and was stretching her toes in the air when she noticed a gentleman standing in the shadow by the statue. He had been so still, and she so self-pitying, she had not noticed him. She let out a small exclamation.
He darted forward, caught up her shoes, and ran off with them.
“Oh, you wretch!” she cried.
He’d gone behind some bushes. She glanced back at the lights of the palace and bit her lip. Perhaps he was a murderer. But she could not appear before the emperor without shoes on.
Her stockings were new and they were silk. With a whispered curse she slipped them off and stuffed them down her bodice, and went after the villain.
The ground was wet and soft, cool to her feet. She lifted her skirts so as not to get them damp. He was waiting by a fountain, grinning, his hands behind his back.
“My boots!” she said in German, not remembering, in her agitation, the precise word for “slipper” or “shoe.”
“What boots?” he asked softly.
“Mine!” she cried. She opened her mouth to say more, but the horrible language betrayed her. “Oh, you wretch!” she exclaimed again in English, and stomped her foot.
He was a slight man, perhaps thirty, with a profusion of hair and a big, sharp nose. His clothes were fine—she could tell even in the dark: a nobleman making heartless sport with her.
“I know Italian,” he offered in that language. He had an elegant, well-produced tenor voice. She lunged after him and he took off around the fountain, a shoe in each hand, laughing. But the pebbles were