February 2013

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February 2013

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magazine

Collaborative, submission based magazine for the 21st Century Opera Enthusiast

Editor-in-chief Jennifer Choi www.operaswag.wordpress.com Editor Kim Feltkamp www.kimberlyfeltkamp.com Contact Opera21 www.opera21.tumblr.com Email: opera21mag@gmail.com

Announcement The theme for the upcoming issue is politics in opera. While we would like to focus on politics present within the librettos, we will accept submissions about politics within the industry. Guidelines for submissions can be found on our website.

All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or part is prohibited without written permission.

The opinions expressed in Opera21 do not necessarily reflect those of the editor or publisher

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Table of Contents Volume 1 No. 4

3 Letter to the Magazine Joyce DiDonato 5 Date Night at the Opera Kevin Ng 7 Of Learning, Loving, and Letting Go Dilys H Chua 11 Two Operas for Singles Awareness Day Vrixton Phillips 13 Come Scoglio* Kim Feltkamp

*Featured novella, in parts

Joyce DiDonato, also known as the Yankee Diva, is an internationally acclaimed mezzo-soprano. One of today’s reigning queens of opera, she has been called the perfect 21st century diva. She is one of the foremost ambassadors for opera, spreading her passion and enthusiasm through her work and her presence on the Internet.

She is currently on tour with her latest album, Drama Queens. You can find more information on her website.

Dear Opera21, Congratulations on the launch of this exciting on-line magazine where each of you can delve deeper and deeper into your passions for opera and music! It's wonderful for me to have the confirmation of my passion about opera through your eyes, because each of you are ignited by the same emotional journeys, breathtaking musical moments, and awe-inspiring productions that I am, and you are eagerly seeking a way to learn more.

Trust me, as long as you're game, the journey of discovery never ends! Enjoy it!

I predict your operatic journey may sometimes be a love/hate relationship – for where there are big passions, there can be enormous disappointments. Whether you are an aspiring singer who faces a deluge of rejections (oh, they'll be there – just keep breathing!), or a fan who

suffers through a cast that isn't to your liking (or, God forbid, isn't the same singer you first saw when you fell in love with a particular opera back in 2009...!), the disappointments will most definitely be there.

But so will the euphoric moments, and those blessed moments of tears and laughter or overwhelming profundity - or you'll receive that first contract, or be accepted into the ensemble and begin relationships with friends who will be with you for life. The highs and the lows will both feed you in completely different ways and ultimately bring more depth and joy into your life.

But may I offer one word of caution, or request one small favor? Please don't become a snob. Please just resist that urge should it rear its ugly head. It's not cool, definitely not attractive, and terribly, terribly boring. No matter how much you know, or how much you see and hear, and no matter how strong your opinions are, please don't flirt with that imperial "level of knowing" where you stop listening, stop feeling, and stop learning.

By all means, be critical if you like, but please consider offering your opinions with grace and elegance. In other words, "Stay classy." Trust me, it will enhance your operatic experience by miles.

Throughout those inevitable highs and lows, please fight to keep the faith, and please do your part to keep the dialogue open and moving forward, so that you (yes, YOU) can be a part of the solution and not a part of the problem. I want YOU to help figure out where opera goes in YOUR century.

Get creative, spread the word, think outside the box, be open enough so that the newcomers who will come and look to you for guidance will feel welcome, and please keep listening with those curious, eager ears so that the next generations of singers won't feel that they have to compete with a "DiDonato" or a "Florez". (Not that there is anything wrong with either of those two!)

Finally, at last it’s my turn to stand up and applaud each of YOU, and yell BRAVI for your efforts and for your enthusiasm! You are my argument against "Opera is a dying art form", so get loud, get strong, and yes, stay classy!

CHEERS! Joyce DiDonato

Puccini

Date Night at the Opera Kevin Ng

Verdi

Emotional and moving, often with a bias towards young people who sacrifice everything for love, opera seems tailormade for a wonderful date. Operatic couples such as Mimi and Rodolfo, and Violetta and Alfredo have become nearly as iconic as Romeo and Juliet. And of course, opera has no shortage of stunning love duets, from ‘Pur ti miro’ to the equally stunning duet from Adès’ The Tempest.

Funnily enough, there are few operatic couples that are good models for healthy relationships. Puccini’s La Boheme, often cited as the most romantic opera ever written, recounts the story of two relationships – Mimi and Rodolfo, and Marcello and Musetta. Marcello and Musetta have a fiery, tempestuous relationship, reaching its peak in their string of insults during the act 3 quartet. They primarily serve as a foil to Mimi and Rodolfo’s relationship, a sweet and passionate love, never reaching the stormy volumes of Musetta and Marcello’s.

However, upon closer inspection, there are certain similarities. Rodolfo proves himself to be equally jealous, accusing Mimi of flirting with every man she sees. More worryingly, he decides not to tell Mimi that she is ill; instead, he decides to argue, fight, run away, and act in ways that are clearly emotionally abusive.

Alfredo and Violetta in Verdi’s La Traviata are not much better. In the famous gambling scene in Act 2, Alfredo, feeling scorned by love, humiliates Violetta in front of the entire party by throwing money at her.

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Cosi Fan Tutte by Mozart, although an opera buffa, has a twisted story about men who, unable to trust their partners, plays a series of tricks to entrap them in their unfaithfulness. This leads to emotional turmoil that, although used as a vehicle for comedy, would translate to abuse in our world today.

Lohengrin and Elsa form a relationship that is markedly not based on mutual trust.

Manon dumps Des Grieux for money and fame. Of course, the unhealthiest relationships of all come from Wagner’s Ring cycle; after the shocking revelation that they are twins, Siegmund and Sieglinde promptly decide to have a baby, who later falls in love with his aunt.

In spite of all of their flaws, there are really some intensely romantic and touching moments in all of these operas – Marcello’s realization that Musetta is “a good woman”, or Violetta commenting that only Alfredo’s return can cure her.

Among those, the most moving moment comes in act 2 of Die Walküre, during the famous Todesverkündigung. In this scene, Brünnhilde approaches Siegmund and tells him that he has been chosen to go to Valhalla, the hall of the warriors. Sieglinde, however, cannot join him. “In that case,” he tells Brünnhilde, “greet Wotan and all of the heroes for me; I will not follow you”.

Powerful, moving words indeed; ones that many women, no doubt, would love to have their boyfriends say about them.

Completely forgotten is the fact that they are twins who have just conceived a baby.

with custody of their children leads not to divorce, but to death, destruction, and a mad sorceress. Nevertheless, the emotions of Medea and Jason are all too human.

Opera, despite its inherently stylized nature, aims to provide truth in human interactions. All relationships can be rocky, and these operatic lovers can provide valuable lessons on how to react to and deal with these issues (or how NOT to react, in some cases). An evening of mindless entertainment it may not be, but a date at the opera always promises to be highly rewarding.

*Kevin promises the hair dye is not permanent. It was just a rebellious streak he had.

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Massenet

Kevin is a first-year university student who dreams of a career in the opera world, which is why he is currently studying cell biology and doing chemistry labs. He started blogging at nonpiudifiori.wordpress.com, born out of the need to talk to opera with somebody whose response was more insightful than “wait, you mean like Sarah Brightman?�

Mozart

An evening at the opera can be a rich exploration into the many facets of love, lust, relationships, and marriage. Opera is decidedly not Hollywood – in rom-coms, love is turned into a fairy tale. Two people meet, fall in love at first sight, and live happily ever after (with a few simple obstacles thrown in for good measure).

In opera, however, the nastier side of human nature is revealed: cheating, rape, emotional abuse, betrayal of trust, custody, death. And in true operatic fashion, not only are these issues addressed, they are magnified to epic proportions. A cheating husband

Strauss

Of Learning, Loving, and Letting Go Dilys H Chua

Ask anyone opera enthusiast who they consider to be opera’s greatest couple and you’ll find yourself with a slew of different answers. Violetta and Alfredo will probably be in the mix, as well as the standard list of Puccini pairings. Others may list Carmen and Don Jose as their doomed couple of choice. The Wagnerians may trumpet the virtues of the great love story that holds the Ring Cycle together; purists might prefer the original Greek myths that inspired the very beginnings of opera. Five years ago, I probably would have given you an answer drawn from the list above.

But not now. Five years ago, fate dictated I stumble across the opera that would give me THE couple, the ultimate One True Pairing (OTP) that I have been loyal to since, and will be forever more. Who is this mysterious couple? From which perfect opera do they come from? It could be no other than Richard Strauss’ greatest masterpiece, Der Rosenkavalier; the couple is the Marschallin, the Princess Marie Thérèse von Werdenberg, and her younger lover - the impetuous young Count Octavian Rofrano.

Act 1 opens with the Marschallin and Octavian having enjoyed an amorous night in bed and establishes the fact that the Marschallin’s lecherous cousin, Baron Ochs, has recently become engaged. He is in need of a rose bearer – a Rosenkavalier – who will bring the traditional silver rose to his fiancé.

In a fit of mischief, the Marschallin elects Octavian for the task. Cross-dressing hijinks ensue as Octavian, dressed as a chambermaid named Mariandel, narrowly

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avoids being caught in flagrante; the Baron’s behaviour leaves the Marschallin to despair over the flaws of men and leads her to contemplate the nature of her relationship (and by extension, that of womankind’s relationship) with time. Octavian’s return at the end of the Act sees the couple breaking up; the Marschallin prophesies that Octavian will one day leave her for someone younger and prettier.

Act 2 begins with Octavian delivering the silver rose to Sophie von Faninal Baron Ochs’ fiancé. She is the daughter of a wealthy, recently elevated noble, Herr von Faninal. As Sophie and Octavian make eye contact for the first time, they fall instantly and inexorably in love. The entrance of Baron Ochs sours the mood, and Octavian wounds the Baron in an ensuing swordfight.

Prior to his departure Octavian promises Sophie that he will help her escape her impending marriage; in the first half of Act 3, we see him do so. Dressed as Mariandel, Octavian manages to ensure the Baron is caught in flagrante with another young girl who is not his fiancé. Herr von Faninal, with Sophie in tow, turns up at the scene, and the engagement is duly broken off; at this point the Marschallin arrives. The Baron is dismissed under threat of the sullying of his reputation. In the famous, heart-stopping trio, the Marschallin tells herself she promised to love Octavian in the right way, and if that meant letting him go so he could pursue his young love, then so be it. The opera ends with Sophie and Octavian as couple; the Marschallin, now alone, remains the paragon of nobility and grace as she

Renée Fleming as Marschallin and Susan Graham as Octavian in a scene from Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier Photo: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

ultimate thinking man’s opera, a proper philosophical meditation on humanity disguised in a sumptuous shell of emotional and musical perfection. Every time I return to this opera, I find something new to think about. Richard Strauss and Hugo von Hofmansthal created a masterpiece of social commentary through the relationships in the opera that holds true even today; the frustrations of the characters onstage speak directly to what it means to exist in a human society. From Baron Och’s lecherous ways to Herr von Faninal’s social ambition to the affair

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Strauss

leaves the stage, public persona firmly in place.

The couples from other operas are great in their own respects, but the Marschallin and Octavian make sense to me in ways that other couples do not. I love them individually as characters, but when put together, they are the very definition of perfection. They push all the right buttons; for the sake of argument, let’s divide said buttons into two categories: intellectual and emotional.

At the risk of sounding snobbish, I would say that Der Rosenkavalier is the

consider the notion that one might inconveniently fall in love with more than one person at a time. Octavian’s confusion humanises him, as does the Marschallin’s frustration at both the passage of time and the dictates of her social standing. This relationship, therefore, remains a veritable feast for anyone keen on asking those big questions about life. In the end, is it all worth it?

As if the intellectual stimulation of their relationship was not enough, I turn to the overwhelming depth and breadth of emotion this opera inspires. It seems fatuous to say that almost every single emotion is experienced on behalf of either Octavian or the Marschallin, and yet it is true. Elation and contentment at the beginning of the first act, when they are relishing the afterglow of a night together.

Anger at Octavian’s inability to take the Marschallin’s hint; frustration at the Marschallin for ruining her own happiness.

Wistfulness, as we watch the Marschallin muse about her relationships and time; a bittersweet kind of sorrow, when we realise the inevitable breaking of hearts that is to come. Strauss and von Hoftmansthal have created complex characters that the contemporary audience can instinctively relate to. They understand that the human heart is a difficult thing to understand while at the same time being utterly simple in its desires.

The relationship between the Marschallin and Octavian has taught me to reconcile my desires with the knowledge that not everything is obtainable, and that everything must come to an inevitable end.

In many ways, I can identify with Octavian; all that youth, all that rightful indignation – like him, it was not too long ago that I believed I was entitled to so many things in the world, could do anything my heart

Strauss

between an older woman and a younger man (the term cougar rightly springs to mind), the parallels to our world today are obvious. The most poignant of the issues portrayed onstage, especially for any woman, young or old, is that of a woman’s relationship with time. In Act I, The Marschallin, while contemplating the strangeness of time, says she sometimes gets up in the middle of the night and stops all the clocks. She then quickly steels herself, convincing herself that time is not something to be feared but something to be accepted, treasured even, because it is a creation of God himself. It is this perception of time that drives the Marschallin to end the affair with Octavian; she is wise enough to know that time ends all things, and her prophecy that he will fall for someone younger and prettier than her is undeniably one of the most tragic things committed to score and stage, simply because we all know, deep down, it is true.

The ability to craft a story that enables the person enjoying it to create a whole imagined world and concept about it remains the pinnacle of an artist’s skill.

Strauss and Hugo von Hoftmansthal manage to do so in a glorious marriage of text and music. The Marschallin and Octavian’s actions make one think of how one would act if in their shoes. Could we bring ourselves to be quite as noble as the Marschallin? Do we possess the same degree of impulsiveness as Octavian?

Strauss and von Hoftmansthal celebrate the greatest aspects of human nature even as they throw light on the worst. We witness Octavian’s conflicted heart in Act 2 – how could he be so in love with two women at the same time? Unlike so many other operas, the dynamics within the relationships of Rosenkavalier require little suspension of disbelief; it is all too easy to -9-

desired. But as I revisited the opera recently, it was the Marschallin that resonated more with me; I now appreciate her emotions and worries far better.

Above all else, I take to heart the need to pick things up lightly, and the equally important need to set them down lightly, to let go without harbouring undue hatred.

I have grown up with this opera, and it is endlessly fascinating to see the myriad of emotions that come to the fore each time I watch it. They are a barometer for my current state of being and mind, and I treasure that greatly.

With Der Rosenkavalier, Strauss has managed that perfect marriage of the emotional and intellectual. The Marschallin and Octavian, taken together (if you’ll forgive the laboured metaphor), are like a fine scotch. Like scotch, their relationship burns intensely when you first encounter it, because you gulp it down,

greedy for the heady rush it promises.

Then, as you come back to them later in life, you learn to savour the subtler nuances between them, as you do with truly great scotch, and you find different dimensions to appreciate. Over time, you find that they have aged well, grown in depth like you. And no matter how long you’ve left them for, when you come back to them time and again, you find yourself slipping into a familiar state of introspection, the kind of mellow contemplation not to be found in everyday life.

That contemplation, to me, is the most precious gift one could ask for, and I am infinitely grateful that fate has deigned to fling this most magnificent of couples in my path.

Here’s to many more years of learning, loving, and letting go.

Strauss

By day, Dilys submits to the yoke of academia as a Law student at the University of Southampton. By night, she loses what is left of her sanity and writes fanfiction, while happily abusing the never-ending dash function on Tumblr. She believes sleep is for the weak, instead, turning out chapters of the Prologue to Der Rosenkavalier (a work in progress she regards as her magnum opus). She may be found lurking in the wee small hours of the morning as a giggling, caffeineaddled wreck at phantomunmasked.tumblr.com, or on Twitter as phantomunmasked.

Strauss

Two operas for singles awareness day Vrixton Phillips

Vrixton is currently in Atlanta, working on an online Associates in English and running a Classical Music blog at no-tritones-for-you.tumblr.com.

I’ll be straightforward and say that I can’t stand Valentine’s Day. Or, as some of us like to call it, Singles Awareness Day (which is SAD for short, much to my dismay). I don’t hate it because I hate to see people happy together—I couldn’t stand it even when I was with someone. I loathe Valentine’s Day because:

Salome enjoyed quite the succès de scandale, and for good reason. In this opera, the eponymous “heroine” gets her wish by literally stripping for her step-father/uncle, Herod the Tetrarch, in the infamous Dance of the Seven Veils (which, in most productions, ends up being the Dance of the Eight, Nine, or Ten Veils). And what does the young lady want more than all the jewels in his treasury? More than half his kingdom?

More than the veil of the Temple? More than anything in the world? It turns out she wants the head of John the Baptist. The best part is that Herod begrudgingly agrees to give it to her because he promised her literally anything for a dance. As if that wasn’t enough to shut an opera down at the turn of the 20th Century, she then proceeds to have an intense make-out session with John-boy’s severed, bloody head.

Apparently even Herod found this to be too much and he orders the palace guards to kill her.

But the classic love story of “Girl meets Boy, Boy hasn’t even seen Girl yet but already knows she’s the spawn of Satan, Girl dances her way into getting Boy beheaded, and Girl experiences her first (and last) necrophilic kiss,” isn’t the only twisted love story in this Biblical fantasia. There’s even a suicide. Yes, Salome has its own kind of love triangle! Narraboth, Captain of the Guard, is so desperately in love with Salome that he breaks the law just to get a smile from her.

1) It’s so terribly commercialized; they don’t even try to hide their ulterior motives anymore!

2) I’m really bad at picking out gifts, on top of being poor, and— 3) Saint Valentine was stoned and beheaded for helping Christians get married in an age when such things were illegal, which is not exactly the stuff of romantic dinners.

As a SAD tradition, my Mother and I would buy chocolate and then go home and watch a movie about love affairs that never quite worked out or were incredibly demented as a remembrance of relationships past. Usually, that meant watching Kevin Kline in Cyrano de Bergerac, because it was the only movie we could agree upon.

Of course, there is an opera version of Cyrano. But, even though the romance is tragic, it’s still a little too… saccharine. No, my favorite SAD operas would have to be Richard Strauss’s Salome and Luigi Cherubini’s Medea.

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Unfortunately, she’s only interested in John the Baptist and this proves to be too much for the young man, so he promptly kills himself. On the lighter side: no one cleans up after Narraboth and Herod slips in his blood… which he, of course, takes as an omen.

If I had a sufficient musical education, I could go on for pages about the musical motifs and the chord clusters and everything that makes Salome hold a place in my top five favorite operas, but, alas, I do not. Even so, it is definitely worth experiencing, even if it’s not on February 14th.

If you’re not an enormous fan of Strauss’ music or young necrophiliacs in love, there’s a story of jealousy, rage, and murder that might be right up your alley.

It’s the famous Medea by Luigi Cherubini, based on the play by Euripides.

This opera is more of a classic betrayal story. Medea is basically used by her husband to get him the Golden Fleece. She has abandoned her family for this man, had two children with him, and then he wants to marry a princess of “value.” What Jason obviously has forgotten is that Medea is a hardcore sorceress (Circe’s niece, in fact) and manipulative as can be. In another story, she talks his cousins into cutting up and boiling their father in the hope of making him young again. She has done everything possible for her husband, including murdering her own brother. For him to abandon her is not only worthy of her rage, but it also raises some serious questions about his status as a Greek

“hero.” This is compounded by the fact that he owes his success to her. But, as with all Greek Tragedies, our angry heroine goes a bit too far. Not only does she poison her gifts to Jason’s new wife, causing her to burst into flames, but she also famously takes it out on her own children.

It was originally written in French as an opera-comique (that is, with spoken dialogue between musical numbers), but it is perhaps more famous in its Italian form with the one and only Maria Callas at the helm. She plays our favorite woman scorned and the spoken dialogue is replaced with recitatives. Cherubini’s music is charming and full of vigor, and even though it doesn’t have the dissonances of Salome, it contains all the same terror and excitement.

It is perhaps not as twisted as Salome, but Medea is a ‘woman scorned’ opera which offers a much more… “normal” reaction to abandonment than Salome does to rejection. After all, it makes much more sense to make your ex-husband’s life miserable by killing everything he loves than it does to have your crush murdered so you can finally get the love you feel you deserve.* Ah, yes, indeed, “the mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.” Happy SAD! *By no means should you do either of these things.

Cherubini

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Come Scoglio A drama giocoso in three acts* K. A. Feltkamp

About the Author Kim Feltkamp is a mezzo-soprano currently pursuing her MM at Bard College in Dawn Upshaw’s Vocal Arts Program. She has been part of the online opera community as OperaRox, providing interactive opera liveshows and contests to educate and unite the opera community. She is also a published writer. You can find her at OperaRox, Kimozart, and her professional website.

Note from the Author I wrote this story to depict, as closely as possible, the people and events in Mozart’s life when he was at the height of his compositional success. The people in this novella all really lived and had personalities close to the characters portrayed here. This is a work of fiction, but the goal was to remain as close to history as possible. I took the time to read countless letters, journal entries, autobiographies, and the like, not only to capture the true essence of the people in the story, but also to get all the facts and dates straight. Many of the things said or alluded to by the characters are directly from these sources. The one exception to this is the narrator, Louise Villeneuve. History tells us what and where she sang, but not who she was. Therefore, I have taken some license in regard to the narrator and her connection to the composer, especially in ways which strengthen the plot. In short, everything relating to Ms. Villeneuve is completely from my imagination. I have made educated guesses from what others said about her, which is very little, and from the music that Mozart wrote for her, which tells us a bit more. Therefore, this story is a conglomerate of sorts, as all fiction tends to be, but there is a great deal of truth in it. I hope you enjoy the ride and learn a little of who Mozart truly was and what he experienced as a composer and a man. *continued series - 13 -

June 28, 1789 The summer sun stood high in the sky and I squinted against it to read my scribblings.

The barkeep had been especially helpful in giving me directions to Alsergrund, the out-lying suburb where Mozart resided. It wasn’t too far, less than an hour’s walk, so I’d refrained from hiring a carriage.

I came early, clutching my sheet music for moral support. There was already a good amount of sound coming from the second-story window. Among the cacophony, I recognized Mozart’s light tenor voice. A similarly high-pitched voice—a woman’s voice—joined in. It had an intriguing silver transparency to it. I wondered if she was a singer.

I double checked the paper, then knocked on the door.

A frazzled maid appeared in the doorway. She pushed at her frizzy red hair, asking, “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to call on Herr Mozart. I’ve been invited.”

The maid examined me from head to toe and I could tell she wanted to utter something saucy, but she kept her silence, taking my hat and gloves before showing me up the stairs to Mozart’s apartment. Pretty clavier music came through the wall into the stairwell. As we neared the top, it stopped mid-phrase. There was a rapid movement of feet, then the woman’s voice, her words obscured by the distance and the closed door between us. Mozart’s voice again, muffled. Another man’s voice, loud and boisterous. Then, a knock at the front door.

“Good Lord,” the maid muttered. “The company never ends. Excuse me, dear.” She passed me on the stairs to go answer the door. I approached the apartment door on my own and opened it slowly when I came to it.

And it was a good thing that I opened it slowly, because Mozart was standing right there, chattering on emphatically about something. Had I opened it quickly, I surely would have knocked him over. A door, or anything, could easily defeat him. He is all energy: light and fluttering leaves.

“Mademoiselle Villeneuve!” he said when he saw me, interrupting his own speech. “It’s a pleasure to see you. Come in, come in!”

And so I did, clutching my music and looking around.

The parlor had a deep sense of home to it. I couldn’t keep from smiling. Chairs surrounded an uncovered clavier. Piles of music hid in corners, behind chairs, on furniture. A vase of yellow flowers lit up the beige room. The scent of ink hung in the air among the normal smells of lavender and the perspiration that the lavender was meant to mask. The afternoon light filtered into the room, casting gold on everything. Dust hung in the air. The sunlight caught it up, transforming it into something prettier than dust was ever meant to be.

Suddenly Mozart had my arm. He led me to a man sitting in a chair. When he stood to greet me, I saw that he was tall and handsome with a confident air to his gestures.

“May I introduce Francesco Benucci,” Mozart said.

“Call me Pietro,” the man said, extending his hand.

I laughed and after I did, I wondered if I should have.

“Am I that humorous?” he asked, bewildered.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t figure how you got Pietro from Francesco.”

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The man smiled, a laugh struggling to be released from behind his teeth.

“That is a good story,” he said. “But to say the short of it, there is another Francesco, Signor Francesco Bussani, in the opera house of whom I am not so fond, so I set out to find a new name for myself. Besides, I am far more successful than Signor Bussani so I’d hate to be confused with him.

Bussani, Benucci—the names are too similar for good taste. So I shall be Pietro. And your name…you have not yet revealed it to me. I strive to know every good-looking woman’s name.”

Mon dieu, what a personality!

“I’m Louise Villeneuve,” I said.

“Ah!” Pietro said. “This is the mezzo I’ve heard so much about. I am not disappointed.”

“If you had been,” Mozart put in, “I would have been tempted to box your ears.”

“That is, if you could have reached them.”

Mozart smiled, saying, “Why do I spend so much effort on your music when this is the way you treat me?”

“Because you’re a fool and I’m the best baritone you’ve ever met.”

“True enough,” Mozart said.

“Wolfgang,” a voice from another room called. It was the silvery voice that I’d heard when I first arrived.

“Yes, dearest…” Mozart called back.

“Wolferl, you’ve forgotten to…”

Her voice faded away when she stepped into the room and realized that there were others present. She was a petite woman with pretty brown eyes and an incredibly beautiful figure. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties and it surprised me that she was even younger than myself. Mozart put a hand about her tiny waist and pulled her to his side, kissing her ear.

“May I introduce my little wife, Constanze.”

The woman’s face was passive as she nodded a greeting.

“A pleasure to meet you,” I said.

“This is the Mademoiselle Villeneuve I told you about,” Mozart said to Constanze.

Constanze nodded again, scrutinizing me. I smiled at her and, after a moment of indecision, she smiled back.

“I’m sure you two will be fast friends,” Mozart said. Before he could say more, the door opened again and he rushed to greet the newcomer, leaving me alone with his wife. I struck up conversation immediately.

“When you came in,” I said, “you were saying that Herr Mozart had forgotten something. Can I help you with anything?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “He’s always forgetting something or other. For all his intelligence, he can forget the most commonplace things.” Constanze gestured toward two empty seats at the edge of the parlor. “The maid will take care of the hostess business. Come, sit with me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had some civilized company.”

I gratefully took a seat and Constanze sat beside me. Her blue skirt brushed against my own cream one and I suddenly felt drawn back into the world of feminine existence: of rationality and insight and security. How long ago had I left my mother and my closest female confidants? How long had I lived without their presence? Too long, I realized. Comfort surged through me and I couldn’t help but smile.

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“Wolfgang has told me that you’re new to Vienna,” Constanze said. “Where are you from?”

“France, just outside of Versailles. My father was a musician at court there.”

“My father was a musician as well,” Constanze said. “Did your father start you young? With the harpsichord and singing, I mean.”

“Yes. I’ve been singing for as long as I can remember.”

“It’s a good way to grow up,” Constanze said with a smile. “I only wish I would have properly thanked my father for the childhood he gave me and my sisters. I suppose you realize some things too late.”

Our conversation was cut off by the sound of a small voice shouting, “Mutti!” and an equally small body running toward us. Suddenly a little boy in night clothes was tugging on Constanze’s skirt and babbling on in baby German. Constanze lifted the boy onto her lap and rubbed noses with him. The boy bubbled over with laughter.

“This is Karl,” Constanze said. Turning to the boy, she said, “Karl, this is Mademoiselle Villeneuve. Say hello.”

“You can call me Louise,” I insisted, more for Constanze’s sake than the boy’s. Karl gave a limp wave and a messy “hello” before putting out his hands in my direction. I took the boy on my lap and he leaned against me amiably. I could feel his quiet breathing on the other side of my corset.

The frizzy-haired maid rushed in, saying, “Now, young master, it is time for you to be in bed. Say goodnight and let’s go.”

Karl nestled his face in my chest.

“Come now,” the maid insisted.

“Good night, Karl,” Constanze said, offering her cheek for him to kiss. He kissed his mother and then, to my surprise, reached up and kissed my cheek as well. The maid took him from me and disappeared down the hall.

“What a sweet little boy you have,” I said.

“Thank you. I’m told Wolfgang was the same when he was that age.”

Clavier music cut into our conversation. Mozart was seated at his clavier, playing without thinking and saying, “It’s about time to start the music.”

“Agreed,” Pietro put in from across the room. I looked around to see that others had gathered while I was talking with Constanze. The hum of conversation died down.

“Who wants to go first?” Mozart asked, playing heavy chords on the clavier as though to set out a challenge.

“Let’s break in the newcomer,” Pietro said, gesturing toward me.

“What do you say, Mademoiselle Villeneuve?” Mozart asked, playing a chain of suspensions to heighten the tension. “Will you sing an aria for us?”

“My pleasure,” I said, reaching for the music I’d brought with me and trying to sound as confident as the two men. “That is, if you can play the accompaniment at sight.”

Pietro laughed, saying, “I’ve never met a piece of music Mozart couldn’t read at sight.”

I handed Mozart the music and stood beside the clavier. The audience waited.

The aria went off without a hitch. Mozart played the accompaniment exceptionally well, better than some accompanists who had practiced the piece for weeks, but I did notice that he substituted one

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particularly tricky passage with music of his own. The music that he wrote on the fly was so close to the rest of the song that I doubted anyone could have noticed. I was amazed by the fact that he could write something there, in the moment, that was just as beautiful and intricate as the music the original composer had sat down and written note-by-note over a much longer span of time.

When I finished, I hardly heard the applause; I was too overwhelmed by Mozart’s technical skill and overall musicianship.

“Brava,” Mozart said, clapping. I turned to him, saying, “Bravo. That was not an easy accompaniment.”

Mozart shrugged, reaching for a piece of paper on the clavier.

“Now that we’ve heard Mademoiselle Villeneuve for ourselves,” he said, “I’d like to read what they said about her in the Wiener Zeitung. This is my favorite part: ‘Her charming appearance, her refined, expressive acting and her beautiful, stylish singing received the applause they merited.’ True words! What a way to start in Vienna!”

They applauded again and I curtsied graciously.

“That was just the start,” Pietro said.

“You’re right,” Mozart said. “Now, it’s time to put her to the test. I propose a competition!

Let’s see which of us can go faster. How is your fioritora, Mademoiselle?” An intense smile was hidden tightly behind his passive expression. I could tell that he loved a good challenge.

I happen to love a challenge as well.

“We shall see,” I answered.

He played a pattern on the clavier. He started in the lower part of my range.

“I’ll modulate a half-step each time,” he explained. “We’ll get faster as we go. Stay with me if you can.”

I matched pitch and we were off.

The pitches climbed, speeding up with each modulation. Soon I was singing as fast as I thought was physically possible. But he kept speeding up. I did my best to stay with him. Notes flew from me, but from where, I have no idea. I’d never sung that fast in my life. But I did it! Surprise flooded through me, burning my cheeks with elation. My heart pounded as the notes accelerated.

I looked over at Mozart and realized that his gaze wasn’t anywhere near the clavier keys. He was looking out into nothing, listening intensely with a funny smile on his face. It was like his hands moved of their own accord and his brain was off elsewhere, working on something completely different.

Suddenly Mozart laughed as I sang a ridiculously fast piece of fioritora. If I hadn’t been singing, I would have laughed with him. It was all so ludicrous! I felt that I would burst from it all.

Finally, with a crazy flourish, he stopped playing. I just stood there a moment, catching my breath. He seemed a bit winded himself. He put a hand on his chest, as though feeling a rapidly-beating heart. Mine was doing the same. I gasped for air and smiled giddily. The room had exploded into applause.

“Well…” he started but couldn’t finish because a stream of laughter had erupted from his lips.

He tried to control himself, but to no avail. Instead, he let himself laugh, saying, “What music. What fun. I haven’t heard such natural fioritora in a long time.”

I nearly burst from gratitude. What kind words!

“Thank you,” I said amidst the shouts of “Brava!” and “Bravo!”

Mozart took my hand and kissed it profusely.

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“I declare you the winner,” he said. I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “You weren’t even looking at the keys and you kept pace with me all the way.

You’ve won.” I’d never met such a virtuosic player before and I doubted I would ever meet another like him.

“It is a draw, then,” he said.

“Fair enough.”

I took my seat beside Constanze, who smiled and put a hand on my arm. My legs were shaking a bit as I sat. It took a moment for my heart to calm down. The transition from the musical realm to the ordinary one is always difficult. It’s a physical and a mental adjustment and it always takes me a few moments.

Thankfully the attention was drawn away from me when someone gave Mozart a theme and he composed an entire divertimento on it right before our eyes. It was incredible to sit there and listen to the creation of music. To think: it hadn’t existed a moment ago and suddenly there it was: complete and beautiful and new. It seemed strange that such glorious music could be born in that humble, ordinary parlor.

The music making continued through the night until the sublime degraded into the mundane and Mozart was singing nonsensical rhymes to ridiculous music. With heartfelt farewells to the Mozarts and an invitation to next week’s get-together, I left the warm company of music to go home to the cold silence of my room.

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July 1789 My life continued in this way: days filled with rehearsals and rapid music-learning, nights adorned with performances and flowers, and Sundays always celebrated with music and friendship at the Mozart residence. Soon enough I had established my circle of female friends. Constanze, Teresa, and I were inseparable. When we weren’t chatting on Sundays, we were sending letters or meeting up after rehearsal. Talk of fashion and men and personal issues once again filled my time. The men in my life rounded it all out. Mozart and Vincenzo always brought laughter and light into my days. My nest was growing more complete each day. I could make a home here.

Everything was perfect.

August 12, 1789 The humidity seeped in under the door. I could feel the rain coming. I was sure it would fall before noon. Teresa told me that it always rains in July and August in Vienna. July had been relatively rainy, but August was much worse. The humidity never relented and the sun struggled through thick clouds, but it never won.

I sat down at my harpsichord and opened the score of Cimarosa’s new opera, I due baroni, but I didn’t feel like practicing. The dark clouds outside my window were hypnotic and all I wanted to do was lie down and sleep. To be completely honest, that’s all I’d wanted to do lately.

Mozart’s Sunday get-togethers had ended abruptly at the end of July. So had Constanze’s letters. I felt cut off from everything and horribly alone. Teresa was busy at home with the kids.

Vincenzo was working on a different opera. Mozart never came to the theater anymore. It was bad timing, nothing more. And yet, I felt so abandoned.

I leaned my head against my score and fought off dark thoughts. I told myself that I had to keep on. This wasn’t like me. I always pushed through. I always kept going on through thick and thin.

If only Mother was here. If only she was well enough to travel and visit. Or to come and stay.

How I missed her…

I picked up my head at a knock at the door and hope assaulted me. My bare feet padded across the floor, my favorite green dress swishing across my ankles. I came to the door and opened it to find a common messenger boy.

The boy at the door handed me a letter and a carefully wrapped package. I checked the letter.

It was addressed to me but I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I thanked the boy and he went away. As I closed the door and walked back to the window, the clouds opened and poured out their offering on the stone streets.

I sat down and carefully opened the letter. The writing sprawled desperately across the page.

Someone had written it hastily, in distress. A few ink spots ornamented the edges and the middle of the letter, spreading at random to create a look of disorder. It was a messy job. My eyes scanned to the signature.

Mozart.

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“Your dear friend, Mozart” to be exact.

Surprised and anxious, I read the entire letter: Dearest M. Villeneuve, I hope this letter finds you well. I must beg your forgiveness. We did receive your last letter.

We have not written back for a lack of time to do so, not for a lack of affection. You must understand— I rather detest writing letters so it is under the most pressing of circumstances that I write to you now.

Do not be alarmed, for there is good news as well as bad. The good news I have sent you in the package, the contents of which I will explain in a moment. The bad news is not so tangible, but put it out of your head. I don’t know why I mentioned it. I’m writing with good news. I would have liked to give you the package in person, and to explain its existence with my own lips, but my current circumstances keep me away from the theater.

The good news is as follows. Congratulations on catching the Emperor’s eye! I have been told that you are engaged to play Madame Laura in Cimarosa’s I due baroni. I imagine that you have already begun to learn the music. The Emperor has asked me to write a new aria for this production and he has requested that it be written for you. It seems that he has taken a particular liking to you. The reasons for this are obvious enough. The finished product is enclosed in the package. I have copied out a version for you that includes a reduced clavier accompaniment. I assume this will help you in practicing and it also affords you the opportunity to perform it in concert. I hope the package has come to you unharmed; the weather has been so changeable lately—I feared the notes would be ruined by the rain.

If that’s the case, write me back and I’ll make another copy for you. It’s all in my head, so another copy wouldn’t be too much trouble.

I am glad that we have gotten to know each other before this commission for now I know your voice so intimately. I found it extremely easy to write this for you. I feel it is my duty to write an aria to fit the voice just as a tailor creates a suit to fit the body. I know that you will love it. Write me back to let me know what you think of it. I’m sure you will like it… It so well suits your voice and temperament.

No doubt you will find it amusing. I cannot wait to hear you perform it.

The strange thing is that I’ve had this melody floating around in my head ever since I first heard you sing. I thought to myself, “I shall write an aria for M. Villeneuve” but I never got around to putting it down. It was all there, just waiting to be commissioned. Finally, I was given the perfect opportunity.

It couldn’t have been easier. The aria, complete with orchestration, came out on paper in the course of an evening. I finished it sometime after two, at which time my little Constanze was bidding me retire for the tenth time that night. Once I start, I cannot stop! I look up and, behold, the sun has disappeared! The writing of it brought me much pleasure. It is a joy to write for a voice such as yours.

As I’ve said, I wish I could have given this to you in person, but my present situation keeps me at home. It’s a miracle that your aria was written at all. The only other thing I’ve written of late is a nonsense aria for that impossible Madame Ferrarese. She has requested two (two!) arias but I’ve only finished one. Ungrateful woman! Perhaps you can think of her while you sing your aria. (In your song, I have many times repeated the word “ingrato!” Change it to “ingrata” in your mind and the deal is sealed. Your acting will come so naturally!)

And this leads me to my last request. As you well know, they are staging a revival of my Figaro at the theater. (This is the occasion that required the arias for Madame Ferrarese. She shall not be the visual highlight of the night, I can assure you of that, but her music will be pretty.) It is my wish that you would sit in my box for the premiere on 19 August. I cannot wait to hear what you think of it. I

- 20 -

think you will adore it, as I do. We are of the same mind—we appreciate the same foolishness and the same sentiments. And, as I’ve said before, I’d love for you to study Cherubino. I think that role would suit you well, for you know how to have fun with a part—something that few singers know how to do these days. What I would have done to cast you in this production! But, alas, even my hands are tied.

I suppose we all live in a cage. I often forget its existence, but we all are subject to the bars of society.

I must be going—Constanze is calling for me. I anxiously await a letter from you.

Your dear friend, Mozart I put down the letter, a bit stunned by it all. An aria written for me, requested by the Emperor, and surrounded by such compliments! An invitation to sit in the composer’s box at the premiere… And what was going on with Mozart that he couldn’t be at the theater? Why hadn’t Constanze written me?

The questions hung over me, momentarily clouding my thoughts.

Then I turned to the package Mozart had sent. Hope and delight sprung up in me. I opened it and pulled out the precious music, written in the composer’s hasty hand. The words and notes were slightly slanted, as though he couldn’t write them down fast enough. There was a smudge at one place and a spattering of ink in one corner. I couldn’t help but smile at it. Typical Mozart.

I moved to my clavier, putting his reduced score version up on the stand. I played the broad opening chords. Every fragment of disappointment blew away. The bright daylight of Mozart’s music filled the room.

The opening chords gave way to impossible runs in the clavier part. It was just beyond my sightreading ability. It would take a little practice. Typical Mozart.

There they were! “Ingrato, ingrato!” I couldn’t help but think of La Ferrarese. Laughter filled the emptiness of my apartment.

The day slipped away as I dove into the music. The notes, the leaps, the fioritora…it all fit so perfectly in my voice. What extreme pleasure! It was like returning home and smelling all the familiar, beloved scents… What comfort it brought me! I had sung music that fit well in my voice before, but this was different. It was beyond that. This was…perfect. Absolutely perfect. It was as though he knew every weakness and strength in my voice and used them to their greatest advantage. All those times I sang at his place… Was he sitting there, mapping out my voice in his head? And even if he did completely understand my voice, how did he have the ability to use even my weaknesses in the best way? How could it be possible?

And the best part of all was that every bit of it was Mozart. He was completely present in the music. His laughter, his wit, his exuberant energy and abundant life… Even his love for a good competition—it was all there. I felt as though he were in the room with me, watching over my shoulder as I discovered his music for the first time.

I forgot my ailing mother back in France. I forgot the suggested troubles in the Mozart household. I forgot all the darkness that had moments ago hung over me. The music enveloped me completely. The rest of the world…I forgot that it existed. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the music that was being created for the first time in my little room on Domgasse.

And suddenly, I wasn’t so lonely.

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