Fatal Dilemma: The Secrets of Constanze Mozart

By H. S. Brockmeyer

H. S. Brockmeyer’s obsession with the composer, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, continues in the wake of her first book, Echoes of a Distant Crime: Resolving the Mozart Cold Case File. In this new book, a fictional work exploring the personality of Mozart’s wife, Constanze, the author investigates scenarios that she imagined may have happened in real life in the last three years of the composer’s life, 1789 – 1791, through the eyes of his wife, Constanze – and re-visualized through the eyes of a 21st century woman.

Beginning in the last two days of Mozart’s life on 3 December, 1791, Brockmeyer pieces together scenes that correspond with real-life documents of activities surrounding Mozart and his secretive death and burial in 1791.

Investigating Constanze Mozart and the enigmatic personality of this fascinating woman who married Mozart, H. S. Brockmeyer reveals the depth and passion of their relationship; their marriage hitting a rough spot in the last year of Mozart’s life – and how Constanze Mozart experienced their marriage in the shadow of her genius husband, Wolfgang Mozart, the incomparable composer and musician, in the fast-paced musical scene in Europe’s musical hub of Vienna.

Calling upon her experience in researching Mozart for over thirty years, including travels to Vienna, Salzburg, and Prague – places where Mozart and his wife visited or lived – H. S. Brockmeyer conjures up an uncanny picture of Constanze’s relationship with her brilliant husband, revealing a tale of love, passion, and thwarted dreams, in a recreation of Constanze Mozart’s life in the foreground of a colorful 18th century tapestry.

If you have ever wondered who Mozart’s wife really was, this book may provide a more comprehensive image, in a rich re-creation of Constanze’s life, surrounded by Mozart and his acquaintances, in a life long ago, where a modern-day revision brings alive the one-dimensional persona of Constanze Weber Mozart, and spotlights her hopes, dreams – and her choices -- in the last three years of Mozart’s life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 30, 2025
• ISBN: 9781663263216

H. S. Brockmeyer

H. S. Brockmeyer became inexplicably fascinated with the hot hit, Rock Me Amadeus, by Falco while working as a radio announcer in the 1990’s. She became obsessed with Wolfgang Mozart and spent over 30 years of research in the investigation of Mozart in Vienna, Salzburg, other European places where the composer once lived and worked. She researched strange incidents around Mozart's last two years. Discovering a crucial clue – one that has been in public view since 1959 at Vienna’s Historical Museum, Brockmeyer presents new evidence of a controversial nature surrounding the composer's mysterious death and the people involved with keeping this shocking secret. Her main area of interest is Mozart’s wife, Constanze, and her involvement in nefarious incidents in the last months of Mozart’s life. Finally, there is an explanation as to why his widow never placed a gravestone over the composer’s burial site. Other odd scenarios that have long baffled scholars are explained – and thoroughly documented -- in this tale of love, passion, betrayal, and the unveiling of secrets so incredulous, that a deliberate cover-up was manufactured to keep the truth away from the public. Finally, H. S. Brockmeyer’s detective work exposes these long-held secrets, in her unmasking of the main character, Constanze Mozart, in a sensational revelation.

Book preview

FATAL DILEMMA:THE SECRETS OF CONSTANZE MOZART

Copyright © 2025 H. S. Brockmeyer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-6320-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-6321-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024914342

iUniverse rev. date: 04/08/2025

Contents

Foreword

Lilacs in September

PART I MOZART’S FINALE

Chapter 1 The Day Before The Last Day, 3 December 1791

Chapter 2 The Last Day – 4 December 1791

Chapter 3 Searching For Dr. Closset

Chapter 4 A Welcome Visit From My Sister, Sophie

Chapter 5 A Visit From The Brothers

Chapter 6 Midnight, 5 Dec 1791

Chapter 7 5 December 1791

Chapter 8 Taken To The Brothers’ Homes

Chapter 9 A Visit At The Goldhann’s

Chapter 10 A Visit To Herr Joseph Von Bauernfeld

Chapter 11 A Most Unfortunate Event

Chapter 12 Pulled Back From The Brink

Chapter 13 Coming Home

Chapter 14 The Day The Music Died

Chapter 15 The Hofdemel Tragedy

Chapter 16 Life Goes On At 970 Rauhensteingasse

Chapter 17 The Gift

Chapter 18 St. Michael’s Parish Church And The Exequiem

Chapter 19 970 Rauhensteingasse, A House Of Ghosts

Chapter 20 Who Will Complete Mozart’s Requiem?

Chapter 21 Mozart’s Estate Assessment

Chapter 22 Meeting Franz Süssmayr At The Gloriette

Chapter 23 The Contract In April

PART II THE GATHERING STORM 1789

Chapter 24 August 1789

Chapter 25 The Journey To Berlin – 1789

Chapter 26 Ominous Happenings

Chapter 27 1790 – A Portentous Year

Chapter 28 Dire Confessions

Chapter 29 The Poison Pastries

Chapter 30 Surviving The Odds

Chapter 31 In The Aftermath

Chapter 32 1789 - Baden Bei Wien

Chapter 33 Mozart Promises To Keep His Pants On

Chapter 34 Advice From Mama

Chapter 35 Visiting Aloysia

Chapter 36 Franz Xaver Süssmayr

Chapter 37 End Of August, The Secret Tribunal

Chapter 38 Gossip From Baden Bei Wien

Chapter 39 Trouble In Paradise

Chapter 40 Menacing Shadows In The Spa Town

Chapter 41 Süssmayr’s Invitation

Chapter 42 The Secret Tribunal

Chapter 43 The Freemason Tribunal – 31 August 1789

Chapter 44 Mozart Appeals The Lodge Ruling

Chapter 45 The Baby Comes

Chapter 46 The Day Of Tears

Chapter 47 Arranging For A Baby’s Burial

PART III CONSEQUENCES

Chapter 48 1790

Chapter 49 Cosi Fan Tutte

Chapter 50 Salieri’s Stolen Thunder

Chapter 51 Farewell To Our Beloved Emperor

Chapter 52 Questions From The Austrian Grand Provincial Lodge

Chapter 53 Early Spring Troubles

Chapter 54 Baden Bei Wien – Summer 1790

Chapter 55 The Austrian Grand Provincial Lodge

Chapter 56 Mozart Travels To Frankfurt Am Main

Chapter 57 A Visit To Michael Puchberg

Chapter 58 More News From Coronation Events

Chapter 59 970 Rauhensteingasse – Our New Apartment

Chapter 60 Winter Days In Vienna

Chapter 61 Christmas At 970 Rauhensteingasse

PART IV FATAL DILEMMA

Chapter 62 1791

Chapter 63 Mozart Makes A Suggestion

Chapter 64 The Return Of Franz Süssmayr

Chapter 65 Emanuel Schikaneder

Chapter 66 Schikaneder’s Wild Bet

Chapter 67 Mozart In The Hot Seat

Chapter 68 Magdalena

Chapter 69 A Return To Baden Bei Wien

Chapter 70 Mozart Visits Baden Bei Wien

Chapter 71 The Plot Thickens

Chapter 72 The Plan

Chapter 73 Fatal Dilemma

Chapter 74 Franz Süssmayr, Muckshitter

Chapter 75 Return To Vienna

Chapter 76 Decisions

Chapter 77 Süssmayer’s Ultimatem

Chapter 78 Procuring The Poison

Chapter 79 Birth, July 26, 1791

Chapter 80 The Poison Circle

Chapter 81 Salieri’s Study

Chapter 82 Poisoning Mozart

Chapter 83 The Gray Messenger

Chapter 84 The Kahlenberg Breakfast Party

Chapter 85 A Visit To Count Walsegg’s Schloss Stuppach

Chapter 86 A Visit From Herr Salieri

Chapter 87 The Coronation Journey To Prague

Chapter 88 September In Prague

Chapter 89 The Fair

Chapter 90 Opera Rehearsals

Chapter 91 The Estates Theater

Chapter 92 A False Friend

Chapter 93 Troubles At The Villa Bertramka

Chapter 94 Return To Baden Bei Wien

Chapter 95 The Magic Flute

Chapter 96 Rumors From Vienna

Chapter 97 Süssmayr’s Antics

Chapter 98 Prince Karl Lichnowsky’s Lawsuit

PART V A NEW LIFE ALONE IN VIENNA

Chapter 99 Epiphanies

PART VI NEW LOVE, NEW JOURNEYS

Chapter 100 A Concert Tour And A Good Friend

Chapter 101 Meeting Beethoven And Georg Nissen

Chapter 102 Franz Süssmayr -- A Raven Adorned In Peacock Feathers

Chapter 103 A Confrontation With Count Franz Walsegg

Chapter 104 The Demise Of Franz Süssmayr

Chapter 105 Leaving Vienna

Chapter 106 Salieri’s Confession

Chapter 107 Nissen’s Letter

Chapter 108 Dr. Feuerstein

Chapter 109 The Visitors From London

Chapter 110 Another Visit From The Novellos

Chapter 111 The Final Days

Endnotes

On a bitterly cold, grave winter day in December 1791, a lone figure stood outside in the early morning hours, wrapped in a long, black cloak – a woman, the widow of the internationally famous musician, Mozart. She looked up at the dark, spidery treetops and the blackbirds flying overhead in the gray sky promising snow. The woman stared at the silent city of Vienna and wondered where her husband’s body lay. She did not know.

There is no such thing as concealment. Commit a crime, and the world is made of glass…..You cannot recall the spoken word, you cannot wipe out the foot-track, you cannot draw up the ladder, so as to leave no inlet or clew. Always some damning evidence transpires.

--From Compensation by Ralph Waldo Emerson

An old black and white drawing of two people joyfully playing the piano together.

Image: iStock.com

Whether a mortal man or a god had given him the sublime gift of divine songs, such wonderful tones had never been heard before. And so we too are amazed by the child, the man Mozart: he was and remains a messenger from another world.

----O. E.Deutsch und Wilhelm Bauer, Mozart’s Letters¹

Only a woman can understand the heart and mind of another woman.

----H. S. Brockmeyer

Foreword

In spring of 2023, after thirteen years of no Mozart, after the publication of my first non-fictional book, Echoes of a Distant Crime: Resolving the Mozart Cold Case File, in 2009, I felt relieved. I had been burned out by nearly 30 years of research and writing, and needed a quiet break. I assumed that I was done with that period of my life.

I originally become interested in Mozart as a radio announcer. I worked at a Hot Hits radio station in my early thirties in Leonardtown, southern Maryland, and the band Falco came out with a hit, Rock Me Amadeus. At first, I disliked the song and refused to play it; but after threats about losing my job, I began to spin the record. It disturbed and haunted me.

When I had finished recording commercials after my evening shift, I would spend all night in the production room, listening to Rock Me Amadeus. I began to read everything I could about Mozart, requesting inter-library loans from my library get inter-library, from all over the country.

I was bothered about Mozart’s death; something did not sit right with me. Call it a woman’s intuition.

Eventually, I quit my radio announcer’s position, to return to my hometown of Annapolis, Maryland, in order to go to the Library of Congress, in Washington, D.C. There I spent many years researching Mozart, hunting for something -- but I didn’t know what. I was initially only interested in how Mozart died, and his relationship with his wife. Later I would fill other areas out with massive research.

While attending Maryland University in College Park, Maryland, studying German, a few weeks after the semester began, the professor came into the classroom, and told the class that an opera singer in Mannheim, Germany, was looking for an au pair. I was on the telephone in five minutes, and ended up living in Mannheim, Germany, for several years.

Oddly, I lived in the city where Constanze Weber and her family resided in 1778, before they moved to Munich for sister Aloysia, where she made her operatic debut. It was in Mannheim where Mozart became acquainted with the Weber family, and experienced his first passionate love affair with Aloysia Weber – though it was one-sided.

From Munich, the Weber family moved to Vienna, where Aloysia furthered her career in the Court Theater opera – and Mozart met Constanze again, and married her.

In my free time, I traveled to libraries everywhere, seeking information about Mozart. When I fought my obsession, it haunted me, until I picked up the research again. Right before I sent my book into publication in 2009, I found something that shook up my world – the thing that I must have been searching for. And then I published my book, with my new discovery.

That discovery would pull together all the mysteries about Mozart that happened at the end of his life – and beyond. I have presented it as a main theme in this book, though in a fictional version.

glyph

In April 2023, my tax accountant came by to drop off tax documents. I commented that I didn’t have any book royalties to declare from the previous year. The accountant was curious about my book; he was, on the side, a musician and a Freemason – like Mozart. We spent a few hours leafing through my book, and reading some chapters.

In 2010, after the publication of my first book, I had visited Vienna and Baden bei Wien, where Mozart’s wife, Constanze whiled away her summers, in the last three years of her husband’s life, taking the old Roman sulphur baths. That summer, I walked the streets where she walked, and sat on a curb on Renngasse, where Constanze resided in Baden bei Wien. The Mozart Hof still stands; Mozart composed the Ave Verum Corpus in the attic of a small house behind the Renngasse building, for Baden bei Wien’s choir master and friend, Anton Stoll.

Constanze resided in an apartment there, in the summer of 1791, in the leafy small town that was about 22 miles away from Vienna. Constanze had been prescribed to take the sulphur baths by the family physician, Dr. Thomas Closset, for a leg thrombosis, caused by a difficult pregnancy in 1788. (The baby, a daughter, only survived for an hour.)

When I returned to Annapolis, after my travels in 2010, I believed that my days in Mozart’s city of Vienna, after so many years of writing, researching and publishing my first book, were over.

I donated all of my Mozart paraphenalia to the Anne Arundel Community College, the local community college: hundreds of books, lithographs; boxes of hundreds of articles on everything Mozartiana. I believed that I was Mozart free. My entire Philips Complete Mozart Edition of CD’s went to the Eastport, Annapolis library.

But, unexpectedly, after the accountant’s visit in the spring of 2023 – thirteen years later -- the Mozart obsession came roaring back. Instantly, I regretted giving my books away. I got on Ebay and bought again, the entire Philips Complete Mozart Edition of CD’s, and re-bought a few of the Mozart biographies, and other books.

I pulled out an unfinished manuscript of the second Mozart book I had started. It was a fictional story of Constanze Mozart, and her role in the last three years of Mozart’s life.

I had begun this book a few months after my first one was published; but then lost all interest in it. I was essentially, again, Mozart free.

But in the wake of this second obsession, I picked up writing again, trying to re-create their marriage in a fictional version, leading up to the last months of 1791, Mozart’s last few months, where I suspected something serious had happened in their marriage. Signs pointed to clues that Constanze was involved in some nefarious activity with Mozart’s copyist, Franz Xaver Süssmayr, another musician.

My first book about Mozart was the result, after decades, of a ceaseless obsession, that would lead me to places where Mozart had lived: in Vienna, Salzburg and Prague, Czechoslovakia. It led me to the Rare Book Section, and the Music Reading Room at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. It guided me to the Internationale Stiftung Mozarteum, in Salzburg, where you can find all sorts of articles and books ever written about the composer.

I hung out in Vienna at the only extant Mozart apartment, the Figarohaus, on Domgasse, for hours, wandering through the spacious rooms, trying to envision Mozart, Constanze, and their young son, Karl Thomas, going about their 18th century daily activities.

More than with Mozart, however, was my real focused interest: his wife, Constanze Weber Mozart. My first book’s chapter on his wife thoroughly investigated some strange behavior that occurred in the last year of their marriage; using contemporaries’ observations, Mozart’s letters to her in Baden bei Wien, and myriad other observations from Mozart scholars. This theme was carried on in the writing of this book about Constanze Mozart.

Mozart once wrote to his father that he was very busy; You know that I am, so to speak, soaked in music, that I am immersed in it all day long.²

I had to laugh when, amidst piles of books, articles and my second manuscript, that I was, once again, soaked in Mozart.

This fictional work is a continuation of my first book, Echoes of a Distant Crime, in a recreation of what I believe happened in the last three years of Mozart’s life; the last year of his marriage, and the repercussions of something unspeakable that Constanze witnessed, took part in, and which haunted her for the rest of her life.

It was something that she could never divulge; not even to her second husband, the Danish diplomat stationed in Vienna, Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, or even to her sister, Sophie Haibl, who lived with her in Salzburg, in her final years, and who was her closest companion.

This book explains why Constanze claimed that Mozart’s death shattered her entire being and numbed her senses³; why she never placed a headstone on Mozart’s grave in the St. Marx cemetery in Vienna. Her explanations to many, who asked why she did not ever place a gravestone on her beloved husband’s burial site, were nonsensical. She drew the unbridled ire of Mozart aficionados with her lame excuses.

But one comment from Constanze continued to haunt me. In 1829, the English couple, Vincent & Mary Novello, traveled from London to Salzburg, bringing a small collection of money from Mozart musicians and aficionados, to present to Mozart’s aging sister, Nannerl, who was bed-bound and nearly blind. The Novellos held Mozart in great reverence, and, of course, their first stop in Salzburg was a visit to Constanze, at her apartment on the Nonngasse.

The couple were very curious about Mozart, and plied Constanze with many questions about her famous husband. They asked about what happened at the end, the night Mozart died. Mary Novello recorded in her travel diary:

She said his death was at last sudden, but a few moments before he had spoken so gaily, and in a few moments after he was dead – she could not believe it, but threw herself on the bed and sought to catch the fever of which he died, but it was not to be…

Constanze was struggling to bury her disquieting memories of the last days of her husband’s life; but, despite her resolve, she broke down, and blurted out this disturbing comment, which Mary Novello recorded:

There are moments when she not only prayed sincerely to die but that she did not love her children, every thing was hateful to her in the world, yet here I am still, and have gone through all this suffering.⁴

What could Constanze possibly have meant? An enigmatic entry in her diary takes the mystery even further.

Constanze’s second marriage to the Danish diplomat, the chargé d’affaires to Vienna, Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, gave her everything that she could possibly have desired. He was a faithful, loving husband; Nissen was also a musician, and a poet, as a hobby, who admired Mozart greatly. In the employ of the Danish government, he earned a stable income. Constanze would never forgot her years with Mozart, plagued with financial chaos and debts.

The Nissens had money; they met in Vienna in 1797, eventually marrying, and then moving to an elegant apartment that Nissen had purchased, with Constanze’s money, on Lavendelstraede in Copenhagen. They traveled to, and resided in Salzburg after Nissen retired, in 1820, mainly for his health problems. His doctor recommended the healing baths of Salzburg, and those in Bad Gastein.

Nissen also wanted to read the many family letters and documents that Mozart’s sister, Nannerl, possessed, and she gave him free access to everything, as he worked on his massive Biographie W. A. Mozarts. His biography was published posthumously, in 1829.

After Nissen’s death in 1826, Constanze stayed on in Salzburg. Her life was amazingly comfortable. Her charming apartment, with a garden on the Nonngasse (from descriptions from the Novellos) and finally, at Michaelsplatz [later, Mozartplatz], that she shared with her widowed, younger sister, Sophie Haibl, created an easy life for her on all fronts.⁵ Her older sister, Aloysia Lange – Mozart’s first love –lived with Constanze and Sophia in Salzburg also, from 1831 until her death, in 1839.

Yet, something deeply disturbed Constanze’s psyche, that she kept bottled up; that has remained a secret through all these years. No scholar, or any other person, has noticed that odd comment to Mary Novello; I had to pry out the secret that Constanze Mozart was hiding.

Because my story goes against the Myths of the Eternal Mozart, it took some bravery on my part, to proceed with presenting this tale. Breaking away from the Myths of the Eternal Mozart requires herculean strength, and a willful conviction.

When an author butts up against the reinforced steel wall of the Eternal Mozart Myths, it is an uphill battle to present controversial ideas.

Author Maynard Solomon’s description of the problems busting the Myths of the Eternal Mozart is perfect:

Mozart wanted to leave behind childhood and its subjections, to shatter the little porcelain violinist with his frozen perfection and to put in his place a living man, one with sexual appetites, bodily functions, irreverent thoughts, and selfish impulses, one who needed to live for himself and his loved ones and not only for those who gave him birth.⁶

Solomon goes even farther with an excellently precise description:

In the course of time, however, Mozart’s physical appearance fell out of synchronization with the image that the world had of him. It was as though the child Mozart had been exchanged for another personality altogether, one who was descended from but not identical with a legendary child Mozart. The child faded from view, replaced by a somewhat strange and awkward adolescent and adult.

Fanciful imaginings about the young Mozart materialized and remained frozen in time, while another Mozart matured, suffered, and died. The aging historical Mozart became the porcelain-child Mozart’s double, while the divine child survived his own death.

Finally, as the immortal divine child, Mozart is the beloved of the Gods, favorite of the Muses, blessed with the genius to provide a temporary surcease from pain, a glimpse of felicity, a yearning for a distant horizon. It is ungracious to subject so consoling a view to close scrutiny.

And so, in the end, one wants to yield to the dreamlike view of Mozart that the young Schubert inscribed in his diary for 1816: "As from afar the magic notes of Mozart’s music still gently haunt me…They show us in the darkness of his life a bright, clear, lovely distance, for which we hope with confidence. O Mozart, immortal Mozart, how many, oh how endlessly many such comforting perceptions of a brighter and better life has thou brought to our soul!⁷

Author Nicholas Till succinctly nails the problem:

…Mozart himself remains a carefully nurtured enigma, endlessly receding behind his myths. And yet, in this world of shifting values and flawed ideals, Mozart’s music has also come to represent the forbidden but still universally longed for grail: the possibility of human perfection.⁸

So, when an author takes a pen, and starts to carefully scratch away the dried sand from those grail walls, all hell breaks loose. But I’m going to do it, anyway. My theory opens up a most uncanny story; one that is so incredulous, that it’s almost unbelievable.

A twenty-first century investigator needs a road map to find all the clues. The Mozart myths have been repeated for decades; indeed, for nearly two and a half centuries; and have buried the truths, as if shovelfuls of wet dirt have been tossed over them, with deliberation.

There are some Mozart aficionados, who cannot bear the thought of envisioning anything except Mozart as a sunny Wunderkind: their imagined version of the Eternal Myth of Mozart, breezes happily through the courts and salons in Salzburg, Europe and, finally, in Europe’s music hub, Vienna. The image they conjure up; the perfect porcelain man, dressed in a blue frock coat and lacy jabot, lives on, in his compositions: heavenly music in operas, piano concertos, symphonies, and more. No dark thoughts can mar Mozart’s marriage to wife Constanze; they fantasize that he was perfectly happy.

May they be content with their thoughts. But there are two sides to every story, and there is another side to this tale of Mozart, his wife, Constanze Mozart, and the circle of acquaintances surrounding Mozart, in his last two years. Sometimes, reality can be stranger than fiction.

Fusing the two themes together – reality woven through fiction, and fiction threaded through reality – we will unearth perhaps a bit of the truth, hiding somewhere in between.

And what a story lies in waiting, to be told.

glyph

I would like to thank my image wizard, Jackie Muñoz, for her excellent work with many of the digital images that appear in this book. Jackie was invaluable with enhancing the chapters of this book with her expertly formatted images, to draw the readers into an 18th century experience.

I want to thank the staff at the Internationale Stiftung Mozarteum, Salzburg, for their prompt responses to my emails requesting information, articles or old photographs. The Mozarteum is an international treasure.

A thank you is also in order to the Österreichisches Nationalbibliothek, the National Library of Austria, with assistance in seeking old photos of Vienna. Thanks also to the Stadtarchiv - the State Archives of Baden bei Wien, Austria, for answering my emails requesting photographs, and other inquiries.

I want to thank the Nimitz Library staff at the United States Naval Academy, Annapolis, Maryland, for their assistance in procuring research articles and books. This is a real gift for an author conducting historical research.

Many of the black and white ink drawings of 18th century figures in the chapters of this book are from Istock.com and from Shutterstock.com, and many other images are from free online digital image sources, such as Wikipedia. The motherlode of my image sources for this book is the London digital image company, akg-images. If there was anything more fun than writing this book, it was researching images to enhance the chapters.

And thank you, readers, for your interest in my book.

H. S. Brockmeyer

October 20, 2024

Annapolis, MD

Lilacs in September

I sat on a small grassy hill near my mother’s grave. She was laid to rest just a few weeks ago, in late August, in this year, 1793. It was a gentle day now in early September, and I came to lay a small bouquet of white flowers on her grave.

I walked to her resting place from Vienna, to the Matzleinsdorf Cemetery in the Wieden suburbs, a rather long walk, but then I always loved a walk on a fine day. Strolling through the massive Glacis, a wide tract of land where the military parades took place – my late husband Mozart’s favorite walk – through the old stone Stubentor, then past Emmanuel Schikaneder’s sprawling Freihaus theater, a bit further; and then you arrive at the Matzleinsdorf Cemetery with its little, domed church.⁹

Sitting on a grassy knoll, in the quiet of the afternoon, I could smell the sweet odor of a branch of late-blooming lilacs on foliage nearby. A few birds sang cheerily in the green branches.

Mama and I were not always close; she had a tough life after Papa died, right after we moved to Vienna in 1779. My sister, Aloysia, had obtained a wonderful job as the highest paid singer in Europe, with the Viennese National Theater, at age 17, and the move to Vienna was for her benefit. But it proved too much for Papa, even though he, too had found a job as a copyist, bass singer and a ticket-collector at the theater.

Mama had to rent rooms in our apartment, in the House of the Eye of God, and she was often short-tempered. She and I had a closer relationship after our first son, Raimund Leopold, was born. How we all mourned the short life of our first baby, who died under the care of a nursing woman in Vienna, while Wolfi and I visited his father and sister in Salzburg, in 1783.

Mama was there for all of my six pregnancies, bustling around the room, impatient to hold the new grandchild in her arms. But now she was quiet, resting under the earth. I hoped that she had found Papa, my dear Papa. How I missed him.

Silhouette of a woman wearing an ornate headdress against a plain background.

Constanze’s mother, Cäcilia Weber, (née Stamm), in silhouette

{{PD-US-expired}}

I looked up at the autumn sky, a soft blue, with long, white, wispy clouds drifting slowly on a lazy afternoon breeze. There was not a soul around, just me. I felt a tug at my heart. It was the memory of my husband, Wolfgang Mozart, and I put my head down for a few moments, on my arms.

He was gone now for two years and yet I missed him with a ferocious ache that never seemed to dissipate. How I missed the sound of his music, making our apartments come alive; how my boys missed him, especially my eldest, the nine-year-old Karl. I would take them to a window, and find a cloud, and say, Look, there is your Papa, he is an angel in heaven now.

The missing of Wolfi never stopped. It found me at all hours of the day. Early in the morning, when I awoke in the gray light, from dreams of him; all day as I went about my chores in Vienna, knowing that I could not return home and tell him about the coach that broke down by St. Stephen’s Cathedral, and the horses had pooped all over the pavement by the church’s front door.

I missed his laughter, his beautiful, melancholy gray-blue eyes with the long blond eyelashes, his smile, his kisses. His warmth.

I looked up again at the sky, and almost felt the heavy, crippling sadness come over me, bracing myself for the loud sobs that I could not hold back. But – suddenly—a strange serenity came over me, pulsed through me; and the grief was chased out of my body, though not without a small struggle.

I took a deep breath of the fresh scent of lilacs. I looked up again at the vibrant blue sky. I even felt hungry; a strange sensation. I felt my blood pulsing in my veins. An odd strength came in waves over me; and for the first time, in a long time, I felt hope. Yes, hope, for a new life, for new adventures. A gratefulness that my boys were healthy and happy. And I saw that I was given a gift from the Universe, that I should go on, and expect good things.

And on that thought, as I sat on that cool grassy hill, I shed a few tears of joy and thankfulness that I would go on and that everything was going to be alright. For the first time in years, I felt a calming happiness, and I clung onto it with all of my might.

A drawing of a man and woman sitting together on the floor, engaged in conversation.

PART I

MOZART’S FINALE

Image: iStock.com

CHAPTER 1

glyph

THE DAY BEFORE THE LAST DAY, 3 DECEMBER 1791

I awakened early on this day, a gray morning that tempered itself into a milky sun hiding behind the white clouds. The weather was not the usual frigid winter winds and heavy snowstorms.

Before boiling the water for the coffee beans, I hurried into Mozart’s study to see how he was.

He was sitting up, composing. I laid my hand on his forehead. His large, melancholy gray-blue eyes looked up at me, touching my heart. He was feverish to the touch. His light, wheat-colored hair was damp with sweat, and was falling out of the black, wilted ribbon.

How are you, Wolfi? I sat down on his bed. You haven’t been well since that Lodge meeting.

"Saperlot, he replied softly. I want to work on my Requiem; there’s not much time left."

"Ach, you have time." I tried to remain cheery, though it was difficult. He looked pale and worn out; he was thinner, too. He was a small lump under all the blankets.

Karl says that a big snow is coming; maybe you’ll feel better, so that you can go out and thrown snowballs at each other. I took another quilt from the armoire, and put it over Wolfi.

Are you warm enough? I asked my husband.

Our eyes met, rather suspiciously. True, he was furious about my affair with Franz Süssmayr, his copyist, but now I would not let my pride keep me from taking care of my husband. He harrumphed loudly, and proceeded to ignore me.

Wolfi, you can hate me all you want, but I still love you, and I always will. I am so sorry for hurting you. But you have been distant this year, and irritable and….snarly, and unpleasant to be around, if truth be told, I said bluntly to him. So now, just let me make you warm, and bring you a fresh cup of hot coffee, and anything else you want. When you get better, you can hit me a few times, if it makes you feel better.

Wolfi continued to draw little black notes on the lined paper. He was so dear and adorable; it took all of my power not to draw him into my arms. His beautiful hands moved quickly over the scored composition paper. We could hear the large wall clock chiming suddenly, seven o’clock.

I sat down on the bed, watching my husband. How ill he looked; a strange pale yellow in his face, and several red veins in his eyes stood out, making the gray-blue pupil color more vibrant.

I’ll bring you some coffee and buttered toast, I called out as I went to the kitchen. The apartment smelled of strong coffee, mixed with the lemon oil I loved, to polish the wooden floorboards.

The apartment was so quiet; I suddenly had the strangest feeling. It was as if everything stopped; the wall clock, the boiling coffee, myself. An eerie feeling wafted through me, and I shivered in spite of my heavy woolen house jacket and underskirts.

Did you feel that, Wolfi? I called to him. No answer. I went to the windows in his study, and opened the heavy dark ivory curtains wider, to let the weak sunlight in. The room smelled strongly of sickness. I wanted to open a window a little, but it might be too cold for my husband.

After bringing him a tray of coffee with a few toasted, buttered thick pieces of brown pumpernickel toast, which he usually loved, he did not seem interested in touching the food or the coffee. Finally, he took a small sip. It’s very good, thank you, he announced, formally. I tried to stifle a small giggle, but it slipped out. "So glad you like it, mein Herr," I curtseyed to him. I could tell that Wolfi wanted to let a loud laugh out, but he controlled himself.

Wolfi, I have to take the laundry out to the cleaning woman, and Karl is outside right now; he can’t wait to see the first snowflakes. Then I want to go with the cook into the city to buy some fresh meat and vegetables, if we can find any. I will try to be around, in case you need me for anything. I stood near his bed, waiting for a reply.

He glanced at me. Thank you, he said again, formally. I knew that I had really hurt my husband, with my love affair with Franz Süssmayr, his copyist; but there you have it, it was over and done, and there was nothing I could do in the moment, to fix the matter.

My husband had also had an affair with a stunningly beautiful woman, Magdalena Hofdemel, the wife of his Freemason friend, Franz Hofdemel; so it wasn’t as if I had been the bad marriage partner.

On impulse, I bent over and kissed Wolfi on the cheek. I nuzzled his face, kissing the deep dimple on the left side of his lips. We had set the room up so that his bed faced away from the windows, as the afternoon light tended to bother him. We sat for a few moments, our cheeks against each other, mine cool and his, rather hot.

Then I couldn’t help myself; I threw my arms around him, and hugged him as tightly as I could. We both let out sobs, and then lots of tears flowed over our faces, onto the warm blue flowered quilt that my mother had sewn for us years ago. She and Sophie, my youngest sister, had worked on this precious quilt for over a year, to present to us on our wedding anniversary, August 4th, 1782; and today it was a most welcome gift.

Hate me, hate me all you like, I still love you with all my heart, I whispered in his ear. I leaned back, and we looked at each other; his melancholy grey-blue eyes wet and red. The ectropion – the lower lid on his left eye, separating from the eye, was very visible.

Maybe we can work things out, he whispered hoarsely. It’s too hard to be mean to you. I leaned over slowly, and kissed his adorable nose. Maybe, I whispered back, but for now, you need to work on getting well.

I put my hand on his chin and before he could take it away, I kissed him squarely on his full lips; such pretty cupid bows that were almost feminine. His lips were feverish.

"Smeckt recht gut, I commented, licking my lips. Tastes quite good. Ummmm!" Wolfi looked at me; I think that he was trying to be angry, but instead, we both started giggling, and soon we were nearly crying, as we laughed hysterically.

Stop, it hurts! he patted his stomach. Then, there was a loud knock at the door. Must be Karl coming in for something hot to drink. I got up and went to the door, opening it, and feeling a strong gush of cold wintry air. But Karl did not come in.

The famous Italien Maestro, Antonio Salieri swept in; I stood there, eyes blazing at him. He had directed our poison plot against my husband this past summer, and he stalked me whenever I went into the city, warning me of what would befall me should I breathe one word to the authorities. I wasn’t afraid of him, anymore. He held a bottle of wine in one leather-gloved hand.

What do you want with us, Herr Salieri? Malice dripped off my tongue. Wolfi’s busy with some compositions.

The charming Italian, his face red from the wind, and his olive green eyes vivid and shining, removed his tri-cornered black hat, an expensive wool with black soutache trim, a fashionable decorative braid around the edges, and handed it to me. His dark brown hair was always impeccably dressed; not a hair out of place.

I apologize for coming by so early, but I’ve been worried about Mozart, he said softly. I glared at him.

Sure, you are. I crossed my arms over my chest. You are a brazen liar.

Salieri raised his eyebrows in innocence. He could always be the master of perfect manners.

Now, Constanze, it is very cold outside, and I just stopped by on my way to the Court theater to check on our favorite composer. Salieri removed his exquisite Italian wool cloak, buttery soft, black as coal; probably worth five times our yearly rent. May I come in and warm myself?

His scent was an expensive French cologne; a mixture of lime and bergamot. Salieri always dressed impeccably in the finest fabrics, even down to his nails, perfectly manicured, and buffed to a high shine.

I took his cloak, shaking my head, and hung it on a peg near the front door. I could hardly say no to him; Salieri knew all about Franz Süssmayr’s and my own dangerous secrets about our summer of poisoning my husband, so I squeezed my lips, and walked to the study. Salieri followed me. Wolfi saw him and froze. He tried to squirm down under the covers, but the Italian bolted to his bed and took his hand.

My dear Mozart, just look at you! Salieri exclaimed loudly. Hale and hearty! Why, you look very well! How are you feeling? Salieri grabbed the wooden bedside chair, and plopped down upon it. Mozart seemed to be pleased. Salieri put the full bottle of wine on the table by the bed.

It’s very nice that….that you took the time to come visit me, Wolfi murmured, a small smile on his face, making his side mouth dimples grow deeper.

Herr Salieri, would you like a cup of hot coffee? I offered. If he made my husband feel happy, well then, I was all for his visit. Wolfi could use a little cheer.

Salieri nodded, and I returned with another tray of two steaming, strong coffees, and more buttered toast. A breakfast fit for a king! Salieri cheerfully raised his coffee cup, and took a sip. Why, this coffee is excellent! To your health, Mozart! They clinked coffee cups.

My mother taught me how to make it, just the way Wolfi likes, strong and black. I watched the two men, rivals on only one side – Salieri’s. Mozart knew that his own talent was vast, and had no jealousies with the Italian. Still, I was deeply suspicious. He hadn’t been by to visit my husband at all, since Mozart picked up Salieri and his mistress, Caterina Cavalieri on the 8th of October, to drive them to the Freihaus Theater to see his opera, The Magic Flute.

I have a few musical queries to ask you about, he turned to Wolfi, tucking the blue flowered quilt tightly around him. You, of all the composers, will surely give me the best advice.

Mozart blushed a little at this compliment. Certainly, Herr Salieri, he muttered, sitting up and taking a deep sip of the hot coffee. The men began in earnest to discuss the use of chords and musical thirds, in a composition that one of Salieri’s piano students was composing.

I turned to put on my heavy black winter cloak, to head out to the launderess’s shop; and where was my son, Karl? He should come in soon, as the day was turning a little colder. The scent of new snow was in the air.

Oh, Stanza here, can you run down to the wine store on the Graben, and get us two more bottles of their choice red from Prague? Salieri reached into a pocket and withdrew a lovely purple velvet money bag, with a beautifully embroidered yellow and green silk braided rope, to open and close it. He handed me several florins.

Herr Salieri, this is probably too much, I countered, trying to give a few back to him, but he wouldn’t take them. No, no, go and buy some of Karl’s favorite pastries with the rest, he waved his hand in the air. And for yourself, as well.

I left the men deep in conversation about musical terms, and went out into the cold weather, carrying a large cloth bag of heavy laundry. Usually, Wolfi would take it over to the laundress, but now I struggled with it, dropping it several times, and pausing for air. Where was my scalawag of a son? In spite of the cold, you could always count on large crowds of the Viennese to be out walking in their winter finery, with fancy, large hoods on the women’s cloaks.

The only really good thing in the city in the winter was that the horse poop, on the pavement, would freeze and it was easier not to step in it, and smear it all over my skirt and shoes. I managed to drop the laundry off, handing the young woman, pink and buxom, and surrounded by large tins of hot water, several florins, since I had more than I needed. Salieri could be a very generous man - but not one to be trusted.

The laundress’s eyes grew large, and she curtseyed and thanked me many times. I laughed at her joy, and walked further down the Graben to the wine shop. Perusing the wines, I chose two bottles of the finest red Bohemian wine. This was an excellent sweet wine with a full body, Mozart’s favorite.

A few snowflakes floated out of the sky, so I hurried to my next stop, the baker. A wealthy couple sauntered by; the woman, magnificent in a heavy burgundy velvet cloak, with a fantastic ruched hood. She knew it, too and gave me a haughty look, sweeping her fine cloak around her.

The bakery was my favorite place. The shop air was rich with the fragrance of cinnamon and butter. The baker’s wife and I were acquaintances, and she, a very pretty young woman with braided coppery hair and very pink cheeks, was happy to fill a bag with wrapped cinnamon buns and frosted cakes for Karl. The warmth of the newly baked sweets in my hands felt exquisite when I returned to the cold of the inner city.

I paused briefly to look over at St. Stephen’s Cathedral, the huge, magnificent steeple of the medieval church, that I believed guarded Vienna night and day. It always filled me with a protective sense as I gazed up at it, dark and watching over all; a Supreme Guardian, high in the falling snow.

My hands and feet were beginning to freeze, so I hurried home before they turned numb.

The crowd on the pavement had thinned out vastly, and only a few lone coaches with the poor cold horses were heard, clopping off into the distance.

Reaching our apartment at 970 Rauhensteingasse, I nearly ran up the steps of the foyer to our first floor apartment. The foyer smelled of liver and onions. The door was luckily unlocked, and I nearly fell in, my gloved hands were so numb.

Hallo, Mama. Karl sat on the floor, surrounded by several of his toy soldiers. He smelled the pastries, and immediately stood up. Did you buy something good to eat?

I handed him the bag, and warned him not to eat all of the pastries at one time, a warning that went in one ear and out the other. Like his mother, he had a real sweet tooth. Mozart used to tease me that he’d get rid of me if I ever got fat.

I hung my cloak on the coat peg by the front door, and went to the next room to check on the firewood, throwing a few more stubby pieces into the tall jade ceramic oven. It was a godsend, warming up the entire apartment, except for the study, which usually remained chilly because of the front windows.

Walking in to check on the men, Salieri was still there. He and Mozart were reviewing my husband’s Requiem score. No, I want the tubas there, Mozart pointed the notes out to Salieri. This calls for a big sound.

Salieri peered closer. Ah, yes, you are so right! he exclaimed. I noticed the wine bottle and two glasses on the side table. Wolfi, are you well enough to drink some wine?

Yes, Salieri is so generous to bring that good red Bohemian wine, Wolfi took a final sip from his glass. The vines in Prague always grow the sweetest grapes. Wolfi gave a little burp and Salieri started to laugh.

I knew that you would appreciate this wine. Salieri made another toast to my husband, pouring a little more wine into his empty glass. Drink up, drink up, so that you can get well, he said.

I went to the kitchen; the cook, Emilia, a young woman who just moved to Vienna from Paris, and who was excellent in culinary arts, had just arrived, dusted with snow, and we began to cut up a few limp vegetables that she had managed to find at the stalls in the Mehlgrube. Perhaps they would taste better with a little butter. The fire under the hanging pots warmed the kitchen wonderfully, and we two women gossiped for quite awhile, until Salieri sought me out for his cloak and hat.

I’m afraid that I wore Mozart out; I apologize. He pulled his expensive cloak around him, and settled the black tri-cornered wool hat on his head. Time goes by so quickly, whenever I consult a master composer, the Italian remarked. Thank you so much for the coffee, Frau Mozart. I’ll come by again in a few days to see how he is. Salieri and I stood, appraising each other. I did not smile at him; his weak smile was forced.

Thank you for the pastries for Karl; and also, here is the change left over, I pulled out four florins and held them out to him.

No, no, keep them and get more firewood. It’s really turning cold outside, he replied. We looked long at one another, then he placed a finger in front of his lips momentarily before leaving. As if I would say anything! All I needed would be for the Secret Police to come sniffing around, on top of my sick husband. I almost threw an iron pot out the door after the Italian.

Throughout the afternoon, which had turned gray with more snow, now not so heavy, I attended to household chores: patching clothes, polishing our shoes and waxing them so that the wet weather would not weaken the leather, and setting the table for our evening meal.

The cook, Emilia, helped to light the candles, as dusk was coming on. Karl wanted to go back outside, but it was getting dark. He went to play in his bedroom, a happy little boy, who looked more like my side, than Mozart’s side of the family. Emilia took a small candelabra in to Karl’s small room.

I finally had a break so that I could check on my husband. I took a lighted candle in a tin holder; it was dark in the apartment. Wolfi sat up in bed. As I approached, he looked odd, very pale. He started to speak; but suddenly, vomited fiercely. It flew out of him in a large, brown arc. He clutched at his throat; he vomited once more.

"Ach, Gott!" I exclaimed, running to the large wooden armoire in the bedroom, for cleaning cloths. I ran back into the study. Mozart was in some kind of convulsion. His worn-out body twitched, and he arched his back. His eyes were opened wide, and he appeared to stare at the ceiling, as if unaware that I was even in the room.

Wolfi! Wolfi! I called, approaching the bed. I began to wipe up the large pool of foul-smelling brown vomit. Karl came suddenly into the room. Is Papa all right? he asked.

Karl, go away right now! I commanded him. Papa is not well. Emilia peeked around the corner at the door. Do you need any help, Frau Mozart? she asked, in a shaky voice.

No, no, I have it under control. I rubbed the floorboards with soft white cloths. Please take Karl into the kitchen with you.

Now, Mozart began making a strange sound with his mouth. Oh…oh…oh… he began, and suddenly, more vomit flew out of his body. I was confused. What in the world?

Wolfi, I’ll have to send for the doctor. I stood at the bed, gazing on my husband. Suddenly, his back arched, and he was in a terrible convulsion; the look on Wolfi’s face was intense pain. I put my hands on his chest to push him down, and the arching subsided.

It was then that I noticed the two wine glasses on the bedside table. They were empty, but the one closer to the bed contained some wine, in the bottom. I picked up the glass and went to the window, where I could see better.

Peering closely into the cup, I recognized the tiny grains, like salt, in the bottom of the cup. Salieri! Salieri had slipped quicksilver salts into his wine! Franz Sussmayer and I had purchased this poison at Count Walsegg’s Stuppach Palace earlier in the summer; and while I had pulled out of the poison plot, due to the pain that Wolfi had been in, this troubled me vastly. Still, I would look into my husband’s coffee cups at luncheons that we were invited to, usually at Baron Van Swieten’s estate; sometimes detecting the tiny grains. Someone else was poisoning him.

Now I knew that he must have received a large dose – possibly a fatal dose. Süssmayr and I had worked secretly this summer, with Salieri making us the perpetrators in our poison circle, possibly so that no finger would point in his direction. Apparently, Salieri was becoming impatient, as I had ceased poisoning my husband.

But I could not go to the authorities; he would only insist that I was the poisoner, not him. Later, I would recognize that Franz Süssmayr and Antonio Salieri had pulled me into their poison circle, so that, if authorities became suspicious, I would be fingered as the perpetrator.

And so, the long night, the long, wretched night began, with my poor, sick husband incessantly vomiting and convulsing in front of my very eyes. I asked Emilia to send for our doctor, Thomas Closett, who was attending a play at the theater; he would come after the performance.

But I knew that there was nothing to be done; and that the final hours of Mozart’s once-promising life, were coming to an end. I fell into a chair, sobbing loudly.

CHAPTER 2

glyph

THE LAST DAY – 4 DECEMBER 1791

Constanze Weber Mozart

Constanze Weber Mozart, from an old lithograph, when she was around 19 years old,

at the time she married Mozart on 4 August 1782

Wikimedia Commons {{PD-US-expired}}

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Constanze_Mozart_Lange_1783_Lithography.jpg

Collection: Salzburg Museum

On December 4th I woke to a cloudy, slightly drizzly morning, which was very depressing. It seemed that the cold and the damp filtered in through every crack in our apartment, even with the ceramic oven smoking in Mozart’s music study, facing out to Rauhensteingasse. We had just moved into the apartment at 970 Rauhensteingasse in September 1790, the year before, with a very good rate for the yearly rent. However, I had not known about the leaky window frames, which acted as conduits for every freezing wind that blew through Vienna.

I dressed myself in a heavy burgundy wool gown with a large black shawl, shivering as I washed my face and upper body in icy cold water, in the cracked ceramic bowl by the bed.

Mama, come quick! I heard my seven-year-old son, Karl, call from the front room where Mozart lay. Instantly, a feeling of dread stirred in my stomach. How was I ever going to come through this? How could I ever explain to Wolfgang what had happened with his copyist, Franz Süssmayr? Even now, I was still susceptible to the copyist’s charms, even more so, now that Mozart appeared to be wasting away before my very eyes.

I wiped my face on a cloth, and went quickly to check on the baby, my Wowi – just four months old. He slept sweetly in his tiny crib, his dark hair lying in silky curls on his tiny head. The closed curtains made the room dark, making it an ideal place for the baby to slumber in peace. I pulled the blue blanket up around his exposed neck. His breathing was soft and regular.

Now I hurried to the front room. The curtains were drawn, making the place dark and dreary, as if a gray fog permeated the walls. My rambunctious seven-year-old Karl sat on the bed by Mozart. When my husband turned and saw me, he immediately turned away toward the wall; a difficult move because of the heavy quilted bed jacket that Sophie and I sewed for him, to alleviate the intense pain he felt whenever anything, cloth, or human flesh, touched him. I cringed inside, knowing that he was in so much pain.

Karl, please go and play in another room, I instructed, giving him a quick kiss. Mama, I want to stay with Papa… Karl, please go now and play, I said loudly, exasperated. Papa is not feeling well today.

Karl gave me a disappointed grimace, but left and headed into the kitchen. I’ll need you later to help move your father to another room, I added. The odor of decay and fecal matter in this room was overpowering. I would have to send Karl out to Joseph Eybler’s apartment, to ask him to come and move Mozart back to the bedroom, which the maid had scrubbed thoroughly the day before. Eybler, a musician, was a close friend of my husband, and he had been by several times to visit.

I turned to Mozart. He lay quietly, looking at the wall. His color was a little better than it had been, but was still a chalky, grayish white. His breathing was loud and raspy. I sat down next to him, and placed my hand on his arm.

Wolfgang, I murmured, softly. He pulled his arm away from my touch. Wolfi, please…. He continued to ignore me. I beg of you, I continued, beginning to cry. Please speak to me. He said nothing, turning his face away on his pillow, damp from his feverish sweat. He was very pale.

I stood and went to the curtains on both windows, opening them to let the gray winter light stream in. Outside, the cold drizzle had iced over on the street, and a carriage drove by, the gray horse’s fur matted and dark from the wet; his hooves making a loud echoing patter on the pavement on this quiet morning.

Wolfi had been working on and off on a Requiem. He didn’t seem as concentrated on it as he was with other compositions. The score lay on the floor in his brown leather portfolio, some of the papers falling out. I would tidy it up later. I felt rather guilty about the stress it caused him, because I knew the real mystery behind the commission of the piece.

The room where Mozart died. It faced out to Rauhensteingasse to the left. His bed was placed on the opposite wall, facing away from the front windows, as the light bothered him in his final illness. This room served as his study, with his fortepiano in the corner, and his starling in a birdcage, on the wall, top right. The bird was taken out of the room in Mozart’s final days, as the singing bird stirred his emotions

The room where Mozart died. It faced out to Rauhensteingasse to the left. His bed was placed on the opposite wall, facing away from the front windows, as the light bothered him in his final illness. This room served as his study, with his fortepiano in the corner, and his starling in a birdcage, on the wall, top right. The bird was taken out of the room in Mozart’s final days, as the singing bird stirred his emotions

Photo: akg-images: Mozarts Arbeitsund Sterbezimmer

I lit another candle, and placed it on the table by the bed. There, now we have some light in this place, I said, trying to make things a little less dark between my husband and myself. Can I bring you some coffee? I asked politely, knowing that he, of course, would not be able to eat or drink anything without bringing on the violent retching that he experienced lately, whenever he tried to ingest anything. No answer.

Wolfi, please, please forgive me! I leaned over him and whispered. I love you. You are breaking my heart! Mozart shrugged me away. You have no one else to help you now, I stated, standing up and becoming a little angry. Not your latest love, Magdalena Hofdemel, nor any of your so-called flirts from the Freihaus Theater! Where are these ardent lovers, when the great Mozart is gray and dying in his bed? Where are your so-called friends, whom you have always placed over me? Who is here indeed, to be present with the great Mozart, in his final hours? Oh, excuse me; only his wife Constanze. Only he does not want anything to do with her; he totally ignores her. A sorry excuse for a wife! A sorry marriage! I began to wind up for a session of accusations with my husband.

Not that you had anything to do with the terrible state of affairs between us now, I continued, pacing the floor and watching Mozart, still turned motionless toward the ivory wall. His breathing had become quieter; I knew that he was listening.

"Not that I had to endure your escapades with our lowly, coarse housekeepers. Not that I had to spend so many occasions, watching you staring at my sister, Aloysia, with your love-struck eyes, long after we married. Not that you made me ever feel important, in the midst of all of your great musical events, when you were surrounded by beautiful women and your crowd of ass-kissers!

No, I have a pile of ardent love letters from you, from all your travels, in which you call me your beloved Stanzi-Marini; yet while you are away, rumors come to me from all parts of Europe, of your ridiculous love affair with that brazen singer, Henrietta Baranius, who insulted you immensely – you know what I mean! (The fiery diva had made fun of Mozart’s small penis, and the rumors flew all over Vienna, and elsewhere.)

Now, I climbed onto the bed, and hovered over my husband, leaning very close to his face. He smelled disturbingly; the strong, musty, rank odor of decay and death. My heart panicked at the sight of him. Yet, my unsettled spirit had to