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“Why— Vienna?” asked the Bohemian impresario.
It was the pause, between the question’s beginning and end, that alerted Mozart to the seriousness of its questioner, in spite of Guardasoni’s usual breezy tone.
He spun around, tilted his head and furrowed his brows, “What do you mean?”
“Why must you return to, and remain in Vienna?” he repeated.
“Oh! That’s what this is.”
There Mozart’s pout smoothed over, and his mercurial eyes once again filled with mirth, even as Guardasoni continued with his inquisition.
“You are loved here! The Bohemians understand you! Isn’t that everything a musician could want?” he said, throwing up his hand to gesture at the grandeur of his domain. “What does Vienna have that Prague has not? You have seen first hand how talented our musicians are. Are they not to your satisfaction?”
“They are splendid, of course!” Mozart immediately assented, “I’ve almost nowhere else found an orchestra so good to work with.”
“And our audiences? Have they not showered adulations on you enough?”
“You know I am spoiled with praise,” Mozart giggled, “here I’ve had the warmest applause from everyone that has heard me.”
“And our hospitality? You’ve been comfortable here?”
“The city’s waters are very agreeable!”
“And the compensations I’ve arranged for you?”
“You’ve been too good! You know how it is with us musicians, you really do understand it is impossible for us to get anywhere without money.”
“There it is, then! Why would you relinquish all you can have here? Come be the resident musician in Prague,” Guardasoni entreated, “You would be unrivalled!”
“Ah, that’s exactly it!” Mozart exclaimed. “That’s just it. Or, there it is, just like the Emperor would say! You see, good Guardasoni, it is not at all what I want to be unrivalled. But I wish to be rivaled. Yes, I want for myself a rival— we’ll be as fierce as can be with each other in music— yet within our hearts we hold the other in the highest esteem, because we are tied together in a bond as strong as love.” At the look of incomprehension on Guardasoni’s face, Mozart laughed at himself. “Forgive me, I am chattering all sorts of rubbish again.”
Guardasoni’s expression remained mild and indulgent. Pleasant. And blank. Mozart imagined instead of it a withering glare of long-suffering dislike, which burned in spite of its owner’s attempt to smother it, and was so infused with fervour to make a thin disguise of any disinterest so maintained. It made Mozart want to giggle again.
“Pray tell me then, Herr Mozart, what makes you so fond of Vienna? That city of frivolous, haughty fools?”
At this first real indictment, Mozart’s expression grew grave.
“Oh, no, good sir,” he said with feeling, “that is not true at all! The people of Vienna are not fools. They may be unaware of themselves, but they aren’t foolish. You mustn't say that, for you must know I am infinitely fond of them.”
“If so, tell me why!”
“But my dear friend,” Mozart said, impassioned, and undeterred by his companion’s growing impatience, “it is impossible to explain in a few words how Vienna holds dear to me… It has become such a home— I am attached, to the city and all it is home for. I am not like you Bohemians, who are such wanderers in your souls.”
“It is thus that we have our freedom— is that not what you want most of all? To call yourself a free man?”
“Well… perhaps I did. But how I have changed! Ever since father…” Mozart trailed off, and shook his head. He’d have once called himself a wanderer, a nomad, for how much he spent his life travelling. “When a man has resolved to plant himself in one place, of his own choice, it is very, very hard to be unrooted again!”
“What is your root, Mozart? What are you attached to?” Guardasoni pursued. “Or perhaps… Who are you attached to?”
At that, Mozart paused. A sweet, secretive smile emerged onto his face.
“My dear, dear friend,” he said, “that, I simply cannot say.”
“Is it your family, your wife? I had thought that she would follow you wherever you go?”
“My darling Constanze! I know that she would! But no, it is not her.” Mozart’s grin was then almost shy, that he bent his head to hide it. When he looked back up, he reached out for his companion with both hands, and spoke in a most confiding manner. “I have a friend. This very good friend of mine, whose name I will not say— whom I already miss very much in the few weeks of their absence from my side— has made a home of Vienna ever since their youth. And because of my wonderful friend, Vienna is a much more beautiful place, and a home for me, too. And I won’t— can’t quit Vienna as long as my friend is there— who will always be there, constant as a star. Do you see what I mean, Signore?”
Guardasoni still looked puzzled. His small eyes were narrowed, lips pursed, as if working Mozart out.
“You… have a mistress?”
“Oh, goodness, no!” Mozart laughed again, “not a mistress!” Collecting himself, he continued, “You misunderstand me, it is not like that at all. Except I… Well, you know I am good and true! Constanze is my love, I would never betray her heart— but I am a greedy fellow.”
The impresario’s eyebrows arched into his fringe. “You know us Bohemians,” he said, “If it were so— and I’m not saying it is— we would understand. We know, that love is free as man is.”
“Oh, thank you for saying so.”
“But you won’t tell us who it is?”
“Really, I cannot say. But my friend is very sweet. Like honey mead,” he said a little nonsensically, “and would love to be in Prague, even for a short while.”
“Why don’t you invite your friend to your opera?” Guardasoni suggested, “assuming any dear friend of yours would be a lover of music, too?”
Mozart instantly brightened at the idea, but before he could make an answer, they were approached by the principal violinist, who announced that the orchestra had reassembled and was ready for the rehearsal to recommence. Thus summoned, Mozart’s attention returned immediately to his music. And so, the subject was dropped, and never raised again.