Thursday, June 29, 2023
St. Lawrence River--a world changes forever
Friday, January 29, 2021
Mozart's Birthday, 2021
When I began Mozart's Wife, I was madly in love with the composer's music--which conflated to being in love with the man himself. His youthful music is so sensual, so bright and shiny, so full of optimism--it probably sounds like what the flowers must sing to lure the bees. it is green leaf and blue sky music--just the kind to accompany springtime and young love.
Mozart's Wife began like that, full of the romance that bloomed between Mozart and his Stanzi Marie. Pop songs from my own teen years filled my head while I wrote--songs which were likewise full of longing and desire, ones like "I think we're alone now" as the lovers seek a hiding place in which to express their body longings.
"Little sister don't you do what your big sister done" was the song in Mozart's head, I'm sure, for he'd first loved Stanzi Marie's big sister, Aloysia. This pretty, talented young woman instead had given herself to an aristocrat who obtained for her the prima donna's roles she craved.
Mozart's height of popularity is on the horizon. He and Stanzi marry, overcoming his father's objections. He composes operas for the court theater and is welcome at the soirees of the rich and famous. Stanzi, hitherto her family's Cinderella, shares in this--she has clothes, maids, lovely apartments, parties--all the perks of having a successful husband.
Babies come, as they do. A "Blessed event" used to be the euphemism. In the 18th Century, however, childbirth was "travail," a danger through which women passed with trepidation. If she was both lucky and healthy, she might escape unscathed, but death in childbirth was a real hazard. (In my own experience, a gentle, kind family friend disappeared from my childhood when she died in hospital (1953) three days after an apparently uneventful childbirth.) Back in the 18th Century, which had no knowledge of hygiene or germ theory, midwives and doctors alike transmitted puerperal fever and other forms of sepsis from one new mother to another.
Mozart concealed his acute, feminine sensitivity within his music, only expressing these culturally forbidden aspects of his personality through the female characters in his operas. Although the plots toe the patriarchal line-- i.e., his opera, Cosi fan Tutte--So do they all--these weak women--he certainly endows his female characters with engaging, memorable personalities. There are heroic women, conventional women, mad women, love-sick women, as well as power-hungry, manipulative women, women of wit, of humor and admirable gumption.
Like his wickedest creation, the rake, Don Giovanni, Mozart knows and loves them all. Once I understood that about him, even the episodes where I conjecture infidelity on his part, have a certain inevitability about them.
While writing Mozart's Wife, I discovered I did not want to take sides. I understood and loved both my leading characters.
So Mozart does what men of his century were permitted, stabbing Stanzi to the heart. Being a woman of spirit, and comforted and advised by her cynical sister Aloysia, she hardens her heart and pursues an amour her own.
In this section of the novel, I moved onto fictional ground, although plenty of rumors from which I drew my inspiration are recorded in letters and diaries of the contemporaries. Meanwhile, there are operas and orchestral pieces being written, some with no buyer in sight, created simply because Mozart's evolving genius compels him. At the same time, there was less recognition and they were falling headlong into debt; there was no stability for the little family. Despair over his faltering fortunes sends Mozart to the bottle.
Babies are born and die, famous and infamous real life characters pass through their lives--Lorenzo DaPonte, the renegade Italian priest and lyricist for Mozart's big three--Cosi fan Tutte, Don Giovanni, The Marriage of Figaro--as well as the real life Casanova. There is also a large cast of musicians, male and female, who sing or play his music. Some were friends, some were false. Some were lovers--of both his music and of the man. And all through these years immortal music was being written.
While writing Mozart's Wife, I discovered I could not take sides. I understood and loved both my leading characters, despite their failures and flaws. I hope, if you read Mozart's Wife, you will too.
Here is a group of Mozart fans from twenty years ago, at the yearly birthday party I used to have for my hero. We drank syllabub and champagne and consumed all manner of party goodies. We swapped stories that we'd read about Mozart all while listening to his blissful music. Dear friends!
Happy Birthday, Wolfgang Amadeus!
~~Juliet Waldron
http://www.julietwaldron.com
See all my historical novels @
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
Tales of Sheltering in Place
We try to keep to a routine, but it's not easy for me. I confess to liking senior classes at the gym and before this disaster movie became the new normal, those kept me to a schedule. Now going out is a fraught undertaking, while you suit up like you are going out an airlock. It's too much trouble--and if you don't have to, you find yourself inventing reasons not to go out at all.
We're staying up later and sleeping later, too, rolling around in a warm bed until long after the sun comes up--for which I give deep, heartfelt thanks! I'm a senior who needs a great deal of sleep--the main difference between me today and when I was three is I don't fight naps.
For the last few weeks, just as I begin this delayed awakening, Tony materializes, conjuring himself out of thin air. He leaps onto my chest and then settles as a furry weight, purring loudly. The Male of his Caretaker/Servants gives him too many treats, because he is such an adorable little beggar. Since the Quarantine, his once svelte gray body has blimped into a gray, overripe zucchini. Turns out, there even is a zucchini breed to supply the perfect new nickname for our newly tubby Anthony: "Grayzini." )
His weight settles me. What's there to get up for? I'm supposed to stay home, after all and if I get up too early I'll find myself with no excuse not to clean. As soon as that idea crosses my mind, I have no strength to struggle. His purr is a nearby waterfall. Almost immediately I sink into the Dark Arms of Morpheus--or somewhere similar. REM sleep in the morning is very, very close.
Tony's silver paws knead in time with those waves of sound. For several days this was nice and we'd go back to sleep together. Lately, though, he's got a new plan, and it isn't as nice as before. Sorry to report, he begins to knead my neck. I need to detach those claws quickly, before they can puncture me. I'm afraid that he'll go at it in the same heartfelt way he tears at the carpeted cat tree he's inexorably destroying downstairs. Apparently cuddly is so over! This week, he's jack the ripper.
Joining the crowd, I've been baking more than usual. My go-to comfort food is bread. Unfortunately, flour and yeast are both in short supply.
Horrors! This frightens me more than the t.p. shortage. My primary comfort food is buttered toast. Of course, that will quickly turn to pudge all over me because there are No Actions, Especially Involving the Ingestion of Gluten that does NOT have consequences for my metabolism.
Despite that, I remain a reflexive bread baker. It "looms large in me legend" as Ringo says in Hard Day's Night. When I got married, same year as that movie, I could cook burgers, boil potatoes and fry eggs, but that was the extent of my culinary skills. To show that I was in earnest about this new wife business, I read, cover to cover, The Joy of Cooking with which my in-laws had thoughtfully presented me. Bread baking seemed to be the best Real Housewife Kitchen Activity I could adopt. Of course, my stern New England mother-in-law was pleased by this; she instructed me. She baked bread every week for her family, and for many, many years I followed her lead.
Now, faced with a lack I've never encountered before--yeast--I've been watching videos to discover methods of creating yeast via fermentation with dried fruit, flowers, potatoes, even from Yellow split peas. I hope yeast making(?) doesn't become a necessity, but it seems that in these perilous times of The Great Global Reality Check, it's time to learn some new-to-me but genuinely foundational cooking skills. If there is an "after," how-to knowledge is always grist for the historical novelist's mill.
~~Juliet Waldron
All My Historical Novels
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