Dream 003

May. 30th, 2009 12:38 pm
gesangvoll: (Lacrimoso)
[personal profile] gesangvoll

It was a cold morning in early December, 1791. Despite the cold, Austria was out and about, bundled up in a warm, but elegant coat, a somber expression on his face. Much to the surprise of those that knew him well, Austria was not, in fact, lost. No, Austria was out walking the streets of Vienna to gather his thoughts. In his opinion, there was no point sitting in his home and potentially having to entertain visitors when he was in no mood to speak with others. The music he knew and loved—the music that his dear city of Vienna was known for—had just suffered a tragic loss, after all. The other nations—Prussia in particular—would likely be none too impressed about his refusal to take visitors merely because of the death of a human. They knew all too well that nothing good would come from getting too attached to one, as humans had a limited life span, whereas the nations did not. In the case of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, though, Austria could not help but get attached to the young prodigy.

Austria paused in his journey through Vienna to stare up at the high towers of St. Stephen’s Cathedral. This was where Mozart was to have his funeral the next day, which Austria certainly planned to attend. It was certainly not the traditional Viennese custom to attend funerals—memorial services were more commonly attended by the general public—but Austria felt he was obligated to attend, despite it being against the tradition he normally followed every day of his life. After all, though he would feel rather silly admitting it aloud, Austria felt like a second father to the man. He had practically seen the man grow up before his eyes, after all. Austria could clearly recall the rounded face of the precocious five year old, performing on the piano in front of the Imperial Court, and he could recall the sickly face of the great musician as he conducted The Magic Flute only a month before his condition took a turn for the worse. Mozart did have his father Leopold—a somewhat accomplished musician in his own right—that did dote on him as a child, but Leopold had passed away a few years previously, and had not heard all of Mozart’s compositions, as Austria had. Austria had made a point to attend as many premiers of Mozart’s symphonies and operas as he was able, ever since the young pianist had first performed in Vienna as a child.

Austria knew very well that humans would not live forever, even individuals as brilliant as Mozart, but what bothered him the most about his death was that Mozart hadn’t even reached 40 years of age before his death. In his 35 years, roughly 30 of those were spent composing, conducting, and performing music. In Austria’s mind, it was a shame that Mozart had died so young, depriving the world of his great talent. After all, some of his best works had been produced toward the end of his life. Austria wondered what could have been written, what the man could have accomplished had he been able to live a longer life. There was no point wondering about what could have been, though, he thought. After all, there was no way to know what might have happened had he not passed away.

With a sigh, Austria tore his gaze away from the cathedral and headed back toward his home. After all, there was little point standing out in the cold, staring up at nothing in particular. He returned home in silence, his head bowed, listening to the snow crunch beneath his boots, and pretending to not notice the cheerful waves his people gave him. He did notice, of course, he merely was not confident in his ability to act as if everything was all right at the moment. Normally Austria prided himself on his ability to appear calm and collected no matter the circumstance, but at times like this, he worried his actions might betray his true feelings.

Upon returning home, Austria removed his winter clothing, handing them to one of the near-by servants. He glanced at the newspaper sitting on one of the tables in the sitting room, sighing at the headline displayed on the page the paper was opened to ("Mozart Deceased at Age 35") before heading off to his music room. This was indeed Austria’s favorite room in his home—anyone that knew Austria knew that—and it was also where he went to relax and express his emotions through the method he knew best: music. Taking a seat at the piano bench, Austria paused for a brief moment to collect his thoughts as he spread his fingers out across the black and white keys, then he began to play. It was the second movement to the last piano concerto Mozart had written before his passing, and Austria was taking great pains to play the piece perfectly. After all, he owed the man at least that much. Playing this piece—the larghetto movement of Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 27—was Austria’s way of expressing his feelings about this event. It was his own private concert to bid farewell to the man that had contributed so much to the music Austria loved.


[Austria, obviously, woke up after that dream, looking much like he did at the end of that dream. After all, that certainly was not an event Austria cared to dwell on; thinking about the life of Mozart was a much more pleasant topic. With a sigh, Austria rolled over to face his Dreamberry, none too surprised when he found that it had recorded the dream. The only positive aspect of this, he supposed, was that, as far as he knew, Prussia was not around to see this dream.]

((OOC: Also, I will be getting to posting something about the talent thing in the OOC comm soon. I just got rather lazy this past week, and I apologize. :X))
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Austria (Roderich Edelstein)

October 2011

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