I had left Salzburg as a child. I now returned to Salzburg as an international sensation. Though, the city itself seemed oblivious and responded with polite indifference. There were no celebrations, no confetti parades, not even cake. I was once again the noisy child on the block, squeezed into our claustrophobic home, and buried in studies of Latin and music.
The lack of fanfare did not prevent me from composing – or as Father often referred to as “cheap labor with talent”. I began work on my first opera, a crazy departure from anything else I have known. I was thrilled with the prospect of fancy costumes, dramatic scenes, powerful choruses, and singers dying convincingly on stage, preferably on cue.
Just as rehearsals were about to begin, unsettling rumors swept through Salzburg: Smallpox had arrived.
At first, we tried to ignore the whispers, but when choirboys began dropping like sour notes, we acted quickly. We fled to Vienna, convinced that an upcoming imperial wedding would somehow repel the disease – apparently no one ever got sick because the music-loving elite were too busy being fashionable. That hope proved optimistic. The imperial bride, Maria Josepha, daughter of Empress Maria Theresa, had already fallen ill and died before the ceremony.
With vaccinations yet to be invented, prayer seemed to be the only remedy for this deadly disease. It was not long before Nannerl and I were infected. I lay in bed, burning with fever, feeling all itchy, and miserable. For nine agonizing days, I was completely blind. I hallucinated enormous musical notes dancing across crumbled sheets of music paper. This, of course, was alarming but not entirely unfamiliar as it often occurred to me even in times of perfect health.
Thank God, we began to slowly recover. The mysterious black powder from our medicine box appeared to help and we felt more blessed than ever.