Chapter 2 …
Mozart in Joseon
Prologue
— In Wien —
“Schwieten…….”
Mochedo left the theater, thinking of an old friend.
Mozart and Schwieten had been close enough that Schwieten even served on the funeral committee. Their relationship went beyond mere patronage; the two were comrades who shared music and ideals.
Schwieten was not the kind of man who would allow things to end with not even a gravestone—without anyone knowing where the body lay.
There had to be a reason.
“And to think Sauermeier is now the concertmaster of the Vienna National Theater.”¹)
Mochedo let out a small chuckle.
Süssmayr, the pupil he had reunited with after a long time, was exactly as he remembered.
At times, Mochedo trusted the man who could seem rigid to the point of obstinacy.
Just as expected, Süssmayr had not treated his teacher’s funeral as idle gossip, nor had he added speculation when recounting what had happened—he spoke only of facts.
With no embellishment or lies, it was the perfect greeting to mark the beginning of unraveling the mystery surrounding the funeral.
“Should I have asked him?”
Mochedo stopped walking and turned around.
He had entrusted the completion of the Requiem to Süssmayr, believing that the inflexible man would never succumb to temptation and would finish it exactly as his teacher wished.
He wanted to ask immediately what the result had been.
“But our first meeting can’t be through sheet music.”
Deciding he would hear the completed Requiem in person soon enough, Mochedo set aside his curiosity.
“Why are you pacing around like that? Are you waiting for someone?”
Mochedo turned his head.
The house servant he had brought along as an attendant-for-hire was arguing with a theater employee.
“Where the hell did this guy come from?”
Another employee glared at the servant.
“What are you glaring at me for? Have we even met before? What did I do?”
The servant protested indignantly.
“Do you understand a word he’s saying?”
“No.”
“Hey, I’m asking who you came with.”
The employee pressed him again.
“What’re you saying? I ain’t got no money.”
“What?”
“Good grief. We really can’t understand each other.”
“Marie Antoinette?”
“That’s what I’m saying—we can’t understand each other.”
The theater employee looked at his colleague in shock.
“Should we call the police? He’s crazy.”²)
“Wait. I think he just can’t speak our language.”
“Who did you come with? Who’s your master?”
The employee demanded again.
“Oh lord, this is gonna burst my insides. I don’t understand a word you’re saying, but I ain’t moving a single step from here till our noble lord comes.”
“Danke?”³)
“What’s he thanking us for?”
“Doesn’t look grateful to me.”
As Mochedo approached, the servant clasped his hands and bowed deeply.
“You’ve arrived, my lord.”
“What’s going on?”
Mochedo asked.
“These fellows keep yapping, but I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“I’ll handle it. Step back.”
The servant bowed deeply again and retreated.
Mochedo turned to the theater employees.
“I am the chief envoy of the Joseon Kingdom’s delegation, and this man is my attendant. Is there a problem?”⁴)
When Mochedo presented the diplomatic certificate bearing the seal of Franz II, the theater employees visibly startled.
They couldn’t read the document, but the imperial emblem alone told them this was no ordinary man.
They hurriedly showed proper courtesy.
“No, sir. His attire was unusual, so we were merely asking where he was from.”
Though the words were softened, it was easy to imagine how they had treated a poorly dressed foreigner.
Mochedo stared at them until one employee awkwardly averted his gaze.
“You will be seeing us often from now on. Remember the faces of me and my party.”
“Yes. Understood.”
After hesitating briefly, the employees stepped aside, resigned.
“Let’s go.”
Mochedo said once he was back on horseback.
“Where shall I escort you?”
“Do you ask when you already know the way?”
Mochedo asked playfully.
“I know the road back well enough.”
“Before that, there’s somewhere we need to stop. Stay close.”
Mochedo took the reins.
As they entered the main road between the royal palace and the opera house, the vibrant scenery of Vienna unfolded before them.
“Just as I remember.”
Mochedo looked around.
With a resident population of two hundred thousand, Vienna was more bustling than any other city in Europe.
There were some three hundred grand mansions belonging to royalty and nobility, and shops, cafés, and street vendors stretched endlessly along the roads.
Because traffic was so heavy, straw was sometimes laid on the streets to reduce the noise of carriages.
The streets were kept clean through regular maintenance, including watering them twice a day—unlike Paris, where filth and straw stuck together and bred flies.
Thanks to this, the areas around cafés were always filled with the aroma of coffee.
As he had long ago, Mochedo followed that scent.
“It should be around here.”
The place he found while retracing his memories was Jan’s salon.⁵)
The restaurant opened by Ignaz Jan, a former imperial chef, after his retirement looked exactly as Mochedo remembered.
Mochedo pulled on the reins in front of the cream-colored building.
“Wait here.”
“Yes.”
Mochedo dismounted and entered the café.
In stark contrast to the nostalgic coffee aroma, the owner, Ignaz Jan, regarded Mochedo with clear suspicion.
“What brings you here?”
Ignaz Jan approached and asked.
“I heard the coffee here is excellent.”
“Do you even know how to drink it?”
Ignaz Jan asked sharply.
“One cup, please. Plenty of sugar and milk.”
“Sorry, but as you can see, there are no seats available.”
Mochedo looked around.
Everyone inside the café was staring at the foreigner in a blue coat and a translucent hat.
Even in Vienna, where over twenty thousand foreigners resided, he was a sight they had never seen before.
Mochedo gave a bitter smile.
He had finally returned to the home he longed for, yet here he was a complete outsider.
The rich scent of coffee.
Familiar faces.
The restaurant hall where he had once held concerts.
Everything was the same—except for him.
“There seem to be plenty of seats.”
Mochedo said.
“They’re all reserved.”
“Isn’t there at least one seat available?”
Someone cut into the conversation.
Turning his head, Mochedo saw a wealthy-looking man pointing at the piano bench in the hall.
People began to laugh, and Ignaz Jan shrugged.
“If you sit there, I won’t stop you.”
It was blatant mockery.
They had no intention of letting an unknown foreigner into their place of rest.
“I see.”
Mochedo walked toward the piano placed at one side of the hall.⁶)
Those gathered in the salon burst into laughter at his actions.
They found it ridiculous that he would sit at the piano, apparently unaware he was being humiliated.
But Mochedo did not mind.
He spread his arms wide, adjusted the hem of his dopo, and sat down.
His straight-backed posture was strikingly dignified.
Those who had mocked the foreigner now felt a stir of curiosity at his composure. Who was he, and what would he do next?
Mochedo closed his eyes.
He recalled the moment, long ago, when he first opened his eyes in a foreign land.
The wind and its scent.
The vegetation and mountain birds.
Even in that place—where every word and every face was unfamiliar—he had been loved for one thing alone: sound.
And this was the place where he had first been born and raised.
Europe, where he had built his fame from the age of six.
Vienna, the homeland of music, where at twenty-five he had risen as the greatest pianist, and at thirty as a master of opera.
Mochedo.
No—
The one beloved by God.⁷)
Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart began to play the first piece he had written in that distant land.
As the fingers that once plucked the geomungo pressed down on the keys,
those in the salon crossed, in an instant, ten thousand li of open sea and arrived in the land where the sun rises.
Mozart in Joseon
Notes
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Mozart often gave mischievous nicknames to those around him. He called his pupil Süssmayr “Sauermeier,” changing Süss (meaning “sweet”) to Sauer (meaning “sour”). This sauer is the same word used in Sauerkraut, the fermented cabbage dish eaten in Germany. Mozart also sometimes called Süssmayr “diaper-soiler.”
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In late 18th- and early 19th-century Vienna, three hundred armed police officers patrolled the city to maintain public order. At the time, casually mentioning the names of royalty or nobility could result in legal punishment.
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Danke: German expression of thanks.
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Jeongsa (正使): The head envoy of a diplomatic mission sent from Joseon to China or Japan.
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Today, Café Frauenhuber occupies the same location and building. After former imperial chef Ignaz Jan opened a restaurant there in the late 18th century, the establishment changed names and owners over time: Café Hannisch (1824), Zum Hopfenstock (1870), Café Herzog, and finally Café Frauenhuber (1877).
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The piano was first developed around 1700. Early models spread to Austria in the 1770s. Until the mid-1770s, Mozart used the harpsichord, but in 1777, during a trip to Augsburg, he personally played Stein’s fortepiano and wrote:
“Stein’s instruments are very precise; they respond well no matter how lightly or strongly you press, and unlike other pianos, the keys are neither heavy nor loose.”
— From a letter to his father Leopold, October 17, 1777.
After this, Mozart composed and performed on the piano rather than the harpsichord. After Mozart’s death, Beethoven established the piano as the standard keyboard instrument, completely replacing the harpsichord.
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Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart. Theophilus is Greek for “beloved by God.” During his lifetime, Mozart used the German form Gottlieb. After his death, his wife Constanze introduced him using the Latin form Amadeus, which became the name by which he is known today: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
