At Last I am Alone
I could never bring myself to confess that you are engraved on my soul, so how can I expect to confide about such feelings with anyone else? Everything I look at is a part of you. You are my scarlet coat and my gold buttons, my white silk stockings and the buckles on my shoes. You are all that I know and dream.
Papa complains that he is growing old, while Wolfie exists in a distant bubble with his new wife and his plans for at least six children. They understand nothing of my desires and yours, but urge me in letters to find a husband and give up the waters.
There seems little point to my life now you are physically removed from it. No more violin lessons with Papa, my friend. No more market days in the square for us to meet without a care. No excuses left for buying another yard of lace. You have chosen to wander between upper and lower Silesia with your box of hose and your instrument.
I must remain an old maid in Salzburg with Papa, practising my galanteries. Either that or I will wed a widower. I am almost thirty-three years old and irredeemably melancholy. I will burn this letter in the stove, together with my songs. Only the memories will remain. N.