It was a quarter to eleven. People wanted to go home. Nannerl sank into her chair. She felt numb. She wanted to sleep, but also she wanted to punch the Baroness with the quavery gelatin voice and the big bosom. She wanted to punch Wolfi for making up so many variations. She wanted to punch the people for making him play again. The Elector…where was the Elector? She saw him link arms with two women and walk out of the room.
Mama squeezed her hand and almost carried her to the carriage. The ache was lodged in Nannerl’s throat as if it meant to stay there, always, a reminder of this horrible concert where she was not allowed to play. She couldn’t cry. All the way back into the city she pretended to sleep, shivering and hunched in the corner against the cold window.
It was a quarter past eleven when they reached the room at the inn. Nannerl went straight to her bed. At least she had one to herself this time, and a little partition so that it was almost like having a room of her own. She lit a candle and got out her diary. She had to write. It was the only way to get rid of the ache.
June 13, 1763
Dear Diary,
This was the worst night of my life. They didn’t let me play for the Elector. I want to pound pound pound on the clavier until all the strings break, and I want to throw Wolfi’s violin in the fire. I’m just not going to play these concerts anymore. That will show them. I want to run away, back to my friends in Salzburg who like me. Katherl—why has she not sent any letters with Herr Hagenauer? I’ve already sent one with Papa. Has she forgotten about me, so soon? I can still remember her laugh and her loud voice, the way she kneels and uses fancy language like an actor. She was going to help me with my symphony—I might as well throw that in the fire too. I’m trying to write the organ part and it seems impossible. I feel stupid and ugly and I hate the Baroness.
Good-bye.
Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart
Nannerl blew out the candle and dug her fingers into the sheets. Writing had helped a bit. The ache softened and finally came out of her throat in sobs. Gigantic sobs, the kind that made her whole body shake but also comforted, somehow. And then she felt a strong hand on her back moving over and over, in circles, in rhythm to her sobs. “Sh, Nannerl, sh,” Mama whispered and stroked her hair with strong fingers, over and over, until the sobs were quiet and Nannerl was asleep with Mama’s arms around her.
7
Sopherl
I wish the Elector would hurry and pay us,” said Papa. “Wolfi gave the most splendid concert on Monday night, and now it is already Saturday. We are scheduled to leave Munich and travel on, but we can’t without our much-deserved money! It is really most exasperating.” He stood up. “Perhaps today, at his lunch in town, the Elector will finally give us the money we need to pay for all of this!” He swept his arm around the room.
“Come, children, hurry and get ready,” Papa continued. “If we arrive early enough, we might even have the good fortune to sit at the Elector’s table.”
Nannerl dawdled over to the wardrobe. Mention of the Elector made her ache again as she had on Monday after the concert. She looked at her dresses. Who cared what she wore? She never wanted to speak to the Elector again, anyway. She chose her ugliest dress, the yellow one she had had since she was ten.
But she wished she had worn something nicer when they reached the grand house on Augusten Street. It looked like a palace. She and Wolfi strolled through the gardens beside fountains and flowers and around hedges trimmed to look like birds and animals. And inside! Nannerl had to hold Wolfi’s hand tight to keep him from running around the tables and grabbing food.
She had never seen such a feast: steaming platters of trout and chicken; tureens of soup and bowls of green asparagus, not the white kind they ate at home; platters piled high with melons, figs, grapes, apples, and pears; dishes with funny-looking noodles covered in crumbly cheese; boiled eggs cut open with stuffing inside; and cakes…cakes of every shape and color, cakes covered with cream and with chocolate, cakes with strawberries dipped in pudding, and Gugelhupf cakes as high as Mama’s wig!
Wolfi and Nannerl stood and stared, until Papa came up behind them and guided them over to the table where the Elector sat.
“I am honored to sit with the Wunderkindern from Salzburg,” said the Elector with a smile. Nannerl looked at her hands and remembered the concert. She wished they didn’t have to sit with him.
“Master Wolfgang, I was most amazed at your performance the other night. I, too, am a composer, but never would have thought it possible to improvise thirteen variations on a single theme! And in a concert!”
“And I have met you before, in your beautiful music.” Nannerl looked up quickly and saw the Elector’s dark eyes smiling straight at her. He suddenly looked so small, lost in his big chair, with all the people clustered around him. He was like Wolfi—you couldn’t be mad at him for long. “That meeting I shall never forget,” he continued. “I was very sorry not to have heard you the other night.” He glanced over at Papa.
The Elector was on her side! He hadn’t forgotten about her after all! Nannerl felt a tingling in her fingers and stabbed a strawberry triumphantly with her fork.
“This is my sister, Frau Maria Sophia, from Paris,” continued the Elector, turning to the woman beside him. “We call her Sopherl. Sopherl, meet Herr and Frau Mozart, and their two children, Wolfgang and Nannerl.”
Nannerl couldn’t help staring at Sopherl. She was much older than Mama, and not nearly as handsome. Her face looked pinched and pale, as if she’d been shut up in quiet rooms for a long time without fresh air. She didn’t smile but she wasn’t mean-looking either—her mouth stayed in a steady line that sometimes twitched ever so slightly but never opened to talk. Her silence was like those big pauses in a symphony, when all the notes and chattery scales that have been building up for so long stop suddenly—the quiet before a big thunderstorm, when the air is dark and full and you listen harder than ever because you don’t know what might burst from it.
Sopherl looked up from her plate to sip some wine and Nannerl caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were dark as her silence and held secrets, sad secrets from a time that had long ago passed.
“…and do you still play the violoncello, Elector?” Papa was asking as he lifted a forkful of steaming trout.
“Every night and every morning. I have never stopped playing. It has been a part of my life since I was a small boy. Sopherl and I used to have wonderful evenings of music at Nymphenburg.” He looked at his sister and she seemed almost to smile.
Sopherl had played music! Nannerl felt questions boiling inside her. One popped to the surface before she could stop it. “Sopherl, what instrument did you play?”
“Sh, Nannerl,” said Papa. She saw his flushed face and felt like crawling under the table. Someone whispered something about girls not knowing how to hold their tongues anymore, and didn’t she know the Elector’s sister never spoke in public?
But Sopherl’s mouth was partly open and she looked as if she might answer. Nannerl leaned forward in her chair, her heart thumping—maybe now Sopherl’s voice would break the pause and unravel her secrets.
“My sister…” the Elector awkwardly cleared his voice, “doesn’t speak much outside of the family. But I can assure you, Nannerl, that she once played very well indeed.” He bent his head, intent on slicing his trout.
Then people resumed their chatter and Nannerl sat back in her chair and sighed. She wanted to tell the older woman that she hadn’t meant to embarrass her, that the question had just slipped out without permission. But Sopherl was looking the other way, listening to some ladies discuss the weather, her left hand clenched in a tight fist on the table.
Nannerl heard Papa whispering to Wolfi. “…and tell him we are departing early tomorrow morning!”
Wolfi kneeled on his chair to make himself higher. He cleared his throat. “Elector, do you realize that we are leaving ve
ry early tomorrow?” There was a small ripple of laughter. The Elector looked straight at Papa, not smiling. “I should have liked to have heard your little girl,” he said quietly.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Papa smiled, but it didn’t look as if he meant it. “Well, well, I suppose it does not matter too much if we stay on a few days longer, so Nannerl can play for you,” he said pleasantly. “When can we bring her to Nymphenburg Palace?”
The Elector scratched his head. “Hmmm…let’s see. On Monday there is hunting, and on Tuesday a French play. So, Wednesday. Yes, you may come to the palace on Wednesday morning, and I shall hear Nannerl play.” He looked at her and smiled.
Nannerl wanted to jump as high as the chandelier and swing on it until she was dizzy, then slip out the high window and fly through the sky for a while. The Elector wanted to hear her play, he wanted to hear her! She didn’t even mind that he had called her a little girl! She would show them! She would play until her fingers dropped off and then she would play some more. She couldn’t stay at this table any longer. She had to run!
“Mama, can Wolfi and I please be excused, to play outside?” Nannerl asked.
“Yes, but be careful of your dress,” said Mama.
“Hooray!” shouted Wolfi, hopping down from his chair. As they left, Nannerl turned and looked once more at Sopherl. She was looking back! Her mouth was straight, her eyes were still secret and sad, but her left fist—it was slowly opening, the long white fingers like petals curled slightly inward, as if Sopherl were offering a gift or beckoning her to come over. The shape of Sopherl’s hand reminded Nannerl of something and she couldn’t figure out what. She stood there puzzling over it until Wolfi grabbed her own hand and pulled her outside.
They danced in circles, around and around until they were both out of breath and fell down onto the grass. Nannerl moved up to the little bench, thinking about her dress. It was an ugly old thing, but she didn’t want to worry Mama with grass stains.
“Wolfi, isn’t it exciting about the Elector? I want to sing and fly like those birds on that fountain.”
“I’ve been listening to them,” said Wolfi. “They make their own songs, without any silly papers or notes. Listen…they sing them as they fly. I’m going to fly too.”
He jumped up on the bench, took a leap with his arms spread out and crashed onto the grass.
Nannerl giggled. “Oh, Wolfi,” she said and slipped off the bench to sit down beside him. Nannerl smelled roses as she sat with Wolfi on the grass. Then Mama called for them to leave.
Later that day, she took out her diary.
June 18, 1763
Dear Diary,
I will play at Nymphenburg after all! The Elector looked right at Papa, almost glaring, and told him he was sorry not to have heard me! I am carefully planning everything. I will wear my special good luck performance dress—not just a travel dress, as Mama wished, since we are to leave right after the concert. (After Papa pays the owner of this inn!) The only thing missing is what to play. I want to play something extra, something special, just for the Elector. I keep thinking about Sopherl, and wishing I could hear her voice.
Love,
Nannerl
Over the next few days, during the sightseeing excursions and meals at the inn, all the clavier pieces Nannerl knew kept running through her head as she tried to decide what to play. She was still thinking about it on Wednesday as she waited in the servants’ quarters at Nymphenburg. She would start with the Johann Christian Bach sonata. After that…well, maybe for once she would stop always trying to make plans and just do what she felt. Papa was off somewhere, arranging a carriage for the next stage of the journey. She felt oddly calm, fingering the lace of her lucky performance dress. Her hands weren’t even clammy as she and Mama and Wolfi followed the footman to the ballroom.
Morning sunlight streamed in through the huge windows. Several ladies were seated at tables, drinking tea. There in his big chair was the Elector, smiling and pressing his fingers together. Nannerl curtsied and sat down at the clavier.
She began the sonata the way she had planned: slowly, as if she were walking through a dark forest with gigantic old trees. With every phrase she stroked an old tree trunk in a different way, feeling the rough bark. Then she came out into the open meadow, and the music was fast as she skipped and danced with the butterflies. Then came that long trill, the one she had practiced every morning for months in Salzburg until it was perfect. The time came to move onto the next section, but…what was happening? Were her right fingers stuck? She couldn’t leave the trill. It was as if her fingers were playing without her.
Then she heard the birds in the meadow. They wanted to trill the whole day and they didn’t care who heard them. Suddenly she felt like laughing. Her left hand started to play its own melody to go along with the trilling birds and soon everybody in the forest was following Nannerl’s left hand melody out of the meadow and onto a winding path through the high grass. It was full of unexpected turns. By the time she reached a lake, Nannerl was hot and dived into the water with all her clothes on—splash!
There was silence in the great ballroom. She looked at her hands, trembling above the keys. Her forehead was wet with sweat that trickled down to her nose. She felt weak, but it was a good kind of weak, as if she had just finished a race with Wolfi. She stood up in a kind of daze and curtsied. Nannerl didn’t dare look at the audience or the Elector, and followed Wolfi and Mama out of the room.
She wasn’t sure what she had done, whether to cry or dance. She looked at Wolfi. He was staring at her with wide eyes. “Nannerl, you sure gave old Johann Christian Bach a new turn! I didn’t think that trill would ever stop!” he said. “Wait till I tell Papa how magnificent you were!”
“Wolfi, please don’t tell Papa. Please?” begged Nannerl, trying to grab him as he ran off.
“Tell Papa what?” Nannerl heard the Elector’s cello voice coming up from behind. She turned around and he kneeled and took her hands. “How can I ever thank you for that wonderful gift? It reminded me of music played by my sister—many years ago. She took a similar risk, once,” he said. He looked at the floor for a moment, then looked up. “Nannerl, do you remember Sopherl, my sister, from the dinner?”
“Yes. Why?” asked Nannerl. Sopherl. Her silence and strange, sad eyes. The left hand opening toward her.
“She was here today, and heard you play and was very moved by your music. She asked me to tell you how much she enjoyed the concert…she even said she wished she might see you again.”
Nannerl felt something warm leap inside her throat. Sopherl had been in the audience, had walked with her through the forest and the high grass. And now she wanted to see her, not Wolfi or Mama or Papa, but her!
“I’ve been thinking,” continued the Elector. “Your family will be stopping in Paris in December, yes? Your papa hopes to get an invitation to play for the King and Queen at the Palace of Versailles?”
“Yes,” said Nannerl.
“Sopherl lives in Paris. I can feel it, way down somewhere in my bones, that you and she can help each other and will need each other. Sopherl has not had an easy time…will you visit her when you’re there?”
“But why is Sopherl unhappy?” Nannerl asked.
“Poor Sopherl…it’s, it’s not something a child would be able to understand…” said the Elector. “But please believe me, Sopherl would be happy to see you. Please, see my sister.”
Nannerl nodded solemnly.
“I knew you would understand,” he said, handing her the carefully written address. Then he took out a small velvet bag with a little gold drawstring, and placed it in her palm. It felt heavy and she almost dropped it.
“Please deliver that to your papa,” he said. “Nannerl, will you promise to come and play for me again?”
“I promise,” she said, curtsying and turning to leave.
“Ple
ase don’t forget about Sopherl!” he called after her.
“Never!” she called back.
The coins in the little bag jingled as she ran.
8
The Mannheim Orchestra
Nannerl unfolded the piece of paper she had hidden in her diary and traced her finger along the outline of the Elector’s writing.
Frau Maria Sophia Wenzel
No. 68 rue François
Paris, France
How would she ever find Sopherl? She would have to ask Mama and Papa for help…unless she could sneak off at night and find the address! She remembered Wasserburg and smiled to herself. But Paris? Nannerl shivered. It was about fifty times as big as Wasserburg!
“Nannerl, can I write in your diary?” asked Wolfi, rubbing his eyes and stretching. He had been sleeping on her shoulder as the carriage bumped along.
Nannerl crushed the address into her fist and closed her diary. She took a deep breath. “Wolfi,” she said, trying to sound patient and calm. Papa was watching them with his squirmy smile. “It was my birthday present, remember? Would you like it if I used…your violin? Would you?”
“No, but that’s not a real example, because you can’t play violin anyway,” said Wolfi, squirming in the seat and scratching his arm. Nannerl turned and looked at a passing vineyard.
“Come, come, children,” said Papa. “The carriage is small enough without quarrels. Nannerl, what would be the harm in Wolfi writing a few lines? There are plenty of pages! And it would be a good educational experience for him to write some of his observations, as you are doing.”
“But it’s mine…the things I write are—”
“That’s enough, Nannerl,” interrupted Papa in a low voice. “You will share it with Wolfi and that’s that.”
The Mozart Girl Page 5