The Mozart Girl

by Barbara Nickel

  Mama’s mouth was set in a straight line—it didn’t look as if she would come to the rescue. Nannerl couldn’t let go of the diary. She gripped one of the pages, hard, as if she might tear it out and throw it onto the floor of the carriage.

  Papa cleared his throat, a warning signal, but before he could get really angry Nannerl flipped to the very last page and slapped the book into Wolfi’s hand. She folded her arms and jerked her head toward the window. She wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t. But she kept thinking about her birthday party…Papa lighting her candle…the new diary and the way they’d all gathered around her. She pulled herself in closer to the window. If only she could kick this carriage open and run away from them, far out into the yellow fields and hills.

  Wolfi was wiggling with excitement. “I’m going to write in the language of the country we visit,” he announced. “Now I’ll write in German, but when we get to the Netherlands—Dutch, and in Paris—French.”

  Nannerl tightened her arms against her chest. That had been her idea, hers! She just hadn’t told everyone, like Wolfi. No one must see what she had written! From now on, whenever Wolfi used her diary, she would watch very closely. As soon as he was finished, she would take it back. Not fair. She unfolded her arms and scratched the words into a fold of her dress. Not fair.

  “Are we almost in Ludwigsburg?” Mama asked. “I do hope the Duke will give us an invitation to play.”

  Papa frowned and turned a few pages in his book. “There’s talk that Herr Jommelli, his Italian music director, doesn’t think much of Germans. Well, once he hears about Wolfi I’m sure that will change.”

  Nannerl turned from the window and shifted in her seat. What was Katherl doing right now? Practicing the clavier? She wished she had her own clavier! She had finally figured out the organ part for her symphony, but she wanted to hear it played, even if it wasn’t on the real organ.

  They came to a stop in front of a small toll house. Nannerl took her diary from Wolfi and motioned for him to follow her out of the carriage. She looked to make sure that no one was listening. “Wolfi, you must promise never, ever to read this part of the diary.” She took the pages she had written between her thumb and index finger. “You can use the back, but that’s it. Please promise.”

  “Of course, silly,” he said, looking at her with wide blue eyes. But behind his gaze, Nannerl saw mischief. She would have to watch the diary like a cat. She tucked it in her pocket and raced over to watch Papa give the money for the toll.

  It was almost dark when they finally reached the Ludwigsburg inn. She woke up early the next morning and saw Papa reading a letter. She quickly got out of bed and dressed. “Papa,” she whispered, “Is it from Herr Hagenauer? Is there anything for me?”

  Papa shook his head.

  “I was hoping for something from Katherl. I still haven’t heard from her.” Nannerl sighed as she took the chair beside Papa. “Maybe she’s forgotten about me.”

  “I doubt that, Nannerl.” He finished reading the letter, then put it in his pocket and turned to her. “How would you like to go shopping with me, right now, before Mama and Wolfi wake up? There’s something very special that I want to buy.”

  “Of course, Papa.” Nannerl ran to get her cape. “What is it?”

  “It’s a secret.” He took her hand and together they went out into the quiet morning. Nannerl looked at her feet as she walked. She wasn’t quite sure what to say to Papa. It seemed like such a long time since she had been alone with him. Unless you counted that morning back in Salzburg when Wolfi had interrupted.

  “When I was a boy, we used to come to this town for concerts at the summer palace,” said Papa.

  “Did you play?”

  “No,” said Papa. “We were lucky if we got to sit in the back row. Now look at us—you and Wolfi might even play for the King and Queen of France!”

  They reached a bake shop and Papa bought two sticky sweet rolls for them to eat as they walked. Nannerl licked the icing from her fingers as she walked up the street, wishing that the morning would never end.

  Papa stopped in front of a store. The fine script on the sign read,

  Andreas Stein—Maker of Fine Organs and Claviers.

  Papa smiled and opened the door.

  A short man with thin gray hair sat behind the counter. “Nannerl, this is Herr Stein,” said Papa. “He is famous throughout Europe for his craft.”

  The little man blushed and smiled. “So, Herr Mozart, you have come for the—”

  “Sh!” said Papa, smiling. “Can you lead us to it?”

  Nannerl’s heart raced as she followed Papa and Herr Stein to the back room. A clavier stood alone in the middle of the room, small and fragile, with thin, spindly legs, like a colt. Nannerl ran her hand along the smooth wood. “Papa, is it for us?”

  Papa smiled and nodded. “Herr Stein has built it small enough to bring with us on our travels. Now you and Wolfi have no excuse not to practice! Why don’t you try it?”

  She sat down at the little instrument and began to play. She stroked the new keys over and over, not able to get enough of their smooth feel. She, not Wolfi, was the first to play it. Her symphony—she would be able to play the parts now, when everybody else was away, of course, but still—she knew she could finish it now, in time for Johann Christian Bach.

  But how would Papa pay for the clavier? He was always complaining about not having enough money. She stopped playing as Papa opened the Elector’s small velvet bag with the little gold drawstring. As he and Herr Stein began to count out the coins, she remembered the address in Paris the Elector had given to her along with the money. She turned back to the small instrument and played faster and harder, her head filling with plans.

  July 11, 1763

  Dear Diary,

  Wolfi has been playing on the new clavier for the last two hours and he won’t stop, even though I begged to have some practice time. And Papa won’t stop him, just sits and writes a letter to Herr Hagenauer.

  Papa is in a terrible humor, too. Wolfi and I weren’t invited to play for the Duke after all. Papa says that Herr Jommelli, the Duke’s Italian music director, doesn’t believe that a German child like Wolfi can be a genius.

  But now, even though we can’t play, we have to stay here in Ludwigsburg because the Duke took all the post horses and hired coachmen for a hunting trip. Papa has tried to round up some horses, but it looks like we’re stuck here for another day. There are soldiers everywhere in this town. Outside I can hear their drums and shouts, and the sound of their feet as they march.

  Papa says that we might see the famous Mannheim orchestra—I can hardly wait to hear the horns and the flutes.

  Wolfi is still playing. If only I could practice early, like I did in Salzburg. But I’d wake everyone in this small room. But I have a plan—tonight, when everybody else goes for the after-supper walk, I’ll say I’d rather practice and I’ll stay up here and work on my symphony.

  Good-bye,

  Nannerl

  That evening, as soon as the others were safely on their walk, Nannerl took out Wolfi’s violin and practiced a bit. She’d done this a few times in Salzburg, but now on the tour it was hard to find a time when he wasn’t around. She tried to hold the bow the way she’d seen Wolfi do so many times, then experimented with a few notes.

  After a few minutes she put the violin away and played the flute melody of her symphony on the little clavier. She frowned and scribbled out a note, put the quill pen down and played the line again. It sounded tight. Something was holding it back, like the corset squeezing her chest when she tried to outrun Wolfi. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the sound of the flute in the Salzburg orchestra, but instead she heard Katherl’s big voice when it filled a room and the way the birds had trilled in the garden at the Elector’s dinner. She grabbed the pen and scribbled again, giving the flute a long, high trill and mark
ing it forte. She smiled. Now the melody was winding easily around in her head and she just had to write fast enough to get it on the page.

  The clock in the Ludwigsburg town square struck seven times and Nannerl wrote faster. She wanted to play the finished flute part on the clavier before Mama and Papa and Wolfi came back. Her fingers began to ache as they translated the sound from her head into notes. There—she sketched the last half note with a flourish, propped the sheets of music on the ledge of the clavier, and began to play, listening closely to the flute melody and imagining the other instruments that would play at the same time.

  Wolfi suddenly burst into the room and Nannerl whisked the music under her crinoline; at least the scratchy petticoat was good for something. She started to play a difficult sonata by Johann Gottfried Eckhardt.

  “Papa found some horses after all!” Wolfi interrupted her practice and came over to the clavier. “We’re leaving tomorrow for Schwetzingen, the summer palace of Karl Theodor! Papa’s arranged a concert for us there, and the famous Mannheim orchestra will play in the same concert!”

  Papa smiled as he entered the room; he was in a good mood again. Mama pulled out the trunks and began to pack, then looked over at Nannerl.

  “Are you feeling all right, Nannerl? You look a little pale. Too bad you couldn’t join us for our walk,” she said.

  “I’m fine, Mama,” said Nannerl, fishing out the sheets of music from under her crinoline and shoving them into the book of sonatas by Eckhardt.

  “Then you can pack yours and Wolfi’s clothing trunks and help me with the bedding and the candles,” said Mama in a tired voice.

  “Yes, Mama,” said Nannerl. Wolfi began to play. It didn’t seem fair that she had to pack his trunk while he got to practice. She opened her wardrobe and saw her performance dress glowing rose in the dim evening light. She drew her finger over the satin, humming the tune of the flute.

  She was still humming it in her head the next day in the carriage as they drove to Schwetzingen. The summer palace was supposed to have beautiful gardens and woods, like Nymphenburg. Her heart beat harder when she thought about hearing the famous Mannheim orchestra.

  “I remember the players,” Papa said as they bumped along. “They are neither drinkers, nor gamblers, nor rascals. Both their conduct and their playing are most virtuous. And I shall never forget the famous flautist, Johann Baptist Wendling. I hear he is making quite a career of his brilliant flute playing, with frequent engagements in London and Paris.”

  “Papa, could I play the flute please?” asked Wolfi, craning his neck to look out the window. “I’d like to write some music for it. Maybe I could try Herr Wendling’s instrument?”

  “A splendid idea, Wolfi,” Papa nodded. “I’m sure he’d be thrilled to give you some instruction after the concert.”

  The flute melody that had been running through Nannerl’s head all day clenched up like a fist. Somehow, it didn’t seem like hers anymore. She had to find a place to unwind it, somehow, hear it playing as it had before. She was suddenly so tired of the faces of Mama and Papa and Wolfi. She wanted to be alone. But as soon as they reached the country inn on the outskirts of the Schwetzingen Palace, Wolfi grabbed her hand.

  “Race me to the fountain?”

  Nannerl shook her head.

  “C’mon, Nannerl. We’ve been cooped up in the carriage all day. Let’s explore!” He swept his arm around to the gardens, the palace off in the distance, the long driveway with its rows of trees.

  “Sorry, Wolfi. I’ll join you later.” Nannerl turned away and ran toward the inn. She went straight up to their room and dug through her trunk for her symphony, found the flute part and started to hum it, quiet enough so that Mama and Sebastian, unloading trunks, wouldn’t hear. She glanced out the window and saw Wolfi slowly making figure-eights around the trees, his head down, his hands in his pockets. Part of her wanted to go outside, take his hand, and explore, but she stayed right where she was.

  In the days that followed, Nannerl made a countdown to the concert on a little calendar she had made in her diary, imagining the sound of the flute. And she snatched all the time she could at the clavier, practicing extra hard. She wanted to play the Eckhardt sonata perfectly. Papa had said it was one of the most difficult works ever written. Well, it was the hardest thing she had ever played. One day she drilled the sixteenth note passage on the second page for four hours!

  Finally, the day of the concert came. The performance was to begin at five o’clock in the afternoon, to allow plenty of time for the Mannheim orchestra. Nannerl stepped from the carriage at the palace and remembered the concert at Nymphenburg. What if they ran out of time and she wasn’t allowed to play?

  They stepped inside and Nannerl heard the sound of clarinets and violins warming up in some distant room of the palace. She stopped and listened for the flute…yes, there it was, its clear sound rising above the other instruments.

  The music director of the court stood at the front. He twisted his hands and frowned, scanning his list for an opening performance. He looked up and Nannerl felt his gaze. Her hands tingled. The director cleared his throat.

  “Yes, well, on tonight’s gala concert, we are pleased to have with us a most unusually gifted pair of children—Wolfgang Amadeus and Maria Anna Mozart, from Salzburg. We shall begin with them.” He nodded and sat down. Papa cleared his throat and got ready to stand, but Nannerl stood and curtsied before he could say anything. The audience applauded and she looked over at Papa, his mouth open in surprise. She hadn’t really meant to jump up like that, but she was so anxious to play—and she was tired of always waiting and having to go second!

  It was definitely better, going first. Her hands hadn’t had time to go clammy and her mind was clear and uncluttered with the music of Wolfi or anybody else. She was glad she had done all that work on the second page of the Eckhardt sonata. The notes flew out from underneath her fingers like purplish-blue butterflies set free from a cage. The second movement was slower, like the horses when they got tired, or Wolfi’s slow footsteps making figure-eights around the trees. The third movement was a quick dance and Nannerl thought of the jumpy marionette puppets in the Salzburg town square on Saturday afternoons.

  She sat down, breathless and flushed. Her heart was beating hard and she felt like running around. She wiped her wet hands on the skirt of her dress while the huge applause rang loud and clear in her ears. Papa stood up and gave Wolfi a long-winded introduction, then put a long black cloth over his small hands so he couldn’t see the keyboard. Nannerl sighed and listened to Wolfi play.

  But they didn’t ask him for an encore this time. Everybody was probably too anxious to hear the Mannheim orchestra. Nannerl and Wolfi sat on the edges of their seats while the members of the orchestra came forward and sat down. The concertmaster remained standing and played an A on his violin to help the orchestra tune. Wolfi poked Nannerl in the ribs.

  “See Herr Wendling?” he whispered. “He’s the skinny bald one with the googly eyes in the second row, behind the violas. I hope he doesn’t play like a giraffe, because he looks like one!” Nannerl stifled a giggle and a hush fell over the audience as the conductor came forward. She looked at the rows of men with their gleaming instruments, poised at the edge of their chairs. They stared at the conductor, and when he gave the cue with his baton, they began to play.

  They played like the insides of clocks that Nannerl had seen at the repair shop: each part fitted to the other, the wheels and cogs ticking in perfect rhythm, blending into a whole, huge, sound. They played for two hours but to Nannerl it seemed like ten minutes. She didn’t want them to stop. She realized suddenly that Katherl had been right—her symphony was too big. How could she have thought that she needed so many violins? This orchestra only had twelve. She tried to memorize the way Herr Wendling’s flute embroidered the string sounds, winding around the cellos and violins with a tone like silky blue thread.
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  When the applause finally died down, Nannerl stayed stuck to her chair and braced herself for Papa’s lecture about little girls who stood up to play before they were even introduced. She turned around finally and noticed with relief that Papa was way at the back of the hall talking to an elderly gentleman. And of course Wolfi was already up at the front, showing Herr Wendling his little violin. Nannerl stood up and almost ran over to them.

  “…offff courssssse you can try it,” Herr Wendling was saying with a smile. “I’mmmmm honored to have such a fine musician play my flute.” He showed Wolfi how to blow.

  Nannerl hung back and watched. While Wolfi was experimenting with the flute, Herr Wendling suddenly noticed her, walked over, kneeled down, and took her hand to kiss it.

  “Fffffraulein Mozart, congratulations on an absssssolutely exquisite performance,” he stuttered. “Never before, not even in Pppparis or London, have I heard Eckhardt played with such accuracy, with such absolute precision and bbbbrilliance. I was truly moved by your performance.”

  Nannerl wanted to stare at the floor, but instead she forced herself to look him straight in the eye. “Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t want the sound of your flute to stop.”

  “Will you two play at the Christmas Day concert at the Palace of Versailles?” he asked.

  “Papa hopes that we will,” said Nannerl.

  “They will be lucky to hear you,” he said. “Now, I really must be going. I have kept my colleagues waiting again, I see. Good evening!”

  Papa came over to tell them it was time to go. Now Nannerl braced herself for the lecture. But Papa was wearing a grin.

  “Well, dear Nannerl, you certainly caused a sensation with your Eckhardt tonight. I was just talking to an acquaintance of that mean composer Schobert. And apparently, Schobert was in a complete rage of jealousy over your brilliant and precise execution of the difficult piece. He couldn’t conceal his jealousy, made quite a laughing stock of himself I hear,” Papa chuckled to himself and ruffled her hair. “Well, well, I am very proud of my little girl.”