The Mozart Girl

by Barbara Nickel

  Nannerl glowed with the praise, even though she was getting very tired of people always calling her a little girl. She wished she could be like Wolfi and just say, “Please don’t call me a little girl because I’m not one anymore.” But she couldn’t say that to Papa. Not yet.

  Nannerl felt like dancing. She took Wolfi’s hand and together they skipped out to the carriage, where Mama waited with their capes because the summer night was growing late and cold. She shivered and thought about Paris, Christmas, and the way her flute melody might float above these houses like wisps of smoke. And maybe, in Paris, she would see Sopherl.

  9

  Wolfi’s Fever Tune

  We should reach Coblenz in time for supper,” said the captain of the river boat, shielding his eyes as he held the wheel. The Mozarts had set sail down the Rhine River over a week ago, and Nannerl could hardly wait to see Coblenz. Papa had said it was an important port city because two rivers intersected there—the Rhine and the Mosel.

  She clutched the wooden rail and looked out at the stormy waves. The cold September wind slapped rain against her face as she peered up at dark castles that rose from the steep, rocky bank, their windows blinking like yellow eyes in the rain. Nannerl loved the wild rhythm of the waves. She wasn’t a bit seasick, not like Wolfi and Mama, who had been tossing and turning below for the past three days. The boat kept having to take refuge ashore because of strong winds.

  She looked up at the wall of rock and forest, remembering the stories Mama had told her about the Lorelei, the beautiful water nymph of the Rhine who sat combing her long yellow hair. Sailors would see her and be so distracted by her beauty that they would crash into the rocks and die. Nannerl looked down at the foamy waves, trying to catch the shiny flicker of the Lorelei’s tail or the glint of her flaxen hair. She began to hum the song that told the story.

  “Nannerl, you shouldn’t stay out so long in the rain or you’ll catch a chill,” Papa said as he hoisted himself up from the lower deck. “Wolfi’s seasickness is worse than ever, and now he’s caught a proper cold as well. It’s a good thing we’ve almost reached Coblenz. Now come down where it’s warm for the rest of the trip.”

  “But Papa,” argued Nannerl. “It’s only a short while until Coblenz, and I don’t feel a bit cold. Besides, the fresh air keeps me from being seasick.”

  “Well…maybe just a few minutes longer,” relented Papa, coming over to stand beside her and lean out over the railing.

  Nannerl smiled. It seemed that ever since that concert at Schwetzingen with the Mannheim orchestra, when she had played the difficult Eckhardt sonata and made that composer Schobert jealous, Papa had acted differently, somehow. At concerts, he had sometimes introduced her first. He seemed to listen to the things she said more often. And he didn’t say no as much.

  “Are you getting tired of traveling?” asked Papa.

  Nannerl thought of Katherl. “I miss Salzburg,” she said. “We left in June. Now it’s already September and I still haven’t heard from Katherl. Every time you open a letter from Herr Hagenauer, I wonder if there’ll be something for me from Katherl. But every time there’s nothing and I wonder if she’s made other friends and forgotten about me. And she promised…”

  “Have you written to her?” asked Papa.

  “Once.”

  “I think you could write her again. You just have to keep knocking, and if they don’t answer, you knock again. That’s how I deal with stingy dukes and electors who are reluctant to part with their money. I refuse to give up.”

  Nannerl resolved to write Katherl when they reached Coblenz. She had a lot to tell her—about Sopherl and the Mannheim Orchestra, about the new clavier, about her symphony.

  “Coblenz ahead!” shouted the captain. Nannerl squinted into the rain and saw the lights of the port. She stared at the high mansions that lined the riverbanks. “Do you know people here, Papa?”

  “There is the Baron Kerpen,” said Papa. “He is the French ambassador and I remember his family: seven sons and two daughters! And they all play one or two instruments!”

  “When can we visit them?” asked Nannerl, thinking about the two daughters. “Are the girls my age?”

  “No, they are all older than you and Wolfi,” said Papa. “Most of them don’t live at home anymore. But they often come to visit their father. I will never forget the beautiful singing voice of one of the daughters—I think her name is Charlotte.”

  Charlotte—Nannerl felt as if she wanted to say the name aloud a few times. It was delicious, like chocolates or music.

  The rain had stopped and Nannerl felt the nudge of the boat against the pier. She leaned over the railing and noticed some men in a boat fishing, others casting from the shore. She liked this port—the smells of fish and old wood, the people unloading boats or walking along the shore. There was a bustle of passengers in a hurry, and Papa went below in search of Mama and Wolfi and Sebastian and the trunks. Nannerl held onto the rail a little longer and looked out at the mist, not wanting to leave the boat and the way it made her feel like an explorer discovering new territory.

  “C’mon Nannerl, I’ll race you to the mail coach!” croaked Wolfi, coming up behind her and tugging at her sleeve. His face was chalk white and he had little dark circles under his eyes. Salome Musch dangled from his hand.

  “Papa says you have a cold. I don’t think you should run around. It’ll just get worse,” said Nannerl, trying to sound like Mama.

  “Never!” he said, coughing a few times. “Catch me if you can!” He took off down the long ramp and Nannerl ran after him, passing him at the toll booth and beating him to the carriage by a few steps.

  She was about to tease Wolfi about being a slowpoke, but then she noticed that he was having trouble breathing and she decided to keep quiet. She looked for Mama and Papa in the fog. She thought she could see their shapes. It was Mama’s voice that she heard first.

  “Wolfgang! Nannerl! Into the coach, both of you! Wolfgang, you’ll catch a worse chill than you already have if you stay out in this damp evening.”

  Nannerl stepped up behind her brother into the crowded coach. She squished herself between an old woman and the window. Papa and Sebastian sat across from her, and Wolfi snuggled up against Mama in the seat nearest to the door. A young woman with a high wig and stylish swishy silk skirts came in and sat across from Wolfi and Mama. Nannerl couldn’t help staring. She had flowers in her hat swept exactly in the latest fashion, as Katherl had described them. She looked at Wolfi and clucked her tongue. “And where are you from, my little man?” she asked Wolfi, as the coach began to roll forward.

  “I am from Salzburg,” croaked Wolfi importantly, sitting up straight and pulling his shoulders back.

  The woman laughed. “All the way from Salzburg—home of the famous Mozart children!”

  Wolfi looked insulted. “But I am a Mozart. I am Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart of Salzburg!”

  “Really! And where is your papa?” asked the woman, quickly looking around the crowded mail coach. Her eyes landed on Papa. “Herr Mozart!” she exclaimed. “Do you not remember me? I am Charlotte—”

  “Fraulein Charlotte Kerpen!” said Papa. “I didn’t recognize you at first. The last time I visited, you were still a girl. How is your dear papa?”

  Charlotte laughed. “Busy, as usual. It seems that being the French ambassador means you are not allowed to sleep much. But he’ll relax a bit for the next two weeks—we will all be home, all nine of us! There will be lots of music and food!” She had green eyes that reminded Nannerl of a lively minuet. “When can you come for a visit?”

  Papa looked at Wolfi. “I’m afraid our young Wolfgang is rather sick—”

  “Not really—” interrupted Wolfi, wiggling in his seat.

  “We will be sure to visit, as soon as our Wolfi is well,” announced Papa. “In the meantime, give my best regards to your papa and broth
ers and sister.”

  “Of course,” said Charlotte. She looked at Nannerl. “You must be Maria Anna. I look forward to hearing you play.”

  Nannerl wanted to say something funny to make her laugh, but she felt tongue-tied and shy and could barely manage to say thank you.

  Papa cleared his throat. “Here is our inn—come, children, gather your things.” He made a little bow to Charlotte. “It has been most pleasant, and I look forward to seeing you in a few days.”

  “Good evening, family Mozart!” said Charlotte with another laugh. She seemed to laugh after everything she said, and it made Nannerl want to laugh. While Papa and Sebastian organized the trunks, Nannerl looked up and saw Charlotte wave from the window as the coach pulled away.

  The Mozarts stayed in their room over the next days. Outside it stormed; inside, Wolfi coughed from under his thick quilt. Nannerl sat by the fire and started a long letter to Katherl.

  September 18, 1763

  Dear Katherl,

  I have so many things to tell you, I don’t know where to start. I miss you! The first thing is that Wolfi is sick and I’m terribly worried. Each cough seems longer and louder, and each time I hear it I think of all the times I’ve…I don’t know…well, all the times I wished I didn’t have him for a little brother. There, I’ve said it. But I know now that if anything happened to him…well, I can’t imagine what it would be like without him, that’s all.

  He still doesn’t know I’m writing a symphony! I wonder if you have any ideas for it? I wrote a flute part that I wish you could hear. Maybe you can imagine one, and when we see each other again we’ll match them together. Katherl, you were right about it being too big! How silly I was back in Salzburg, to think it needed two choirs and hundreds of violins! I am making it much smaller. And I’m changing it all the time. I still hope that Johann Christian Bach will—

  “Nannerl, Mama…” Wolfi called weakly and started a long coughing fit. Nannerl turned from her letter and rushed over to his bed.

  “Can I have some cold water?” he asked, pulling the quilt around him and curling up into a little ball. “I’m so hot.”

  Mama brought Wolfi some water and smoothed the damp curls away from his forehead. Papa stood over them and frowned. “Now his cough has turned to fever. We’ll have to spare the money and send for a doctor. Plus there’s lost money because he isn’t well enough to perform. I’ll take the servant and fetch a carriage.” He turned and stomped out of the room.

  Nannerl turned to Mama and swallowed hard. She had to ask. “Will he…will he get better?”

  “Of course,” Mama said quickly, but her mouth was still tight. “Don’t be silly. He just needs time to get over this temperature.” She put a damp cloth on his forehead and stifled a yawn. She’d sat up with Wolfi the night before.

  “Why don’t you lie down and I’ll look after him?” asked Nannerl.

  “Nonsense, I can—”

  “Please, Mama? I’d like to.”

  Mama stifled another yawn and shrugged. “I guess there’s no harm. But wake me if he gets worse.” She lay down and soon Nannerl could hear her steady breathing.

  There wasn’t much to do, really, except watch Wolfi toss and twist the blankets around himself. She forced herself to keep busy; otherwise she’d just worry. She put water on to boil and made him some coffee. She got a new cloth and soaked it in cold water.

  “Nannerl?” Wolfi whispered as she placed it on his forehead.

  “What is it? Do you want some more coffee?”

  “Nannerl, I feel so achy, and these horrible chills are laughing and dancing all over me. I need music…”

  He started to groan. Nannerl’s hand stiffened in mid-air. She just wanted to wake Mama, let Mama rub her back and say everything would be fine and Wolfi was better and the night and the rain and the fear lodged in her stomach would all go away. She got up to wake her.

  “Music, Nannerl…” Wolfi groaned.

  Nannerl sat down again. Music. That’s what she could do. She got Wolfi to lie on his stomach and rubbed his back in a rhythm, the way Mama rubbed hers. Then she started to hum, making up a tune to fit the slow rhythm. There was something of Salzburg in it—winter, a falling of snowflakes, gray cobblestones, the clop of a horse. She hummed in bits of Wolfi’s laughter, the feel of his hand in hers, the way she could hear his heart when they played duets, even the awful ache she felt in her throat when everyone clapped for him. It seemed that she had been humming for hours when Papa and the doctor finally burst into the room.

  “He was running a high fever—”

  “Sh, Papa!” she whispered. “It took a long time to get him to fall asleep!” Nannerl couldn’t believe the words that seemed to slip from her before she could stop them.

  “Nannerl! Watch your tongue! I’m sure the doctor—”

  “She’s right,” said the doctor, his hand on Wolfi’s forehead. “He’s finally sleeping, and his fever has dropped.” He opened up his bag and handed Papa a bottle of dark red medicine. “Give him some of this if there’s another fever. And this for the cough.” He handed Papa another bottle. “But lots of rest is what he needs the most. How long have you been away from home?”

  “Almost four months,” answered Papa.

  “Four months is a long time for young children to be on the road. Perhaps they need a vacation.” He paused for a moment, as if he meant to say more. “Well, goodnight.” He tipped his hat and left the room.

  “I couldn’t find anyone in Coblenz, had to search through the outskirts,” said Papa, but Nannerl could hardly hear him. She was falling asleep thinking of Wolfi’s fever tune, the one she would use in the slow second movement of her symphony.

  10

  The Kerpen Family Orchestra

  It took a week before they could finally bundle Wolfi up in blankets and travel to the Kerpen residence for a visit. The estate lay outside Coblenz, high on the banks of the Rhine, so Papa hired a private carriage. Nannerl felt her stomach grow tight with excitement as they pulled into the steep driveway. She heard music as soon as she stepped into the hall.

  “Good evening, Mozarts,” boomed Baron Kerpen as he shook Papa’s hand. “We are honored to receive such esteemed guests. Please come to the music room to meet my children. That is, if they’ll stop playing long enough to say hello. They’ve hardly stopped since they arrived.”

  Wolfi grabbed his violin and raced ahead.

  “Wolfgang, your health—” Mama tried to hold him back, but she was too late. He was off in search of the music. Nannerl followed close on his heels, trying not to slip on the shiny floor. They stopped short at the open door to the music room, where candlelight flickered on the faces of the family orchestra. The sound of the violins and cellos and clavier stirred warmth into the autumn night. Then Charlotte stood and her voice poured through the room like golden syrup. The song ended in a whisper. There was a pause, and then they began to play a loud and lively dance.

  Nannerl noticed Wolfi’s head moving in time to the music. Suddenly he grabbed his violin, walked right into the center of the circle, and began to improvise. His small fingers flew over the fingerboard of his violin; his head and body danced. The ending was fast and furious and wild, like the wind through the high trees outside.

  “Hooray!” shouted the Kerpen family when it was over, clapping and crowding around Wolfi.

  “Herr Mozart, can we keep your son?” laughed Charlotte, taking Wolfi’s hand. “We could make him a regular member!”

  Nannerl hung back in the shadows with Mama. She wanted to jump up and laugh in the center of the group, but instead she bowed her head, looked at the pattern on the floor, and listened. She wished she could be like Charlotte, who didn’t seem to care one bit about stuffy rules—being quiet and ladylike in the presence of strangers.

  “Allow me to introduce everyone,” said the Baron. “Franz, my elde
st son, and Wilhelm and Hugo. Anselm, Louis, Clara, Karl, and Philipp. And of course you’ve already met Charlotte.”

  “Here, Maria Anna, Frau Mozart, come sit in front of the fire,” said Charlotte, pulling up some chairs, while the others put away their instruments. Nannerl followed Mama across the room and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap, wishing that she was alone or with a friend like Katherl. A servant came around with steaming cups of cocoa and biscuits while the others took seats on chairs and on the floor before the fire.

  “How wonderful to have such a fine orchestra, all in one family,” said Papa. “Do you ever play in public, for money?”

  “No, we prefer just to play at home,” answered Charlotte. “Music is our way of speaking to each other and having fun. And how has your tour been? Did you get a chance to play for Maximilian the Third, the Elector of Bavaria?”

  “Yes, the Elector paid quite a handsome sum for the two concerts that Wolfi and Nannerl gave,” said Papa. “But we had to wait over a week to collect our earnings.”

  Charlotte frowned and scratched her head. She turned to the Baron. “Papa, wasn’t it the Elector’s sister, Frau Maria somebody, that lived near us, years ago, when we still lived in Paris?”

  Nannerl’s heart hammered in her ears and she curled her fingers tight around her cup. The Elector’s sister! Charlotte must mean Sopherl!

  The Baron slowly nodded and looked into the fire. “You have a good memory, Charlotte. How many years has it been since we lived in that old house on the rue François?”

  Charlotte sighed. “Paris…if only Papa hadn’t been transferred and we could live there still! It’s such an exciting city. I can hardly wait to visit Grandmama and Uncle there this Christmas. Now I remember the name of the Elector’s sister. Her name was Maria Sophia…Maria Sophia Wenzel. Remember, her husband was that stern, handsome military officer?”

  “But tell us, Papa,” said one of the boys, “Wasn’t there a story about her?”