“I had expected to meet him in London, where he lives, not so soon, not in Paris. Well, well, we will definitely prepare for his arrival. When did you say he would come?”
Nannerl let the tailor finish with the measurements, then rushed over to where Papa and the old man stood.
Papa put a hand on Wolfi’s and Nannerl’s shoulders. “Children, this fine gentleman from Munich has just told us some wonderful news; Johann Christian Bach will arrive in Paris in—”
“—a few days,” finished the man. “I heard that he would most certainly be here in a few days.”
That night, Nannerl worked on the final movement of the symphony in her tiny room at the palace. She wanted to finish it tonight—then she’d have a day or two to make final changes before showing it to Johann Christian Bach.
She looked at the candlelight flickering on the walls, still unable to believe that she had her very own room. Of course, it adjoined the main apartment and was barely big enough to hold a bed. But still, it was separate, with a real door and not just a partition separating her from Mama and Papa and Wolfi. On their arrival, the kind Countess van Eyck had looked Nannerl over and said, “I have just the room for you,” and taken her up and shown her the room. No amount of protesting from Wolfi could change the fact that this room was hers.
Nannerl smiled to herself, hummed the violin part in the last movement, and crossed out what she had written before. She had slowly been changing her symphony, ever since that evening with the Kerpen family. She wanted to make it simpler and more elegant. How silly she had been, to make it so huge, so clumsy, with all those instruments and choirs! This way, she might be able to hear her symphony performed.
But it took a long time to take instruments out and polish the work until it gleamed like the silver in Mama’s cabinet at home. Nannerl sighed and rested her pen in the inkwell. Just one stretch left. It was a violin duet finale—she wanted the two melodies to bump against each other at first, then sink together into a rhythm and slowly climb a very grassy hill, then fly…
But how could she make the notes do that? She rocked back and forth in her chair and fiddled with her thumbs. She crossed her arms and uncrossed them. She sat very still for a few minutes with her eyes closed, listening to the melodies in her head. Then she dipped the pen and began to write, quickly, before the notes could slide away from her. Up, up a steep mountainside—she couldn’t look down for dizziness but she knew she was near the top. Step after step, note after note until finally she felt the sun on her face and the whole symphony shimmering and finished below her. She rested her head on her arms, waiting for the last note to dry.
12
An Unexpected Guest
Advent, Advent,
A little light burns.
First one, then two
Then three, then four
Then stands the Christ child
Before the door.
Nannerl and Wolfi sang while Mama lit the four candles on the Advent wreath. They had sung the song of the Christ child during the candle-lighting ever since Nannerl could remember. On the last Sunday in November, Mama would light the first candle and then for three more Sundays in December she would light another candle, to mark the weeks left to Christmas. Nannerl closed her eyes and smelled the pine and the melted wax and pretended that she was five or six, back in Salzburg when Grandma Pertl was alive, in the days before they spent Christmases away.
She opened her eyes and saw that Mama was smiling. “I have a surprise for your breakfast today,” Mama said, hiding something behind her back.
“Marzipan!” shouted Wolfi.
“Not for breakfast, silly,” said Nannerl. “Baumkuchen?”
Mama’s eyes twinkled and she shook her head, then placed a loaf of Christstollen bread on the table.
“Christstollen! Much better than marzipan any day!” said Wolfi. Nannerl’s mouth watered as she looked at the huge loaf smothered in melted butter and icing sugar. It really did look like the Christ child wrapped in swaddling clothes. As Mama began to cut it into sections, Nannerl saw that it was jammed with dried fruit and almonds. “Less than a week until Christmas Eve,” said Wolfi, taking a big forkful of bread. “I hope St. Nicholas brings us good things to eat!”
“I hope he brings us an invitation to play at the King’s palace at Versailles,” said Papa, frowning and sipping his coffee. In the past weeks, ever since the article had come out, Wolfi and Nannerl had given seven concerts in Paris. But they still waited for an invitation to play at the most important concert: the concert at the Palace of Versailles on Christmas Day. “Well, at least Johann Christian Bach is in the city and will visit us,” Papa continued. “I expect him in three days, on December 22.”
Nannerl’s heart raced. Three days! Months ago, in Salzburg, when Papa had first mentioned Johann Christian Bach, Nannerl had been hoping that she as well as Wolfi would be able to see him. She had been wanting to show him her work for so long, and he would help her to get it published and played—after all, he was a real composer. Of course, Papa was only thinking of Wolfi. But maybe Herr Bach would be a kind man, and if she asked very nicely, he might look at her work as well as Wolfi’s.
In the days that followed, Mama and the Countess van Eyck kept Nannerl busy in the kitchen. The Countess’ French cook didn’t know how to make German Christmas treats and the Countess was determined to celebrate the holiday the way she had when she was a girl in Salzburg. Nannerl loved the warm, spicy smell of the kitchen. On the day before the expected visit from Herr Bach, she sat slicing a roll of Pfeffernüsse dough into squares to make tiny, spicy cookies, thinking about the composer and wondering if he would really listen to her symphony. A loud knock sounded through the kitchen. Mama and the Countess had gone to the sitting room for afternoon coffee and Nannerl was alone. She wiped her hands on her skirt and jumped up to answer. No one important would knock at the back kitchen door. She opened it to a huge man with big gray eyebrows furrowed into what seemed a permanent frown.
“I’m looking for Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the young prodigy of Salzburg, and his father Herr Leopold Mozart. Are they at home?” he demanded in a gruff voice.
Nannerl tried to speak but her throat was so tight that she just stared. She was sure this was Johann Christian Bach. She had seen his portrait in the hall of the Salzburg court.
“Well, speak up,” he said, taking out his watch. “I haven’t got all day to stand here and stare at little girls with flour all over their skirts! Are the father and son at home or not?”
Nannerl found her voice, partly because she was angry that the man had been so rude.
“My father, Herr Mozart, was not expecting you until tomorrow,” she said in her most dignified voice. “Please follow me and I will show you to the upper chambers.”
Papa and Wolfi were sitting at the clavier. They turned at the sound of footsteps, and as soon as Papa saw the composer his cheeks grew red and he jumped up with his hand extended. “Greetings, Herr Bach,” he said. “I am afraid I was expecting you tomorrow.”
“Never mind,” the composer said briskly. He nodded at Wolfi. “This must be the prodigy. Very well, then, I should like to see him alone, if possible. My time is quite limited.”
“Certainly,” said Papa, bowing and motioning for Nannerl to follow him.
“Papa,” whispered Nannerl. “May I please go to my room?”
Papa nodded and Nannerl ran to the door at the far end of her room. Once she was safely inside, she lay down on her stomach and propped her chin in her hands. Now what would she do? She hadn’t expected Papa to include her, but she had bargained on the composer being nice enough to look at her symphony. She had it all planned; as soon as he was finished working with Wolfi, she would quietly present him with her pages of music and ask politely if he could tell her what she could improve. Simple. But not now, not this rude man with the hard eyes.
&nbs
p; She looked at the pages of her symphony, sitting in a neat pile on the night table. The melodies were like good old friends to her now, like Katherl. She turned onto her back and hummed them softly, remembering the times when she had skipped walks or sightseeing excursions to bend over the clavier and compose. She remembered the clear sound Charlotte had made playing the melody from the third movement on the flute. She imagined the sound of the violin duet she had written in the finale and the way she had fought sleep in the last few days to finish it.
Something started to rise inside her. It started as a tiny stream, way in the bottom of her big toe, and slowly rose up through her legs and her chest until it seemed as huge as an ocean in her veins. It was something like anger, but no…it was more like…like the way she had felt that time when she had stood up before Papa to play the Eckhardt sonata at Schwetzingen Palace. Something had been bursting inside to get out and she just needed to step forward and let it out before anyone could stop her, before she lost her nerve.
Her symphony deserved to be heard. She would ask Johann Christian Bach to hear it. After all, that had been her original plan way back in Salzburg when she had first started to work on it. She got up from the bed and began to pace the small space. The sound of the clavier drifted in: fast sixteenth notes in the left hand and a soaring melody above them; Wolfi was improvising. She sat on the bed and then got up and looked out the window at the frozen garden and then paced some more. It seemed that she had been in the small room for hours and she wanted to get out.
She was just about to try writing in her diary when she heard a laugh. It was more of a low, gruff rumble than a laugh. Nannerl opened the door a crack and peeked out. Johann Christian Bach was smiling and Wolfi was sitting on his lap! They were playing a duet.
“My father, Johann Sebastian, used to take me on his knee and we would play duets exactly like this,” said Herr Bach as they played. They finished the grand finale and Wolfi hopped off the composer’s lap.
“I am grateful to have heard you today, Herr Mozart,” Herr Bach said in a reverent tone as he solemnly shook Wolfi’s hand. “I expect to see much more of you. I would like to discuss your future with your papa. Could you please run and get him?”
Wolfi ran off and the old man nodded and began to gather his things. Now was her chance. Nannerl took a deep breath and walked toward the clavier.
“Excuse me, Herr Bach,” she began in a small voice, holding out her symphony in front of her. “I’m Nannerl, Wolfi’s sister. I wondered if you…well, if you possibly had some time, I’ve written a symphony…”
There was a moment of silence. Then he began to laugh.
It started with a rumble and grew bigger until his big guffaws filled the room. Nannerl’s face grew hot and she bent her head to the floor.
“A symphony? So the little kitchen maid is composing a symphony? Well, well, I promise not to tell your papa if you give me a few of those delicious cookies I smelled when I first arrived. A symphony! Ha, ha, ha.” He glanced at his watch and quickly finished buttoning his coat. “Perhaps, someday, I will hear you perform one of my sonatas. I hear you are quite a precise little player. But today I really must run. There’s a grand concert at the hotel tonight and I am the guest of honor. Good day, my dear.” He gave her a little bow and swept out of the room.
Nannerl stood rooted to the floor. She felt like the statue in the Salzburg town square. She hoped that she would never have to move again. She didn’t want to eat Christstollen or hug Wolfi or lick icing sugar off her fingers or see a sunset ever again. She didn’t want to hear music anymore either, or play it, or roll in the grass and smell roses. A page of her symphony slowly fluttered from her hand to the floor. Another followed and then another, until the entire work lay in a messy heap at her feet. She heard footsteps on the stairs; light footsteps, taking two steps at a time. Wolfi’s footsteps. He came running into the room.
“Hey, Nannerl, where were you? Johann Christian Bach and I played some really great—”
“Stop it!” Nannerl shouted, covering her ears. “Just stop it! I hate you and I never want to see you again in my whole life!” She burst into tears, gathered up the pages in her arms, ran into her room, and slammed the door.
She sobbed until her head ached. Then suddenly, like the birds at five o’clock in the morning announcing the dawn, she knew that she had to see Sopherl. It had been over a month since they had arrived in Paris. She didn’t just want to have an adventure, as Charlotte had said. Right now, more than anything else in the world, Nannerl wanted someone to listen to her symphony. Sopherl would help her. To think that she had actually hoped Johann Christian Bach would help to get it published!
“Nannerl, come and help with supper.” Mama was calling from the kitchen. Nannerl’s head pounded as she got up from the bed. She straightened her dress and ran down to help Mama.
During supper, she and Wolfi didn’t look at each other or say a word, but Papa didn’t seem to notice anything different. He babbled on about the concert invitation to the Palace of Versailles that he had just received.
“We will leave for Versailles on December 24 and attend Christmas Eve Mass at the Royal Chapel. Then, on Christmas Day, my children will play for King Louis XV of France! At last, the invitation I have been waiting for. Wolfgang, Herr Bach was extremely impressed with you and recommended that I take you to Mass at the big cathedral tomorrow night. He thinks you should have exposure to the motet form and there is an excellent choir singing one there. I only wish I had thought of teaching you about the motet a long time ago.”
Nannerl ate her potatoes and red cabbage and said nothing. Then she quietly helped Mama to clean up the dishes and was about to run to her room when Papa stopped her. He smiled.
“In all the excitement over Versailles, I forgot to give you this,” he said, pulling out a thin envelope from behind his back.
“Katherl!” shouted Nannerl, forgetting for a moment about the horrible afternoon and Johann Christian Bach. “Thank you, Papa,” she said as she grabbed the letter and raced up the stairs to her room.
She tore it open and unfolded a thin piece of paper.
December 1, 1763
Dear Nannerl,
I am so very very sorry for not writing sooner.
Please forgive me? So many times I began a letter and then something would distract me or I wouldn’t be in quite the right mood and I would throw it onto a pile with all the other halfway finished letters.
Thank you ever so much for your letters. Your adventures sound wonderful! You must tell me about all the fashions of Paris. I have been busy helping Mama, but also something else. A theater group has been visiting Salzburg for the past two months and I often go to watch. How I would love to be a part of it! I know all of the players quite well now, and often do some acting with them, just for fun, at rehearsals.
You asked me to help you with the missing link of your symphony and I realize that although I made that vow in your room that day, I wouldn’t know where to begin to help with the musical part. All I can say is that you have to share your music! If you’re finished your symphony, you should perform it at your very next concert, and not bother about publishing and Johann Christian Bach and all that.
Who cares what they think? You just need to show what’s inside yourself. You need to show Nannerl to them, my friend Nannerl who is honest and kind and interesting. Anyway, I must go now. The Hagenauer family is coming for afternoon coffee!
Love, Katherl
PS Say hello to your mama and papa and pinch Wolfi on the cheek for me!
Nannerl slipped into her nightshirt and snuggled under the covers. Katherl was right. The most important thing now was to let this music inside of her out. Well, she had, in the symphony. But what good were a bunch of notes written on paper? Katherl had said to play it at her very next concert.Versailles. Charlotte had told her the whole Kerpen family would be there. Was it
too much of a dream to think that they could play it? Their orchestra could play it, now that she’d changed it so much.
She thought of Papa’s disapproval of her improvising and writing music and playing certain instruments. Johann Christian Bach’s laugh echoed loud and long in her head. Then the sound of her symphony took over. Maybe she really could get the Kerpens to play it. People might hate it and laugh as Herr Bach had done. Well, she would have to take the chance. And tomorrow, when Papa took Wolfi to Mass, she would visit Sopherl!
13
A Violin Lesson
Nannerl clutched her map and ran through the cold mist. She was pretty sure of where she was going. If only there weren’t so much darkness on either side of her and such a long, empty space between each pale street lamp. She finally reached one lamp and stopped to check the map. She was heading down a side street off the rue du Temple toward Nôtre Dame. She paused for a moment and heard the muted cathedral bells through the swirling mist. Papa and Wolfi would be there now, listening to the motet.
An hour earlier, after Wolfi and Papa had climbed into the carriage and left for Mass, Nannerl had pretended to write in her diary. But she had really been too nervous to do anything but sit. Then Mama had got up from her knitting and announced that she didn’t feel well and was going to retire early, and that Nannerl should also go to bed soon and not wait up for Wolfi and Papa. Nannerl couldn’t believe her luck—after all this waiting, she was finally alone! When she was sure Mama was asleep, she had grabbed her cape, shoved her symphony into one of Papa’s carrying cases, and run out of the palace through the back kitchen door before she had time to change her mind.
Now she was still running. Pounding hooves approached from behind and she turned and saw a carriage racing toward her. She ran faster. What if they stopped and asked her what she was doing? What if she were caught by strangers? But the carriage went by, leaving a fine spray of mud and the smell of horses and manure. She felt the mud on her face and coughed and ran on, slowing a bit because her lungs felt tight. Would she never get to Sopherl’s house? It seemed that she had been running on this dark street forever.
The Mozart Girl Page 9