Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

  He was correct, of course, but my discomfort was eclipsed by my desire-alas, even my need-to be away from family. To walk among strangers, where nothing was expected of me except to stay on my side of the street, was akin to taking a cure. It was a refreshment, and as I walked I felt my nerves ease back beneath my skin. When my lungs filled with deep breaths of tranquility, I realized how short and constrained my breathing had become of late, mimicking the jerks of the carriage or the hurry-hurry as Papa herded us toward our next performance.

  Since Brussels was such a large city, I blended in. I was interested in the wooden shoes. How awkward to walk on a surface that did not give way, and yet … the wood might have been a good buffer against the cobblestones. My leather shoes felt every stone, every juncture.

  I walked past the shops and stalls selling lace and tapestries, and saw interesting vegetables called Brussels sprouts. So many vendors plied their trade and called out to me as I passed: coopers, fowlers, thatchers, bakers, smiths. The ships that took their wares to faraway places came up the canals in the center of the city on their way to the sea. The sea. I had never seen the sea….

  Or sea gulls. When I first saw the white birds diving and soaring I had no name for them, but Mama told me what they were. Sea gulls. Nannerl from landlocked Salzburg was seeing a bird of the sea!

  A gothic cathedral loomed ahead. If Papa and Mama had been along, we would have gone inside. But I’d seen enough cathedrals, spent enough time in their cold halls. We’d already gone sightseeing at other churches and museums here. At one, Papa had stood transfixed in front of a Last Supper altarpiece by Dirk Bouts. His interest surprised me because I didn’t like the piece. At all. The disciples were too lean and stilted, the perspective odd. I much preferred the movement of the Bruegel paintings we’d seen at museums that captured the life of the people around me, eating, laughing, playing games. They told a story that continued, while the Bouts work only captured a moment that seemed to have no future.

  Papa would get after me for saying such a thing about a scene depicting Jesus, yet it’s not the subject I objected to but the cold way it was portrayed. Even at age twelve I was quite full of opinions. Taking after Papa, I suppose.

  I stopped a moment to check the address of the apothecary. A little dog sniffed at my feet and I bent down to pet him. I wanted a dog someday, someone to love me no matter what. The dog’s owner came near, a woman wearing an apron and cloth headdress. She smiled at me and spoke, but I could not understand her words. “Ich bin osterreichisch,” I said. I am Austrian.

  Her face went blank a moment; then she nodded, smiled, said a long sentence I imagined to be something like “Have a lovely day,” picked up the dog, and left me. I walked away with a spring to my step, which was odd because I hadn’t successfully conversed with her. All we understood of each other was that we were not the same. And yet … we had shared a moment. We’d connected: two females with a cute pup between us.

  I wished the woman could come to our concert at the Palace Musee when Prince Charles summoned us. I would have liked to share my music with her as she had shared her dog with me. For music was the true ambassador between people. It needed no common language. I was so blessed to be a part of music.

  Sometimes people asked if I was nervous performing before kings and queens. I didn’t have time to be nervous. There were too many things to do, too many things to think about. I was more nervous for Papa to hear and approve than to worry about the opinion of any emperor or king. Papa was the one who held my future in his hands. Of course, if the royalty did not approve, they would not pay well … but that brought me back to pleasing Papa.

  Sometimes I wondered why I cared so much. He was just a man. He would never do harm to me if he did disapprove. Yet it was his harsh or disappointed words I feared. Words. Just words. Absurd.

  Vest la vie.

  It was a new French phrase I’d learned. I also knew how to say hello, good-bye, thank you, please, and where is the water closet? Nannerl Mozart: girl of the world.

  I successfully completed the task at the apothecary (the apothecary spoke German), and I meandered back to the inn, feeling rejuvenated. Wolfie met me at the door carrying his ball-catcher toy. “Look, Nannerl, I can do it fifteen times without missing.” He proceeded to swing the ball on its string, catching it on the wooden spindle. It was his new favorite toy, and his wild gyrations as he attempted to catch the ball often made me want to rip it from his hands.

  But not today. For I’d been out in the world today. I’d been free.

  “Very good, Wolfie. I’m proud of you.”

  He stopped playing and looked at me, obviously suspicious.

  I took off my hat and cloak and hung them on the back of the door. Mama was in bed trying to get over her headache. I handed Papa the apothecary’s powder.

  “Your errand was uneventful?” he asked.

  “Completely,” I said. It was a lie. I made plans to repeat the experience when we reached Paris in mid-November.

  Walking alone in Paris. Could there be anything more exciting?

  I imagined there was. But for now … I was only a girl.

  But almost a woman. Soon to be a woman.

  Paris!

  A city without a wall surrounding it. A city without fortified gates. Beautiful vistas of parks, and chateaux dotting the greens. The capital of all France. Papa said, “The city will be ours, children. Ours!”

  He made me believe it. It was the stuff of fairy tales and dreams.

  We had a very special place to stay in Paris due to friends of friends. My family knew Sallerl Joly, who was a servant in the household of Count Arco, whose son-in-law, Count van Eyck, was allowing us to stay at his townhouse at the Bavarian embassy. His wife, Countess Maria Anna Felicitas, had been a friend of our family for years and made us very welcome and even equipped our room with a harpsichord-a much superior instrument to our portable keyboard. It was such a luxury. Papa implied there was no cost involved, though I wasn’t brave enough to ask him outright if our lodging was completely free. He was in a very good mood…. He was also especially pleased with the Paris Petite Poste, a citywide letter service that had deliveries four times a day. With its use we could find out if our patrons were at home without wasting the expense of a carriage ride.

  But then, a hitch. Just five days after our arrival in Paris, Isabella, the grown granddaughter of King Louis XV of France, the wife of our Archduke Joseph, who would be the next emperor of Austria, died of smallpox, soon after giving birth. A baby daughter also died. The French court was thrown into mourning, and all entertainment was suspended for a month. Papa grumbled about that, and the expense of buying us mourning outfits.

  But after a month, we were free to move forward-and Papa did so, quite quickly. Just one day after the mourning ended-on Christmas Eve-we were on our way to the palace of Versailles. It was thirty-two kilometers west of Paris and had once been a simple hunting lodge until the current king’s grandfather had made it grander than grand. I’d heard stories about the gold and wealth. Now I was going to see for myself.

  Even at first sight, Versailles made the palace at Schonbrunn seem small. We rode through golden gates into an immense courtyard surrounded on three sides by buildings that had their own wings going off in different directions. And the people. Everywhere people and animals. Some walking as if on a mission, and others meandering as if their only job was to be seen.

  “What are they all doing here, Papa?” I asked.

  “Seeking favor,” he said.

  “Like us?”

  He glanced in my direction as if I’d said something wrong. “We have been invited. We have not come here on false hope, wanting something for nothing, as have most of these. We have something to give to the king and queen-your talent.”

  I sat straighter in the carriage. I had something to offer the king and queen. I was somebody.

  Wolfie jumped onto his knees and pointed out the window of the carriage. “Look at that pig run!”
He giggled, sat down, then pushed a finger against his nose, making a snout. “A pig digging in a wig.” He oinked.

  “Behave yourself,” Mama said.

  The carriage came to a halt. It was time to see our lodgingswe had secured a place to stay at the An Cormier. However, unlike our room at the van Eycks’, this lodging was not free.

  Not free at all. We moved in and soon found everything to be very expensive. Food was pricey, and we were very glad the December days were warm as summer, for every log of wood cost five sous. In his next letter home, Papa even asked Herr Hagenauer to write smaller and on lighter-weight paper, as the recipient of each letteras well as the sender-had to pay according to its weight and size and shape.

  Papa’s first words about Versailles never left me as I moved through the massive palace: most of the people here were seeking favor from the king. Did they seek a title? Land? A pardon for a family member? A job? Had some come because they’d been summoned for an indiscretion? Yet I imagined such negative matters were attended to more swiftly (and discreetly) than those of a more positive nature. How tiring it would be to be a king and spend your day granting audience to an endless line of people.

  Yet I heard Papa tell Mama that the king was most concerned with hunting and liaisons. He glanced at me when he said this, and I pretended not to know what he meant, but I did. I’d heard such talk before. Many rulers had mistresses, and this king was no better. Papa implied Louis had more than one-and one particular mistress was even treated like a queen. Madame Pompadour. She’d been at Versailles for twenty years. I wished I could ask Mama about her, but that was awkward. So … I hoped to find a friend, one who might know the gossip.

  I shouldn’t have wanted to know about such things.

  But I did.

  We were presented at court more than once. Walking from one grand room to the next made my neck hurt from looking up at the painted ceilings and the crystal chandeliers. There was one room called the Hall of Mirrors that had seventeen (Wolfie and I counted them) huge mirrors that matched the arched windows across the room. There was so much gold in the statues and the candelabrassome taller than Papa-that it couldn’t possibly be real, could it? Surely the riches of heaven couldn’t match this palace. Yet Papa did a lot of shaking his head at the opulence. He said the bulk of France’s wealth was divided amongst a hundred persons. That didn’t sound very fair. If I were French, it would make me angry.

  The extravagant appearance of the people who attended our concerts competed with the architecture. The women’s dresses were made of yards and yards of silk and brocade and were very wide, forcing the women to walk sideways through many of the doorways. The dresses were edged with metal lace that glistened. There were three or four layers of lace at the elbow, and matching silk shoes with jeweled buckles. The men’s fashions were just as lavish, with matching suits adorned by wide cuffs, vests heavy with trim, and shirts ruffled at both the neck and wrist.

  Then there were the wigs. Why everyone wanted to have gray or white hair, I wasn’t sure, but they did. Even Wolfie and I had wigs that had to be powdered. I liked the lavender-scented powder, but the whole process made quite a mess. Wolfie’s and Papa’s wigs had rows of curls on the side, and the ponytail was contained in a velvet bag tied with a bow. Some women had birds and flowers in their wigs, or a funny little hat. My wig wasn’t as tall as some, but it did add to my height and forced me to hold my head erect. I wondered if the wig was wise. It made me look older, and the audiences seemed to like that we were so young. I was torn between wanting to look young to please them and wanting to look like a grown woman to please myself. I was nearly a woman. I was twelve and a half.

  As for the outdoor clothes worn at Versailles? When the warm December days turned, the courtiers wore fur-trimmed garments with neckties of fur. Instead of flowers they put fur in their hair and had fur armlets … fur everywhere. But the most ridiculous sight was a type of sword scabbard which was bound with fur-an excellent idea, so the sword wouldn’t catch cold?

  And yet, even amid all this elegance, the place smelled horrible. There were not enough latrines, and I actually saw a stately man relieving himself in the corner of a fine hall. They called us Germans barbarians? And mixed with the horrid stench and the smell of nervous perspiration that was imbedded in the heavy clothes was the heady smell of perfume. I had a little pocket sewn into my corset for a sachet (I loved the smell of orange), but the perfumes in the court were so strong I often found my eyes watering-though I wasn’t completely sure which odor was the culprit.

  We played concerts before the king and queen and all their children. The queen, Marie Leszczinska, was Polish and spoke German with us, even translating for the king. She was very fat, and Mama heard a rumor that one time she consumed one hundred eighty oysters with two quarts of beer in one sitting. She smiled a lot, and Wolfie chattered with her for a long time. She passed delicious food to us from her plate as we stood with the other courtiers behind the king and queen’s eating table.

  The young princesses loved us and gave us many hugs and kisses, cooing at us in French we did not understand. Even the queen embraced us. People paused in galleries and apartments to greet us, and the English and the Russian ambassadors sought us out. Papa said Wolfie bewitched almost everyone when he played the organ in the chapel.

  And the presents! Snuff boxes, writing cases, silver pens, and a toothpick case of solid gold. What were we to do with all the snuff boxes? And yet the gifts did make me feel special.

  There was one very important difference in the women at Versailles compared to the Austrian women I knew: they wore paint on their faces-as did some of the men. Lots and lots of face paint. Papa said it made even a naturally beautiful woman unbearable to the eyes of an honest German. I found it less detestable. I would have liked to try it, but Papa would never have allowed it.

  And then … we got invited by Madame Pompadour to play in her private apartments.

  The king’s mistress. Oh my.

  By that time I’d heard more about her. She’d been married when she’d come to court twenty years previous and had met King Louis at a masquerade ball. They’d had an affair and she became his mistress. She left her husband for him.

  But what if she hadn’t wanted to leave her husband? What if the husband hadn’t wanted her to go?

  I suppose neither one had had much choice.

  She was the king’s mistress for five years, but since then had been his confidante, even directing him on political matters. Some say she pushed him to get involved in that Seven Years’ War France and Austria had fought against England and Prussia-a war that had even carried over onto the soil of the Americas, where native Indians were involved. The whole thing had been resolved the previous February, but its effects were still seen. Yet it was odd … although we saw great poverty and hardship among the common people, the royalty at Versailles acted as if nothing had ever happened, as if extravagance was the key to their country’s recovery. Did they act that way because they wanted to forget anything unruly or unseemly?

  Papa said Madame Pompadour was a handsome woman, still good-looking, even if she was forty-five-about Mama’s age. She reminded him of our own empress Maria Theresa, especially in her eyes. She was tall and stately, stout, but very well proportioned. She was extremely dignified and very intelligent.

  I thought it odd Papa would agree for us to perform in her chambers. He and Mama had made it clear (at least to us, in private) that they did not approve of spouses being unfaithful. Yet it was as though there were two courts at Versailles. One belonging to the queen and the royal children, and the other to this mistress. People lived how they wished here. Life was very sensual. Mama and Papa had the opinion that if God was not especially gracious, the French state would suffer the fate of the former Persian Empire, which had prospered with trade and art but was broken by weak rulers and decadence. I did not know much of empires, but I wondered something of a more personal nature-wouldn’t the queen know of our performanc
e before Madame and be offended?

  Papa thought it wise to play both sides-at least at first. But he urged us to keep our ears open to what people were saying about us so we could parry to the other side if advantage was to be made.

  “A paradise!” Papa whispered as we entered Madame’s apartments. There was gold everywhere and painted furniture, heavy with carving. Her harpsichord was covered in gold leaf, lacquered, and painted in intricate detail. The rooms looked out on the gardens. On the wall were two life-sized portraits-one of herself and one of the king.

  She was very gracious and lifted Wolfie onto the bench of the harpsichord. Then an odd thing happened. We’d been so used to hugs and kisses, and Wolfie-being of a demonstrative nature anyway-embraced her. But she repelled his affection, as if she wanted none of it. Wolfie pouted a bit and did not play his best. Afterward, when we were back in our room, he exclaimed, “Who does she think she is, not wanting to kiss me? Why, the empress herself kissed me!”

  Mama consoled him, and Papa agreed it was rude. I remained quiet, for I never got as many hugs and kisses as my brother. Yet I did get praise. Just that day I’d heard Papa telling a gentleman, “My little girl plays the most difficult pieces with unbelievable precision and in such a manner that even fine musicians cannot conceal their jealousy.” I hoped he wasn’t just speaking as my father but out of true appreciation.

  In regard to the choice between Madame Pompadour’s court and the queen’s? Even though we played for both, Papa chose the queen’s. He cemented his choice by suggesting Wolfie dedicate two of the four sonatas he’d composed (and that we were having engraved) to the queen’s court. One was to Madame Victoire, the most shy of the queen’s daughters, and the second was dedicated to a lady-in-waiting who was the daughter of an influential duke. Papa also made sure the engravings noted that the composer was only seven years old. We looked forward to the furor that would cause.

  All these women of influence … We came to see that it was women who made things happen in Paris. They were the people who could help us-or hurt us. It was odd to see women have such power, but it was the Parisian way. Being a woman of influence … Perhaps one day I would end up in this place, as a great woman musician.