Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

But where to begin? I was not used to making up prayers: I said ones from my prayer book or those taught to me as a child. Occasionally I’d offered one to the Almighty, but I was not good at such things.

  I sat forward and took hold of the pew in front of me. I rested my forehead on my hands. Perhaps I shouldn’t be praying. My thoughts were far from pure.

  “Miss?”

  I sat back and saw an old man in a black coat standing in the aisle. He wore a white cravat like a priest, except there were two long bands hanging down upon his chest. Was he a pastor, a vicar, a preacher? I repeated the line I had learned here in England. “I speak no English.”

  He smiled. “Deutsch?”

  Relief poured over me. `7a.”

  “Ways ist los?” he asked.

  Much was the matter. But how much could I say to this man? He was not a priest. And yet his manner was kind, his eyes attentive.

  He spread a hand toward the pew. “May I sit?”

  I moved over, giving him room. He sank onto the pew with a groan as if his muscles complained. He spoke to me in German, his accent good enough to make me believe he had lived there once. “You come here with a problem?”

  I nodded.

  He smiled at me. “I listen well.” He pointed upward. “And so does He.”

  I nodded again and let a sentence loose. “Thou shalt not covet.”

  It was his turn to nod. “Ali. What do you covet?”

  This was harder to say. “My brother … I …” I drew in a fresh breath. “My brother receives more attention than I. We used to be equal, but now … he has risen above me.”

  “‘Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.”’

  “But I am talented too.”

  His left eyebrow rose. He did not know who I was, and I was not about to tell him. He put a hand on mine. “It’s hard seeing praise go to someone else. Make the Almighty proud, young miss. For `Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. “

  I had not heard these words before.

  The pastor took a deep breath. “And perhaps it is also difficult seeing him take too much pride in himself? Perhaps your brother makes you feel unworthy?”

  I shook my head vehemently. “But he doesn’t! He’s very gracious. He’s my best friend.”

  “Then who?”

  I stood. I did not want to delve further into my thoughts, even if they could be offered as prayer. “I must go,” I said.

  I fled the church and ran home to Mama, who loved me. To Wolfie, who encouraged me.

  And to Papa.

  E~271~ C1-2

  Although we did not reschedule our concert with the cellist Carlo Graziani, Papa did follow through and arrange our public debut for the day after the king’s birthday, on June fifth, when everyone would be back in town. If only the concert could have been in the winter, we might have gotten up to six hundred people, but as it was, there were over two hundred in attendance, and those, from the highest classes. Ambassadors and nobles. Papa arranged the whole thing, renting a hall down by St. James’ Park, getting music stands, two harpsichords, candles, and even hiring extra musicians. We had two singers, a violinist, and a cellist. Papa charged half a guinea admission. Even with all the expenses, we made a profit of ninety guineas, receiving nearly four times as much as we’d received playing at Buckingham House-and that fee had been generous.

  But even though I was glad about the income that caused Papa such happiness, what truly brought gladness to my heart was what he wrote to our dear friend Hagenauer. He read it aloud to all of us before sending it. “What it all amounts to is this, that my little girl, although she is only twelve years old, is one of the most skillful players in Europe, and that, in a word, my boy knows in this his eighth year what one would expect only from a man of forty.” He lowered the letter and peered at us over his glasses. “See what pride I feel?”

  I ran to his side and hugged him. Wolfie climbed onto his lap. “I love you, Papa,” I said.

  He cleared his throat and nodded. “Now, now Away, children. It’s bedtime.”

  As I let Mama herd us away, I looked back and caught Papa wiping his eyes.

  Papa loved London and called England an exceptional nation.

  We agreed with him and appreciated England for much more than its generosity. There was a sense of freedom here we had never experienced before, and a politeness between the few hundred Londoners who lived lavishly and those who did not.

  One day, right from our window, we saw thousands of workers filing past, all wearing the green apron of a weaver. They brandished black flags and called out their protests against some French-import policy that was costing them employment. Their sheer numbers were intimidating.

  Yet as we watched them Papa said, “How wonderful to see how these workers have the right to demonstrate and force a change for either better or worse. This is quite something, children. We would not see this back in Salzburg, where we are sometimes ruled according to whim, and certainly not in France, where mobs often rule. Freedom, children. Freedom should be cherished.”

  The reverence I heard in his voice … I rarely saw Papa in awe.

  Wolfie grabbed my handkerchief and started marching around the room, pretending to wave a flag. He shouted, “No imports! No imports!” until Mama shushed him.

  I would have liked to stay longer at the window To watch what had touched my father so …

  Things went along very well, but then, catastrophe. In July Papa became very in. We were scheduled to play a six o’clock concert at the Earl of Thanet’s home. Papa sent for a coach, but being a Sunday, there were none available, so he got a sedan chair and put Mama, Wolfie, and me into it. He followed us to Grosvenor Square on foot. But he couldn’t keep up, and it was a hot afternoon. When he arrived, he was sweating profusely. Then, when the evening air turned cool, he felt chilled and buttoned his cloth coat over his silk waistcoat. During the concert, with the windows open … By the time we were finished at eleven, Papa needed his own sedan chair to follow our own. Mama got him right to bed, and he tried to make light of it, saying it was likely a native complaint called a “cold.”

  But it wasn’t. A few days later, after trying to cure himself by perspiring, his throat was sorely inflamed, and a doctor was called. Many remedies were tried: bleeding, purging, and even opium. But Papa only got sicker. Mama railed over the foreign doctor. She’d brought some home remedies with her from Salzburg, but English apothecaries didn’t understand them, and so we were forced to use their remedies.

  Which didn’t work.

  Papa got sicker and sicker, and experienced stomach pains and issues with his nerves. This was no simple “cold,” or had at the very least become something worse through the treatments. The doctor had the audacity to say, “Mr. Mozart, it is obvious you are not a suitable subject to take such medicine.” With that, he left.

  Blaming Papa because the medicine didn’t work? We all stood around Papa’s bedside.

  “What shall we do now, Leopold?” Mama asked.

  With effort Papa swallowed. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Get Herr Sipurtini. His cousin is a doctor.”

  “The cellist Sipurtini? The Dutch Jew who lives here in London?”

  Papa said only one word: “Go.”

  Mama nodded. “Nannerl, take care of things here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  As the door closed, the silence was heavy. I was in charge? Wolfie looked at me expectantly. Don’t look at me, I don’t know what to do!

  Papa moaned. His eyes were closed and his forehead furrowed with pain.

  Wolfie carefully climbed onto the foot of the bed and curled up at Papa’s feet, one hand near but not touching him. He looked ready to cry. And so, without truly making the decision, I knelt beside Papa’s bed, leaned my head against the mattress, and prayed.

  It was all I could do.

  God hears prayers. And the new doctor was wise.

  Three weeks after getting sick, Papa was we
ll enough to be carried to St. James’ Park for some fresh air. A week after that, we all moved to lodging an hour outside of London, to Chelsea, where the air was of better quality. Papa contacted Herr Hagenauer and had twenty-two masses said for us at five different churches.

  Good came from the bad, for the view around Chelsea was beyond lovely. Wherever I turned I saw gardens and fine estates in the distance. It was calm there, and the air was fresh and invited me to take deep breaths that fueled me. And fueled Wolfie too. The place inspired Wolfie to compose his first symphony that included all the instruments, including trumpets and kettledrums. We were not allowed to touch the keyboard (so as not to disturb the quiet for Papa), so Wolfie and I sat side by side, and I would copy the symphony as he composed it. “Remind me to give the horn something worthwhile to do,” he’d say. It was a special time between us.

  Slowly Papa got better. But he was weak and didn’t feel like eating. It was disconcerting to see mighty Papa as fragile as a child.

  When we first moved to Chelsea, we’d had our food sent to us from an eating house, but it wasn’t very good. Not that we ever enjoyed English food. Although we liked the meat, the cider was unhealthy, and Papa didn’t like the taste of the alcoholic punch and rum. And we were in complete agreement about the horrid plum pudding. So, with Papa’s sickness, Mama took matters into her own hands and began cooking for us. It was nice to eat familiar foods again: potato soup, liver dumplings, and sauerbraten. So nice that Mama decided she would continue cooking for us while we remained in England. We had all lost weight.

  Papa despaired of how his sickness had impaired our concerts. Two months with no income; having to spend our savings to survive. Yet Papa said that if God would grant us good health, we need not worry about the guineas. Papa always worried about guineas, so for him to say that …

  Perhaps during his illness he and God had come to an agreement?

  Did Papa fear dying? One time I heard him and Mania whispering with trepidation about dying in a strange land, saying how the pension Mama could expect from the Salzburg court would be pitifully small. We would endure a difficult fate if Papa succumbed. So I prayed even harder that he would get completely well. And stay that way.

  One day, Papa declared himself well enough to start thinking of the future. He was ready to move back to London, where he promised to spare no effort to get us back into the concert scene. He vowed not to go back to Salzburg until he had hauled in a fine fish-a good catch of guineas. Several thousand were mentioned.

  The question of our age loomed large. Although Papa fudged our ages, if we did not take advantage of the opportunities in this rich nation now, we would be fools. Yet I no longer looked like a child, and even Wolfie-always small for his age-did not look seven anymore. I, especially, felt time running by too quickly. For too soon I would be of marriageable age. If I did not establish myself as a great artiste by then …

  If only time could stand still.

  But alas, even God could not grant such a request.

  After two months of sickness and silence, we were asked back to Buckingham House to play before the king and queen.

  We were late leaving the inn. Papa, Wolfie, and I stood at the curb, the carriage ready, waiting for Mama. Papa pulled out his pocket watch for the third time and looked upward toward our room. “What is she doing up there?” he asked.

  “I’ll go get her.” I ran upstairs, holding my heavy skirt and petticoat high. I found Mama trying to communicate with our English maid, Amanda. She was pointing to her hair, then pulling her hands apart. She wanted her ribbons. Probably her blue ones.

  Amanda skittered around nervously, holding up a comb, then a jeweled hair bauble.

  “I can’t make her understand!” Mama said. Amanda held up a hairpin. “Nein! Blauc Bander!”

  I stopped Amanda’s frenzy with a hand on her arm. “Blue ribbon,” I said.

  Amanda’s eyes widened with recognition, and she went to a box in the armoire and pulled out two.

  Mama fell to sitting on the bed. `7a schliclich!”

  Amanda set to work weaving the ribbons into Mama’s coif. I went to the window and called down to Papa. “We’ll be right down.” To expedite things, I handed Mama a mirror. “You really should learn English, Mama.”

  “I know English. `Good morrow, sir,”’ she said. “And I try to understand them, but the only Englishman I can understand is the night watchman calling the hours.”

  I was shocked. “Really?”

  She turned her voice into a watchman’s thick baritone: “Three o’clock and all is well!”

  I had never heard her parody anyone, and I must have stared because she suddenly started laughing. Amanda stopped her work to look at me, and then we both looked at Mama.

  “All is well!” Mama repeated, a baritone again.

  Amanda and I began to laugh. Then I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and remembered that all would not be well if Mama and I didn’t get downstairs. Now

  Mama heard it too because she stood and did the last tucking of the ribbon on her own. She opened the door at the same time Papa did and sidled past him to the stairs. “Good morrow, sir,” she said.

  Papa looked perplexed. I held in my laughter and followed her down.

  My mama, the wit.

  While we performed at Buckingham House, Wolfie sat on the lap of Christian Bach-the son of the late Johannes Sebastian Bach. He was the reigning master of music for the royal family now, having taken Handel’s place in their court. Such names were sovereign in the world of music, and there was my brother, sitting between Bach’s knees, taking turns on the harpsichord, improvising new music for hours.

  Although I enjoyed listening to the two of them, it was another evening of struggle for me. I started out standing near the instrument, the ever-attentive sister and compatriot, waiting for my turn. But as thirty minutes neared an hour, and as neither the audience’s attention (nor my brother’s or Master Bach’s enthusiasm) showed signs of waning, I slowly edged away from the harpsichord, skimmed the aisle by the wall, nodded slightly to the lords and ladies, and pulled away from the scene. I ended up in the adjoining room.

  Once there, I took a desperate breath. Had I been holding it as I’d made my escape?

  Two footmen guarded the door, and I saw their eyes flicker in my direction. I moved toward the window, needing air. And though the October breeze made me shiver, I embraced it as I would an elixir taken to cure an illness.

  For I was suffering. Yet my ailment was not something I cared to name. Only the Protestant reverend in the church knew of lily despicable condition.

  I looked down at my dress. Its color was appropriate, as it matched my heart.

  Envy, thy color is green.

  I heard a smattering of applause, accompanied by delighted laughter. But the music continued, unabated, fueled by the praise and by the joy the musicians found in the act of creation.

  Horses neighed and fidgeted in the courtyard below as drivers conversed and smoked tobacco in their long pipes. What if I got into one of those carriages and had them drive me away? Anywhere. Just away.

  “Nannerl?”

  I glanced behind me to find Mama exiting the room. I realized I was crying and quickly wiped my tears before facing her. I man aged a smile, but she would have none of it and came to me, her face concerned.

  “I looked up and saw you were gone. Are you ill?”

  “I’m fine.” I linked my arm through hers, leading her back toward the room.

  She stopped our progress. “Why did you leave?”

  I tried to think of an acceptable excuse. I nodded toward the window and put a hand at my corset. “I needed air, but I’m better now.

  She eyed me a moment. Obviously, I was a better actress than I thought, for after I endured a few seconds of her scrutiny, she continued our walk toward the door. “Your brother is doing well, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t want to know what I thought. No one did.

  As 1765 ca
me upon us, the chances for us to perform became fewer. Knowing after we left England there would be no more guineas, Papa took action. He began to advertise that prospective customers might find the family at home-at the inn-every day from twelve to two o’clock. Many showed up, and Papa charged an admittance fee. I enjoyed giving these impromptu concerts because the attendees had obviously gone out of their way to come. These were people from all segments of society. Some were familiar with music, and others … I will admit that both Wolfie and I played best when we had a knowledgeable audience, as their expertise fueled ours. To those who came to hear trifles, we gave trifles.

  In between visitors, Wolfie and I often played marbles. Once, when Wolfie was playing his violin, I saw a stray marble under someone’s chair. When Wolfie saw me looking in that direction, he spotted it too and mouthed to me, “It’s mine!” And sure enough, as soon as the audience moved to the door, he pounced on it and put it in his pocket. I truly think it was one of mine, but he was the swifter. Finders keepers.

  Losers weepers.

  Although Papa never said anything outright, as winter passed into the spring-in April we’d been in London a year-as he and Mama became engaged in many private talks (of which I heard snatches), and as he suffered many sleepless nights, I came to believe that he had been asked by the queen and king to take a permanent position in the English court. I had no proof, but where Papa had previously been complimentary and even envious of all things English, he suddenly saw only the negative. The weather was too variable and damp, the air too full of soot from thousands of chimneys, the houses too cold-oh, for the even warmth of a tile stove-and the diversity of its religions and the freedom of its classes now gave offense. It was as if he’d suddenly set his sights toward home and all things German.

  If this were true, it helped explain why we were not asked to perform again at Buckingham House. Had Papa truly rejected a royal offer of employment and thus given offense? I hoped his decision wasn’t because of Wolfie or me. For periodically we did whine about wanting to see our friends back in Salzburg, and we often egged each other on talking about the ecstasy of a good Austrian apricot torte. Surely Papa would not make such a significant decision because of our meager complaints?