by Nancy Moser
I couldn’t imagine Mama sharing that bit of information, but I was not totally surprised it was known. Little remained unknown in Salzburg. “He hopes to be reimbursed. And we hope Wolfie will soon start receiving a salary to go along with his title of Konzertmeister.”
“He hasn’t received any pay for that?”
“None.”
She spit on her finger and rubbed at a stain on her skirt. “‘Tis logical, I suppose. After all, the men in your family haven’t exactly been around to do the work.”
“But they are promoting the archbishop and Salzburg on their travels. Everyone knows of their roots-and the archbishop’s patronage.”
Frau Hensler shook her head. “Perhaps daily work means more than a few good words said in faraway places”
It was a point I’d thought of myself. But just as I began to answer, Herr Hensler came in the door with a load of wood. “Hilda! There’s-” He saw me and nodded. “Griisse Gott, Nannerl.”
“What’s got you huffing and puffing so?” his wife asked.
“There’s news! Archbishop Schrattenbach is dead!”
I put a hand to my chest, feeling as if my heart had stopped. “But Papa just arrived home.”
Herr Hensler looked confused. I did not feel inclined to explain but stood and made my good-byes.
“But the bread for your father …” Frau Hensler said.
Upheaval and chaos. Those were the conditions that reigned upon our family for the three months after Archbishop Schrattenbach’s death on December 16, 1771. Papa had trouble forgiving His Grace for waiting until he and Wolfie had returned home. “If only he’d had the courtesy to die while we were away, we might have stayed longer in Milan and secured a position.”
Mama chastised him for saying such a thing, but we all knew it to be the truth. Yet Papa did concede-in an attitude more private-that it was good they were home because all of Salzburg was in an uproar over who would be our next prince archbishop, and beyond that was the underlying question of what the new ruler would do about his court musicians. Would Papa finally get the promotion to full Kapellmeister?
While Wolfie worked on two commissioned operas that Papa had arranged for him to write (one for Milan and one for Venice), Papa bustled about town, smiling the smile, talking the talk, bowing the bow. Though he was charming to everyone else, at home he was testy, always after me to practice. “Your fingers have grown stiff, Nannerl.”
He was right, of course. I had slacked off during their second trip to Italy. For what was the point of honing my skills when no one of import would ever hear them? And yet … I had not given up the music. I could never do that. It was as much a part of me as was air, drawn in and let out. Over and over…
Actually, practicing did provide solace. If I played loudly enough I could overlay the music upon my parents’ discussions about the future. It’s not that I wasn’t interested-for until I married, Papa’s future impacted my future-but their talk drained me and made me long for the simpler times when Mama and I had the house to ourselves and led less dramatic lives.
Hmm. What a hypocrite I was. Complaining of the mediocrity of life when the men were away, yet complaining of the commotion they brought with them when they were home.
In truth, most of the time, even my practice had to be postponed because Wolfie needed the keyboard for his composing. And so I found it best to make myself scarce by spending time with Katherl and my other friends. I also tried to make new friends-new male friends. I was twenty now, and though Joseph Schiedenhofen had not married as yet, I had backed away from any hint of flirting with him as a defense against a broken heart.
One day in mid-March, I had plans to go shooting and was just gathering my air gun when Mama came back from the market, her face flushed.
“They’ve chosen!” she said. “The name is going to be announced from the palace balcony at noon.”
The shooting was forgotten-as was Wolfie’s opera, as was all else.
This, this, could change everything.
A crowd gathered in the square in front of the Residenz Palace. Papa pushed our way toward the front. Some people looked peeved at him, but others let us through. Once settled, he placed Wolfie in front of him, his hands on his shoulders. At sixteen, Wolfie was still short in stature and looked years younger. The crowd was abuzz with conjecture. There were many possibilities, some good for our family, some bad.
Finally the door opened and an official came onto the balcony. The crowd quieted. “I am pleased to announce that the new prince archbishop of Salzburg, assuming the sacred throne of St. Rupert, is … Count Hieronymus Franz de Paula Joseph Colloredo, canon of Salzburg and prince-bishop of Gurk.”
No. This couldn’t be!
I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. The entire crowd stood in stunned silence. Why would they choose Colloredo, who only graced us with his presence every couple of years, who held himself up as better than Salzburg, who was cold, aloof, and often rude?
The official’s face was perplexed. He had obviously expected cheering and applause instead of this low murmuring.
The street-level doors opened and the archbishop’s attendants appeared, all dressed in their finest robes. They were going to lead him in a procession to the cathedral for the celebration of the Te Deum.
The crowd parted, making way, but as the new archbishop emerged and began his short walk to the church, they still did not cheer. And even worse, their murmuring had turned to silence.
At first the archbishop waved to his constituents, but when they did not respond with adulation, he set his chin and walked through the crowd, his eyes straight ahead.
As soon as he and his attendants passed, the people filled in and began their chatter. I was eager to hear what Papa had to say.
“Is this a good thing or bad?” Wolfie asked him.
“He is definitely an arrogant one,” Papa said, moving us toward home. “But he does have an appreciation for music. He plays the violin quite well.”
Wolfie scrambled to keep up with Papa’s long gait. “But will we benefit?”
Papa put a hand on the back of Wolfie’s neck. “We will break through his haughtiness and find the favor we need. I promise.”
I felt a little better. Papa never broke his promises.
“But I was promised!” Papa banged his fist on the table, making his spoon jump out of his bowl, splattering soup.
Mama dabbed at the soup with a towel. “Promised, Leopold?”
He waved her comment away. “It was implied. As Vice Kapellmeister, it was logical when Lolli retired or died that I move up. Even mere children can understand the logic in that.” He spread an open hand across the table in our direction. Even at ages sixteen and just months away from twenty-one, it was clear we were “mere children.”
Yet Papa was right. His promotion was assumed because he’d been waiting so long. Lolli was a good Kapellmeister, so the only way Papa could attain his position was from Lolli’s death or retirement. And now that Lolli was seventy and his health was tenuous…
“Perhaps His Grace wants new blood?” Mama passed Papa a roll, which he tore in half, causing flakes of the outer crust to crumble to the table.
He let them lie. “At nearly twice the pay?”
We’d heard that the newly appointed Kapellmeister, Domenico Fischietti-who had the gall to be an Italian, and from Naples, a place Papa had found particularly dirty and distasteful-was going to be paid eight hundred florins for his services. Lou had received 456-plus perks and free lodging. And poor Papa was paid only 354 florins-with no perks. At least now that he was home again, he was getting paid. But to know his chances of promotion had faded, that perhaps he had achieved his pinnacle in Salzburg …
Papa tossed the bread in his soup and pushed the bowl away. “I’m fifty-two years old. I gave my life to our son and to further the glory of Salzburg throughout all of Europe, and this is the thanks I get. get?”
“I’ll get a position somewhere, Papa,” Wolfie said.
“Then I’ll support all of us.”
He looked so proud when he said it, I suddenly wondered if Papa would take offense.
Yet when Papa looked across the table at Wolfie, his eyes weren’t stern at all; in fact, his brow dipped a bit, and I sensed that only through great effort did he keep his expression under control. “You are a good son. You work very hard to bring this family honor and income.
Mama extended her hand to both of the men of the family and gave me a nod too. “We have many blessings. I pray that someday both of you will find a patron who appreciates who you are and what you do.”
After a moment of hesitation, Papa nodded. He slapped the table again, but this time his palm was flat. “In fact, enough with this tiresome intrigue. If they do not appreciate us here, we shall go elsewhere.”
Oh no. Not again.
“We’ve already been to Italy twice, Papa,” Wolfie said. “They don’t want-”
“Nonsense! Archduke Ferdinand did not tell us no.”
“But he did not offer us a position.”
Papa’s voice turned stern. “He did not tell us undefiably, undeniably no.”
I looked to Wolfie. He was the only one other than Papa who’d been a witness to what was truly said. He glanced at Mama, then at me. “No … I suppose not.”
Papa pulled his soup bowl close, retrieved a soggy piece of bread, and took a big bite. “Exactly! When we go to Milan in the fall for the production of your opera Lucio Silla-which will bring us even more favor-we will ask again. Surely, after the production of two operas in his fair city, he cannot refuse.”
But he could refuse. If I’d learned anything, it was that no one could force royalty to do anything they didn’t want to do.
Not even Papa.
Papa and Mama were out for the evening having dinner with friends, leaving Wolfie and me alone. It was a rare occasion when we had our apartment to ourselves, and I planned to make the best of it. I went to the kitchen and took up two pieces of stollen and some wine. An evening spent talking and enjoying each other’s company sounded perfect.
I walked into the workroom, my arms full. “Food for the prodigy! Refreshment for the-”
I stopped. Wolfie sat at the clavier, his head in his arms.
“What’s… ?”
He lifted his head to look at me. “Don’t call me that.”
I tried to remember my words. “Prodigy?”
“I’m sixteen. I’m not a prodigy anymore. I’m no one special.”
I set the food on a table, catching the bottle of wine as it rolled toward the edge. “You arc special. Just because you aren’t six doesn’t negate your talent.”
“But if I were six they would notice me, smile at me, love me.” He got up from the bench and began to pace. “As it is now, I’m just a short, ugly man with pox scars on my face.”
It was true he was not terribly handsome. Stunning looks were not my lot either. Our noses were too large and our eyes too wide set. I changed the subject. “I could wager that no one on the face of this earth has had multiple operas produced by age sixteen.” I pointed to the work on the desk and the clavier. “With two more in progress.
Wolfie stopped at the edge of the instrument and fingered the top page, making it come into line with the one behind it. “To produce on demand …” He looked at me. “Sometimes it’s difficult.”
I went to his side, linking my arm with his. “But you do it. Somehow this miracle happens and you do it. I often wonder where you get your ideas, one upon another.”
He strolled to the table, unstopped the wine, and poured two glasses. “When Papa and I were in Venice we stayed at a lodging that housed a lot of musicians. Above and below us were violinists, next to us was a singing teacher who gave lessons, and in the room opposite ours was an oboist. It was exhilarating to compose in such a place. I picked up many ideas.” He downed the wine, then poured some more. “But here in Salzburg …”
He didn’t have to elaborate.
“Papa is right,” he continued. “We can’t stay here. I must go elsewhere to get a position. One for myself and one for Papa.”
And none for me.
I was hesitant to bring this up, but … “Papa is old. To find two positions will be difficult.”
He set the glass down hard. “Which means that the financial future of this family falls on me!” He strode back to the keyboard and picked up some papers lying nearby. “This is the libretto for the opera-or part of it. The writer gets it to me in bits and pieces, and I am supposed to compose music for it. How can there be any consistency in that? And then we go to the town of the opera’s production to start rehearsal, and the violists don’t like their part, or the soprano complains that the runs are too difficult or not difficult enough to show off her voice.” He threw the pages into the air, letting them float to the floor. “It’s all about them. It’s never about the music.” His face was stricken. “It should be about the music!” He fell into my arms and rested his head against my shoulder. “I’m so tired, Nan. So many depend on me. How I wish Papa would have let you compose too. Then we could have worked together.” He pulled back to look at my face. “Wouldn’t that have been grand?”
What I really wanted to say was overpowered by what he needed to hear. “I would have liked that.”
Wolfie returned to the table and took a huge bite of stollen. Raisins and nuts fell to the floor. “I asked Papa why he didn’t let you compose.
My mouth went dry. “What did he say?”
“He said, `What would be the use? She’s a girl. It’s hard enough for a man to get his music noticed, much less a woman.”’
I sucked in a breath.
Wolfie was quick to my side. “Did I offend you? I didn’t mean
“No, no,” I said. “You have not said anything I didn’t know” I picked up my glass, wanting a diversion from my impending tears.
It didn’t work. I began to cry.
It was Wolfie’s turn to comfort me. “Shh. There, there, Horseface. Sometimes I envy you being female.”
I swiped the tears with a finger and snickered. “Why would you ever do that?”
“Because you don’t have to worry about finances every waking moment. You can go to parties, and go shooting, and-”
“And have absolutely no way to earn decent money on our own, making us totally dependent on men. Women have to marry in order to survive. Have to. And not just anyone will do. Our spouses must have means. It’s not fair.”
Wolfie scrunched up his nose. “I guess it’s tit for tat.” His eyes brightened and he took my hands, turning me in circles about the room. “I know a smashing solution to all our troubles! We’ll run away and you can wear breeches under your petticoats, and I’ll wear a corset under my waistcoat, and we’ll shave our hair and go live in the Kingdom of Back. Remember that?”
I did. When we were little, on our travels, he’d created an imaginary Kingdom of Back where there were no adults and we could do what we wanted. Our servant Sebastian had even made maps of it.
In our circling, my hip bumped into the table, making the pewter goblets tip over. So much for our kingdom.
Wolfie headed to the kitchen. “I’ll get a towel”
I righted the goblet and waited for him. Our frivolity had been fleeting —as were the games and wishes of our youth. They had no place in the here and now God had created us, male and female.
It was my unlucky fate to have been created the latter.
The music made Wolfie sick.
That was too strong a statement, yet essentially true. The pressure to create the music was the knife that Papa wielded. It may have been sheathed in love, but it still wielded a sharp edge that scraped away at my brother’s fortitude until he ended up in bed, completely drained.
One morning after Mama and the doctor left and I was on my way out of the room, Wolfie grabbed my arm. “Stay,” he whispered.
Mania paused at the door, “Nannerl? Come now. Leave your brother to rest.”
“In a minute, Mama.”
She eyed me, then Wolfie and, apparently satisfied it was a mutual choice, nodded and left us.
I took a seat beside the bed, managed a smile, and tugged at a lock of his hair. “So …” I’d let him fill in the silence.
He took a deep breath, though it was evident it took effort. “I can’t do it, Nan. Papa has had to tell Venice that I cannot give them an opera for carnival, the appointment with Archduke Ferd-face has never materialized, and even the job Papa tried to get me with a music publisher has cone to nothing.”
I knew of all these disappointments. “He’s asked too much of you.
Wolfie nodded, and I was relieved he made the admission. “Papa thinks the music comes from some magic place.”
I gasped in mock shock. “Are you saying it doesn’t?”
He didn’t smile but looked away, his head shaking back and forth. “I do have talent, but …” He sighed deeply.
I offered him a laugh. “Yes, I think you have a bit of that.”
He turned on his side, his arm under his pillow His eyes were glazed and rheumy, his skin yellow. “I have talent, but the composing takes work. I am learning, Nan. All the time learning from those who’ve composed before: Haydn, Gluck, Handel, Gassman … even Papa. I’m influenced by their work, learning from their mistakes, taking their successes and molding them to what’s in my head.”
“We know that.”
He suddenly grabbed my wrist roughly, his eyes wild. “No, no you don’t! I may have been a prodigy once, but even the majority of that involved being a performing monkey, rehashing what others had done.”
“But you used to improvise before an audience for hours.”
He looked at his hand on my wrist and suddenly let go as if he hadn’t realized the extent of his aggression. He laid his ink-stained fingers on my arm, making amends. “That was a game. A glamorous game I thought could continue. But this reality is far different from appeasing the ears of a few royals.” He leaned back on the pillow “As is said, I do have talent. Perhaps great talent. Perhaps I even tap into moments of the divine. But it’s work, Nan. Hard, hard work.” His eyes filled with tears as he rested his forearm across his forehead.