Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

“People know how young you are.”

  He laughed sarcastically. “Of course they do. Papa’s made sure of that. And bragging about my youth and even shaving off years was fine then, but now … I must be seen as a man. An independent, vital, mature man of the world.”

  To look at him, there was no way people would think of him as being even as old as he was-which was nearly eighteen. He looked fourteen, perhaps fifteen. And his habit of flailing his arms when he talked, of bouncing on the balls of his feet when excited, of showing every emotion on his face like a child …

  He took two steps toward the doorway, then stopped. “I will tell Papa that the time has come for me to go off by myself.” He looked at the doorway, then back at me. “Yes?”

  His indecision and need for approval made him seem younger still.

  Papa’s voice sounded from another room. “Wolfgang? Where are you, boy? We have work to do.”

  Like a breath taken in, then released, he was gone to Papa. I did not doubt his desire to be free. I too felt the lure of independence. I was twenty-two. I should have been married. I should have had my own household, my own husband, my own life. To feel the draw to be elsewhere was one thing. But actually doing-Papa’s voice resounded again. “Nannerl?”

  “Coming, Papa.”

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  I set down Papa’s letter with a sigh.

  Mama looked up from her darning. “Are the opera rehearsals going badly?”

  “They are going better than expected.”

  “Then why the sigh, Nannerl?”

  I brought her the offending letter. “Papa offers yet another excuse why we can’t go to Munich to see the opera’s premiere. He says if we all leave Salzburg, it might appear as if we are thinking of moving away, perhaps seeking a position with the elector. The archbishop would not-”

  “The archbishop, the archbishop,” Mama said. “I grow weary of speculating on his reaction or action regarding our family’s business.”

  I was surprised by her tone. Mama was the one family member who encouraged peace at all costs. Yet we’d both looked forward to seeing Wolfie’s latest opera, Lafinta giardiniera-The Pretend Garden Girl. The premiere was tentatively set for the Munich pre-Lenten carnival season. Munich was only a two-day journey, and many of our Salzburg friends attended carnival there. We’d been left behind on the Italian journeys, as well as Papa and Wolfie’s trip to Vienna. This time … we were determined to go.

  But Papa continued to offer excuses for us to remain at home, the main one being that he and Wolfie had needed to go to Munich ahead of time, in December 1774, so Wolfie could write the arias to fit the singers’ voices. How would Mama and I get there at a later date? And since the men’s lodging was too small for our inclusion, where would we find lodging during this busiest time of Munich’s season?

  I didn’t know I didn’t care. Just so it happened.

  Mama finished reading the letter on her own. Her hand fell to her lap. “I’ll stay here.”

  “What?”

  “If I stay behind, Colloredo cannot imagine our defection from Salzburg.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Mama.”

  She set her darning aside and moved to the desk. She took up quill and paper.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m writing to your father telling him of my decision.”

  “But, Mama …”

  “Go watch for the postman. I’ll write as quickly as I can.”

  I wrapped a cloak around my shoulders and stepped outside onto the square, feeling guilty for her sacrifice.

  And elated.

  I was set free on the third of January, 1775. And though I knew a cage awaited my return, I took advantage of the time away from Salzburg and relished each moment. For myself. And for Mama, who’d sacrificed her own joy for the sake of the archbishop’s suspicions and Papa’s fears.

  Arrangements had been made for me to travel-free of chargewith our family friend Frau von Robing. Once in Munich, I stayed at a respectable boardinghouse, and brought with me some music Papa needed, many clothes for parties and sightseeing, and the costume of an Amazon for the masquerade ball. Papa had wanted me to wear the Salzburg national dress. But at age twenty-three, I made my own decision-at least in this. Actually, it worked out fine because Papa did not see the costume until the night of the ball, and by then it was too late for him to argue. It was a small victory that was enhanced by Wolfie’s whispered comment, “You look amazing, Horseface.”

  But in spite of the wonderful times of merriment in Munich, first and foremost, we were there for the opera. At home I’d read the libretto-which was a bit farfetched, with more disguises, mistaken identities, and deceptions than were easily grasped. I’d urged Wolfie to make changes, but at this stage in his operatic career, he’d thought it best to use what he’d been given. Would he not be given additional praise for making the mediocre great?

  And he did make it great. The entire theater was so crowded that many were turned away. After each aria there was a terrific noise: the clapping of hands and cries of “Viva Maestro!” I was so proud of him. Her Highness the electress and the dowager electress, who were sitting across from us, even called out “Bravo!” And afterward, Wolfie went to a room where the whole court passed by, and where he kissed the hand of the elector.

  The opera was performed a second time a week later, and then a third, but alas, that was all. There was much competition during the season. Over twenty operas were performed, so one could not be greedy-though Wolfie certainly deserved to be. An additional disappointment was that the archbishop did not time his visit to Munich to avail himself of the performance, though we received some consolation by knowing that others told him about the opera’s success. How the praise must have galled him….

  At first Papa had only planned for me to be in town twelve days, but as my ride back to Salzburg did not materialize (I had secretly hoped and even suspected it would not), I was allowed to stay and return with Papa and Wolfie on the sixth of March, two months after my arrival. Although I missed Mama’s presence during this extended visit, it was the first time since our Grand Tour that I’d truly felt a part of things again. Wolfie and I even performed together a few times. The applause was a soothing elixir and fuel to my dormant dream of being a performer. After all, nothing was happening on the husband-family front, so could God have been opening a door to a career?

  Yet all good things must come to an end. As did my season of freedom. Salzburg beckoned because the current Kapellmeister, Fischietti, was on the outs with the archbishop, and the larger question loomed: Would he be let go? Would there soon be an opening for Papa to move up?

  We sped home to place ourselves close to the action, Papa, full of hope, and Wolfie and I, full of deep reluctance. For we had both enjoyed our time in Munich, breathing free.

  The emotions were so strong that as our carriage neared the town of our birth I found my throat constricted and my chest heavy. And as the view of the road from Munich was swallowed up by familiar streets and buildings, I heard the door of my cage slam shut.

  Why do things never work out as we plan? I’d returned from Munich with hopes that the performing Mozart siblings would find life again. A voice. A European audience.

  It did not happen.

  Although we performed around Salzburg, we never managed to travel elsewhere, to get away, to breathe the air of freedom. The same people who’d always heard us play heard us again. And again. Until we were seen as talented but nothing that special.

  We’d also returned from Munich with hopes Papa would be promoted. When Kapellmeister Fischietti left to pursue his own composing (ahead of the end of his three-year contract), the archbishop asked Papa to assume some of the Kapellmeister duties until he made a decision about who would officially take the position. It was a good sign, and so Papa did as he was asked-for no additional pay.

  But then two years passed….

  Papa came in the house, slamming the door so hard the
crucifix on the wall fell to the ground.

  We all came running. “What’s wrong?” Mama asked.

  “He hired another Italian!”

  We all understood who “he” was. The archbishop Colloredo. Cocky, cantankerous, callous Colloredo.

  Mama and I led Papa to a chair, but he popped right out of it, his anger demanding movement.

  “Who, Papa? Who?” Wolfie asked.

  Papa’s lips curled back in a snarl. “Giacomo Rust.” He returned to the chair, closed his eyes, and perched his fingertips on his forehead. “I’ve been duped! Two years I’ve worked with no additional pay. Two years I’ve stayed here, afraid to leave and seek positions elsewhere. I formed myself into the most pliable, acquiescent employee, assuming His Grace would see and appreciate …” He leaned his head back against the chair’s cushion.

  Wolfie pointed toward the window, in the direction of the archbishop’s Residenz. “He should at least pay you the difference in salary. He owes you an additional five hundred florins-per year. He needs to make things right.” Wolfie had become much more forceful in his opinions since turning twenty-one and suffering his own employment inequities. For since Munich, there had been no job offers. A few commissions, much composition and growth in that regard, but no salaried position.

  Papa opened his eyes and smiled sarcastically. “Ah, but the new Kapellmeister gets paid even more than Fischietti. He gets a thousand florins a year.”

  We all gasped. Compared to Papa’s salary of three hundred fifty florins, it was a fortune.

  Mama moved beside his chair, her hand touching its back as if wanting to touch Papa in consolation but not sure if she should.

  Wolfie grabbed the sill of a window and leaned heavily upon it, his head shaking back and forth. “An Italian again. I find snobbery against one’s own kind unconscionable. Why can’t Germans appreciate Germans?”

  “We must take solace in the fact that even Christ was not appreciated in His hometown,” Mama said.

  Papa flipped a hand, “Oh, that’s just Jesus, don’t mind Him! Oh, that’s just Leopold, don’t mind him either. He’s just a native son who’s spent thirty-six years in service, a great portion to an ungrateful, unscrupulous, demanding, arrogant, ignorant-”

  Mama glanced toward the open windows. “Shh, dear one.”

  “Let him say it, Mama,” Wolfie said. He opened the window wider and leaned out to yell, “It’s not fair, I tell you! Not fair at all!”

  Mama stood between Papa and Wolfie, her mouth open but unspeaking, her arms extended toward both, as if she wanted to calm them but didn’t know how.

  I was of no help. For I was angry too and would have liked to open a second window to do my own yelling. How Papa was treated reflected on all of us. Wolfie was still on only half pay as the concertmaster but was at least getting commissions for his compositions. I was helping out as I could with Wolfie’s music and by giving lessons, but our main source of income continued to be Papa.

  His deep sigh broke through my thoughts. “I’m done,” he said. “I know of no more I can do.”

  Wolfie left the window and stood before him. “I can do more, Papa. I can leave this horrible place and try for another post. Years have passed since we last ventured out to look. We’ve been two good boys, at the court’s beck and call, bowing and accepting their scraps as dutiful peons. But now that they’ve humiliated you so … it’s time I leave. I can find a post, a great post that will support us all.”

  Papa leaned forward in his chair. “Perhaps it is time to leave again. We’ve been home for over two years. I shall petition for travel, and we can-”

  “No, Papa. Not us. Just me.”

  We all stared at Wolfie, though I’m sure the source of our dismay was different. Mama and Papa saw his declaration as the boast of a whippersnapper. I saw it as the boast of a brave brother-a boast I’d heard in private many times over the past years. I was proud of him for finally being bold.

  Papa pushed himself out of the chair. “Don’t be ridiculous. You, pack? You, handle money exchanges? You, handle transportation and lodging?”

  “I could. I’ve seen you-”

  “Seeing me do it all for you is not the same as you doing it for yourself.”

  “But if I never get to go by myself, how can I-?”

  Papa took the ends of Wolfie’s cravat and tied it correctly. “Look. You can’t even dress yourself.”

  “I am at home, Papa. I was composing. It doesn’t matter if my cravat isn’t-”

  Papa snapped his fingers at Mama. “Get me some clean paper and a fresh quill. I have to write a petition for travel.”

  During this exchange, my mind had hovered over Papa’s use of the word we in regard to travel. He hadn’t said to Wolfie “You and I,” he’d said “we.” I wanted to ask Papa to clarify, yet I was afraid to do so. I didn’t want to hear another no.

  Blessedly, Mama did it for me. “We are all going, then?” she asked from the doorway.

  Papa blinked twice, as if the question surprised him. “Of course not. The expense. No, no. You and Nannerl will stay here.”

  I looked at Mama. She looked at me. I silently begged her to stand fast, insist we travel as a family. For though I had been allowed to hear Wolfie’s opera performed in Munich, that had been over two years ago. We’d all been home since then, Papa tied to his work as the interim Kapellmeister, and the rest of us stuck in Salzburg because he was stuck.

  Yet in spite of my wishes, Mama only nodded at Papa’s words and left the room. She accepted her fate. If there was going to be any rebellion, it would have to come from me.

  Papa was at his desk, mumbling to himself, verbally creating the words he would soon put on paper. I moved beside the desk, facing him. He was so mentally entrenched in his words that he did not even look up.

  “Papa?”

  His head whipped in my direction, his brow tight. “Not now, Nannerl. I have important work to do.”

  “I know, but I would like to reaffirm what Mama asked. I would like to go along. I’ve been helping Wolfie, and I can give lessons anywhere, and Mama could help with the packing and the lodging and-”

  He put a hand on mine. “My answer now is the answer I gave when you both wanted to leave before. If we all leave, the archbishop will guess that we are searching for a position. If just the two of us go, we can mask the travel by saying it’s in regard to a commission. Besides, I can’t afford to pay for our home here as well as the on-the-road lodging for four people. It’s not feasible, Nannerl. Not at all. You and Mama must remain here.”

  Like good little girls who had no say in anything.

  The archbishop might have been unfair, but so was Papa.

  Six months later I found Wolfie bent over a paper, writing with a painstaking hand instead of his usual vibrant flourish.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He finished the word and sat back, taking with him the breath he had been holding. “I am copying a very important letter to the archbishop.”

  “You’re writing a letter to him?”

  He pointed at the sheet beside him. “Papa wrote it. I’m just copying it and will sign it as my own.” He lifted the paper, studying it as if it were a piece of art. “Papa is intent on getting the archbishop to let me leave so I can pursue another position.”

  “But Papa’s already asked,” I said. “He petitioned the archbishop for an increase in your salary and for leave.” During the past months our household had been consumed with petitions. Unsuccessful petitions.

  “You know Papa. He won’t stop asking until he gets the answer he wants. At one point the archbishop said I could go, but he quickly reneged.” He pointed the quill at me. “But since he said it once, Papa is hoping with a little cajoling from me …” He gave me his most charming smile, “Me, His Grace’s most faithful composer and clavier player extraordinaire.”

  Wolfie seemed confident, but I wasn’t so sure. I knew how angry Papa got when Wolfie or I pressed him with the same
question over and over. Our actions often brought punishment.

  “Read it for me,” Wolfie said, handing it to me. “Make sure I didn’t spell anything wrong.”

  The paper read: Most Gracious Sovereign Prince and Lord! Parents take pains to enable their children to earn their own bread, and this they owe both to their own interest and to that of the State. The more talent that children have received from God, the greater is the obligation to make use thereof in order to ameliorate their own and their parents’ circumstances, to assist their parents, and to take care of their own advancement and fortune. The Gospel teaches us to use our talents in this way. May Your Serene Highness graciously permit me, therefore, to beg most submissively to be released from service.

  I looked up. “Released from service? You’re quitting?”

  Wolfie shrugged, but the way he looked away spoke of his uncertainty. “Papa says there is no other way. The archbishop will not release us, so I must ask to be released. My income of one hundred twentyfive florins can surely be found elsewhere.” His eyes met mine. “It must be found elsewhere.”

  I looked back at the petition and wondered about the tone. I wasn’t sure His Grace would take the biblical lesson kindly. It was almost as if Papa was admonishing him. “But perhaps this is a bit ..

  “Arrogant? Overstepping our bounds?”

  “You see it too?”

  “I do.”

  “Then maybe we should bring it to Papa and-”

  Wolfie laughed. “Would you like to bring it to Papa?”

  I handed him the page. He angled it to finish and dipped his quill. “We have to trust Papa, Nannerl. He’s taken care of everything so far, yes?”

  So far. Yes.

  During the time between presenting Wolfie’s petition and receiving an answer, a strained hopefulness hovered over our home, as if by the sheer act of our wills everything would turn out fine. If all went well, the archbishop would release Wolfie from his position and give his blessings. Wolfie was giddy about the idea of traveling alone, but I found it hard to believe Papa would let him go. Yet what choice would we have? There needed to be sonic regular money coming in, and that meant Papa had to stay. Yet I still suspected Papa had an alternate plan, that somehow he would find a way to also get travel leave. Papa had ways. Amazing ways.