Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

  But it was not. Once we were both safely inside, with Papa still shivering from the late September air, I found it hard to look at him, to acknowledge the vulnerable and pathetic image he’d created with his run down the road. And so I was relieved when he walked past me and said, “I need to lie down.”

  I helped him to his bed and tucked him in, then returned to illy own. Sleep seemed the only acceptable alternative to a quiet, empty house.

  “This will not end well.”

  What had we done?

  I found my way toward accepting our situation before Papa did. For though I missed Mama and Wolfie, I began to bask in the knowledge that finally, after a lifetime of sharing my father’s attentions-or being ignored-I now had him all to myself. Wolfie had had his turn. Years of his turn. Now it was mine.

  And yet it proved awkward to be just the two of us. Mania and Wolfie had always been a shield between Papa and me, like two fences keeping father and daughter apart while still allowing us to see and speak to each other when needed. Now, with the fence dismantled, knowing there was no one else in the house to hear us when we spoke-except Therese, our cook, and she wasn’t much for talking or listening-the pressure to not disappoint each other was palpable.

  At least on my end. I’m not sure Papa felt any pressure in that regard. He was never one to pay much notice to his effect on others. To a lesser extent, Wolfie was the same. Once either man positioned a goal in their minds, the blinders rose and they saw only what they wanted to see, and did only what they determined needed to be done. Hang the world.

  I asked forgiveness for the sentiment. Not that I hadn’t heard such emotions repeated with even stronger language throughout my life. Our family was not one to mince words. And in truth, I wished I could have been more like Papa and Wolfie. I spent far too many moments analyzing my words and actions. What will happen if I… ? sped through ny thoughts many times daily. To my credit, I usually guessed correctly. But to my dismay, the question meant too much to me. Why could some people care little about their effect while I cared too much?

  Because God said so. It was the only answer that offered comfort. I’d heard it said God delighted in variety, so how could I argue with the Almighty if I didn’t find such variety easy to tolerate? Or understand?

  What I did find in the weeks that followed Mama and Wolfie’s departure was a father who sank into a deep melancholy. Although he was not confined to bed and got up every morning to make his way to work, as soon as he came home in the evening, it was all he could do to make polite conversation. On my side, it was exhausting trying to be merry in a desperate attempt to pull him out of it. Occasionally I even resented him for forcing me to be the strong one. I didn’t want to be strong. I wanted to wallow too-at least a little.

  But every time I worked myself up to tell him so, I’d catch sight of him staring out the window with a piece of Wolfie’s music on his lap like a second-best companion, and I remained silent, unable to add to his distress in order to share a bit of my own.

  On one evening, two weeks after Mama and Wolfie left, I couldn’t find him. I’d just finished mending the velvet in his favorite slippers and wanted to bring them to him as a surprise. But Papa was not in his bedchamber, nor in the music room. I carried a candle through the rest of the house, calling for him. Nothing. Therese had not seen him leave. Nor had I. I even checked the garden, though the evening air was full of bite and, considering his recent chest cold, I hoped beyond hope he was not there.

  He wasn’t. But where was he?

  Then, in passing the door to Wolfie’s room a second time, I heard a soft cough. The door was ajar, but the room was dark. I pushed the door open slowly and let the candle lead my way inside. Papa sat at Wolfie’s desk, his head in his arms, asleep. He stirred, perhaps awakened by the light. He looked over his shoulder at me. “Nannerl?”

  I held up his slippers. “I brought these for you. Your favorite, all mended.” My words seemed pathetic, needy, wrong. But they were all I had.

  He scooted the chair back and turned it to face me. He held out his hand to receive the slippers, but I said, “Let me do it.”

  I knelt before him, removed his shoes, and put them on. Right foot first….

  When I’d finished, he touched my cheek. I looked up at him and he smiled, and by the way the smile touched his eyes, I felt as if he was really seeing me for the first time since they’d left. “Don’t worry, dear girl. I’ll be the complacent, calm, and peaceable man that’s required. As the archbishop has instructed, I will endeavor to render good service to both the church, His Grace, and …” He sighed deeply. “And my family. And you, dear Nannerl. Mark my words, I will render good service to you too. I will do what I have to do.”

  His words were pitiful and full of sorrow. Not knowing what to say, I held my hand in place against his cheek. He leaned his forehead against mine.

  We held this position, skin to skin, mind to mind, until the candle snuffed itself out and left us in darkness.

  I loved petticoats, as did Mama. Just two months previous, we’d each had a new one made. But mine had not held up well, the lace tearing away easily, the seams ripping. I brought it back to Marta, the seamstress who’d made it, in order to complain of its lack of longevity and ask for repairs-free repairs, as per Papa’s direction.

  Marta pulled at the lace that had ripped from its ruffle. “You must have caught it on something.”

  “I assure you, I did not. I fear the stitches were not close enough together to hold it.” I showed her stitches that were too few per inch.

  She raised an eyebrow and moved her fingers along the ruffle to another torn area. “I hear your brother has left to seek his fortune.” She glanced at me, her smile sarcastic. “With your dear mama this time? How old is he now, fifteen?”

  She knew very well how old he was. She’d made him a new waistcoat for his twentyfirst birthday, the previous January. I ignored the jab. “My brother’s experience has far exceeded the needs of our humble town.”

  “Such is his oft-voiced opinion.” Another glance. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  I felt my face redden. I knew Wolfie and Papa had an awful habit of disparaging the musical opportunities of working for the archbishop’s court. They’d made it known they believed Salzburg would never be a city of high culture such as Vienna, Paris, or Milan. It was an opinion I shared-in private.

  Marta continued. “All those years when your family traveled and the old archbishop paid your father’s salary in his absence …” She shook her head. “His Grace was so patient. So kind”

  In comparison to the current archbishop, Colloredo, I agreed that his predecessor, Schrattenbach, had been a gem. I pointed to the lace in her hands. “I’d like the lace replaced. The quality … it didn’t last.”

  “It’s the quality you paid for.”

  “I’d like it repaired and replaced.” I positioned a rent seam in front of her. “Here too.”

  She shrugged and pretended to study the tear. “I heard that the archbishop instructed your brother to go to Italy and enroll in one of its conservatories-to get a real education.”

  This was a direct slap to our father. “He said no such thing.”

  Marta did not apologize but merely offered me another shrug. “Then for your brother to ask to be released from his position so he could travel some more …”

  “He did not ask to be released.” Not exactly. “He simply asked for a leave in order to travel. It’s the archbishop who took it too far and let him go. Wolfie was quite willing to stay and-”

  Marta removed her glasses and looked at me. “I suppose I will repair it. Though I do think it’s received hard wear, I am a woman of my word and good reputation.”

  The way she looked at me was as if she would like to add “Unlike some.”

  My thoughts reeled. Some of the things she said went against what Papa had told me about the break with the archbishop. But surely Papa wouldn’t have lied to me. To Mania.

  As Marta
wadded up the petticoat, I grabbed it away from her and shoved it in my satchel. “I’ll fix it myself,” I said. I strode toward the door and offered her one parting barb. “My stitches are quite fine and I take pride in my work.”

  “Pride.” She snickered. “That’s something your family is familiar with. Suit yourself. After all, I’m sure you can do it better than anyone else.”

  I strode home in double time, intent on confronting Papa, asking him to deny everything Marta had said. But once I reached the square in front of our house and saw him sitting on a bench alone, I could not. By the stoop of his shoulders, I could see he was still not himself. There was no vibrancy and power in his manner, just awkward surrender and brokenness as he meekly read a book, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Did knowing the whole truth really matter? If Papa thought it necessary to pad a few details to make himself feel better or to shield Mama and me from worry, so be it. My loyalty was not to the rumormongers of Salzburg but to my family.

  Sometimes I envied Wolfie’s escape.

  We lived for the letters. There were fewer than we would have liked, and the ones we did get were void of the details we craved. The truth was, Papa was the one who had the talent to write letters with detail. The rest of us got by with as few lines as possible. Yet, every day Papa looked forward to the post, and if there was nothing for us, he would brood and sulk.

  When we did get letters, beyond the lack of detail, there was a notable tone of frivolity and irresponsibility on Wolfie’s part. He spoke of going to the theater and sitting with the nobles in their boxes while Mama either sat in the general audience or remained back at the inn, alone. Although Mama was a homebody, considering she wasn’t at home, and the rooms they were staying in to conserve money were probably small, dank, and dark … it was not a pleasant image. She’d written that in order to save money, she only had the fire lit in the morning and evening when she was dressing. The thought of Mama cold and huddled … I wished Wolfie would have included her in more of his excursions. If he were traveling with Papa, the two of them would rarely have been apart.

  I remembered Wolfie’s opinion of Mama before they left. How he’d called her dull as a chair, and how he had nothing to say to her. Obviously this trait was not stopping him from socializing or making friends. But I feared for dear Mama. How lonely she must be. And what did she do in the room all day and evening? Mend clothes? Read? Look out the window? Worry about how Wolfie was behaving beyond her sight? After all, he was a vibrant, virile young man, and had revealed to me a burgeoning appetite for copious quantities of wine as well as the company of young ladies. Mama had enjoyed many friends here in Salzburg but did not take to strangers easily. When Papa and Wolfie had been traveling, they were of equal status and could divide up to make contacts. Not so with poor Mama.

  The news we’d received after they’d been gone only a little over two weeks was that Munich had proved unfruitful. Though Wolfie had been offered a position, Papa had told him it did not possess enough status and would not let him take it. “The archbishop will mock him if this is all he gets,” Papa said. A step down was not acceptable. The world must appreciate him for the genius he was.

  After Munich, Mama and Wolfie moved on to Augsburg, where Wolfie performed. Papa was disappointed there wasn’t a newspaper story about the performance that he could fling in the archbishop’s face. I was glad there wasn’t.

  They didn’t stay in Augsburg long and arrived in Mannheim just four days later. Along the way they did not stop at Dischingen or the abbey or Wallerstein-which incensed Papa. “Why don’t they follow the route I laid out for them? They have missed many opportunities!”

  “Perhaps the people you wanted them to visit weren’t home?” I suggested.

  Papa turned on me, his finger pointing. “Don’t defend them! They are acting without logic. I paved their way. I made the best choices for them. I borrowed money so they could go. I swallowed my pride to return to a job I hate. I’ve given up everything….” He withdrew his finger and turned away. “The least they could do is follow my directions and give us some proper details.” He moved to his desk. “Get me some paper. I have some things to tell our pitiful travelers.”

  I brought him paper and quill and started to edge out of the room to return to my ironing. But Papa called me back. “Stay. Listen to my words and learn from them.” He dipped the quill in the ink and began. “First,” he said after quickly writing the salutation, “it grieves me that you have chosen to ignore my directions regarding lucrative stops along your journey from Munich to Mannheim. Only you know what would cause you to be so thoughtless and unwise. But since you are now in Mannheim, please be quiet about your intentions so you do not make the other musicians jealous. Also, since the costs in Mannheim are notably higher than Munich, I assume you have found a private lodging. You must do whatever it takes to be frugal. The money I procured for your excursion must last until you have been victorious and must be supplemented with income from concerts given.” He glanced up at me. “I expect to have my investment repaid-with interest.”

  I found it hard to swallow I would not have liked to be under such pressure….

  He went back to writing. “Make sure you practice your Latin so no fault can be found with your sacred pieces, and continue your compositions, for they may prove to be the most lucrative way to cover your expenses. If you cannot find a proper copyist in Mannheim, send them home and Nannerl will do it for you. Do not let poachers get ahold of the copies and sell them for their own gain. The cost of a reliable copyist is an acceptable expense. If needed, we will find you the name of one with good reputation.” He nodded at me, and I nodded back. He had added to my to-do list.

  “Nannerl goes to mass every morning to pray for the state of your souls and for your safe journey. Wolfie, please behave and make your mother and me proud. Restraint, dear boy …” He took a fresh breath. “Above all, treasure each other, and keep safe.”

  “And write more often and with greater detail,” I added.

  Papa nodded, added the words, then said, “We send you a thousand kisses.”

  And a thousand and one admonitions.

  I prayed Wolfie would heed them.

  S E R E N A D E

  My fingers amazed me. The way they sped across the keys so swiftly, as if they had a life of their own. And the miracle of it all. My eyes saw the notes on the page, and somehow my fingers lived out what the eyes saw I’m sure my mind was involved, yet I never consciously thought, “That is a D flat. That is an E That is a trill.” The music seemed to bypass my mind and rush to a greedy partnership between eye and hand-for the ear’s pleasure.

  Odder still were the pieces I knew by heart. It was not as if my mind had copied a picture of the page. I did not see the notes in order to play them. In fact, I usually played best with my eyes-and my mind’s eye-closed. I dared not think much at all about the music and could even let my mind think of other things, like the food I wanted Therese to make that night for our company or what I should wear. At such times my fingers were alive and in charge. They were the part of my anatomy that knew the music, that remembered. This was profoundly evident when a mistake was made and the fingers came to a halt. At such times they weren’t sure what to do or how to begin again, for they had no page, no measure, no beat as reference. They only had a feeling, the indefinable, pulsing lifeblood that made the notes flow one to another. How could they recapture that life and flow again?

  Often, they climbed back to the top of the mountain from whence they could see their path. They started at the beginning, and tentatively gathered speed and confidence as they traveled down the music’s slope to a safe landing at the bot-

  “You are progressing well, Nannerl. The runs are even in their execution.”

  I reached the bottom of the run with a flat where there should have been a natural. My fingers pulled away from the keys as if embarrassed for being caught.

  “Continue,” Papa said.

  It had been year
s since he’d asked me to play. “On that piece?”

  He strode to the stack of music on the table and fingered through. “No. This one. I heard you play it last week, and you executed the trills incorrectly.” He brought me the music, a sonata by Haydn. He pointed to a measure containing a trill marking. “Play this for me.”

  I was oddly nervous but played it the way I had always played it.

  “No, no, you go on too long.” He nudged me over on the bench so he could demonstrate. “See? If the composer wants a trill, he will write it this way. But an embellishment is merely that.” He played two notes, the first barely there. “It should be a flip to the ear, like the vibrato of a voice, so the listener is pleased but isn’t sure why. You are making the notes bright red when they should be palest pink.”

  I nodded, truly understanding. I played it again.

  “Bravo!” Papa said with a clap. “You are a good student”

  We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, looking at each other. “I used to be your student, Papa.”

  His eyes held mine for a long moment before looking away. “We must go back to that. I have been preoccupied too long. It’s time you benefit from my knowledge. After all, you are here” He chuckled and smiled at me. “You are here and so am I. I have the time and you have the talent. It’s the perfect situation, yes?”

  Oh yes.

  After work one day, Papa sought me out as I painted some targets for our air-gun shooting. I was painting the trees for a mountain scene when he found me and said we were going out to dinner.

  “But why?”

  He kissed my cheek. “Can’t I take my favorite daughter to dinner?”

  “But Therese has made”

  He took the paintbrush out of my hand and dropped it in the glass of water with a soft p{Ilop. “We can have it for lunch tomorrow Come, Nannerl. We have something to celebrate”

  In spite of my prying, he would not say more. Yet just the fact he was in a good mood was reason to celebrate. Working for Archbishop Colloredo day after day had generally made grumpiness and melancholy our evening’s companion.