Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

  The other highlight of my life was the music. The castrato Ceccarelli was present at our home many evenings, and his voice and ability on the violin inspired me to expand my own talent. I wrote a bass part to one of his solos that prompted Papa to an effusive compliment that ended with him encouraging me to write more.

  Papa encouraging me to compose? The world was indeed upside down.

  But it was another musical venture that piqued my interest. Count Czernin, who was a nephew of the archbishop, decided to start an amateur orchestra. Participants were from every social class, age, and walk of life. There were students, nobility, tradesmen, and some professional musicians (Papa among them). But there was only one woman considered good enough to be included.

  Me. I accompanied all the music on the keyboard. My talent was the glue that held them together. It was the first time in lily adult life that I felt fully appreciated. And I had Papa to thank. For it had been his attention and his lessons that had spurred me to move beyond the level of playing that I’d been lolling in for years into this advanced level where Papa could brag, “She plays as well as any Kapellmeister.”

  Occasionally there would be women soloists who would sing or play a keyboard solo, but I was the only female member of the orchestra.

  However, we were not a great orchestra. Some of the nobility who pushed their way onto the solo lineup were far from good, and Papa declared that new time signatures were often created. But I didn’t care. It was the first chance for me to show Salzburg my newly honed accompanying skills. If Wolfie failed in his quest to find a position good enough to support us, I was hopeful I could at least support myself. Added to this was the fact that some of our music pupils received a chance to perform, thus in a backhand way showcasing the skills of me and Papa as educators. At the moment, Papa was teaching Countess Lodron’s two older children, and I was teaching the two younger ones. Last week the countess commented on how improved her children were since we’d taken over their instruction from Aldgasser (since his death). The importance of such compliments could not be taken lightly.

  So I didn’t. In fact, they sustained me.

  Papa picked up his quill. “Would you like to add anything for your mother? The post will be here any minute.”

  “Did you tell her I am sending her something for her name ? ay.”

  “I did.” We both looked toward the street as the sounds of the post announced its presence. “Oh dear. I suppose I will finish it tomorrow. Go see if we have a letter.”

  There was one, and I brought it to Papa. He opened it and began reading aloud. But suddenly his words slowed. “‘I have very sad and stressing news to give you. My dear mother is very in. She has been-”’

  “Ill?”

  He held up a hand and continued. “‘She has been bled as in the past; a necessity. She felt quite well afterward, but a few days later she complained of shivering and feverishness, accompanied by diarrhea and headache. At first we only used our home remedies-antispasmodic powders. We would gladly have tried a black powder too, but we had none and could not get it here in Paris, where it is not known even by the name of Pulvis cpilipticus.”’

  “We should have sent her some of the powder, Papa. We should-”

  “Let me finish!” He adjusted his glasses. “‘As she got worse and worse-she could hardly speak and lost her hearing, so that I had to shout to make myself understood. Baron Grimm sent us his doctor, but she is still very weak and is feverish and delirious. They give me some hope-but I do not have much.”’

  “Do not have much? What is he-?”

  “Shh, Nannerl.” He read some more. “‘For a long time now I have been hovering day and night between hope and fear. I have resigned myself wholly to the will of God and trust that you and my dear sister will do the same.”’

  Papa stopped reading aloud, his eyes devouring the rest of the first page, then the next. “This is absurd. He goes on to talk about the symphony he’s writing.”

  “He what?” I took the letter from him. “There has to be more about Mama. He has to give us more details!”

  But there was only Wolfie talking about rehearsals for some symphony and how upset he was at the orchestra’s progress.

  As if orchestras mattered. As if music mattered.

  Papa grabbed the letter back from me, poring over the words. “She can’t hear. She’s delirious. And the doctor … How long did Wolfgang wait to send for him? Is he German or some French quack? I remember when you nearly died at the hands of a French doctor. Do they even have proper doctors in France? I should have fetched her from Mannheim. If I would have been with her, she would not be sick. She would not!”

  I began to cry, the tears turning into sobs that made me fall to my knees.

  “Stop that!” Papa said, pulling at my arm, trying to get me to stand.

  But I did not want to stand. I wanted to fall even farther to the floor and lie upon it, prostrate before God as an offering to Him. Save Mania, dear Lord. Save Mama.

  Papa stopped his pulling and pressed his hands into his eyes. “No, no, no, this can’t be happening. No. This cannot happen without me there. This cannot. I won’t allow it. Our fate cannot be in the inept hands of my son, a son who hasn’t had the decency to make sure his mother has a fire to warm her, who abandons her so he can go out and have fun, who-”

  His words sounded like evidence presented in a trial. I couldn’t hear any more. “Papa, stop, please stop.” Why had we ever let the two of them go away? Mama, the homebody who was ill at ease in the world, and Wolfie, the lover of fun who needed someone to pick up his clothes and tell him what to eat. A new bout of sobbing consumed me. Unable to get enough air, I pulled at my corset but ended up coughing, which made it worse. My head began to ache and I felt as if I might vomit.

  Papa called for help. “Therese! Come here!”

  Therese appeared in the doorway, her eyes darting, then landing on me. She came to my side.

  “Take her to her room. Get her to lie down, calm down.”

  “What’s wrong?” Therese asked.

  Papa started laughing, a horrible hysterical laughter. “Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Except our darling Wolfgang may have just killed us all.”

  I did not want to go to any shooting party that afternoon, but Papa insisted. Since we had agreed to host it, he said we had a responsibility to provide the prizes, the painted targets, and refreshments.

  I wasn’t in the mood to hear about responsibility. Wasn’t it Wolfie’s responsibility to take care of Mama? She’d certainly done her best to take care of him. He seemed to be thriving. While she was dying.

  Was she dying? Wolfie’s letter had been written nine days previous. Before the shooting party I went to mass and prayed that the days since then had made Mama strong. Drat my brother for not telling us earlier. And drat the post for taking eons to connect us to our family. How I wished I could fly to Paris like a bird over the mountains and land on Mama’s windowsill, where I could see her, talk to her, comfort her, and nurse her to fine health. I would not leave her side until she was well. Then I would hire the finest carriage and wrap her in a silky robe and bring her home. I would cater to her and continue to do the household chores. She wouldn’t need to do anything but lie around and accept the attention of visiting friends. I would help Therese make her favorite strudel and bring her piece upon piece until she begged us to stop. I would bring Bimperl to her room and let the dear puppy sleep at her side, keeping her company during all the times I could not. I would make the memories of her difficult time away from home fade and be replaced with new memories of happy times and blissful days.

  I would make her happy.

  “Come, Nannerl,” Papa said from the door. “Our guests await.”

  The targets could have been as big as a house and I would not have been able to hit them. But instead of making fun of me-as my friends were wont to do-they either said little or sympathized. Yet I knew their sympathy was not for bad aim but for Mama’s bad health.
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  I was glad Papa had told them from the start. His honesty had allowed me to move forward with the day. If Papa had insisted no one know, I would have expired from the effort required in pretending to be happy.

  Our friends’ commiseration also allowed the afternoon to end early. And none too soon. Yet as I took Papa’s arm to head back home from the park, I noticed that Herr Bullinger had stayed behind while the others had quickly scattered … eager to be free from the tension of our worry? Joseph Bullinger was the friend responsible for loaning us the original three hundred florins that had made Wolfie’s present trip possible.

  “Sorry the afternoon was cut short, Joseph. But we cannot keep our minds on the target. They keep straying to Paris.”

  “Ali yes,” Joseph said. “Paris.”

  There was an odd tone to his voice that made us stop our walking to look at him. Obviously uncomfortable, he cleared his throat. “Your letter from Wolfgang was …”

  “Was a shock,” Papa said. “I pray the post tomorrow has more news. Better news.”

  With a sigh Joseph looked at the ground. The toes of his shoes were dusty.

  “Joseph?”

  Joseph looked at Papa, then away. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell …” He took a breath. “I received a letter too. From Wolfgang.”

  “There’s more news?” I asked. “Is she better? Is-?”

  Papa’s head started shaking. “No, Joseph. No.”

  Joseph put his hand on Papa’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Leopold. She’s gone.”

  Papa’s face turned white and he fell to his knees. I suffered disbelief at the sight of him, as well as with Joseph’s words. But even as my mind said, This cannot be, my body accepted the truth. My knees gave way and I followed Papa to the ground, where my arms wrapped around his torso, clinging to him, needing him to cling to me.

  It was then his wail began, slicing through my very soul.

  My voice responded in kind, and together we created a horrific duet beyond reason.

  Beyond sensibility.

  Beyond bearing.

  On a sunny day, if I asked my brother the color of the sky, I would get an evasive answer as if his primary consideration was what I wanted to hear.

  What I wanted to hear-what Papa demanded to hear in the months following Mama’s death on July 3, 1778-was the truth.

  It was slow in coming. Upon receiving the latest letter, Papa crumpled the paper into a ball before I could even read it. “Will of God? Will of God, he says! It is not the will of God my darling wife died; it is the negligence of her son!”

  With difficulty, I left the letter on the floor-I’d retrieve it later. “Papa, you yourself have said it was God’s will, and-”

  Papa swung toward me, his index finger raised. “The Almighty is in control-on that point we agree-but God expects us to do our part. I fear that when your mother became in, Wolfgang sat back and said, `Let God’s will be done.”’

  “He called a doctor.”

  “Too late.” He sank into a chair, his huff turning to weariness. “I am partly to blame. I always did too much for Wolfgang, while emphasizing a certainty of God’s will being accomplished.” He held out his hands, as if studying them. “Yet God gave us hands to act, to achieve His will through hard work.” He made fists and dropped his hands to his knees. “We are not to ignore logic or shun labor, confusing laziness for the blessed assurance that comes with knowing one has done all one can humanly do.” He pressed his hands to his eyes. “Even your mother relied too much on prayer alone, thinking it was a magic potion to all our woes.”

  I didn’t like him speaking badly of the dead. “Mania had a very strong faith.”

  He sighed. “Yes, yes she did.” He held out his hand to me. “And thank you for listening to the rantings of an old man. It’s just that I have so many regrets. My mind keeps returning to the memories of the day your mother and brother left us, when I was so consumed with packing and my own health issues that I never had a chance to say a proper good-bye.” He kissed the top of my hand. “If only I’d known it was the last time I’d see her. And now, to have her buried so far away … Saint-Eustache in Paris is not our St. Sebastian.” He gripped my hand to stand. “At least your brother is sending her things home to us.” He hesitated and glanced at the letter on the floor. “Unfortunately, he used your mother’s watch to pay the doctor, and gave her ruby ring to pay the nurse.”

  “Papa, no!”

  He put an arm around me. “I know you would have liked to have those possessions, but Wolfgang implied if he hadn’t paid the nurse with the ruby ring, she would have taken your mother’s wedding ring.”

  My head shook back and forth. “Couldn’t he have found money somewhere else? Did he sell any of his own possessions? Why Mania’s, when she had so little? Couldn’t he collect on the compositions he’s been writing for people? Or have all those commissions been a lie?”

  Papa’s eyebrows rose. “It’s not like you to be bitter, Nannerl.”

  No, it wasn’t.

  Until now.

  How I missed her. With Mama gone, I was alone. With men. Dealing repeatedly and incessantly with men.

  Wolfie was still in Paris driving Papa to distraction; Papa was here at home, consumed with his own sorrow and the politics of his work for the archbishop, and with his constant struggle to find work for Wolfie.

  And then there were the suitors. Plural. Where there had been none, now there were three. For in addition to my dear captain Franz d’Ippold, I had Franz Molk’s renewed interest, as well as that of a widower named Johann Adam. The latter was persistent, proclaiming his love for me for all to hear, causing me to find excuses to not be home when I knew he was coming to call, to not attend functions he said he would attend. He forced me to be rude. But he was not for me, and the sooner he accepted that, the better.

  So who was for me?

  It was no contest.

  I pulled the lace curtains aside and looked out the window toward the Virgilianum where my dear captain lived and worked. He’d said he was coming over this Saturday afternoon.

  But this was not a normal visit amongst a group of friends where Franz and I could parry and flirt behind the backs of a crowd. No indeed, on this day Franz was coming over to speak to Papa about as, about his love for me and my love for him. About our future.

  We had not let Papa be privy to our connection. With other suitors I had never been hesitant to let Papa know of my flirtations. Why had I been so hesitant to let him know about Franz?

  Because Franz was different. I loved him. And I desperately wanted Papa to love him too and accept him as a prospective sonin-law.

  I spotted Franz coming around the corner of the church. He looked toward our house and our eyes met. I waved. He waved back. My stomach flipped at the sight of him-and at the magnitude of the upcoming meeting.

  I hurried toward the front door, not wanting Therese to answer it, wanting Franz and I to have a moment alone before we talked with Papa.

  I opened the door to find his knuckle ready to knock. Startled, he stepped back, then smiled. “Eager, are we?”

  I put a hand to my corseted midsection. “Petrified.”

  He took my hand and, with a glance at the street, pulled me close for a swift kiss in the doorway. I, in turn, pulled him inside, closing the door behind him. He looked into the music room, then whispered, “Where is he?”

  “In his study.” I tried to catch a breath. “I’m nervous”

  Franz stroked the curve of my cheek with a finger. “We are united in this. That’s all that matters.”

  It was a nice sentiment-even if the latter declaration was wishful thinking.

  He took my hand and patted our connection. “So. Let’s proceed with the meeting so we can proceed with our life together, yes?”

  My vote was yes.

  Although we approached the door to Papa’s study hand in hand, once there, I let go. I knocked on the doorjamb. Papa looked up from his desk, his glasses perched
on his nose. His eyes moved from me to Franz.

  He removed his glasses and stood, extending a hand in greeting. “Captain d’Ippold. You are just the man I want to see”

  Franz looked at me, but I had no idea what Papa was referring to.

  Papa pulled a chair close. “Sit, sit. Nannerl, go ask Therese to bring us some wine.”

  Franz raised a hand. “No thank you, sir. I have a pupil coning later this afternoon, and-”

  “Yes, yes, another time, then.” Papa nodded at me. “You may leave us, Nannerl. Don’t you also have a pupil arriving soon?”

  My head shook back and forth. This was not going as I’d planned. Or hoped.

  “Actually, Herr Mozart, Nannerl is the reason I have come here today.”

  Papa’s right eyebrow rose and he sat back in his chair. Franz extended a hand in my direction and I took my place beside him, our hands clasped.

  Papa’s eyes seemed locked on our hands, yet with the appearance of a deep furrow between his brows. I wished he would look elsewhere. Unfortunately, although I would have liked to burst forth to declare my love for Franz, it was up to Franz to speak of his intentions first. At this moment, I was but a minor character in this scene.

  “Sir … as you know I am a teacher at the Virgilianum and am also a captain in the imperial army and have been assigned to the archbishop’s war council, where-”

  Papa’s eyes lit up. “I’d forgotten that. It appears you work for the archbishop in many capacities, don’t you?”

  Franz looked confused-as was I. Papa had little regard for Archbishop Colloredo, so if anything, I’d expected Franz’s multiple associations with that man to be a detriment in Papa’s eyes. Yet Papa was acting pleased? It didn’t make sense.

  Papa leaned forward in his chair. “You know that our Wolfgang is currently in Paris.”

  “Of course.” Franz glanced at me, then back at Papa. “And let me extend my condolences on the tragic death of your-”

  Papa flipped his concern away. “Yes, yes. Thank you.” He extended a pointing finger. “The issue now is Wolfgang, and getting him back home to Salzburg.”