by Nancy Moser
Although I allowed myself the smallest glimmer of hope that someday I would marry, it was a hope born out of desperation and self-preservation. I’d already given up hope of being a noted musician, impressing the world with my prowess and talent. So to let this final hope of home and family die would be to risk succumbing to my own desire to doze the rest of my life away in a favorite chair.
I still thought of Franz often and knew he would never completely leave my consciousness. Initially Papa had offered his condolences at our situation-though I never did tell him how close I’d come to running away-but he soon became so consumed with the world of his own melancholy that I was forced to deal with my plethora of feelings alone.
Franz tried to make things easier, and we still saw each otherthough less often because the angst of what could have been was too painful.
And so while Papa surrendered, I became resigned. The distinction may have been slight, but it kept me going. My prayersthough they had not been answered as I had wished-continued. Surely God had some plan for my life beyond this?
Surely there was more….
e 277 ~ r- /IZ -
I could not stay angry at my brother for breaking his ties with the archbishop so dramatically. I could not stay angry at the archbishop for denying my application to marry his loyal employee Franz. I could not stay angry at Franz for not being the kind of man who could shun the known for the difficult life of the unknown.
If only I could.
Time moved on for Papa and me in Salzburg, and for Wolfie in Vienna. Alone.
But not alone. Oh no, not at all alone.
For after leaving the archbishop’s employ (how delicately said, Nannerl!), Wolfie moved into a boardinghouse owned by the Webers, the very same Weber family he’d stayed with back in Mannheim. After the Weber father died, they’d moved to Vienna. Wolfie’s old love, Aloysia, had married (she’d been with child at the wedding), leaving the mother and three other daughters to fend for themselves by opening their home to boarders.
From what Wolfie implied in his letters, the oldest sister, Josepha, at twenty-one, was too old for his twenty-seven-yearold tastes, and the youngest, Sophie, at eighteen, was too young. Which left the middle girl, Constanze, aged nineteen. Papa and I noticed in his correspondence that unlike his letters describing Aloysia, lauding her beauty and talent, his letters describing Constanze heralded her tender care and solicitude, and her two little black eyes and pretty figure. Not that being a beauty or having great talent was a necessity in a mate, but in many ways it seemed that Wolfie was settling.
And then we began to hear rumors regarding unsavory behavior within the Weber household in regard to two unmarried young people being in such close quarters…. Wolfie had to move out or risk having Constanze’s mother call the police. Once that was accomplished, he complained about his new lodging arrangements, saying that the household was too set in their ways. Apparently at the Webers’ he’d been allowed to compose until all hours, delaying meals as long as he wished. They’d coddled him and let him keep the eccentric habits that were his preference.
Over and over he asked Papa’s permission to marry Constanze. And over and over Papa said no. “What does Wolfgang not understand about the word no?” Beyond Papa’s obvious hesitations regarding the reputation of the Weber family-her mother was said to be a drunk, and a Salzburg friend had declared Constanze a trollop-Papa stated that, in order to marry, Wolfie was still in need of a permanent position. One did not become man and wife and enter a time of life where the added expense of children would surely follow without a good job. It was common sense.
Something Wolfie sorely lacked.
In his defense, Wolfie was earning some money through teaching (which he abhorred), giving concerts in the homes of nobility, and getting an operatic commission for The Abduction from the Seraglio. Yet his greatest dream of being hired by Emperor Joseph II remained elusive.
Papa and I weren’t sure whom to blame. Although a family friend (the one who’d called Constanze a trollop) had also brought word from Vienna that Wolfie was despised by the Viennese court and nobility for the whole Weber affair, we also knew from other sources that salaried positions were scarce under Emperor Joseph, which had the consequence of sending more and more musicians into the freelance market. Times were indeed tight.
And Wolfie was not.
Wolfie seemed incapable of adjusting his lifestyle to his income. When he had a windfall, he spent as though he were aristocracy, but when he fell on hard times, he had trouble pulling in the purse strings. It was my opinion that if Mama and Papa would have made him aware of the financial side of life instead of always doing for him, he would have been better off.
Not that I ever told Papa that.
Yet in my brother’s defense, the money situation was often unfair. For Abduction, Wolfie received a one-time payment of 426 florins. It incensed him that even though the opera played to packed houses, even though the theater owners were said to have brought in 1706 florins in two weeks, Wolfie did not receive another coin. The lot of a composer was difficult-no matter how talented.
I also empathized with Wolfie’s desire to be married. Luckily for Wolfie, since he didn’t live in Salzburg anymore, he didn’t need to play by the archbishop’s rules. Once he received Papa’s consent”Your brother wore me down, Nannerl. Better to have them marry than to create further scandal”-Wolfie and Constanze were man and wife.
As I congratulated them, I hated them.
Some sister I was.
With their wedding vows still fresh, Wolfie and Constanze started talking about coming to Salzburg for a visit. After all, we had yet to meet his bride. And though Papa and I were not thrilled about the union, we looked forward to seeing Wolfie again. It had been over two years since we’d parted in Munich with Wolfie traveling to Vienna and us heading home.
Yet during the postmarriage months we received two things from Wolfie in abundance: excuses and delays.
Papa read his latest excuse, allowing his hand to fall into his lap with a familiar sigh of exasperation. “It’s the weather, the concert season, Constanze has a headache, she’s pregnant, his students won’t let him leave…. Why doesn’t he just admit that we are no longer important to him?”
I brought Papa a cup of coffee. “That’s not true, Papa. His letters flow with their longing to see us.”
Papa snickered. “Purple prose.” He rolled his eyes. “A distraught Constanze is forcibly restrained from running after a friend’s carriage that’s leaving for Salzburg. Constanze walking around an entire day, holding my portrait to her chest, kissing it over and over” He made a face. “The image is not pleasant. Nor the sentiment real.”
I had to agree with him. I sat nearby with my own coffee and biscuit.
Papa waved a hand as another thought materialized. “Then his inane idea of wanting to meet in Munich because he’s afraid the archbishop is going to arrest him because he never officially turned in his resignation. Resignation?” Papa laughed and took a sip of coffee. “Humbug! And Wolfgang’s position has long been filled.” The cup clattered against the saucer. “Will that boy ever understand the world does not revolve around him?”
I did not mention Papa’s part in creating that belief…
He picked up the letter and shook it. “And the writing … it is quite clear Wolfgang scribbles something at the last moment, probably as the post waits for him. If he truly cared to communicate out of love rather than duty, he would do as I do and write something of interest each day in an orderly fashion, so when it’s post day, a letter is ready to be sent.”
“At least he writes.”
“Either chicken scratches we can barely read, or letters full of wordplay and fancy dalliances that tell us nothing. I get the distinct feeling your brother loves to receive letters but hates to send them.”
I opened my mouth to respond but closed it. In truth, I felt the same way. Papa was the only person I had ever known who enjoyed writing letters, who assumed t
he task as though he were writing for historians’ eyes in some future time.
“So,” I said, “does he offer a new date for a visit?”
Papa stood, leaving his coffee and the letter behind. “When it suits him.”
I ran into the house, waving the newest letter from Wolfie. “Papa!”
He was with a pupil and looked at me sternly. “Nannerl, you know better than to inter-”
“You’re a grandfather!”
Papa just stood there beside the clavier, frozen in the moment. Then the look on his face changed from peeved to pleasant. Even peaceful.
But then he blinked and the facade was broken. “Let me see.”
I brought him the letter, putting a hand on the back of his pupil’s head, offering a smile.
Papa read aloud, “Congratulations, you are a grandpapa! Yesterday, the seventeenth of June, in this year of our Lord, 1783, at half past six in the morning, my dear wife was safely delivered of a fine sturdy boy, as round as a ball. I have had the child christened Raimund Leopold.” Papa found my eyes. “I am a grandpapa.”
I pulled him into a hug. “And I am an aunt. Now there’s even more reason to arrange a visit!”
“A grandson” Papa’s eyes were distant, then suddenly darted back into the moment. “I wonder if he has the long fingers of a fine musician….
On July twenty-ninth, the day before my thirty-second birthday, my dear brother arrived with Constanze.
“But where is little Raimund?” I asked.
Constanze adjusted her bonnet, poking a stray brown curl beneath its brim. “We left him behind.”
I looked to Papa. His jaw dropped. “You didn’t bring him?”
Wolfie pulled a satchel from the back of the carriage. “He’s only six weeks old, Papa, and we only plan to be gone a month. He’s much better off with a family friend.”
My disappointment was immense. I’d longed to have a baby in the house. If I wasn’t ever going to be in a position to have my own babies, at least I could enjoy my brother’s.
Wolfie put the satchel down. “Aren’t you glad to see us, Papa?”
I realized how glum we were. I didn’t wait for Papa to answer but picked up the satchel myself. “Of course we are. Come in, come in.
It was not a good beginning.
Constanze was … agreeable enough. I tried to like her. I wanted to like her. But there was something missing, something … off. She laughed a bit too loudly, chattered rather than spoke, appeared unable to discuss anything of higher magnitude than the weather, and clung to Wolfie’s arm as if fearful he would disappear into the mountain mist. Or perhaps she held on fearing Papa would bite.
Not that I blamed her. For though Papa was polite, his level of warmth could also be compared to a facet of our beloved mountains: frosty.
We did our best to entertain them. We showed Constanze the sights around Salzburg and included her in our music makingwhich was spectacular and reminded me of old times. Wolfie had brought along new compositions, and we stayed up until the wee hours performing. I admit Constanze’s voice was better than mine, which is to say, socially passable but not professionally sound.
One afternoon in October, Constanze lay abed with a headache. I’d planned to use the free time to catch up on some correspondence that I’d horribly neglected while acting as hostess. But just as I sat at my desk, Wolfie appeared in the doorway.
“Hello, Horseface. Care for a walk?”
I felt an eyebrow rise. “Just the two of us?”
He looked toward the hall and lowered his voice. “She’s napping.
I put down my quill. We gathered our cloaks and headed out into the crisp fall air.
Wolfie pulled my hand into the crook of his arm. “So, dear Nan. Isn’t she wonderful?”
I patted his hand. “She’s very sweet.”
He bumped his shoulder against mine. “She’s much more than that, sister. She’s a wildcat.”
I glanced in his direction, not sure what he meant.
Wolfie raised and lowered his eyebrows suggestively. “I have absolutely no complaints. In fact, she continues to surprise-”
“Shh! I don’t want to hear this.”
He seemed genuinely surprised. But then said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’d forgotten that you haven’t …” He stopped walking. “Or have you and your dear captain… ?”
“No! And he’s not my dear captain anymore. You know that.”
In the nearly three months since they’d first come to visit, it was the first question Wolfie had asked about my life. Unfortunately it was not one I cared to answer.
“So there’s no hope?” he asked.
There was always hope. And in the past two years I’d held on to the dream that God would grant a miracle and the archbishop would change his mind-or die. I hated to admit that I had thought of that as a solution to our problem. Franz and I still saw each other as friends and had tailored our relationship into something that was bearable-though hardly satisfactory. But what else could we do?
“Nan?”
“I’ve found a rhythm to life here.”
He pulled at a stray strand of my hair. “I want you to be happy, Nan. Surely there’s some other beau here in Salzburg who can take you away from Papa and give you a life.”
I shrugged. “My friends have long ago married.”
“Then find someone new You and Papa are constantly entertaining traveling players, so how about one-?”
I shook my head vehemently. “Papa would never approve of such a life for me. The income would be barely passable, and-”
He tossed his hands in the air. “Papa approve. Papa approve.” He sighed extravagantly.
I understood his objections. “I have no choice, Wolfie. You know that.”
We resumed our walk. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? Colloredo’s hatred of me, and Papa’s disappointment in me, has affected your life.”
I took the coward’s way out and shrugged.
He dropped my arm. “They are both eccentric, twisted, arrogant-”
“Shh!” I checked the other passersby, offering a smile and a nod. But in spite of my cover, if they’d heard Wolfie’s words … they would be able to guess whom he was talking about. Salzburg was a small town.
Thankfully, Wolfie lowered his voice. “Why don’t you and Franz leave? Go off and start on your own like I did”
“I have thought about it. Many times.”
“And Franz?”
I turned down a quieter side street, just in case Wolfie’s voice rose a second time. “He’s a quiet man. Franz avoids confrontation and complication. Considering the archbishop is his employer … he’d need references and-”
“He was my employer too, but now I’m free of him”
“Yet it hasn’t been easy for you. Admit that, Wolfie. You have struggled.”
“Money’s not everything, Nan.”
It was easy for him to make such a declaration when he had multiple sources of income. As a teacher, Franz’s options were far more limited. As were mine. And if Papa would die, his pension … I tried not to think of it. If Wolfie knew how we’d scrimped in order to entertain him and Constanze the past three months … “God’s teaching me patience, brother. Something we all could embrace”
Wolfie shook his head adamantly. “Something I refuse to embrace.” He giggled. “Something I don’t have time to embrace.”
Oh, to live in such a fantasy world.
Wolfie and Constanze were leaving the next day. I was torn over hating to see them go-longing for life to return to normal, while fearing that life would return to normal. Yet working toward their departure, I helped as I could by packing Wolfie’s music.
Papa stood at the table by the window. “Did you make a copy of this one?” he asked, holding up Wolfie’s newest piano sonata in C.
“Yes, Papa, I got it done this morn-”
“Excuse me?” Constanze stood at the door to the music room, her hands busy with each other.
“Ye
s?” Papa asked, a bit gruffly.
She took a step into the room. “I was wondering if I … if we might take … might have ..
“Yes?”
She took a fresh breath. “We were wondering if we might take with us a few of the tokens, the souvenirs that Wolfie received on his Grand Tour travels and-”
“Absolutely not!” Papa said.
Constanze took a step back into the arch of the doorway. “Why not?”
I had been shocked by her question and Papa’s answer, but now, for her to challenge him?
“Because they belong here,” he said.
“But we have an apartment,” she said. “We have a place for them. And since Wolfie earned-”
Papa took a step toward the locked display cabinet that held the gifts from our Grand Tour. “These items are from the trips of the Mozart family.”
Her voice grew small. “I’m a Mozart now too.”
My heart nearly stopped.
Papa hesitated just a moment, then said, “Perhaps at a later date. When you are better established.”
My sister-in-law employed her own moment of hesitation. Then with a quick curtsy, she said, “As you wish” and left the room.
I heard Papa’s heavy breathing. “That impudent girl!” he hissed.
“She is his wife.”
He turned away, back to the music. “But not a Mozart. Never a Mozart.”
He muttered something more, but I wisely left the room.
My hand dropped and Wolfie’s letter floated to the floor.
“Not a Mozart. Never a Mozart.”
No chance to ever be a Mozart. Not for dear baby Raimund.
I looked in the direction of the music room, where I could hear Papa giving a lesson. He should know.
But not yet. Not just yet. I needed a moment to absorb that the one baby in the Mozart family was dead: We are both very sad about our poor, bonny, Fat, darling little boy.
Raimund had died soon after Wolfie and Constanze had come for a visit with us in Salzburg. By the time they returned home their dear baby boy had been dead three months. Of dysentery.
Although I knew of this tragic actuality of life-that the majority of babies died-I’d foolishly assumed Raimund was God’s blessing to our heritage. He was a little boy who would take the music into the next generation. Nothing would have made Papa happier.