Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

  When I turned around, Papa had already taken Leopoldl to his room. At the sounds of their laughter, I hung back in the hall and peeked around the doorframe. With the groan of old muscles, Papa climbed into my son’s small bed and pretended to curl up to sleep. Leopoldl said, “No, Gampa! Mine!” and pushed at him, easing my father out of the bed while climbing in himself.

  “I have you now!” Papa said, tucking the covers around the boy. He pointed to his cheek. “Kiss.”

  Leopoldl complied, his tiny arms wrapping around my father’s neck.

  “Good night, dear boy.”

  “Ni-ni.”

  Papa came into the hall carrying the candle. He adjusted the door so it would remain ajar.

  “He loves you very much,” I whispered.

  “As I do him.” Papa put a hand to his chest, his breathing heavy. “Now help this old boy back to his bed, will you, daughter?”

  I tucked my father in, checked on my son once more, and made my way to my old bedchamber. The silence that encased me there was like a heavenly cloud. Yet as I got ready for bed, my mind focused on the memory of another sound, just as heavenly.

  The sound of loving laughter. Oh, how I’d missed it.

  I stayed with Papa and Leopoldl two months, and though Papa was ill, I enjoyed my visit immensely. It didn’t take but a day for my son to get used to me, and soon he was running into my arms just as he did with Papa and Franz. I even taught him to find middle C on the keyboard by rewarding him with bites of a biscuit. Every time he’d get it right we’d laugh and clap, and he’d snap the bite in his mouth, then grin, revealing two rows of lovely baby teeth.

  It nearly killed me leaving him behind. Papa too. But I’d received word that I was needed at home. The children were running wild without me, and by the tone of Johann’s letter, I knew my stay in Salzburg had strained him. And a strained Johann was not a pretty sight. Or experience. A crudely written Conic horde, Mamma from Maria at the bottom ofJohann’s letter was like a plea across the mountains. For certainly in my absence, she was taking the brunt of my responsibility. I had to save her. And save them from themselves.

  I thought about taking Leopoldl with me. Although the basic conditions in St. Gilgen had not changed, with Maria’s slow mieta-morphosis into a capable helper, I probably could have handled him along with the others. Yet I knew if I removed him from my father’s house, Papa would suffer. The joy the baby brought him was immeasurable. Removing that joy-along with my own comforting presence-might cause Papa to give up his fight against the illnesses that plagued him.

  The first time I’d left my son, I’d done it for his sake. This second time, I did it for the sake of my father.

  Oh, the burdens of conscience.

  Monica did a quick curtsy. “Ma’am? There’s a messenger at the door.”

  I looked up from my desk. “Is it the post? I’m not done with the letter to my father as yet.”

  “No, Frau Berchtold. It’s not the postman. It’s another.”

  I ran a hand over my hair and rose to greet him in the entrance hall. He was a small man, his clothes dusty.

  “I’m Frau Berchtold,” I said.

  He handed me a letter. “I was told to give this to you, and only you. In person,” he said. “Captain d’Ippold sent me.”

  I let go of the letter as if it were hot. No. No. No.

  The man retrieved it for me. “Ma’am? He said I should wait for a reply.”

  I had no choice but to read it right there, right then. But I sensed what it would say. Why else would Franz send a special messenger?

  Little Karl ran into the room. “Mama, I’m hun-”

  Monica shushed him and pulled him under her arm.

  My hands shook as I broke the seal.

  Your father died this morning at six.

  I am so sorry, dear Nan. I am with Leopoldl. Please come.

  Yours,

  Franz

  My legs buckled and I sank to the floor.

  “Mama!”

  I was helped to a chair, but I knew it would collapse under the weight of my heart.

  “Karl, go get your mama some water.” Monica’s hands fluttered around me like butterflies wanting to light. “What is it, ma’am?”

  I shook my head. I could not say the words. I gathered a breath and looked at the messenger. “Tell Captain d’Ippold I’m coming.” I stood. “I’m coming.”

  The carriage jostled along the mountain road, and I let the movement take me captive. Left, forward, a jar to the right. Center again. There was no need to try to maintain balance anymore. Not when the core of my balance was gone forever.

  “I really wish you’d talk to me, Nannerl,” Johann said from his seat across from me.

  I made no move to answer through words or even a shake of my head. That this man who rarely had time for any conversation wanted to chat was absurd. You reap what you sow. Silence you gave me; Igive you silence in return.

  In truth, my motives were not so clearly defined. Although in some pocket of my existence I found satisfaction in the fact that I was the one shunning my husband’s attempts to connect, it was not the main reason for my refusal to speak.

  I did not speak because there were no words. No words in German, French, Italian, English, Latin, or even in prayer that could express the utter ache that gripped my entire being.

  Papa …

  Suddenly, without warning, the grip eased enough for inc to grab a breath and let out a wretched wail that enveloped the carriage.

  Appalled, Johann sat back against his seat, obviously willing to leave me alone.

  Which I was. Completely and utterly.

  Men.

  What did I care about the will, and debts to be paid, and who got Papa’s blue satin suit? Papa died on May twenty-eighth, in the year of our Lord 1787, and was buried at St. Sebastian’s on May twenty-ninth before Johann and I could even get there. But we had a lovely memorial service for him on May thirty-first at nine o’clock in the morning, and at noon the will was read. During all those days the house was busy with officials taking an inventory, collecting a list of debts, as well as friends expressing their condolences.

  I shook hands, accepted hugs, and responded with all the right words, while what I really wanted to do was curl up in my old room andI had a better idea. I left the officials, Johann, and Franz arguing over money and possessions, and slipped into my father’s room. I cracked the door and stood in the afternoon light. The bed had been stripped of its covers, but there was still an indentation in the mattress indicating my father’s favorite place to sleep. On the bedside table were his glasses, a pewter goblet, a pocket watch he’d gotten long ago in London, and a candle. Across the room was the old wardrobe. I pulled open the double doors and ran my hands over the sleeves of the waistcoats. Here was the gray one he’d worn at our wedding. Stuffed toward the back was a red-and-gold suit he’d had made in Paris on our Grand Tour. I pulled it out and noted the smaller size. Papa had gained weight in his old age. I lovingly returned it to its place. The next piece of clothing that gained my attention was his dressing gown. The heavy green brocade was worn at the elbows and cuffs. How many times had I seen him in this gown?

  I put it to my face intending to rub its softness against my cheek. But instead I found myself inhaling his scent. I was hesitant to exhale and did so only to inhale again. Musty, spicy, warm … it was all I had left of him yet was worth more than anything else listed in the inventory.

  I clutched the dressing gown to my chest and stumbled to the chair by the window I had to move one of Leopoldl’s toy horses from the seat, and sank onto the cushion, clutching the toy in my free hand. How could I live without him? How could my son live?

  I heard the sound of tiny footsteps, then silence. A few seconds later the door slowly edged open and little Leopoldl peered inside.

  “Gampa?”

  No. Grandpapa was gone.

  I managed a smile and held out my arms to him. He ran to me and, spotting his toy, took i
t happily. He started to climb into my lap, so I moved the dressing gown to make room. Once settled, he patted the green fabric and said, “Gampa.”

  I nodded and opened the dressing gown wide. Then I draped it over us both, shrouding us in its meager comfort.

  “Face it, Nannerl,” Johann said, back in our home in St. Gilgen. “Your brother does not want any of your father’s possessions. He just wants cash.”

  I shook my head and glanced over at ten-year-old Joseph as he helped Leopoldl build a tower with blocks. Maria, Joseph, and Karl were also accepting their little brother quite well. Unfortunately, our Wolfgang was still in and had had little chance to spend time with his new brother. His joint sickness caused him much pain.

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” I said, turning my thoughts back to the other Wolfgang in my life. “When he and Constanze visited Salzburg, Constanze made a point of asking Papa for some of Wolfie’s childhood souvenirs.”

  “Did Leopold give her some?”

  No.

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t think they’d take care of them”

  “And perhaps they wouldn’t have. Perhaps your brother’s disinterest in your father’s possessions proves your father right”

  “Or perhaps Wolfie’s debt is forcing him to override sentiment.”

  Johann shrugged and sharpened a quill with a knife. “Yet perhaps it would do you well to take fewer of your father’s thiti s and bring us some cash.”

  I shook my head vehemently. “I can’t do that. All his life Papa stressed legacy Why else would he have urged us to keep the family letters? I have done my best to keep every one”

  “Do you really think your brother has done the same?”

  I did not. Wolfie lived in the moment and gave little care for the past or the future.

  Johann set the quill down. “Do as you wish, Nannerl. It is not my decision. Our marriage contract specifically states that any monies received from our families will remain our individual property. I will honor that.”

  I knew he would. For despite my husband’s penny-pinching ways, he was an honorable man.

  With Papa’s passing, and the physical and often emotional distance between Wolfie’s life and my own, Johann was all the male family I had left.

  Johann and my dear son …

  Would they be enough?

  Growing older and wiser …

  Blessings and trials will do that to a person. Age them. And make them wise.

  If they are not broken first.

  Just weeks after Papa’s passing, our boy Wolfgang passed away. He was in his thirteenth year. Dear Maria took it the hardest. She’d tried so hard to make him better.

  So once again I had five children in St. Gilgen.

  After these deaths, I spent many months veering off course, as if my life had no rudder. How sad that only death makes us see how invaluable we are to one another. Death minimizes faults and petty discord. It mocks us: Go ahead and complain about one another. I’ll get my due soon enough….

  Papa had been my advisor, my encourager, and my organizer. He’d been my greatest supporter yet my harshest critic. I’d trusted him and had known he loved me and would die for me without regret or hesitation. Yet perhaps the greatest lesson I’d learned from Papa was how to approach life. For by watching him adapt, plan, and handle victory as well as defeat, I’d learned that the best way to deal with problems was to attack them one step at a time while trusting in God’s providence and care. It became an invaluable process I heartily tried to employ.

  A process I wished Wolfie would have learned. My biggest regret upon Papa’s passing was not for myself and Papa but for my brother. I knew Wolfie was busy. I knew he’d often chafed at Papa’s advice-even if it did prove wise. And I also knew my brother was different from Papa and me. He dwelt in a place where it was imperative for his mind to be able to roam free and unencumbered. The fact he didn’t know how to suspend that abandon in order to deal with the logistics of day-to-day living is what had disturbed Papa the most. And me.

  But then something happened that was almost ironic in its timing. Just six months after Papa died, after having freelanced in Vienna for six years, Wolfie was finally offered a permanent position. Christoph Gluck, the Imperial and Royal Chamber Composer for Emperor Joseph, died. And though Gluck had been paid two thousand florins a year and Wolfie was only offered eight hundred, it was still a position. I just hoped Wolfie’s debts and spending habits would not swallow the florins before they could land.

  Yet Papa would have been proud, and the salaried position gave me hope that Wolfie would be all right. Plus, the timing was excellent because his wife, Constanze, was expecting their fourth child. Unfortunately only one had lived. Risky business, childbearing.

  I tried to keep in touch with Wolfie, but his letters were few, yet he did usually remember my name day. And though he always sounded genuinely pleased at my effort to reach him and begged for many, many more letters, he also matter-of-factly warned me that his responses would not increase. Whether due to busyness or his lifelong dislike for letter writing, it was a fact I learned to accept.

  In truth, we had grown apart because we lived worlds apart. Wolfie lived in a world of his own choosing in Vienna, and I lived in a world of my own choosing in St. Gilgen.

  And indeed, it was a world of my own choosing.

  At the beginning I had voiced many complaints about life in St. Gilgen. Most were valid. I had even gone so far as to resist being happy there. As long as Papa was the tether that held me connected to Salzburg, I never allowed myself to see St. Gilgen as my true home. In short, his death forced me to grow up. Until his passing I had no real reason to discover the real Nannerl Mozart Berchtold. I was always first and foremost Papa’s daughter and Wolfie’s sister. And though now I was someone’s wife and someone’s mother, I was also just me. And the odd consequence of this attitude was that the stronger I became in myself, the stronger the children became.

  There were more children added to our family. Nearly two years after Papa’s death, at midnight between March twenty-second and March twenty-third, 1789, I bore a daughter. My husband named her Johanna after himself, but everyone always called her Jeanettethe name of Johann’s second wife. Some thought this odd. Yet somehow I’d always felt a kinship with that woman, for she too had been brought into a family of many children, had added one of her own, only to die in her attempt to bring a second child to life.

  No matter what she was called, the other children welcomed Jeanette into the household, especially dear Maria, who said upon her birth, “We needed another girl around here!” It was Maria who took her new sister to be christened on her very first day of life.

  Yet amidst our joy was tragedy. Twenty months after Jeanette’s birth, in November 1790, I bore another daughter, Babette. But this dear baby did not live past her fifth month and died of the same intestinal complications that had claimed Wolfie’s firstborn. We buried her next to her older brother, little Wolfgang.

  Birth, death, day, night. Life went on. And I with it.

  Yet it seemed that once I allowed myself to be in St. Gilgen body and soul, the conditions of our family improved. Eventually, I even got Johann to agree to send the three oldest boys to Salzburg for a proper education. Elated at my triumph, I personally brought them to the school, got them settled, and kissed them good-bye with all my hopes and prayers they would thrive and prosper in the atmosphere of learning.

  The next morning, before heading back to St. Gilgen, I capped off the victorious trip by having coffee with Franz. He was still a very good friend.

  “You should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished, Nan,” he said as we waited for our rolls.

  I knew he meant the boys. My cheeks were still warm with pride from seeing them off. “They have come so far. All of them have. You should see how Maria has grown into a fine young woman.

  He smiled. “The dirty face is gone?”

  “Scrubbed and shining. You know wha
t she told me the other day when I gave her a compliment on how far she’d progressed? She said she’d changed because she’d wanted to become a lady …” My throat tightened. “A lady just like me.”

  “She could have no higher aspiration.”

  I felt myself blush. “Now she is the one who gets after Jeanette and Leopoldl for their dirty faces.”

  He laughed, then let his smile turn wistful. “How I miss that boy.”

  I slapped a hand to my forehead. “Of course! I should have brought him with me so you … I was just so consumed with making sure the other three had their things and-”

  He raised a hand, stopping my defense. “It’s fine, Nan. You have more to think about than an old schoolteacher.”

  He was looking rather old of late. “I will always think of you, Franz. You have been a dear friend for ever so long”

  He took my hand across the table, squeezed it quickly, then let it go. “For ever so long,” he said.

  After coffee we parted. Walking in opposite directions, I paused to watch him go. My romantic side would have had him turn so we could exchange a final smile.

  But he did not. And so I watched him disappear around the corner and continued on my way. On my way home.

  As a child I always thought the milestones of life would come with some notion of premonition-that you would feel their presence looming, that on the day of their declaration you would feel differently and suspect that something extraordinary was about to occur.

  But without all that many years under my sash, I learned this was not so. The extraordinary events that fill a life-both good and bad-slip in the door unannounced, until you look up from what you were doing, and they introduce themselves.

  It happened just this way on a cold December morning, 1791. Quite unexpectedly-and uncharacteristically Johann appeared in the living quarters in the middle of the afternoon. I looked up from giving Leopoldl his piano lesson and knew immediately by the pulled look on my husband’s face and the letter in his hand that it was bad news making a call.