Mozart's Sister: A Novel

by Rita Charbonnier

  “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” Wolfgang announced at the center of the room. “I am sorry to distract you from your very important conversations, but if the moment seems to you propitious, we will start the musical entertainment.”

  He had remained short, and he appeared younger than his thirteen years, but he had a powerful voice and a forceful presence, and everyone hurried to find a seat. With some irritation, Herr and Frau Mozart had to take places at the back of the room.

  “It is not for me to enumerate the vocal virtues of the celebrated Paulina Eleonora Gellert,” he continued, while the soprano made her way to the front, preceded by her breasts, “or the pianistic ones of my sister, Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart, whom you all know well. I prefer to let my arias be interpreted by the two artists and to speak for me; I therefore confine myself to hoping that you will enjoy the show.”

  He returned to the audience amid light applause, and there was silence.

  In all her eighteen years, Nannerl had never played so badly. Overcome by an inexplicable panic, made more acute by the alcohol, she couldn’t control her fingers, which moved up and down the keyboard on their own; the notes were botched and hesitant. Luckily, the soprano sang well—in spite of the whalebone stays that had surely reduced her diaphragm to crumpled paper—and her jutting bosom and skillful gestures focused the attention of the entire audience. At the end, however, no one had time to applaud her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Wolfgang cried, jumping up onto his chair. “The author of the arias that you have just heard is not, in fact—me!”

  The blood drained from Nannerl’s face, and Paulina’s bosom seemed ready to burst, indignant, from her dress.

  “It’s my sister who composed them: Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart! To this excellent musician, therefore, you must direct your applause, and not to me! Please, ladies and gentlemen: let the sound of your palms be at least equal to your pleasure!”

  Scandal? Faint praise? Astonished ovation? Nannerl never knew what the reaction of the lords of the city was, for like a broken marionette she slid off the piano stool and fainted.

  II.

  “How long has this nonsense been going on?”

  In the shadowy lamplight of the kitchen, Leopold’s face was truly that of a god of the underworld.

  “I told you, Papa, it was the first time.”

  “You be quiet! I want your sister to answer!”

  “Wolfgang is telling the truth, Papa. We hadn’t ever done it before.”

  “And whose idea was it?”

  Nannerl was silent, uneasy, and her brother answered for her. “Truly, Father, it was mine.”

  “I told you to be quiet. Let Nannerl speak.”

  “Well, yes, it was Wolfgang who proposed playing my arias.”

  “And you should not have agreed!” he thundered. “So, you have continued to compose!”

  “Well, yes…but only a few lieder, little songs…a quartet…But no one ever knew, Papa.”

  “A quartet? How the devil could you write a quartet without the least knowledge of counterpoint?”

  This time Nannerl was silent for a long time. Wolfgang was dying to answer for her, but with a peremptory gesture Leopold ordered him to be silent.

  “Well…the truth…the fact is that…Wolfgang gave me some lessons, every so often.”

  “What?”

  “Nannerl didn’t want to. I insisted, Papa.”

  “That doesn’t count! She should have refused! And now you are to be quiet. Is that clear?”

  Anna Maria came forward, timidly. “My dear, what happened is certainly very serious, but couldn’t we discuss it tomorrow? We are all so tired.”

  “Our departure is approaching, and I have to make a decision of crucial importance. If you want to go to sleep, go ahead; the rest of us will not move. Now, Nannerl, I want to see the scores of all your music.”

  Hidden by her long skirt, the girl’s knees seemed to give way even as she passed through the doorway, heading for her room. Her mother followed, carrying the candle and muttering, “Dear daughter, what is in your stubborn head? Why do you continue to challenge your father as if he were your worst enemy?”

  “Wolfgang shouldn’t have made that speech in front of everyone.”

  “Maybe so, sweetheart, but the more serious error was yours.”

  The old secret pouch was hidden under her mattress. It was threadbare by now, and so full of scores that it resembled a big brick covered with fabric. She carried it into the kitchen and handed it to her father as if it were a sacrificial lamb; and in Leopold’s impatient hands it ripped completely.

  He examined a couple of scores, then started: “I remember this lied! Wolfgang, it’s yours. You submitted it to me some time ago!”

  “Actually, Papa,” Wolfgang said, “Nannerl composed it, not me.”

  Leopold’s eyes seemed about to pop out of their sockets, the veins of his forehead about to explode. “How many times, you wretched children, have you tricked me?”

  The children didn’t dare respond.

  “And I also remember this rondeau…and this duet? I even complimented you on the theme! What have you done, Wolfgang? Have you been continuously submitting to me your sister’s music?”

  “Papa, you left me no other choice,” said Nannerl.

  “I left you no choice but to make fun of me? Is that what you mean, you insolent girl?” He was shouting by now. There was no doubt that the neighbors could hear, and that those cries would be the subject of gossip for weeks.

  A heavy silence fell, against which the strangled breathing of the head of the family stood out. His wife went to him, frightened: “My love, calm down…Don’t get so agitated…Sit down, please.” She led him to a chair, gave him something to drink, caressed his forehead without stopping until he seemed calmer.

  “Just tell me one thing, Wolfgang,” Leopold said in a rasping voice. “Has any music of Nannerl’s been published under your name?”

  “No, Papa!” she answered in a rush. “I would never—”

  “Be quiet!” he said hoarsely. “I asked your brother a question, not you.”

  The boy was quick to respond. “Everything that has been published is mine, and no one else’s.”

  “You’re telling the truth?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Are you sure? I cannot tolerate the idea that your work is spurious, do you understand?”

  “I solemnly swear. And in any case, don’t worry. I am the first to be careful about the integrity of my work.”

  That proud affirmation surprised Nannerl, but it wasn’t the moment to comment. Leopold, for his part, appeared somewhat relieved.

  “Now shall we go to sleep, dear?” Anna Maria said quietly.

  The man didn’t answer yes or no, so with gentle firmness she made him get up. He abandoned himself to the will of his wife and, exhausted, closed his eyes as she led him along the hall to the bedroom.

  III.

  The morning rays crept in obliquely through the window, which was wide open in spite of the cold weather, illuminating a group of sweaty men. Herr Mozart, looking for the best place to put the new pianoforte, kept changing his mind, tripling the work of the movers and surely causing them to curse to themselves; he refused to listen to suggestions from Wolfgang, who stood apart with a strange expression on his face. Nannerl paused in the doorway in amazement.

  “You have made an excellent choice, Herr Mozart!” said a lanky young man. “It’s the best of my pianofortes. It will give you the greatest satisfaction!”

  “Thank you,” Leopold answered, “but it will do so to my daughter in particular. She, in fact, is the one who will be using it.” He pointed toward her with the sweeping gesture of a master of ceremonies.

  “Fräulein Mozart, what a pleasure! I am a great admirer of yours: I’ve heard you play many times.”

  “My daughter is a fine concert performer, there is no doubt; but I am convinced that this piano will help give a
more suitable order to her life. All right, there, in the center. That’s perfect. Stop.”

  What sense did it make to buy a pianoforte on the eve of the sojourn in Italy? Nannerl searched her brother’s gaze, but he seemed very interested in the mechanics and had stuck his head inside the piano case. The lanky man rushed over and kissed her hand. “Would you try it, Fräulein Mozart? Please, now, while I’m here?”

  “Why don’t you try it?” Leopold said suddenly.

  “I, Herr Mozart? But I’m not a pianist. I’ve hardly studied. I’m a dilettante.”

  “Perhaps you know some of my son’s easy pieces.”

  “Well, yes, actually. There is one, in particular. My poor grandmother loved it and was always wanting me to play it. But I don’t know if I remember it.”

  While the movers went off, surely to down a beer in some tavern, the young man placed two long, squarish hands on the keyboard and started a sonatina of Wolfgang’s, which, however, he seemed to be playing with his feet. Wolfgang’s expression was one of the most scornful in his repertoire, and Nannerl went up to her father timidly: “I’m grateful for the gift, but I don’t understand.”

  He turned quickly toward the piano. “No, here it goes into the minor, you don’t remember? Wolfgang, get the score so he can repeat the passage. It’s in the third cupboard.”

  “I know…Where is that score,” he said, opening the doors. He took out a folder that read in an elegant script “Pieces Composed at the Age of Eight” and quickly pulled out the right one.

  “Do you mean that this is the original manuscript?” the skinny man asked, handling the page as if it were gold. “Would you sell it to me, Herr Mozart?”

  “Why not, if you really want it. Give me a discount on the price of the instrument and we’ll be set.”

  The man, intoxicated with joy, began to massacre the sonatina again, and Wolfgang couldn’t keep himself from correcting at least the most glaring errors. Amid the repeating of notes, suffocated exclamations, and murmured excuses, Nannerl went back to her father: “Won’t you explain to me what’s the point of this?”

  “Quiet, daughter—not now. Now I would like to listen to our friend.”

  “What is the point of a pianoforte?” she cried. “Certainly we can’t bring it to Italy with us. Why have you bought it just at this moment?”

  “You are not going to see Italy, daughter. You will stay in Salzburg with your mother and give piano lessons.” He gave her a thin smile. “Haven’t you always liked the piano?”

  IV.

  “Ask five florins a lesson, not one less, and insist on payment in advance. Look for pupils among the aristocracy and do it so that the word will spread as widely as possible. Every two weeks you will go to the posting station and send the money to me at the address that I will provide.”

  While Leopold dictated instructions to his wife, Nannerl, slicing cabbage on an old wooden board with a sharp knife, imagined that she was slicing up her father.

  “Ah, and you had better find a servant. A presentable woman who can greet the pupils at the door and serve refreshments during the lessons. There has to be an aura of elegance and prosperity, because—remember this well, my dear—money calls forth money. Write that down, too.”

  Beside his sister, Wolfgang was contrite. “I’m sorry, Nannerl. I’m so sorry,” he said in an undertone.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

  “No, I swear—”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “Please, Anna Maria, don’t make a mess of this,” Herr Mozart concluded, then he turned magnanimously to his daughter. “Let’s understand each other: you can keep part of the money you earn. Maybe you can buy yourself some pretty clothes.”

  Turning her back to him, she threw the cabbage on a plate and spat on it. Then she left the kitchen.

  “Where in the world are you going, now that it’s ready?” her mother cried.

  “Leave her alone,” Leopold said with an air of superiority. “She is stubborn, but at heart she isn’t bad: it will pass.”

  He grabbed a fork, put a large forkful of cabbage in his mouth, and chewed energetically.

  V.

  For entire days she didn’t move from her bed. Her hair loose on the pillow, her gaze dim, and her breath slow, she was like a wild creature in hibernation.

  “Look at what I found,” Wolfgang said, holding up under her nose an old parchment covered with scribbles. It showed a meadow with two trees, a castle with a crenellated tower, the sun partly concealed behind a cloud, a little lake populated by geese, and two human figures, one male, one female, with giant crowns on their heads. The whole picture was surmounted by a legend written in the uncertain hand of a child: “The Kingdom of Back.”

  Nannerl turned away. Wolfgang sat on the bed and placed a hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t react. Then, resigned, he rolled up the parchment and placed it on the night table.

  “I tried to persuade him,” he murmured after a long sigh, “but you know perfectly well it’s impossible. What was I to do? Refuse to go myself?”

  He seemed to perceive in her a sign of assent, but it was only his imagination, because Nannerl did not move.

  “I thought about it, but then I concluded that no one, in my shoes, would have done that. Think about it: Should I give up an opportunity so great for my career, for my very life? Not even you, in my place, would have—come on, admit it.”

  She rolled over, creating an abyss between herself and those words.

  The boy then decided to be more honest. “I can’t stay in this provincial place, Nannerl. Truly, I can’t. Life here is nothing but a repetition of tired ballets for a crowd of stupid rich people. There is so much new music inside me—and I know that I’ll only be able to pour it out in the freedom of the wider world.”

  Perhaps she had made herself temporarily deaf.

  “Then there are some practical matters,” Wolfgang continued, with a hint of shame. “The archbishop has refused to pay Papa for the whole time he’s gone. And for my work at court I’ve never seen a florin, as you know. Italy is an expensive country, and absurd as it sounds, it seems that you don’t get paid for concerts. Even if I were able to perform one of my works, I would get less than some ordinary tenor. In other words, Nannerl, we can’t all four of us go. We wouldn’t have enough to live on. In fact, the truth is that…that without the money you earn from lessons, Papa and I couldn’t go, either.”

  What was all that talk of money? Nannerl seemed to be made of stone. If she was still breathing, it wasn’t visible.

  “Now I will confess something to you. If I revealed that those arias were yours—the ones that Paulina sang—I did it because I knew what would happen. I did it for you, Nannerl.”

  This time she turned abruptly and stared at him with wide-open eyes: this was a good one!

  “It’s true, believe me,” he continued. “You have to stop hiding in my shadow. You have to become autonomous, compose in the light of day, have the satisfaction of hearing someone else interpret your notes. Ultimately, our leaving is a stroke of luck for you. From a distance, Papa won’t have any way of controlling you; and now that the ice is broken, you can look for some nobleman to support you. Surely you’ll find one.”

  Finally Nannerl opened her mouth, and her deep voice fell like lead on her brother’s head: “So in effect you are going to Italy to do me a favor. Thank you, Wolfgang. Now I would like to be alone.”

  He rose in silence and went to the door. A moment before leaving he turned to look at her. “I’ll miss you very much,” he said with a catch in his throat. “I’ll think of you at every moment. And I hope you’ll think of me.”

  As soon as the door closed, she took from under the covers her scores wrapped in their shreds of fabric and hugged them to her.

  VI.

  Wolfgang wandered through the house. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and he proceeded slowly, looking down, kicking one foot with the other. His steps brought him to the kit
chen; he leaned on the doorpost, not daring to go in, because his mother was busy taking little pastries out of the oven with the help of the servant she had just hired.

  “Don’t just stand there, Wolfgang,” she called as soon as she saw him. “Come in! Look how well they turned out! Do you want to taste one?”

  He shook his head and wearily went to the window that looked onto the courtyard.

  “What is it, my angel: Are you sad? I know, you’re thinking of your sister. Don’t worry about her; in time she’ll understand. Unfortunately, she has always been an egotist, that’s the trouble.”

  “Egotist?” he repeated, bewildered.

  “Of course, and not only that, she’s as stubborn as a mule! Papa says it will be good for both of you to be separated for a while. And then, with Tresel’s help, I will be able to teach Nannerl some housekeeping. Isn’t it true, my dear, that you will give me a hand?”

  The servant nodded with a kind of grunt while she tasted one of the pastries. She was a middle-aged woman of few words and of brusque manners; her smile was unknown.

  “Oh yes, you’ll see. Nannerl will become a fine housekeeper! Just like her mother, in all modesty.”

  “Madame,” Tresel said, putting down the pastry with a look of disgust. “Is it possible that you added salt instead of sugar?”

  “What?”

  At that moment Wolfgang happened to look out the window and into the courtyard, the ancient seat of the Kingdom of Back, and gradually his eyes focused on his sister, who was intent on burning a pile of papers. She had lighted her pyre right in the center, where once the king’s throne had been, and she was burning one page after another.

  It was the manuscripts of her music. Methodically, and with implacable slowness, she took each page, set fire to one corner, and observed the flames as they licked the notes, colored them an irreversible brown, and transformed them into an intangible black dust. Only at the final instant, so as not to burn herself, she dropped the last corner onto the burning coals. Then she began again with a new page.