Mozart's Sister: A Novel

by Rita Charbonnier

  Johann Baptist von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg was extremely handsome. Under thirty, slender, with long hair the color of grain that he wore simply pulled back, he had features so harmonious that they could have been lent, with advantage, to an Apollo. He had only one small flaw, as Anna Maria had to admit when he stood up, out of respect to the countess: he was short, as if the Creator had considered that such beauty in large dimensions would have been too dazzling, complicating his life.

  “My adored Baron, what a pleasure,” Katharina said, offering her hand.

  “Countess, seeing you is always a genuine delight,” he declared, without much conviction and looking around as if in expectation of someone or something.

  “Do you know my good friend Frau Anna Maria Mozart?”

  “Enchanté, Madame,” he said, kissing her hand, and for an instant he was silent, observing her with an irresistible smile. His irises, ringed by long, thick, dark eyelashes, were of two different colors: the left was uniformly gray-green; while on the upper part of the right a blue patch appeared. “As you see, Madame,” he declared in a clear, youthful voice, “I am shorter than you, and perhaps also than your daughter. Is the girl in question here, or do you intend to introduce me on some other occasion?”

  “Baron, don’t be mischievous!” said the voluble countess, and she turned to Anna Maria: “Baptist is an artist, you know. Just like your beautiful daughter. Who knows, maybe they would understand each other.”

  “What art does the young lady favor?” Baptist asked politely, looking up for a moment with those shining eyes of his.

  Anna Maria dared to open her mouth: “Well, it’s not a pastime but a profession, as a matter of fact. My daughter, Nannerl, is the best piano teacher in the city.”

  “Ah, but then I know whom you’re talking about. I’ve heard her perform, with her brother! Dear Countess, this time you mean to assign me a musician as the mother of my sons? Well done—a true inspiration.”

  “I don’t mean to do anything, dear Baptist,” she answered, in some annoyance. “And in any case, I certainly don’t have the power to choose for you what only destiny, and the divine plan, can arrange. I confine myself to smoothing the path to acquaintance of individuals whom my shrewd sensibility picks out as having some affinity, and not exclusively with a romantic purpose, believe me, but in order to widen the circle of my relationships, and of the individuals themselves. As I read the other evening in a French text that my husband obtained for me, nothing is of greater importance in this life than human contact: it is only through those around us, in fact, that we are able to achieve success, perform our duties, and obtain satisfaction. It follows that friendly relations should be cultivated and stimulated more than anything else, and it is undeniable that in that field, I possess a rare intelligence, or perhaps only good intuition. It is well known that those whom I introduce to one another habitually become at least friends, to their contentment and mine. And it is of contentment, dear Baron, that I speak: since it is absolutely certain, you must admit, that a new love would brighten your life, made unhappy by the misfortune that we all know and that I don’t want to refer to explicitly out of respect for your feelings; it is absolutely certain, therefore, that love would genuinely brighten your life. You, dear friend, need to meet carefree young women who come to every occasion with a serene and positive attitude.”

  “Mama, I can’t take it anymore!” The three turned toward Nannerl, who had joined them, paler than ever, stormier-looking than ever. “My head is bursting, and I’m tired. I want to go home and I will, with or without you!”

  For a moment the baron looked at her with an ambiguous expression, amused by such unfashionable manners. Suddenly, he took a breath and declaimed:

  “Oh, beautiful eyes, so weary and blue,

  I, humble knight

  With humble right,

  If those eyes will consent

  I, grateful and content,

  Will carry them on my steed so white and true.”

  And he stood there, one hand raised in the air and the other pressed melodramatically to his chest.

  A vaguely embarrassed silence fell. Nannerl looked at the man as if he were deranged, and even Anna Maria seemed somewhat taken aback. But Katharina, satisfied by what seemed to her an excellent beginning, commented, “Nannerl dear, our baron is a man worthy of the greatest interest. He has a unique gift, which he displays to everyone he meets: that of creating extempore verses of rare beauty, in perfect rhymes, sometimes alternating and sometimes in couplets. In short, he has just offered to take you home in his carriage, since you prefer to deprive us of your company. Is that not an unusually gallant gesture?”

  Not satisfied, the man pressed on, in a thundering voice and with comically theatrical gestures:

  “Not only to the dwelling of Nannerl,

  Who of all here is the most beautiful girl,

  Will I go, but further, mile after mile

  My humble carriage has the power

  To take that lovely, heavenly smile

  Wherever she likes, for hour upon hour.”

  “Do you want only my ‘heavenly smile’ or can I come with my whole self?” Nannerl asked, in a sarcastic tone.

  “Go on, go home, daughter,” Frau Mozart cut her short. “I’ll join you later. Please, Baron, take her driving as long as you like. And thank you.”

  XIII.

  First, it wasn’t even thinkable that a man so handsome could truly be interested in her; second, if he were, it would certainly not be manifested through bad poetry; third, while he was reciting, those eyes, unique in the world, bored into hers with such intensity that she felt naked, as she was in reality only twelve times a year, when she bathed. And so Nannerl avoided that contact, and ostentatiously examined the buildings that ran by outside the window of his luxurious vis-à-vis carriage.

  “Sadness now fills the simple heart

  Of this man, for too soon will we part,

  And th’angelic journey to solitude will yield.

  But surely you will not raise up your shield

  Against the darts of…of…Cupid….”

  The baron stopped and murmured to himself, raising an eyebrow, “Pity! I need a rhyme for ‘Cupid.’”

  “So you express yourself only in verse?”

  “The truth is, prose is less congenial to me, Fräulein Mozart. The story is that the first words I uttered were in rhyme; and my mother, whom God has taken to glory, made me study poetry composition from earliest childhood, rather pedantically.”

  “If you have talent, why do you waste it like that?”

  “Oh, so you think I’m wasting it?” he said, ironically. “Don’t tell me that you don’t like my verses, O lovely lady. My heart would break!”

  “On the contrary, Baron, I find them enchanting, indeed!” she answered with equal sarcasm. “Spontaneous and not at all artificial—like a spring breeze.”

  “Then, if you will kindly consent, I will compose in your honor an entire poem: ‘My Lady Nannerl in Springtime.’ What do you think? Do you like the title?”

  “Absolutely on the mark. It will make a great splash in the world.”

  “That is what I hoped to hear,” Baptist declared. Then he became absorbed in thought, and suddenly said, “It’s too bad your brother, Wolfgang, isn’t here in Salzburg.”

  “Why?” she asked, surprised.

  “Only he would be able to compose timeless music, to accompany the lines of my poem. Don’t you think?”

  “Oh, of course. He’s the only one, no one else in the world,” she said coldly and turned again to look out the window.

  “May I ask you if you are in touch by letter? I imagine long letters between brother and sister. Is that not so?”

  “Of course! Wolfgang writes me reams of letters. And some day or other I’ll answer, don’t worry. Any other questions?”

  He was silent, more and more aroused by her rude manner, and meanwhile he imagined working his way under Nannerl’s red skirt an
d the petticoats that were undoubtedly white and embroidered, and of caressing her legs with his hands and of tasting them with his tongue. Baptist was sure that if the mute anger of this young woman was transformed into sensual energy, they could lose themselves and their very identities; but the rolling of the carriage marked the passage of ill-spent time, and Getreidegasse came closer and closer.

  “Do you like the mountains, Fräulein Mozart?” he asked suddenly. “I have a house on a lake, at Sankt Gilgen. Those who have visited me, I must say, have been delighted.”

  “I know Sankt Gilgen. It’s where my mother is from.”

  “Oh, really? I’m so sorry I didn’t discuss it with Frau Mozart. In any case, there will be opportunities: I could organize an excursion, as soon as the days are longer.”

  “Our maid is from Sankt Gilgen as well. The excursion, perhaps, could be made with her.”

  Just then, the coachman pulled on the reins: to Nannerl’s great relief, they had reached their destination. “Baron, thank you for the ride. You have been extremely kind,” she said with the barest minimum of politeness, jumping down and slamming the door. Then she leaned through the window to whisper to him: “Don’t forget, write a nice poem. I’ll be happy to hear you recite it.”

  He cried after her, “I’ll come and see you tomorrow, if you’re not too busy,” but Nannerl had already disappeared through the entranceway. So Baptist smiled and nodded to the coachman, and the rocking of the carriage took on the rhythm of a violent imaginary embrace.

  XIV.

  The wide wheels of the carriage that bore Leopold and Wolfgang out of Bologna produced a serene rolling motion. The carriage belonged to Don Carlo Broschi, the celebrated Farinelli, who had invited the Mozarts to his villa, a mile from Porta Lame. The man who had performed in Vienna, London, and Madrid, causing hysteria and madness—that castrato of unequaled range, breath, intonation, agility, quality of timbre, and feeling—lived in retirement in a small villa in the hills, in the shade of ash and mulberry trees.

  Sitting opposite the Mozarts was a famous singer, Clementina Spagnoli, known as La Spagnoletta. As usual, her neck was concealed beneath a thick padding of shawls and scarves—she was terrified by the idea that a dastardly puff of wind might damage her vocal cords—but the adolescent daughter who accompanied her was charmingly exposed, and while Wolfgang pretended to look out the window, the corner of his eye was fixed on her immature breast, and he was happy enough. No one said a word. La Spagnoletta was to perform the following day, and to converse would tire her voice; her daughter was obliged by etiquette to be silent; Leopold was sunk in his own inscrutable thoughts; and Wolfgang’s could not be made public. The journey, in any case, was brief, and the residence that the idol of Baroque music had had built for himself appeared at the end of an allée framed by beds of cyclamens.

  Farinelli was at the entrance, with his hands on his hips and an oddly timid smile on his face. Wolfgang finally detached his gaze and his thoughts from his carriage companion and turned them to the singer. He must have been sixty-five years old, but he didn’t show it; he was tall, thin, and erect, and his hair was darker than Leopold’s. He was a strange creature, like all castrati; he had soft fingers, narrow, slightly slumping shoulders, and a long neck, with no Adam’s apple, like a woman’s—or so, at least, one would imagine, for the neck was entirely swathed by his shirt collar. His legs were in a dancer’s pose, the right in front of the left, with the feet slightly turned out, and he wore a silver redingote with the elegance of one who is used to wearing costumes onstage. As soon as the carriage stopped, he came out to open the door, and La Spagnoletta fell on him, letting her voice, incredibly, emerge, but in a cautious whisper: “Adored maestro…”

  The house was a jewel, beautifully frescoed and adorned with works of art that Farinelli had acquired or received as gifts. A broad carpeted staircase led to the first floor; in the center of a vast salon stood a billiard table, and on the walls hung portraits of the kings of Spain, Sardinia, and Asturias, and even a pope, all of whom had been Farinelli’s patrons. And yet there was nothing ostentatious in the exhibition of those trophies, and Don Broschi, showing them to his guests, seemed almost apologetic. His collection of musical instruments, too, was precious: different viols and numerous harpsichords built in various countries of Europe. While Leopold observed them with a critical eye, Wolfgang, for once, seemed barely interested in musical matters; the girl in the low-cut dress was, for him, much more fascinating. Standing beside her mother, who allowed a haughty boredom to be manifest, for she had already made this visit several times, the girl was reserved, fanning herself a little. Her golden-brown hair was gathered on top of her head, leaving bare the white nape, with its furrow; two locks of hair, artfully curled, fell from her temples to her shoulders, undulating in the wind made by the fan, and Wolfgang imagined touching them with a caress or even a kiss.

  To his great surprise, the girl suddenly made a half turn, closed her fan, and stared at him, as if waiting for him to speak. Wolfgang was embarrassed. He had almost resolved to follow the adults into the next room, but she spoke to him: “Is it true that you’re only thirteen?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Do you speak Italian?” the girl asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So is it true that you’re only thirteen?”

  Before replying he looked at the door. “Actually, I’m two years older, but don’t tell my father I told you.”

  “Why should I?” she said, as if insulted.

  Wolfgang felt her physicality emerging from her clothes like a magnetic wave. She, on the other hand, seemed to be studying him with scientific attention.

  “Is it true that you are writing an opera for the Royal Ducal Theater of Milan?”

  He limited himself to a nod.

  “How did you get a commission like that? I mean, you’re only fifteen! And besides, what makes you think you can do it?”

  He smiled to himself, not at all annoyed.

  “You’ll be working with people who are at least twice your age,” she went on, shrugging. “In my opinion they’ll take advantage of you and you won’t get a word in.”

  “Do you also study singing?”

  “Are you serious? I hate music.”

  Not even that heretical statement made her less attractive. “Why?” he asked.

  “For my mother the theater has always counted more than me. The only thing that’s important to her in life is to put on a nice costume and hit her high C. How could I like the opera?”

  At that moment, as if she had been summoned, La Spagnoletta appeared in the doorway to command her daughter to join the rest of the group; she did so not in words, of course, but with a gracious wave of her hand. The girl repressed a sigh of boredom, took Wolfgang by the arm, and led him through a small room with tapestry-covered walls, a corridor crowded with grandfather clocks, and a room that held a collection of ceramics, until, finally, they reached a salon from which there was a splendid view over the roofs of Bologna. Farinelli’s most beautiful harpsichord was set up there, and yielding to Leopold’s entreaties, he was preparing to display for his guests his mythic voice. On a stool near the window sat an aged man who wore the habit of a Franciscan. He greeted Wolfgang affectionately. He was a true crowned head of music, and not just Italian music: Father Giovanni Battista Martini.

  “Do you know him?” the girl whispered to Wolfgang, surprised and a little irritated by the position that this boy from Austria was gaining in her territory.

  “He’s the best maestro I ever had.”

  “Big surprise,” she commented. “He’s the best there is.”

  Everything possible had been said of Farinelli. That his voice made the orchestra players lose their concentration and caused his fellow performers to go out of character, that he loved women and also men, that he could make the most mediocre melody beautiful. This superhuman could range over three octaves as if they were one, could produce two hundred and fifty notes in
a single breath, was able to hold a high note—vibrating, precise—for an entire minute. But all this when he was young; and both Wolfgang and Leopold strongly doubted that the old castrato was still able to astonish.

  They were both mistaken, and grossly. Sitting at the harpsichord, which he had named Raffaello Sanzio, and accompanying himself with his slender hands, he held his chest erect to fill his expansive lungs, and his control of that breath was magisterial. From Carlo Broschi’s throat came a ribbon of pure silver, now dark, now bright, exploding in fireworks of harmonics in the center of the salon; his face was one with silver itself, and his entire body became an instrument. It was like seeing a cello, an oboe, and a clarinet combine and become human and gain even a soul, and sing it. Farinelli did not indulge in virtuosities like a nostalgic lion, but every embellishment was sober, necessary, and perfect, and every passage was incomparably natural, incomparably moving.

  The Mozarts sat openmouthed, Father Martini listened with a faraway smile, La Spagnoletta affected a complicit appreciation, and her daughter had started fanning herself again, serious as the Sphinx.

  “Nannerl should be here,” Wolfgang said softly to himself, sadly.

  The girl heard him. “Who’s this Nannerl?” she whispered in his ear, distracting him from listening by the warmth of her lips.

  “My sister.”

  “And why isn’t she here?”

  “She stayed home so that I could go,” he murmured.

  “Good for you, then. Where’s the problem?”

  Maybe she wasn’t completely wrong. The boy was silent and closed his eyes, letting the art of that marvelous interpreter permeate his entire being. Then he reopened them and gazed at Farinelli and at Father Martini, one a performer and the other a spectator. There they were, two men of a similar age, two equally superior minds, two equally simple persons. Perhaps it was age that made those two great men so without egotism, so modest and reserved. In the end, Wolfgang reflected, an old man has experienced and overcome problems that young men struggle with, and no longer has anything to prove. Far from the distracting tensions of daily life, he’s not blinded by the need to prove something, and is able to grasp only what’s essential in everything. To an old man, basically, nothing at all matters, not even dying, if he has lived well, and this is what makes him great.