Mozart's Sister: A Novel

by Rita Charbonnier

  The noise woke the archbishop with a jerk that banged his old bones against the throne. “How did it go, Major?” he mumbled. “Did Fräulein Mozart play well, as she used to?”

  Armand hesitated, embarrassed, and the chamberlain came quickly to his aid: “Very well, Excellency! The public is very satisfied, as you can see for yourself!” And so the decrepit ruler applauded the blurry figure on the stage.

  Victoria rose and, rather than move to the front of the stage and thank the audience, went to her teacher in the wings.

  “How did I do? How did I do?” she repeated.

  Nannerl smiled, filled with emotion. “Very well. No one missed me, Victoria. Be proud of yourself.” The girl impetuously embraced her, but she pushed her gently aside. “Come, come. Go and take your bow. You have to be polite to your public.” Then her expression became ironic. “But if you don’t feel like curtsying, forget it. Believe me, it’s not important.”

  Victoria hurried to the center of the stage and at her appearance the applause grew louder. Nannerl, invisible to the crowd, looked at her affectionately, and for the first time in years felt a peaceful warmth envelop her soul.

  Suddenly a hand rested on her shoulder. She turned and was startled at the sight of Armand, whose proud features seemed to have cracked and whose eyes were surprisingly bright. The man said nothing and his emotions were not plain. Of one thing Nannerl was certain: there was no trace of hostility.

  “Major, I’m sorry,” she murmured, staring at those brown irises, which were large and set in a network of veins. “I didn’t want to cause suffering…If I had known…”

  “Call me Armand, that’s all,” he said, and his face opened in a faint smile. While in the hall the applause continued, the two couldn’t take their eyes off each other, bound by an intense, impalpable current of desire and dismay, until a voice startled them.

  “I beg your pardon…Oh, have I ruined the mood?”

  A young man wearing a large plumed hat had come upon them from behind. He planted himself there, staring at them with mocking intrusiveness, while Nannerl turned to one side, confused; she felt her cheeks burning and tried to hide her blush.

  “I would like to speak to you, miss, if you don’t mind,” the young man said. “Or maybe kiss you, seeing that the one who is here, so to speak, doesn’t dare. But I don’t know if it’s suitable. Let me think…”

  Suddenly he brought his mouth to Nannerl’s ear, so close that she could feel his breath, and whispered, “Here forever happy…”

  “Wolfgang!” she yelled, and embraced him violently. The plumed hat fell onto the stage and rolled down into the first row, as she hugged her brother so hard that it hurt; the contact with his now-adult body seemed to her so strange, but more intense was the joy of having him near.

  Armand went silently away. Brother and sister remained enthralled, mute. It was a long embrace accompanied by the fading, finally, of the applause.

  Mademoiselle Jeunehomme

  I.

  “Who was that man in the uniform?”

  “No one.”

  “He must have a name, this no one!”

  “What difference does it make to you, Wolfgang? He’s the father of my student.”

  “So, do the fathers of all your students look at your ass?”

  Her brother was very changed. He was still shorter than she was, as he always would be, but he had grown a lot; and apart from that, his manner was very physical, his language was crude, and in his behavior toward her he swung between fierce possessiveness and malicious disparagement. He dressed with extreme care and powdered his face and his hair; he walked proudly along the street, gratified by the reverential greetings that the people of Salzburg addressed to him and his beloved father. Leopold leaned on his wife’s arm, a few steps behind; he limped slightly and used a cane. He complained that his leg remained sensitive to changes in temperature, but he did it only to win extra attention from his wife, for in effect he had recovered.

  “Italy is full of mediocrity and corruption,” he sighed, sitting at the table of the inn beside his son. “To make it possible for Wolfgang to work I had to maneuver in some repellent games of power. I’m glad to be free of them.”

  “What do you mean?” Anna Maria protested. “In your letters you said it’s a marvelous country.”

  “It is, certainly, but I fear one has to have been born there to deal with its complexity.”

  At that moment Wolfgang slipped one hand under the table, laid it on Nannerl’s thigh, and squeezed, in a gesture between lechery and mockery, and at the same time he whispered, “I love you. I love you so much I’m asking for your hand, and when I have it—I’ll put it on my ass!”

  She freed herself from his grasp and murmured, “I see the trip was bad for you.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say bad. I sank into abysses of lechery. Shall I tell you about it?”

  “Children, don’t whisper at the table,” their mother interrupted. “What were you saying?”

  “I was complimenting her on…Victoria. That’s the girl’s name, isn’t it, dearest sister?”

  “And who is this Victoria?” Leopold asked.

  “My student who performed the other night.”

  “Ah yes, Victoria d’Ippold,” he said, nodding. He looked only at the son beside him and the wife opposite; it was as if Nannerl were not present. Who knows, maybe looking diagonally was hard because of his leg. He leaned his head against his chair back and let his memories flow. “That girl’s mother was an excellent harpsichordist. I heard her a couple of times, years ago, in private concerts; then she stopped performing because of her uncertain health. Her husband never recovered from the loss. A very sad story.”

  “So that man in uniform is free!” Wolfgang exclaimed, winking at Nannerl. “And he might even be attractive, if only he were twenty years younger and removed the stick he’s got up his ass.”

  She looked at him furiously while Anna Maria giggled. “Come, don’t use bad language, angel.”

  But he went on. He put his hands around his mouth to create a kind of trumpet and lowered the volume: “The ass beheld by the stick, the stick stuck up the ass…”

  “Stop it, please,” Nannerl hissed, and he said, “I just want to know what’s been going on in my absence, since your letters left something to be desired.”

  “Oh really? Shall we talk about your transcriptions, then?”

  “Now stop that, will you! Oh shit!” Anna Maria cried, and raised a hand as if to hit someone, but the host arrived with a carafe of wine and she pretended to be brushing off a fly.

  Herr Mozart took a swallow of wine and appeared to appreciate it. Then he clicked his tongue and turned to Nannerl, staring at the glass against the light ostentatiously. “I have only one question. Does Major d’Ippold pay regularly for his daughter’s lessons?”

  She answered firmly. “So far I’ve been teaching her for nothing. Now we’ll see.”

  “We’ll see—who, dear child?”

  “The d’Ippolds and I. Why, does it have to do with anyone else?”

  “Yes, of course. As long as you live in my house, you will do as I say.”

  “As long as I’m the one who’s getting paid, I’ll do what I think is right!”

  Leopold began to get irritated; with clenched fists, he stared at the empty plate in front of him. “Very well. Then you will stop giving lessons completely. Since there’s no longer any need. I will return to work and something remunerative will be found at court for Wolfgang. Today I will write to the families of all your students to let them know that you are stopping. Are you happy?”

  “But, really, my dear. It would be a pity, don’t you think?” Anna Maria intervened timidly. “The two of us have managed, with some effort, to create a position for ourselves in the fashionable world, and it would be a shame to throw it away.”

  “Now that Wolfgang is here in Salzburg, he will provide us all with a position in the fashionable world. And without the least effort.”<
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  The young man seemed satisfied with the direction of the discussion. He took one of Nannerl’s hands and touched the ugly nails patiently. “Sister, I think you should reflect on what our dear father says. If you stopped teaching and started giving concerts again, wouldn’t that be better?”

  “I am a mere provincial music teacher. Have you forgotten?”

  “Oh, time passes…And we have both grown up. You are better than anyone I’ve ever met, and even that Victoria is only a dilettante compared to you. You know what I’m going to do? I’ll write a concerto for piano and orchestra, just for you! Wouldn’t you like to be the first in the world to play it?”

  “It would be an incredible honor,” she answered with a sarcasm that didn’t touch him.

  “Shall we order?” Anna Maria urged in a cheery voice and nodded to the host. Then she turned to her husband entreatingly: “My treasure, don’t make decisions in a hurry. If Nannerl has given a few lessons without pay, the rest has gone according to your plans, I assure you. She is the best teacher in Salzburg, and her students can be recognized by their taste and the precision of their touch. This is what all the nobility say.”

  “Who have not heard her play for years,” Leopold grumbled. “And I have my doubts that someone who never plays knows how to teach.”

  “Theoretically I agree with you,” Nannerl declared. “But every rule has its exceptions; and once upon a time you yourself called me exceptional. If you no longer think so—anyway, it doesn’t much matter to me.”

  “Sirrrr!” Frau Mozart cried. The man arrived with a large tray, and the scent of Wiener schnitzel calmed them.

  II.

  The door of the dark, deserted cellar opened and Victoria’s slender silhouette appeared. In the silence she lighted the candelabra and advanced, carrying with her a tremulous sphere of light. Behind her was Nannerl. Protected by the obscurity, she dared to touch the arm of the man who stood uncertainly on the threshold, for he had never been there and was afraid of violating a sanctuary.

  “Come,” she said gently.

  Armand entered and closed the door behind him. That storeroom piled with dilapidated furniture seemed to him truly a sacred place, transformed by the women into a practice room. His astonished gaze traced a circle and stopped on the harpsichord.

  Victoria was already on the stool, and Nannerl went to sit beside her. And under the guidance of her teacher, the beloved student began playing a Bach sarabande.

  It was a slow dance, in a minor key, composed of broad chords that progressed with poignant mastery and trills that suspended the harmonic resolutions, holding off relief in an unbearable delay. Armand went to the instrument, listening, careful not to make the least noise; he observed, rapt, the faces of the two women, that of Victoria abandoned; Nannerl’s more vigilant. Then he walked around the instrument and placed a warm, protective hand on the shoulder of each of them.

  Anyone who had seen them would have thought of a small, loving family group. Victoria appeared unaware of the paternal gesture and continued to play calmly, repeating the piece again and again, in an eternal da capo; and each time, she entered into the spirit of the composer more fully and added something of her own in a slight pause or an accent of feeling. Nannerl was, on the other hand, profoundly disturbed by Armand’s touch and was thankful that he couldn’t see her flaming face.

  Slowly the man’s hand moved from her shoulder to her neck and then her cheek, and stopped there to savor the contact of her skin, which had grown damp. Breathing through her mouth, then holding her breath, Nannerl closed her eyes and bent her head slightly, enjoying that caress. Eyes closed, she slowly raised her arms and placed her fingers on the keyboard. Softly she caressed the keys while Armand caressed her, without pressing, without her nails touching the ivory and the ebony, without creating the slightest sound.

  III.

  Those were her hands! Long, appropriately for a tall girl, rounded and strong, with broad fingertips, nimbly producing a succession of notes astonishing for their rapidity and yet their precision. They were hers, Nannerl’s. But they were not hers. She was relegated to the audience like an ordinary spectator, and the pianist, known throughout Europe, had attracted to the theater not only the aristocrats of the city but those of the neighboring principalities. And she was good, oh she was good! Her technique was enough for two, and her capacity for emotion, and her interpretative imagination. This is playing! One cannot play better than this. Nannerl saw herself on the stage, the herself she could have become, if only…If only what? The young woman even looked like her. Her hair was the same gold color and was done in a style Nannerl liked. Her complexion was pink and white, like hers. In profile, the tip of her nose turned down slightly, just like hers. And the dress was perfect for a concert: it was the one she would have chosen, not too tight in the waist, the sleeves short and not puffed, not too elaborate, because the performer wants to be remembered for her music, not for her wardrobe. And now the concert is over and the pianist rises and bows. Even the bow is perfect. No simpering curtsies or inappropriate batting of eyelashes. Only a measured nod of the head, hands joined at the breast: this is how to say thank you. And then the artist leaves and doesn’t return, in spite of the prolonged applause: this is how we keep from confusing ourself with the image others have of us.

  “So, how did she seem to you?” Wolfgang asked, rising from his chair and unfurling his legs.

  “You want the truth?”

  “Obviously.”

  “I don’t think I will ever have the courage to perform after seeing her. Tonight I’ve had the confirmation that I’m not worth much even as a pianist.”

  “Do you expect me to contradict you and comfort you?”

  “Not at all, Wolfgang.”

  “Just as well. In any case, if you think you’re not worth much, you’re not. And as for courage, you’ve never had any. You’ve always been towed along behind someone else.”

  She didn’t have time to respond, for Leopold took his son by the arm and led him away. “Into the dressing room. We have to do a little public relations.” He turned to his wife and daughter. “Would you like to come, too?”

  “If it won’t disturb you,” Nannerl said angrily.

  Herr Mozart ignored the combative tone and hurried on, talking to Wolfgang. “You should write a concerto for this Frenchwoman: it would be an excellent investment in the future.”

  “Why not? I think it can be done,” the young man affirmed, while on his lips appeared a wicked smile. “You know what I hope, more than anything? That she’s not as masculine as her name. It would be a real waste, with those long legs.”

  “Think about paying her some compliments on her artistic gifts and don’t worry about the rest.” He stopped at the door of the dressing room, made sure that his family looked presentable, assumed an obsequious air, and then knocked.

  “Entrez, s’il vous plaît,” said a clear voice from inside.

  Upon opening the door, the Mozarts were assailed by a profusion of heady scents. The dressing room was overflowing with roses, freesias, lilies, carnations, camellias, arranged in jars, baskets, Chinese vases; bouquets had been placed on the shelves, on the chairs, even on the floor. The artist greeted the new arrivals with a gracious gesture of her arms similar to the opening up of a flower, and Wolfgang felt drawn to her full, shining lips like a bee to a pistil.

  Leopold kissed her hand and said in his impeccable French, “Je suis enchanté, Mademoiselle Jeunehomme.”

  “Which in my language means ‘young man,’” answered the pianist with a beautiful smile. “Isn’t that funny?”

  “Your charme is delightfully French, my dear mademoiselle. And your fame is certainly inferior to your art.”

  “Oh, thank you. I know you, too, of course, by reputation—and your son the prodigy.” Her eyes were as green as a new shoot and she fixed them on Wolfgang’s; he was pervaded by a sexual energy that left no doubts about the femininity of Mademoiselle Jeunehomme.

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bsp; “It is you who are the prodigy,” he said gallantly. “Your fame is certainly inferior to your…beauty.”

  Nannerl had stayed in the doorway, stiffly, and her unease increased as she watched her brother take one of Mademoiselle Jeunehomme’s hands and place it on his heart.

  “Do you hear these heartbeats?” he said. “During the concert they were in unison with your fingers, as they are at this exact moment.”

  “Oh how sweet…You have a poetic soul, dear Mozart.”

  “Especially when it’s useful,” Nannerl said in a whisper, but she was heard. Her parents gave her a furious look; Wolfgang, however, didn’t lose his composure.

  “Mademoiselle, this is my dear, adored sister, Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart. Forgive me, ladies, if I neglected to introduce you. Nannerl is also a musician, did you know?”

  “Yes, of course,” Mademoiselle Jeunehomme answered arrogantly. “I was told that you, too, used to play a little, at one time. Now you teach, yes?” And receiving no response, she again turned her leaf-colored eyes to Wolfgang. “So, my dear, when will you make a nice journey à Paris?”

  “My brother has already been to Paris,” Nannerl interrupted, offended. “We played together for your king, if you don’t mind.”

  The pianist seemed hugely annoyed. “I know. A thousand years ago, if I’m not mistaken, or thereabouts. My dear Walburga, you must understand…”

  “Nannerl.”

  “All right, Nannerl, then. You must understand that times have changed. I realize that for a person who lives in a small city, and is merely a teacher, this isn’t easy to comprehend; but the world of music is constantly evolving. One doesn’t always have to be in the service of some ruler. It’s more of a risk, of course, but if things go well, the personal satisfaction is unsurpassed. Am I right, dear Mozart? Wouldn’t you like to live in Paris, or even Vienna, I don’t know, writing music on commission and not being anyone’s slave?”