Mozart's Sister: A Novel

by Rita Charbonnier

  Leopold was getting alarmed. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but it’s not clear to me what you’re getting at.”

  “Only to say that a career like that is possible, provided—”

  “Provided?” Wolfgang urged her on, curious.

  “You have the right contacts. That’s all.” And she smiled at him again.

  He devoured her with his eyes. “Contacts of what type? Close contacts, perhaps? My sweet ‘young man,’ the idea of close contact with you is delightful.”

  This game of seduction was at its peak, and the two seemed to be alone in the room. Leopold and Anna Maria felt they were extraneous and so did Nannerl, but she refused to accept it.

  “This discussion of contacts is interesting,” she declared in a sharp voice. “Now I can see how Mademoiselle has gained her reputation.”

  Mademoiselle Jeunehomme turned suddenly. “What do you mean?”

  “Love for music, of course, but above all for musicians. And for impresarios, patrons, theater directors—who else? Maybe even some governors. A life of love can smooth the path of a career.”

  “Get out of this room!” the Frenchwoman screamed.

  Leopold became a monster. He chased his daughter to the door and gripped her forearms with such force that they turned pale. Meanwhile his wife entreated the pianist: “Mademoiselle, for pity’s sake, don’t be offended, forgive her—Nannerl didn’t mean what she said.”

  “Out of this room, is that clear?”

  “Wait! Please, wait just a moment!” Wolfgang cried in his powerful voice. They fell silent and looked at him. He appeared the least upset; in fact, the situation amused him hugely. “I have a proposal. Why not transform this quarrel into something more interesting?”

  “What do you mean?” the pianist asked suspiciously.

  “Mademoiselle, I believe that there are duels more productive than verbal ones. And rather than waste a competition with great dramatic potential, I would suggest transferring it to the stage: organizing, that is, a public contest on the piano—between Fräulein Mozart and Mademoiselle Jeunehomme!”

  “What a stupid idea!” Nannerl burst out, and tried to free herself from the grip of her father, who restrained her.

  The other, however, began to show some interest (if only to oppose her). “A competition between two pianists? It might be interesting. Of course, it would get a good audience.”

  “Especially if they played your music, Wolfgang,” Herr Mozart suggested.

  “That doesn’t seem necessary, Father. Maybe I could write an introduction, a divertimento, say—a light piece to open the evening.”

  “And you would perform it yourself, on the violin, with a small orchestra.”

  “Whatever you think.”

  Leopold pondered. “Mademoiselle Jeunehomme against Fräulein Mozart. It sounds good. I see it already on the posters.”

  “I agree!” the Frenchwoman declared. “From my viewpoint, it can be done.”

  “Perfect!” he exclaimed, in great satisfaction. “How long will you be in town, Mademoiselle?”

  “At least till the end of the month.”

  “The end of the month? I don’t know if the theater still has a free night. I’ll go and speak to the manager right away.”

  “Tell him that you’re a friend of Countess von Esser and have him give you a discount,” Anna Maria whispered.

  “Brava, dear wife.” And finally he let go of Nannerl’s arm, as she preceded him to the door, calling back to Mademoiselle Jeunehomme, “You’ll compete by yourself!”

  And she vanished into the theater.

  IV.

  “Did you see what character she has? That’s why she plays so well. I wish you had her determination.”

  “I’ve thought about it some more. She’s just a megalomaniac with big hands. She can roll out a thousand notes in a single minute, but it’s pure exhibitionism.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Wolfgang said. The last spectators, leaving, passed the sister and brother putting on their mantle and overcoat. He took her hand and led her away from the door. “If you think you’re better than she is, show it.”

  “But why? Why do you see life as a competition? I have no desire to play ‘against’ someone.”

  “With someone, against someone, what’s the difference? In my opinion it’s simple: you’re afraid of losing.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Are you sure? Now you live shut up at home, giving lessons to a few girls who don’t even know what a note is. You don’t do anything else. You don’t play anymore, you don’t compose. In my view that’s the attitude of someone who has a tremendous fear of confrontation.”

  “It’s thanks to the money of those girls that you went to Italy to lead a life of pleasure! So you should speak of them with respect. And of me as well.”

  “Respect for those people? But are you crazy, Nannerl? And in any case I’ve never asked you for a thing.”

  “In words, no, but maybe by your actions you’ve claimed a lot. And what have you given me in exchange? You couldn’t even send me transcriptions of a few songs!”

  “Be honest, please. You would have burned those, too.”

  “You know something? I might have. And you know why? Because it doesn’t make sense for me to persist in writing music. No one will publish it. No one will sing it. Who in the world would it matter to?”

  “You. Isn’t that enough?”

  “But I…I can’t do it anymore by now. I don’t have any skills. I’ve hardly studied at all.”

  “You know whose style your arias resembled? Antonio Salieri’s. Isn’t it enough for you to be like the director of the Italian Opera in Vienna?”

  “Wolfgang, be serious. No woman composes.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Remember Maria Antonia, the sister of Prince Maximilian? The one who sang your ‘Ah, Heaven, what have I done?’ in the voice of a cat whose tail is being pulled? Well, she writes operas in the Italian style, right? So there’s at least one other in the world.”

  She was silent for a long time, then she murmured, “You compare me to the sister of a prince? Weren’t we the king and queen?”

  V.

  Countess Katharina Margarethe von Esser was in a bad mood that afternoon. Perhaps she was beginning to realize that her daughter played just as badly as she had at her first lesson. At home she insisted that she practice, and while Barbara obeyed, as soon as her mother left to go visiting, she slammed down the lid of the keyboard and moved on to games that were more fun. Her father had given her a mechanical duck that could squawk, smooth its feathers, peck at its feed, eat it, and even eliminate it; she adored this duck, and fed it cakes made of mud and raisins. Then there was her favorite among her ten dolls, the doll as big as she was, which could wear her clothes, the velvet and brocade skirts, the hoods and hats for going out—but she was inanimate and would never be able to play an instrument, lucky her! For the little countess, the day of her lesson was torture, and she would have done anything to avoid it, but parental dictates were not to be discussed, and so she rebelled by playing even more clumsily than she could, in the hope that her mother, sooner or later, would give up.

  Nannerl seemed incapable of listening to her. She was sitting on the sofa beside the countess and, while Katharina nervously fanned herself, her face appeared lost in thought. She could no longer identify her own feelings, which changed continuously between frustration and satisfaction, resolve and a terrible sense of impotence. These were bitter thoughts, so she preferred to keep herself busy with practical duties and work, and avoid them; but if work was fruitless, as in the case of Barbara, she plunged inevitably into an abyss of depression and felt that her life had no meaning.

  Suddenly the door opened and two people came in laughing loudly: Wolfgang and Mademoiselle Jeunehomme. They were elbowing and shoving each other, clutching their stomachs in hysterical laughter provoked by who knows what. The presence of Nannerl and the two visitors did not restrain them but, ra
ther, seemed to increase their hilarity. Barbara stopped playing with an uncertain look, and even the countess’s fanning missed a beat.

  “Excuse me, dear sister.” As he spoke, Wolfgang couldn’t stop howling. “I’m so sorry, Countess, it’s just that…that…” He was suddenly silent, and placing his hands on Mademoiselle Jeunehomme’s hips, he pushed her out of the room. Trying to suffocate a laugh that came out through his nose with a piglike sound, he addressed Barbara: “It’s just that we wanted to compliment you on your outstanding musicality.”

  Then he went out, banging the door.

  Katharina’s mobile jaw was paralyzed. It was clear as day that the two had been making fun of them, and if good manners had not prohibited her she would certainly have run after them and insulted them. It was Nannerl who tried to get to them: she jumped up and went to the door, opened it, and saw the two at the end of the hall, arm in arm, mocking her, imitating her.

  She went back into the room and crossed it rapidly, then turned back, angrily wringing her hands. After a moment Barbara, to whom the interruption hardly mattered, burst out, “What should I do, start again?” Nannerl, continuing to pace, didn’t answer, and so, grunting, she began again.

  The child’s hands seemed to play against each other rather than together. Undoubtedly she did it on purpose. And those two were surely listening, and continuing to mock her and, above all, her teacher. Wolfgang and the Frenchwoman were insolent, cruel brutes, but they were right. Barbara had one indisputable ability: to reduce a small graceful piece of music to something inelegant. What the author had intended was unrecognizable once it passed through her hands. Why was she, a Mozart, forced to endure such an insult? Not one, but a long series of insults. Teaching might make sense in some cases, but otherwise it was pure humiliation, of her professionalism and of her talent; and it was a lie that everyone accepted. Her students in general had little aptitude, and she knew it but couldn’t say so to them; even her mother realized it but would never say so, and the parents of the girls themselves were aware of it but kept up the pantomime as a matter of form. And meanwhile Barbara continued to pound on the keys, making sounds that were increasingly intolerable. Now she was playing very loudly, maybe to attract attention or maybe because that was her particular way of mocking the situation. Well, the little countess was the only worthwhile person in that bunch of hypocrites. She hated music and didn’t pretend not to. She came only because her idiot mother made her, and she wouldn’t dream of letting her think she liked it. She, too, was a victim, just like Nannerl. She had to help free Barbara from her yoke. She had to do something for her at least.

  “Good Lord!” Fräulein Mozart cried with as much voice as she could. “You are hopeless, Barbara. You’re hopeless for music. You must stop coming to lessons. It’s just a waste of time.”

  The little countess, for the first time since she had known her, smiled at her with immense gratitude and at that moment managed even to seem pretty. Katharina, on the other hand, deeply offended, took the child by the hand, dragged her away, and left the Mozart house, firmly intending never to return.

  VI.

  “What’s between you and that Frenchwoman?”

  She had burst into the kitchen, where, by the light of a lamp, in the middle of the night, Wolfgang was transcribing scores. The young man glanced coldly at his sister.

  “Nothing. And anyway, what’s it to you?” Placidly, he dipped his pen in the ink. “Oh damn, I’ve made a blot. Would you hand me a clean rag?”

  She approached, restless. “Where’s the blot?”

  She looked at the manuscript, but didn’t see it. She saw instead a piano part written in the elegant hand that she knew well and that resembled hers so much, with those slender brackets on the left side of the sheet of paper and the whimsical inclination toward the right of the bar lines. Then, on the upper line of the staff, she could make out a mass of notes, short, close together, which continued for many beats, delineating a section that was complex and intended for effect: a passage for a real virtuoso.

  “What are you writing?” she asked, vaguely alarmed.

  “A concerto, as you can clearly see. For piano, of course, and then strings, two oboes, two horns. As its title it will have the name of the artist who will perform it in front of six hundred people. Or even more, maybe, let’s hope. ‘Jeunehomme Concerto.’ Don’t you think it sounds good? Papa likes it a lot.”

  She froze, then turned her back and went out. He shouted after her, “Didn’t you say you don’t want to play anymore? What am I supposed to do, Nannerl? Stop composing to imitate you?”

  VII.

  In fact there were more than six hundred people. What is more enticing than a local star who writes a concerto, and conducts it, for an international star? All the people of Salzburg identified with Wolfgang and were proud of him and, therefore, of themselves. The foyer of the theater was overflowing, and a frenzied crowd was pushing its way in; a pair of guards was ready to bar the doors to limit the flood. The canniest headed immediately for the orchestra to assure themselves of a seat, and those who could not resist a few moments of gossip were irritated, because the others stepped on their toes. Everyone was there: nobility, bourgeoisie, a few politicians, musician colleagues, amateur players, instrument sellers, the directors of rival theaters, a small group of military men, and then Katharina von Esser, Johann Baptist von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg, the Reverend Bullinger, and even Armand d’Ippold with Victoria.

  But Nannerl wasn’t there.

  Leopold and Anna Maria, clinging to each other, made their way through the throng; he was in the grip of uncontrollable anxiety, as if the concerto were his. “I’m going to make sure that everything is in place. You stay here,” he ordered, and disappeared into the hall. Frau Mozart, disoriented, looked around in search of a familiar face; everyone seemed taller than she, and she could distinguish only imposing wigs, necks covered by long hair tied with ribbons, and broad shoulders adorned with insignia. Suddenly a gap opened in the crowd, at the end of which she saw Countess von Esser, with her husband, the count, and another aristocratic couple. Katharina was wearing one of her magnificent outfits, a robe à l’anglaise of an ample cut but with narrow panniers: the last word in fashion. Anna Maria, who was wearing the same wine-colored dress she had worn at the court concert, felt she made a poor showing, but she knew that her friend was indulgent toward her lack of means and, with a big smile, joined her. That smile vanished immediately.

  “Where is that rude daughter of yours?” the countess addressed her. “Did she stay at home to wallow in her spiteful behavior?”

  Frau Mozart tried to ask for an explanation, but her throat was dry. The count looked at her haughtily. “Is this the mother of that Nannerl?” he asked.

  “Yes, exactly,” the countess said, and turned to her friends. “That woman’s daughter is an extremely vulgar girl. She treated my Barbara in an unforgivable fashion, and in front of me! The only thing to say is: those of ignoble birth act ignobly. Let’s go, my dears, it’s time to take our seats.”

  And she went off without a glance.

  Anna Maria froze as the crowd hurried around her and the foyer emptied. A sensation of humiliation and dismay pressed against her eyelids. She saw a chair and collapsed into it, trying to get control of herself; she took a handkerchief from her purse, closed her eyes, and daubed at them, smudging her makeup. The first thing she saw as she reopened them was a pair of shapely masculine legs sheathed in breeches hemmed at mid-calf by a narrow ribbon. The man knelt down on one knee and took her hands. It was Baptist.

  “Your daughter has nothing vulgar about her, Frau Mozart,” he said warmly. “And those of noble birth are worth very little, believe me. Nobility can be bought, and genius cannot: that is innate and touches the elect few. And your daughter is among the elect. You know I’m right.”

  Anna Maria was in danger of bursting into tears again. “Yes, but Nannerl must correct her behavior once and for all. She must, damn it! She mustn�
��t always be so hard with people, or she’ll create an emptiness around herself. She’ll be a lonely, bitter, mean old maid.”

  “No, Frau Mozart, don’t worry; that will never happen.”

  “On the contrary. And what if I were not here, what would become of her? I could drop dead unexpectedly for some reason. It could happen anytime, even soon.”

  “What are you saying, Madame? You are so young!”

  Anna Maria touched his carefully shaved cheek in an impulse of maternal gentleness, and whispered, “Baron, you would be the right man for my daughter. It’s a real pity.”

  Then she rose and went wearily into the hall.

  She was greeted by the noise of the instruments tuning up, quietly, each on its own. There was not a single empty seat, and people were standing crowded along the walls, but luckily her husband had laid his coat over two seats in the front row. Leopold was on the stage giving some hysterical advice to Wolfgang, who, however, appeared calm and self-assured. An oboist called to him with a question; he went over and pointed to the score with an air of encouragement, then firmly, kindly, pointed his father to his seat.

  The moment had arrived. Herr Mozart took his place beside his wife. The musicians stopped tuning their instruments, and silence fell on the audience as well. Mademoiselle Jeunehomme entered, sat down confidently at the piano, bowed her head briefly in concentration, then looked expectantly at the maestro, and Wolfgang, with a decisive gesture, gave the beat.

  At the same instant, in the Mozart house, the key clicked in the lock of the piano lid, then dropped on the floor, and was lost under the instrument. The score of the concerto was ready on the music stand; an illicit copy made by Nannerl in secret.

  Fräulein Mozart is alone in the music room, as bright as day in the light of lamps and candelabra; she observes her hands, whose nails, finally, are cut short—and she plays. There is no one around her. She can do it. Her family and the entire city are at the theater. No one will ever know. Not even Victoria. Not even Wolfgang. And not Mademoiselle Jeunehomme.