Mozart's Sister: A Novel

by Rita Charbonnier

  Yet the waiting will be sweet, I hope, and not keep us from imagining a time of arrival, a simple religious ceremony, a small, welcoming house where we’ll live, you and I, a new family, with Victoria.

  Yours more than ever, and forever

  Nannerl

  Linz, August 15, 1778

  My beloved,

  I’ve had some news that I hope will cheer you: my duties in the Army may change! I will speak to you in person about the details as soon as possible, but I want you to look forward to it from now on, incorporating it into your images of our future. A position is now being created in which I will no longer be subject to frequent journeys and postings and missions and legations far from home, far from you and from my Victoria; it involves, instead, duties based in Salzburg! You’re happy about it, aren’t you?

  In such circumstances, dearest, our wait will even be more than sweet; it will be the spice that adds flavor to the meal; it will be (if you allow me an incursion into your territory) the suspension of the harmonic resolution, which, the longer it is wisely delayed, the more satisfying it is to the listener when it does arrive. How do I know these things? And if I told you that Victoria sometimes instructs me? You will be able to do so yourself one day, when we live together, if you want; provided you don’t find it humiliating to transmit a crumb of your knowledge to a tone-deaf officer…That same man who from this moment swears, adored Nannerl, to love you and protect you every day that comes, and to make you happy as you deserve. To be with you, my love, to be two will be to be infinite and expanded, and to be deeply rooted in the fresh, fertile earth; do not fear—no evil spirit will treacherously dig up the roots, because I will fight it and will win. Ours will be an infinite companionship, an infinite sharing, an infinite linking of thoughts and communion of breath.

  Already I see the moment when all this will begin—not tomorrow, my love, but soon. And already I see it…

  The Gallant Officer

  I.

  Six months before the marriage that was never to be celebrated, Victoria was clambering up the narrow stairs, her pianist’s hands carefully lifting her skirts with great care, to reveal delicate blue silk shoes decorated with fake pearls. She reached the landing and straightened her dress, which touched the ground on all sides, including the front, and which that night she would put back in her wardrobe after meticulously brushing it. Then, just as she seized the knocker and prepared to strike, a force pulled it back, the door opened, and like a hulk emerging from the stormy seas, Father Jakob appeared.

  “Fräulein d’Ippold, what a pleasure to meet you close-up,” he began, analyzing her aspect with a grimace of irritation. “It has been reported to me, with great courtesy, that my church is not worthy of your musical art.”

  He was an unctuous priest, who was continuously adjusting his collar, and when he wasn’t doing that he was rubbing his hands or ruffling the pages of a worn, well-thumbed Bible that he always carried with him. He shouldn’t have taken such poor care of the word of the Lord, but in his opinion that untidiness presented public testimony of how often, and in whatever situation, he consulted the sacred pages.

  “Oh hello, Father,” Victoria replied uncertainly. “Is it you, then, who is going to officiate?”

  “In person. Even if the ceremony, unlike those that I usually perform, will be rather brief: with not many guests, almost all of them soldiers, besides, and no music.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know that the organ is not my instrument. I’ve never understood anything about pedals.”

  “So Fräulein Mozart told me.”

  “I’m preparing a small concert for the wedding reception, and it wouldn’t be right to play everywhere.”

  “This, too, was explained to me in abundant detail. In any case, I don’t have time to discuss it further. Your father is inside waiting for you. Good-bye.”

  He marched past her, trampling the hem of her skirt, and went down the stairs as if he were descending into Avernus.

  Many times Victoria thought back on that encounter and wondered whether, if she had complied with the urgent desire for spectacle of that shepherd of souls, it would have been better for all concerned; but it was only an idle exercise (as she later reflected), since the past cannot be rectified, and it’s better to concentrate one’s energies on the present. As soon as she heard the thud of the street door closing, she went in. The apartment, empty of furniture, had a pleasant smell of paint, and the noise of every footstep echoed from the floor to the walls; so she proceeded on tiptoe, following the voices, and reached the fiancés just at the entrance of the special room.

  “I’d like this to be yours,” Armand said to Nannerl with some hesitation, but as soon as he saw his daughter, he seemed comforted. “I hope you like the flower patterns on the walls. To me, the whole is altogether like a garden. Your old harpsichord would go perfectly in the center, I think. Herr Mozart has said that we can take it.”

  “And why not put it in the parlor, next to the piano?” Nannerl asked, in bewilderment.

  “Because you’ll need a quiet atmosphere, to…” He hesitated and looked at his daughter a second time, in search of support, but she didn’t help. “To compose,” he burst out, quickly adding, “If you want to, my love. What I mean is that, if…if you ever decided to go back to it, this would be the right place.”

  Nannerl immediately changed the subject. “Tresel is returning to Sankt Gilgen. She wants to live with her son and grandchildren, and it’s also time she retired, poor woman. We’ll have to find someone else. Where’s the maid’s room?”

  “Next to the kitchen,” Victoria said. “And when does Thekla arrive?”

  “In time to be my maid of honor. Anyway, she’ll write, certainly, to let us know the date.”

  “You mean your cousin also knows how to write?”

  Nannerl did not appear amused. “She’s not a genius and she understands nothing about music, but she’s not bad,” she said. “Do you have some reason for resentment that I don’t know about?”

  “Not at all! But Thekla is very different from you, I must say. She doesn’t even seem related to you.”

  “Nor do Wolfgang and I seem so anymore, if it comes to that,” she murmured. “Here’s our room! Isn’t it, Armand? Or is this Victoria’s?”

  “You two decide. I like them both. This is noisier, but it’s certainly bigger.”

  It was also the more beautiful, and here the painter had been particularly inspired. The vaulted ceiling was sky blue, with a scattering of soft clouds like cotton; a group of plump putti seemed about to throw down handfuls of flowers and cover the three of them with petals. The walls were a milky white, and in the corners the artist had demonstrated his real talent, drawing bunches of climbing vines sprinkled with roses but no thorns; the floor was the color of a green meadow, making one wish to take off one’s shoes and go barefoot. Nannerl went to the center and turned in a circle, her arms locked tightly around her: Why had Armand brought up that subject? Better not to think about it or risk discussing it. He was here, in his eternal uniform, and she couldn’t wait to tear it off him and pinch and caress and bite the solidity of his body. And soon, in that very room, or the other, she would taste the earthly delights that take place between husbands and wives. Only at that moment would she truly begin to live. How long would she live still? Another thirty years, perhaps. She had spent half her time on earth in attempts at affirmation, detachment, evasion: the new condition that was opening up to her was not a flight but an initiation.

  From the window came the sound of an approaching carriage. The room really was noisy, and at that moment Victoria hoped that Nannerl would choose it. But she said nothing, opened the shutters and looked out: along the river a royal carriage proceeded, large and decorated with gold, drawn by six horses, preceded and followed by a troop of guards. Princess Maria Antonia, sister of Maximilian III, was making an official visit to Salzburg.

  Armand came over to her. “There is an editor…who would like to publ
ish your music.”

  II.

  “You have to find the courage to expose yourself or you’ll never know if you’re really worth something,” Wolfgang said, jumping about the parlor of the Mozart house. “It’s time, Nannerl, it’s time to let your creativity emerge. The conditions are all in place!”

  “I don’t want people to be able to buy my music,” Nannerl said. “It’s as if they could look inside me.”

  “Nonsense. You really wouldn’t like to know that someone, somewhere in the world, is interpreting a piece of yours?”

  “I don’t need that sort of banal satisfaction. It’s not for me.”

  “Really? Dear sister, you can fool yourself as long as you like, but you don’t fool me: you’re just afraid that someone will tell you your music isn’t any good.”

  Armand stepped forward, showing off his diplomatic skill. “Excuse me, that’s not possible, do you think, Wolfgang? Nannerl’s talent and your teaching cannot but produce excellent results.”

  “My teaching? Ah, then I am to help her compose! You’ve organized everything, eh, Colonel d’Ippold? Your friend the publisher, the mentor…I really am ecstatic—you’re the man with marvelous schemes,” he declared, while his gaze turned sardonic. “It must be an effect of the stick you’ve got up your a—”

  “Will you stop it?” Nannerl burst out.

  “I humbly beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to insult your fiancé besides, he knows how congenial he is to me.” He turned and stuck his tongue out so that it touched his chin; it was seen and, to keep things peaceful, ignored. “In fact, he is the perfect man, I daresay,” he went on, wandering about the room. “He loves you, he respects you, he stimulates you, he prepares the ground for you—and by the way, dear future brother-in-law, what is the name of this publisher?”

  “Alois Flatscher,” Armand answered in a low voice.

  “Flatscher? Odd, I’ve never heard of him. Whom has he published?”

  “Various authors. In any case, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to take care of the matter myself, in all its aspects, except the musical, of course, which I leave to you two.”

  “Well, whatever you like,” Wolfgang said, shrugging.

  “Thank you very much. And now would you mind leaving us alone just for a moment?”

  “Oh, you want me out of the way? No problem, I’m going!” he said with mock disappointment, reaching the doorway in a single leap. An instant before going out, he turned: “If you kiss and start slobbering, just remember to clean up.”

  And he slammed the door.

  In the silence, Armand sat down beside Nannerl. Defeated, hurt, she murmured, “I haven’t composed for years. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “Write music for me: it would make me happy and proud.”

  This alone might impel her to let what was buried in her, that special part, reemerge. Tempted, she said, “Yes, but what kind? Something for piano, or arias, or what? Could I speak to him, this Herr Flatscher?”

  “There’s no need; and be certain that whatever you write, he’ll publish it.”

  “But why would he publish my music? What does he know about me? He’s never even met me.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said gently. “You write what you like, what you’ve always loved. An opera in the Italian style is always popular; you could attempt that.”

  “A whole opera? I could never do it.”

  “Why not? You have talent, and passion, and intelligence. You’re just as good as that Antonio Salieri who is so talked about, believe me!”

  III.

  Cousin Thekla from Augsburg was neither pretty nor distinguished nor refined. She was, in fact, excessive in every aspect, even more than Wolfgang; but she was liked by others, thanks to a knowing, childish cleverness. She leaped down from the carriage, threw herself on her cousin, and enfolded him in hands, feet, arms, legs, and knees, kissing his forehead and his hastily shaved cheeks; bits of beard pricked her lips, but she didn’t mind at all and continued to plant kisses while he, half suffocated, laughed.

  “Wolfgang! I’m so happy happy happy to see you again! You, more than anyone: you know you’re my favorite, little Wolfgang. Don’t be offended, uncle.”

  In the doorway was Leopold Mozart, limping and bad-tempered. “I’ve been waiting three hours for you,” he burst out in a cracked voice. “Did you stop to play along the way?”

  “Forgive me, please, dear, kind uncle,” she answered, embracing him so enthusiastically that she was in danger of breaking his ribs. Suddenly she detached herself and cried, with a hop, “Where’s Nannerl? I have to show her my maid-of-honor dress!”

  Fräulein Mozart was at the window, and she gazed at the scene without seeing it; she didn’t look out, she didn’t move the curtain aside or make any gesture of greeting. She had in her hands a large volume; she held her place with a finger. It was a volume that had been read, reread, and underlined, not by her but by her brother; amid the words, musical lines had been inserted with examples of harmonic solutions. She opened it and attentively reread a passage, then, thoughtfully, closed it.

  IV.

  “Why isn’t your congenial fiancé here at the concert?”

  “Because I asked him to stay home, and his daughter with him.”

  “You told him not to come? And he agreed without protest?” Wolfgang asked, widening his eyes.

  “He, yes. Only Victoria expressed some objections.”

  “I must correct myself: Armand is not the perfect man but the perfect imbecile. He does nothing but indulge you, even when your requests are ridiculous!”

  “My relations with him don’t concern you.”

  “But your behavior does, if you don’t mind. Can you explain what annoyance the d’Ippolds would cause you?”

  “The same as you. Go sit down and don’t bother me.”

  “Do you think you’ll arrive at a spiritual state if you listen to the princess’s arias in solitude? Relax and enjoy the evening, Nannerl. It’s the best way to get something productive out of it.”

  “I will as soon as you get lost!” she burst out, then went to the table where the refreshments had been laid out, took a glass of wine, and drained it in two gulps.

  The most eager spectators began to disappear in the direction of the salone, a procession of bright fabrics that narrowed into a funnel to pass through the archway and then scattered among the rows of seats. Timidly, Fräulein Mozart crouched in the shadow cast by a column: in front of her she could see a section of the audience, and right at the back, on the dais beside the archbishop, was Princess Maria Antonia, looking just as she had when Nannerl had met her at the court of Munich—perhaps she was even wearing the same dress. She didn’t seem at all aged. She was surely one of those creatures who when they are young seem old, arousing the pity of their peers and the desperation of their mothers; yet at a certain point they stop, and while for everyone else time runs inexorably onward, their faces show not a wrinkle more than they did in youth. Perhaps only a little arthritic, she waited for the evening in her honor to begin: a selection of her arias was to be interpreted by a singer who, once known above all for her breasts, had, as these grew old (since she was of a normal species), shrewdly replaced them with a refinement of her artistic gifts: Paulina Eleonora Gellert.

  Suddenly Nannerl found herself completely alone, while the last few spectators went to sit down, and holding the empty glass, she began to walk in front of the doorway, which a page would soon close. Servants were clearing the remains of the refreshments, like stagehands who pick up the props in the interval between two acts; they knew her and paid no attention to her, and this pleased her. Slowly she went over to the table and, noticing an untouched glass of wine, exchanged her own for it. “To your health,” one of the servants said, in a friendly manner.

  From the entrance to the concert hall the page called to her: “What are you doing, Fräulein Mozart? Would you like to come in or not?”

  She looked at the wait
er timidly, as if with the air of asking advice, but he shrugged. Then she went to the page and offered him the glass: “Would you like it?” Without waiting for an answer she thrust it into his hand, to his astonishment, and went into the music room.

  She remained standing at the back, against the wall, for the entire concert. She saw her father in the first row turning to look for her, and her brother, sitting beside Thekla, gesturing to her to join them; but she ignored them. She didn’t know the princess’s arias, since she had never heard them and the scores were not in circulation; they had never been printed, and this was their first public performance in Salzburg. At first it seemed to her that they were nothing special, and rather than listening she smiled to herself at the soprano’s affected movements; but gradually she was able to abandon her critical attitude and let the sounds take possession of her, and she began to appreciate the freshness of the melodies and the rather clever fusion of music and words. Suddenly she opened her purse, took out a notebook and pencil, and quickly made a note; as she listened, she chewed on the end of the pencil, and then, with an automatic gesture, she went on writing, with increasing excitement, until, by the end of the last piece, not a single line was left blank.

  She put the notebook in her purse, hurried out of the hall even before the applause began, and sped home. Her heart felt light and her lips softened in a gentle smile. It seemed to her that she had become a girl again; it seemed to her that she could be a girl again, if only she wanted to, if only she were allowed to touch again lost emotions. It was no more than a small action of the mind, an action as simple as snapping your fingers, and much more pleasant; and if she had known that it was so simple and pleasant, she wouldn’t have wasted years of life in—no, in fact nothing, nothing had been wasted. From that moment on every past experience would be transfigured and reinvented because, as her brother rightly said, the time had come to let her creativity emerge.