“The object of the scholar is knowledge, and knowledge of the abnormal improves that of the normal.” The man appeared to have heard her internal question and had answered as if reciting from memory. “But these sights are not suitable for a lady. Shall we move to the study? Matthias von Sallaba is expecting you.”
Nannerl followed him, passing a table on which stood the trunk of a man without its front wall, so that heart, liver, and lungs were on display; it was a plaster cast, conscientiously painted in shades of purple, pink, and pale blue.
“Sit down, please. Here, I was just looking up for you the working of acqua toffana. Have a look, if you’d like.”
And he put a volume down under her nose.
“Excuse me, but what is this acqua toffana?”
“The poison that your brother claimed to have ingested. The rumor was put about by the widow, isn’t that so, Thomas?”
“You always speak the truth, Herr Sallaba.”
“Thank you. By the way, Thomas, I imagine you know the composition and origin of that potion. Am I right?”
“Certainly: arsenic and lead, with a delayed reaction.”
“Congratulations.”
“The name comes from a certain Giulia Toffana,” Thomas continued, like a good student, “a shrewd peasant from the land of Sicily who invented the formula and, as she was dying, passed it on to her stepdaughter in turn; and she, named Girolama Spara—”
“Is it true?” Nannerl asked nervously.
The interruption seemed to disconcert them both.
“Naturally, madam,” Thomas declared. “Without the shadow of a doubt. All documented—it’s no legend. As I was explaining, the abovementioned Girolama was a real witch and was hanged in the Campo de’ Fiori in Rome—”
“Is it true or not that my brother was poisoned?” Nannerl cried.
For a moment the two seemed bewildered. They looked at her, they looked at each other, then Sallaba said with firm conviction, “No, madam. My knowledge leads me to exclude it.”
“I also exclude it!”
“Besides, you yourself, even if you have no medical knowledge, can find proof in that volume, given that you can read: the symptoms do not coincide.”
“But then why, may I ask, was he so certain of it?”
“What can I tell you? We’ll never know. The only certainty is that a sensitive soul can be convinced of anything.”
“Well put. I wasn’t closely acquainted with poor Mozart, but I had cared for a dozen artists before him, and each had his oddities, his obscure fixations.”
“Morbid excitability is an inevitable component of genius. Of course, for those who are without genius this is something difficult to comprehend: I don’t expect you to accept it, unless by faith in our expertise.”
Why were these two men struggling to discredit her? Only because she was trying to understand something? “Then, if it wasn’t poison, can you explain to me what he died of? And please use terms suitable for my meager intelligence.”
“It’s very simple,” said the chief, with an imperturbable smile. “Acute miliary fever.”
“And what is that?”
“Would you like me to describe the effects? Here you go: the body of your relative was burning more fiercely than fire, and both his hands and his feet were swollen. Not to mention the stomach, which in the last days of his existence became enlarged and, even after death, continued to fill with liquids that migrated to the surface, so that his remains resembled a single abnormal bladder.”
“That’s enough, thank you.”
“Then trust and accept the diagnosis: acute miliary fever, certainly not the effects of acqua toffana or any other hypothetical substance.” Scratching his beard, he continued: “Let me think, how many cases have I seen since the start of winter? Fifty, I would say. And how many pints of blood have I drawn? Probably a hundred. But I can’t guarantee that figure; certainly I did not take the trouble to count them.”
“If I may,” the other intervened, “I remember precisely how much blood we took from dear Mozart: five pints in the last week of his life alone! And before that, seven. Twelve in all, I’m saying, but it was of no use, alas.”
“Medicine has no power over the divine will.”
“Well put, as always. And remember the terrible spasms he suffered before he died?”
“Naturally,” the chief said gravely. “His limbs appeared to be shaken by an earthquake. Sometimes he sat up suddenly, eyes staring into the void, panting and raving with inarticulate sounds. He managed to utter a few phrases that made sense, otherwise it was only words in other languages or invented words.”
The two-headed fetus, the stripped bust, the anatomical instruments, and the flasks and medicinal herbs—all were confused in Nannerl’s mind with Wolfgang’s body weakened by fever and bloodletting, shaken by uncontrollable spasms. His breath came noisily, swelling his cheeks, panting, as if he were producing his final music—and in the meantime, the two pompous quacks blathered on, their voices mingling in an indistinct swirl. She heard one of the two utter a definite word, a known word; and then the word was repeated, and the two went on to another, but that word remained in her mind, and she held onto that word to recover herself. She took a deep breath and again was able to distinguish the terrible voices of the doctors, but now the word was there, in front of her, tangible, she saw it, she could even touch it: it was “kingdom.”
“What—what did you say my brother said?”
“Eh? Oh yes, in his delirium he sometimes repeated that he wanted to return to his kingdom, and similar nonsense about a queen lost somewhere or other.”
“Yes, poor man. He was no longer present in his mind. These manifestations are frequent…”
She hurried to the door, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, but the odor of alcohol and medicines assailed her more intensely than before, along with the sight of the monstrosities on display, and she had to stop and lean against a wall. With surprising speed, Sallaba reached her and took her pulse.
“Madam, do you not feel well? Thomas, get a remedy right away.”
“No, no, for pity’s sake,” she cried, slamming the door behind her.
VIII.
Could this be the place? Nannerl checked the address, then put the piece of paper back in her purse. The building was low and dilapidated, and on the street, from one end to the other, she didn’t see a soul. Sebastian opened the carriage door, and in silence she descended.
She made her way into a small, dark, dirty courtyard with a brick staircase on the far side. Walking on tiptoe and holding up her skirt, she reached the staircase, and when she had arrived at the fifth floor, she knocked: only twice, lightly. The door opened, and instinctively she searched for a face at her height, but she had to lower her gaze: it was a child who had opened the door, a small child who looked at her as one looks at a stranger, and yet who was identical to Wolfgang.
“Who are you?” he asked cheerfully.
“I am…Nannerl.”
“Mama, Mama, there’s a lady!” he yelled, and ran away.
Furtively she went in and found herself in a poor, untidy room. The piano was open, as if her brother had been there working just a moment before, and bundles of scores were piled on the case. She began to look through them and saw that some were covered with hideous scribbles.
“What do you want?”
Constanze, the widow, was behind her: sensual and disheveled, wrapped in a shabby dressing gown, and hostile toward her.
“How did these scores come to be in such a state?” Nannerl asked quietly.
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “What do I know, it must have been the children. Please go.”
“You should keep them somewhere else. You mustn’t risk their being ruined.”
“I haven’t touched them since Wolfgang died. Everything’s the same in here.”
“But where are the other scores? This can’t be everything.”
“Some I sold, some his students have.�
�
“What? He was giving lessons?”
“Yes, of course! How do you think we lived?”
“And whom did you sell them to?”
“Dealers, whoever happened along…But what do you want from me? Go away, Nannerl!”
But she didn’t go. She turned and frantically began looking through the scores and trying to put them in order, assemble a whole piece, at least one; but suddenly there fell into her hands a different piece of paper, not a sheet of music but a parchment, and it took her breath away. She laid it on top of the piano, smoothed it, and saw again the image of herself lying on a bed in the old Mozart house, and of the boy, Wolfgang, who held out that parchment. “Look what I found,” he had said, asking her to forgive him, and she had stubbornly refused…And then on the meadow, on the castle, on the figures of two children with crowns on their heads fell a warm transparent drop, then another, and the drops spread, mixing with the folds of the paper, erasing those already faded marks.
“Why is the lady crying?” asked the little boy from the doorway.
“Go to the bedroom, Karl,” Constanze said. Then she approached. “Listen, Nannerl, I’m really sorry, but if you came here to grieve, you could do it just as well in your own house. These rooms have already seen enough sorrow.”
“You’re right—I’m sorry,” she said. “In reality I came to—to buy the scores. All you have.”
“What?” Constanze said, astonished. Then she went to the door and opened it with a peremptory gesture.
“I’m serious, Constanze. I want to buy them.”
“I’ve already told you too many times to get out! And now, for goodness’ sake, I would be grateful if you would do it.”
“I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you now, right away. You need money, don’t you? That’s why you started the rumor of poison: so that people would talk about it, to create a scandal, to move some powerful person to pity. I imagine you have already submitted some plea, some request for money for the poor widowed mother of children whose husband was unworthily murdered—or am I mistaken?”
After an instant Constanze shouted, “It was Wolfgang who spoke of poison! I didn’t even know what that acqua toffana was.”
“Listen to me, let’s not waste time. I’ll give you three hundred florins.”
Constanze was speechless, although she tried not to show it. Then, with a small smile, she said, “I know that you’re disgustingly rich, but do you really go around with all that money? And where do you keep it? I mean, that might be interesting information.”
“Four hundred.”
The smile died on her lips and she looked at Nannerl suspiciously. “Why do you want to buy them?”
“I want to have them published. Cataloged, from first to last, and published. They cannot end up in the hands of some dealer. It’s all that remains of him!”
“Who cares what remains—he’s not here anymore, Nannerl. He is dead!”
“You’ll also be paid by the publishers. You’ll get a good income from it, I guarantee you. It will be useful for bringing up the children.”
After an interminable silence, Constanze said, coldly, “Five hundred.”
Nannerl seized the parchment. “Only if you give me this, too.”
“It’s easy for you,” Constanze said disdainfully. “It’s all your husband’s money.”
“I want this, too, Constanze.”
“Then take it!”
IX.
She sprang lightly out of the carriage, and when Sebastian looked up from the step, she had disappeared.
“Baroness! The bag!”
“Oh, of course, how silly.” She turned back and took from his hands a bag full of scores. “Unload the rest, please, and leave it at the foot of the stairs.”
The villa shone with a warm orange light. Panting, with the suitcase tight in her arms, Nannerl ran to the door, opened it, and hurried in, crying, “Baptist! Jeanette!”
Her husband met her with an air of bewilderment. “What, you’re back already?”
“Aren’t you glad?” she asked in amusement, and laying the bag carefully on the table, she drew him affectionately to her.
“Of course, Nannerl. Only I imagined that your journey would last longer. I’m surprised, that’s all.”
“Oh yes, my love. Everything was done with a speed surprising to me.”
“What do you mean, done?”
Suddenly Nannerl freed herself from him and hugged the child. “Jeanette, look what I brought you.” And from the pile of baggage she took a large pear-shaped object, laid it on the floor next to the dollhouse, and unlocked it. Inside was a violin. “Do you like it?” she asked with shining eyes. “I can show you the basic idea—assuming I can still remember something—then we’ll find a teacher. And for you, my treasure,” she said to the boy, who arrived with a sword in his hands, “I brought a flute. Look how beautiful it is, as splendid as the hilt of your sword. If you like the violin more, don’t worry, you can exchange them, and then we’ll get other instruments, all you want, if you like playing them.”
Jeanette grabbed the strange object. First she examined every part of it with scientific attention, then she started a horrendous twanging, while the boy blew in every hole of the flute, producing piercing shrieks, and Nannerl laughed deeply.
X.
“Look, Baptist, this is his handwriting. I’ve managed to collect so many of his works! I still have to get in touch with some of the students, and then with the orchestra players, and whoever else might have original scores. And then I’ll have to put them in order, transcribe them, and find publishers. I want to have all his compositions published in a systematic way, to make sure that every single note, every embellishment, every marking is just what Wolfgang wanted, and that no one is permitted to change anything. It might also be a good idea to promote a biography, as faithful to the truth as possible, and tell everything, starting from his childhood years, of which I alone have precise knowledge. I want everyone to know who Mozart was; I want to immerse myself in this undertaking, so that his name may cross the boundaries of the centuries and be launched into the future!”
All this time Baptist had remained seated at the desk, in silence, playing with the stopper of the inkwell. He screwed it tight, wiped his fingers with a cloth, and stared at his wife. No emotion was visible in his gaze.
“Why do you want to do this, Nannerl?”
“What? Do you mean to oppose it?” she asked, surprised and annoyed.
“Not at all. I only wish to know why you’ve decided to do this.”
“Because otherwise the music will be lost. It’s so obvious. Why do you ask?”
“And if it should be lost, what would be so bad about that?”
For a moment she was silent, widening her eyes. “Baptist, what’s gotten into you?” she murmured.
“Will you please explain what would happen if that music should be lost?”
“But don’t you see? These compositions are astonishing. They open up a whole new path. In recent years, Wolfgang had reached heights never touched before, by him or by others. It’s unacceptable that this legacy should disappear.”
“It’s unacceptable for whom?”
“For me, but not just me. It should be also for you. You should be happy that I’m trying to preserve it.”
“So you’re doing it to please me? As you tried to please the esteemed Colonel d’Ippold with the warm hands?”
“Why do you bring up Armand now?” she asked in dismay. She went over to him, resolutely. “Please, let’s set things straight: that man has nothing to do with my decision. And if you think about it, you, Baptist, don’t play a big role, either. It’s a matter that has to do with me and my only brother, who, by the way, was a great composer. He has died, and I want his music to survive.”
“Now, then, Wolfgang is your only brother? And was he not when you could barely pronounce his name? And was he not in the years when you were forced to give lessons to pay for his studies, and you h
ated him with all your heart?”
“Now it’s different.”
“Tell me why!”
“Because now I am choosing to be occupied with him, just as I chose to reject him.”
They placed their fists on the desk and confronted each other, breathing hard, their faces tense and close. For a moment they were silent, then Nannerl said quietly, “I want to do it because—because I miss music, Baptist. Because to give concerts, or compose, is no longer so important for me; but to be involved in music is, and always will be. I want to do it because the idea of analyzing those works, of dating them, of going to publishers, of checking the proofs, of authenticating Wolfgang’s compositions with respect to the thousand false ones that will surely emerge from all over—because the idea of doing all this, Baptist, is thrilling to me.”
She left him and went to the window. Before her eyes unfolded the landscape that she had looked at a thousand times at night, wondering where Vienna was. “The same emotions can be felt in such a different way. It’s true, for a long time I cut my brother out of my life—not to mention my father. And perhaps I didn’t want to touch an instrument because inevitably, if I had, I would have thought of the two of them. But now I understand that to both I owe something. I understand that both are part of my story, and it doesn’t make sense to deny it, because to reject the memory of them would mean to reject myself.”
Baptist listened without interrupting. Under his thick mustache was the hint of a smile.
“In these years,” Nannerl continued, “I haven’t lived in pure silence, but as if within a ‘rest.’ In music, rests are as significant as a torrent of sound. A rest makes possible what precedes it and what follows, and lacking such a passage, I wouldn’t be able, now, to occupy myself with composition in a way so different from the way I always thought and dreamed and imagined—but with the same intensity.”
Mozart's Sister: A Novel Page 30