Mozart's Sister: A Novel (14 page)

Nannerl stopped and laid her hands in her lap. She closed the cover and turned the key. The decision is made: I will never play again.

Every human relationship reaches a point where it cracks; the crack widens, leading, inevitably, to collapse. The process now was set in motion, there was no going back, and in some way I foresaw that my relationship with Wolfgang was, for the first time, in grave danger: I lost all interest in music, in people, in life itself, and remained unmoving in the expectation that the Kingdom of Back would be ruined, and that with it was annihilated not only the emotional terrain over which my brother and I had ruled undisputed and harmoniously but my very existence.

That’s what I had become, my beloved, not long before I met Victoria and you. Alone, as I am today, when I must again resign myself to your absence, but also desperate, as today surely I am not, and thanks to you. I lay rolled up in the sheets and rose only when it was absolutely necessary. I closed the shutters, bound my head, and lay unmoving in the dark for hours; but as soon as I fell asleep, my legs contracted, my fingers curved and pressed the blanket as if it were a keyboard, and vague sounds came out of me, which woke me, disoriented and distressed.

During the day, Tresel brought me food, and I was comforted by the fact that she didn’t ask me to be grateful. She entered quietly, removed the untouched tray from the foot of the bed, and replaced it with a new one; she didn’t dream of feeling offended that her tidbits were so little honored. She didn’t say a word, she didn’t even look at me, and yet I felt that she understood and respected me. My mother’s entrances were, on the other hand, an invasion.

VIII.

“Get up, my dear. It’s not good for you to stay in bed all day! Is your headache gone?” Frau Mozart said brightly, caressing Nannerl with fingers sticky with flour and honey. She fluttered through the room. “I told Tresel to make you an omelet with jam. Are you pleased? Now let her bring it. I must admit that she prepares them well; they’re almost like pastry. But she does waste ingredients, God help us! And we can’t have that, unfortunately. Not for the moment, at least. But as soon as you begin giving lessons, we can allow ourselves some luxuries. Oh, here is Tresel. Come, come, dear, place the tray here on the bed. And now go and wash the dishes. Nannerl, my treasure.”

She hadn’t moved a muscle. Anna Maria sat beside her and sighed. “My treasure, my beautiful girl…you must eat something. Come, sit up.” She approached the tray and glimpsed an envelope with writing on it set between the spoon and the napkin. “Look: there’s a letter from Papa and Wolfgang!”

At that point Nannerl moved more than a muscle; but her mother was too busy tearing the seal to realize it. There were two sheets, one in Leopold’s writing, neat and precise, the other in Wolfgang’s, swirling and full of flourishes. Anna Maria seized the one from her husband: “I’m going to read it at the window in the parlor. Then let me see the other as well!” And she disappeared.

Nannerl sat up in a surprising rush, staring at the paper on the tray: it was folded many times so that it resembled a package. She unfolded it and discovered that inside was concealed a very small note, in minute handwriting. She jumped out of bed, dressed in a flash, hid the pages in her corset, and opened the door of her room. Abruptly she turned back to the tray, took two pieces of bread and stuck the omelet between them, making a sandwich, wrapped it in the napkin, and put it under her arm; she crept out of the room, hurried along the hall, grabbed a cloak, and, throwing it over her shoulders, left the house.

The streets were crowded with people out enjoying the warm day: ladies with entourages of children and nursemaids, girls half hidden by lace umbrellas, and even a few gentlemen accompanied by their dogs. Nannerl kept the hood low over her forehead and proceeded with her head bent, dodging the passersby and ignoring the few who recognized her and made a faint gesture of greeting.

In the time it took her to reach the woods just beyond the city, the weather changed radically. The first thunder could be heard as she was running along the path, lifting her skirt; the first drops fell as soon as she had climbed up to a large branch on the tallest tree. Sheltered by the leaves, she took out the larger piece of paper and unfolded it; she put back the small note and read Wolfgang’s official letter, the one that his father had certainly read and that would also be seen by her mother.

Carissima sorella mia,

Thanks to God, we are in good health, Papa and I, and hope that you and Mama also are well. During the first stages of the journey we suffered from the severe cold, and the snow tormented us so insistently that I would be dead of exhaustion if I hadn’t had the thought of you, Mama, our house, and our native land, now so far away.

I wonder how this period of solitude has been for you, and I try constantly to guess your thoughts and states of mind. I don’t know if, dear sister, you have already begun to give lessons to the children of Salzburg; I imagine you in this new role to be as inflexible and as capable as our father, if he will allow me the comparison. In any case, I wish it were your words, and not just my imagination, that speak to me of you. I beg you, therefore, to answer this soon, and then to write whenever possible, which means every day there is mail. Never forget that you have a brother and that he continues to love you sincerely.

Wolfgang Mozart

The moment had come to seek a more effective shelter, for the drops were intensifying and were so big that they hit the ground like drumbeats. Nannerl slid down, holding on to the branches, ran rapidly along the path, and crouched in a hollow beneath a rock. She took out the small sheet of paper and prepared to decipher it, in the stormy half-light brightened by flashes of lightning.

It was in Latin. Her brother had been clever: evidently he had stuck it in the envelope at the last moment, before his father sealed it; and if their mother had found it before Nannerl, she wouldn’t have understood a word, and would have taken it for some exercise that had ended up there by mistake.

Valde semper laetor quod te docuerim latinam linguam, qua ita nunc possumus clam communicare.

“I am pleased to have introduced you to the Latin language, since it allows us to communicate in secret,” Nannerl translated laboriously.

Deditus sum ad parandos pro te aliquot modos de italica arte musica.

“I am preparing for you…some notes on Italian music.” And Mama said
she
was the one as stubborn as a mule! Wolfgang was telling her that he had transcribed for her, secretly, some songs he had heard sung by street musicians. What a strange idea! And he promised to figure out a way of sending them without their father’s knowing.

Nannerl flattened the sheet of paper and crushed it under a rock. She opened the napkin, took out the sandwich with the omelet, and ate it greedily, covering herself with crumbs, then she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She sat for a long time huddled in the shelter of the rock, waiting for the weather to clear. The falling drops created a carpet of sound. It was nice under there.

IX.

“Here they are!” Anna Maria cried as soon as she heard the knock at the door, and she pushed Tresel forward to open it. And entering her house, her own house, was Countess Katharina Margarethe von Esser and her daughter, the little countess Barbara.

This scion of the aristocracy was nine years old and astonishingly ugly: a squat, dark child with irregular features and clumsy movements. Although her mother took pains to clothe her in flowered dresses, and although the activity of dressing lasted at least an hour every morning, there was no way to make her appear pleasing. As a result, other gifts had to be emphasized: education, manners, and, naturally, musical knowledge.

“Countess Katharina, what an honor! Oh, what a lovely child we have here. You must be little Barbara. How adorable you are.”

The child performed a sort of twisted curtsy, and the two women shook hands in an affected manner. “Come, Nannerl is waiting for you,” Frau Mozart announced, almost dancing as she led the way to the music room.

Katharina von Esser lived on the basis of a solid moral principle: keep the conversation on a high level. She loved to swallow her words—she was able to do so at a matchless velocity—and she could converse on any subject, in any context, and even appear competent and knowledgeable. She had a phrase ready for every occasion, she fished out of her memory declarations she had heard who knew where or when, and even when she felt that she was on uncertain ground she always managed to acquit herself skillfully. She had a real talent.

“I am so eager to meet your daughter. My husband and I have heard her at several concerts, but we have never had occasion to see her close up. Isn’t it odd? Reverend Bullinger assures me that she will be an excellent teacher, and I can’t help but listen to the valuable advice of that holy man. To tell you the truth, my Barbara was already studying with another teacher, whose name, naturally, I will not mention. I will only confess to you, in all confidence, that I wasn’t satisfied, for she is one of those persons who have no respect for their obligations. You know what I mean, don’t you, dear Frau Mozart? Certain artists think that living in disorder makes them geniuses, but you know better than I that it is not at all true. Imagine, once we arrived at the teacher’s house for the lesson, and she couldn’t be found! She had left for somewhere or other, without even having the kindness to warn us. Scandalous behavior, to put it mildly.”

At that moment Anna Maria opened the door of the music room and realized that Nannerl wasn’t there. She went in hesitantly while the countess looked around with a questioning air.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Anna Maria said nervously, then added, a little harshly, “Tresel, serve the coffee. I’ll be back immediately. Excuse me, Countess.” And like a general ready to call the troops to order, she marched to the bedroom and opened the door.

Nannerl was lying among the pillows, her hair loose and uncombed and her clothes disheveled. On her face was an absent expression.

“What do you mean by this shameful behavior?” her mother hissed in annoyance. The girl, unmoving, said nothing, so her mother grabbed her by the arm and shook her violently. “We can’t afford to make a bad impression like this! Hurry up and get ready and come out immediately. Am I clear?”

She received a weak nod in response, but it was enough. Anna Maria returned quickly to the music room; before entering she stopped at the door, took a deep breath, assumed a ceremonious air, and returned to her performance.

“Please, forgive us, Countess! Nannerl—well, Nannerl didn’t feel well, and so she lay down for just a moment, but she’ll be with us right away.”

“Oh, poor girl, I’m so sorry. And what was her trouble, if I am not indiscreet?”

“Nothing serious, thank heaven, Countess. Every so often she has just a slight headache, that’s all.”

“I understand perfectly, Frau Mozart,” Katharina declared, becoming serious. “When I was a girl, I had terrible migraines.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And reflecting on the matter, which is certainly of great interest, I reached the conclusion that there is something painful for a woman in the passage to adulthood. Oddly, I was discussing this just the other day with our doctor, in anticipation of the shocks that even my Barbara will soon undergo, and for which I intend to be prepared, like every good mother. The truth, I believe, is that young men, as they grow, seem to expand. Don’t you think, dear lady? It’s as if the moment of puberty—forgive the bold term—projected them into life with increased vigor. It’s easy, on the contrary, for a girl to withdraw into herself and suffer in silence; and it is only marriage, and, as a result, procreation, that lifts her out of this state and gives her the strength to go on. For me, at least, it was like that. And you how did you experience that phase?”

Anna Maria suddenly felt as though there were a void in her head—as if there were nothing but air in it. Since she was a girl, she had always had too much to do to have time to reflect on her own emotions. Only the rich have the opportunity of doing so, not people like her! Tresel saved her with a diversion, and her harsh voice was like the song of a nightingale: “Frau Mozart, would you like me to serve the
Gugelhupf
?”

“Yes, indeed! It seems to me just the right moment. Bring it now, with the server and the plates, please.” And immediately she asked Barbara, turning on the charm, “Do you like
Gugelhupf,
dear?”

The mother answered, giving her a friendly smile. “It is her favorite cake, Frau Mozart. You have hit the mark.”

“Oh, I am so pleased.”

“Our cook always prepares it, for special occasions. On that subject, dear lady, I must compliment you on your maid. She seems to me a very serious, efficient, and courteous sort of person. These days it is so difficult to find good servants. You do agree? Imagine, at our house we’ve been having a terrible time with a maid. That barbaric girl kept some of the shopping money, and stole small amounts of change and once even a valuable ring. And yet she was recommended to me by my husband’s family, with whom she had served for a good five years. I strongly suspect that there, too, she was constantly making off with something, and my mother-in-law never realized it, poor woman. On the subject of money—and forgive me if I allow myself to enter into the subject in such an explicit manner—how shall we arrange it?”