The Mozart Girl

by Barbara Nickel

  She quietly got out of bed. That part was easy. She was used to creeping around without waking anyone. She pulled on her dress and cape and tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs, holding Salome Musch tight to her chest.

  Bright moonlight lit the quiet street. Nannerl slowly crossed the cobblestones, opened the church door just a crack and slipped inside. Shivers crisscrossed her skin as she climbed the dark balcony steps. Maybe the ghost of St. Paul hid in the corners, shaking a bony finger at her! He would surely disapprove of her sneaking around the church at night like a thief ! What if the priest caught her? Then the huge organ pipes rose high above her and Nannerl forgot about ghosts. She propped Salome Musch on a little shelf of the organ, pushed the stool away as Wolfi had done, and began to play.

  After a while it seemed as if she had always done this. It was like eating an apple or threading a needle. The great sound filled her head, spilled out of her ears, and mixed with the moonlight all around her. She forgot about tight corsets and Papa’s squirmy smile and misspelled words. She pulled out all the stops, listened to the music rumble through the church.

  Something made her stop. Silence filled her ears, broken suddenly by a creak. She turned and saw the priest at the far end of the church. She wanted to bolt but her feet felt stuck to the floor. Now she would catch it. Surely the priest would tell Papa about her disobedience—and who knows what the punishment would be. She shouldn’t ever have left the moonlit room and the safe sound of Wolfi’s steady breathing.

  The priest started walking down the aisle toward her! She forced herself to her feet and ran as fast as she could—down, down, down the steps. She pushed at the door. It wouldn’t budge. She couldn’t let the priest see her! She pushed again, this time throwing her weight against it. She stumbled onto the street and ran across it and up the steps of the inn. She stood outside their room for a minute, her heart pounding, and suddenly she didn’t care about the priest or Papa. The feel of the keys under her fingers and the pedals under her feet had made up for any punishment she would get. She opened the door, took off her dress and cape, and lay down beside Wolfi. Her heart slowed down, and before she knew it, Nannerl was asleep.

  Papa frowned as he met them the next day on the steps of the blacksmith shop. “Now they’re fixing the other wheel,” he said irritably. “Who knows what the cost of all this will be, since I must provide for the driver and the horses as long as we are here and until we get to Munich. I must write Herr Hagenauer for more money.”

  As they walked back to the inn, the priest walked toward them importantly, holding something in his hand. As he came closer, Nannerl saw that it was Salome Musch. She felt her stomach turn over. How could she have forgotten Salome?

  Now the priest would tell everything and she would be found out. Papa would be furious, Mama’s lips would tighten and Wolfi would smirk a little, as if she were some grand joke. She kicked the toe of her shoe into a crack between two cobblestones. She wanted to run away.

  “Good morning, Father,” said Papa.

  “Good morning, Herr Mozart, Frau Mozart,” said the priest. He turned to Wolfi and smiled, then held the doll out in front of him. Nannerl sucked in her breath and then looked down, clenching a bit of skirt in her fist. “I want to thank you for last night’s concert,” he said to Wolfi with a wink. “It was most splendid. I think you forgot something.” He handed Salome over to Wolfi, who stared at the priest as if he were crazy.

  Nannerl let out a long breath of relief. Mama and Papa just smiled and nodded.

  “Say thank you, Wolfgang,” whispered Mama, pushing him toward the priest.

  “Thank you,” said Wolfi, looking puzzled. Nannerl smiled. She couldn’t believe her luck.

  “You are most welcome. Good day,” said the priest, and with a little bow, walked away down the street.

  “But I didn’t have Salome Musch yesterday afternoon,” said Wolfi, looking at the doll in his hands. “How could I forget something that wasn’t even there?”

  Nannerl felt her heart thumping again. She couldn’t lie. But what could she say to make Wolfi stop asking questions?

  “I had Salome. I must have forgotten her on a shelf of the organ. I’m sorry, Wolfi. From now on it should just be you who takes care of Salome—I’m too old for her anyway,” she said, and skipped ahead to the inn.

  After lunch, when everyone else was resting in the room out of the noonday heat, Nannerl got out her diary.

  June 10, 1763

  Dear Diary,

  I will never forget the sound of the great organ, how it washed all over me like a thunderstorm while I played. It was worth all the scariness.

  And the priest and Wolfi and Mama and Papa will never know—it’s a secret for the moon and me. I think I’ll put an organ part in my symphony—now that I know more about how it works. Papa says we’ll probably be in Wasserburg for another day, for the other wheel to get fixed. He’s very angry.

  Love,

  Nannerl

  6

  The Nymphenburg Concert

  Nannerl tried to place two flowers across the rim of her bonnet, but she just couldn’t get them to swoop stylishly above her eyes in the way that Katherl had described. They would either fall off or hang way down over her face. She looked in the mirror and threw the flowers onto the floor. Wolfi picked them up and stuck them behind his ear.

  “C’mon, Nannerl. Papa says we have to get in the carriage and go. Don’t worry about a few silly flowers,” he said. “I’ll race you down the stairs.”

  Nannerl followed but she didn’t race. After all, this was the big city of Munich, capital of Bavaria, not just an unimportant little town like Wasserburg. Last night, as soon as their carriage had passed under the Isar Gate, she’d looked over at the distant buildings she knew belonged to Nymphenburg Palace, the residence of the Elector, ruler of the whole state of Bavaria!

  Now she walked slowly, staring at all the rich ladies who chattered and fanned themselves in the lobby. She swished her skirts the way they did, pretending she was nineteen. She sneaked glances at her reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls. This was the fanciest hotel in Munich. Papa always made sure they stayed at the best hotels, so he could meet important people and get invitations for her and Wolfi to perform.

  She stepped outside, squinting and adjusting her bonnet. The carriage was waiting for her, just as if she were a real rich lady! Wolfi stuck his head out the window.

  “Hurry up, Fraulein Mozart, or you’ll miss the carriage to Nymphenburg!” he said, crossing his eyes. Nannerl forgot that she was supposed to be nineteen and ran to the carriage. Today was the Feast of St. Anthony, and the Mozarts were celebrating the holiday with a trip to the four castles and gardens of Nymphenburg Palace, which stood just on the outskirts of Munich. Nannerl had performed there before. She could hardly wait to walk along the canal and see all the people in their fancy boats. And the last time there had been rows and rows of lilac trees in full bloom! She closed her eyes and tried to remember the smell, how she’d buried her face in the purple blossoms.

  The carriage bumped over a bridge and Nannerl looked down at the Isar River and all the boats. This wouldn’t just be a holiday. Papa was hoping to get an invitation for her and Wolfi to perform before Maximilian the Third, the great Elector of Bavaria.

  Nannerl sighed and crossed her arms. She knew they needed the money, but someday it would be nice just to go somewhere and not have to try to impress people for invitations to play. You had to be so careful not to offend the rulers in any way, or they might not ask you to play, or might not give very much for your concert. All the same, she could hardly wait for the carriage ride to be over.

  She had been ten when they’d last played for the Elector. After the concert, he had taken her aside. He hadn’t looked like a great Elector—short, shriveled, and thin, with eyes the color of dark coffee and a very long nose. “Your music
hit me here,” he’d told her, tapping his chest. “Never stop playing, my dear, never stop playing. Even though I rule all of Bavaria, I still compose music and play the violoncello.” His voice had sounded like a cello—thick and rich—it seemed much bigger than he was. Now Nannerl wanted to play for him again, to hear that voice and weave it into her symphony.

  “Papa, can we see the Badenburg castle and the Amalienburg castle this time?” Wolfi asked, as the carriage rolled down the long driveway to the gardens.

  “If we have time,” said Papa with his squirmy smile. “First we must all take a little stroll around the gardens.”

  Nannerl groaned inside. She always hated that part, showing off so that the rulers and important people would know they had arrived. Taking a little stroll meant they would have to promenade right down the great walk in front of Nymphenburg Palace.

  “Nannerl, let me fix your bonnet,” said Mama, as they stepped out of the carriage. Nannerl let Mama smooth a few wrinkles in her dress and bonnet, then grabbed Wolfi’s hand and raced off to look at one of the white marble statues. Mama and Papa came after them.

  “I will have none of this racing around,” said Papa. “We must walk, very slowly, under the great window.”

  Nannerl blushed and looked down. Everyone must be watching them, thinking they were silly. She wished she could hide out somewhere in the woods, away from all the eyes that must be noticing her bonnet, how it wouldn’t stay on straight. “Look, Papa, someone wants to see us,” said Wolfi, pointing to a tall man hurrying toward them.

  “Herr Mozart! Frau Mozart!” he said. “I am Herr Zweibrücken, an assistant to the Elector.” He gave Papa a small bow. “What a wonderful surprise! When did you arrive in Munich?”

  “Last night,” said Papa. “We are indeed honored to visit these gardens and the palace of the Elector. Everyone tells me he’s still in good health and playing music as usual.”

  “Yes, I don’t think anything could come between the Elector and his cello. He’s up and practicing with the birds every morning without fail. Does he know that you are here?”

  “No,” piped up Wolfi. “Do you think we could play for him?”

  Papa looked embarrassed, but the man just laughed. He ordered a servant to ask the Elector. “Enjoy the gardens,” he said. “I’ll send a message as soon as I know.”

  They continued down the walk. It wound around a long sloping lawn and down into a huge rose garden. Nannerl bent over to smell a delicate pink rose, her birth flower.

  “Look out, Nannerl! A huge bee’s heading straight for your ear!” Wolfi was jumping up and down and pointing over her shoulder. She looked carefully in the direction of his finger. No bee. He giggled and she wanted to pinch him, but he ran away and bumped into a footman, who walked toward them with a piece of paper.

  Papa took it and cleared his throat. “Maximilian the Third, Elector of Bavaria, would be most pleased if Wolfgang Amadeus and Maria Anna Mozart of Salzburg would perform before the court in the great ballroom of Nymphenburg Palace on Monday, the thirteenth day of June, in the year seventeen hundred and sixty three, at eight o’clock in the evening.” He smiled triumphantly and fished out his pocket watch. “Eight o’clock. We have four hours. What’s your wish?”

  “Amalienburg and Badenburg!” shouted Wolfi and Nannerl.

  “Very well,” said Papa, and they took the long, winding path that led through the gardens to the castle.

  Wolfi and Nannerl skipped ahead. “What are you going to perform?” asked Wolfi. “I think I’m just going to play whatever comes to my head.”

  Nannerl glanced over and saw how he held his head high and stuck out his chest. She knew he could easily improvise at a concert. He did it all the time, at home. Once she had tried, but Papa had told her to get back to her scales. “Little girls musn’t give in to flights of the imagination,” he had said, and she had felt that familiar prickle under her fingers, asking why? as they touched the keys.

  “I’ll probably play the sonata by Johann Christian Bach,” she told Wolfi, and then they both stopped and gazed up at Amalienburg, which had at one time been a hunting lodge.

  “C’mon, Nannerl, let’s look at the great hall of mirrors,” said Wolfi, pulling her inside.

  The hall was as high as a church, and circular, so that everywhere you looked were mirrors. Huge mirrors covered every inch of space on every wall: oval mirrors with frames made of gold leaves and fruit, mirrors surrounded by twisted gold candlesticks, and long mirrors that reached to the ceiling.

  Wolfi pulled her on to Badenburg Castle, with its famous marble bath. Fountains spilled out of statues and into the warm water that was known to have the powers of healing. Nannerl yawned. The heavy air made her feel sleepy.

  As they left, lightning flashed across the sky and Nannerl covered her ears to the thunder and rain that followed.

  “Run!” shouted Papa. She and Mama picked up their skirts and ran along the little path after Wolfi and Papa to Nymphenburg Palace. By the time they arrived, panting, at the back servants’ quarters they were completely soaked. Water dripped from Nannerl’s bonnet and ran down her face. She slumped into a chair and stared at her mud-splotched dress.

  “Now what are we going to do?” she wailed, pulling at her wet wig. “How can we play for the Elector in these messy clothes!” She squeezed water from her bonnet and threw it down onto a puddle.

  “Nannerl!” Mama said. “Throwing clothes won’t help.” Then she smiled and pointed to a small trunk. Wolfi ran over to it and pulled out dry clothes and wigs. Mama must have slipped it in here on the way to the castles! Nannerl ran over to where Mama stood. “Thank you,” she said, giving her a wet hug.

  “Never mind,” Mama said, hugging Nannerl back and then bustling by the fire. “There’s still lots to do before the concert.” Soon their wet clothes dried by the fire while Mama helped Wolfi into his dry vest and little coat and knickers. Nannerl hoped that Mama had packed her lucky performance dress, but she pulled out her second favorite instead, the purple one with the big crinoline. She got Mama to lace her corset really tight. She didn’t care if it felt awful. Tonight she must look perfect.

  Mama passed around bread and fruit and cheese, and Nannerl took more than Wolfi; running through the storm had made her hungry. Then a footman came to tell them the Elector was ready, and they followed Papa to the ballroom door.

  Nannerl peeked around the corner. Ladies in rustling silk gowns sat at tables sipping tea and nibbling chocolates. Gentlemen stood in little groups in the corners. And there was the Elector, sitting in a huge chair with two sleeping dogs at his feet! He looked just as Nannerl remembered him—so small and thin he seemed to be swallowed up by his chair. But his voice was the opposite of his appearance. Nannerl caught it sliding above the chatter, warm and full as a pot of thick soup. All she wanted now was to sit down at the clavier and play for him.

  A hush fell as the Mozart family entered and sat in the chairs beside the clavier.

  Papa bowed to a smattering of applause. “I will let the music make the introductions. Ladies and gentlemen of the court…my son, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.” Wolfi gave a little bow, and the ladies whispered Wunderkind and clucked their tongues as he sat down at the clavier. Nannerl closed her eyes and felt the knots in her stomach loosen as Wolfi played. She smiled. He was improvising.

  First, he played a simple and direct theme. Then he started on the variations, each one growing a little more difficult, but always keeping some important part of the tune. Nannerl played games like trying to guess how he would change each variation. So far she had guessed five out of seven correctly. Then she guessed how many variations in total he would play. Ten? No, he was playing another one. Twelve? Thirteen? Yes, thirteen, because today was June 13.

  She glanced anxiously at the clock on the wall. Wolfi had been playing for over an hour. She wished he would stop, then scolded herself for th
e thought. Wolfi should play as long as he wanted and it was fun to listen to him…but…well, soon he would be finished and then she would play. She looked at the Elector, sitting forward in his chair, his dark eyes glued to Wolfi. Her hands felt cold and clammy. She wiggled her fingers to warm them up. Soon…soon it would be her turn.

  Wolfi finished with a flourish and stood up to bow. Thirteen variations! The applause sounded like the afternoon’s thunderstorm. Nannerl got ready to stand and curtsy. Surely they would stop clapping for Wolfi soon! But they wouldn’t stop, not until he had bowed and got out his violin. Papa sat at the clavier. Nannerl sat back and groaned inside. Now Wolfi and Papa would play a concerto for violin and clavier—and it was already almost nine-thirty!

  This time, instead of listening to Wolfi, she went through the sonata in her head, planning exactly how she would play each phrase to make the Elector lean forward and smile, enjoy her performance just as much as he seemed to be liking Wolfi’s. She rubbed her fingers and flexed them and rubbed them again. Finally, the applause rang through the hall. Now she would play.

  But Herr Zweibrücken, the man they’d met that afternoon, was walking to the clavier! He introduced two women, a baroness and a countess from Vienna. They came forward, smiling and curtsying. There was a small applause. Nannerl counted the number of buttons on the back of Mama’s dress.

  “These distinguished ladies both wish to honor the court and the Elector with a few songs,” said Herr Zweibrücken. “First…Madame Baroness.”

  Her voice was warbly, always shaking and on the verge of collapse, like the gelatin Mama sometimes made on summer afternoons. It finally burst, squawking on the high C like an old crow. Nannerl shivered and looked at the clock. Twenty-five to eleven! Would they never finish? The Countess was easier to listen to, although at times she sounded like the rusty scrape of the carriage door. Nannerl yawned and felt her eyelids droop, then sat forward in her chair. She musn’t sleep. Surely they would still let her play! She saw the ladies at the tables politely covering yawns with their lace handkerchiefs. The Countess finished. Nannerl rose to play. But others were beginning to stand and gather their cloaks!