Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

  NANNERL MOZART, AGE 34, 1785

  A N O V E L

  NANCY MOSER

  TO MY HUSBAND, MARK. THE LOVE OF MY LIFE. and TO ALL WHO LIVE IN THIS AMAZING AGE OF OPPORTUNITY. WASTE NO CHANCE TO CARRY OUT YOUR GOD-GIVEN PURPOSE. Too MANY HAVE NOT HAD THE LUXURY OF CHOICE… .

  NANCY MOSER is the bestselling author of eighteen novels, including Crossroads, the Christy-award winning Time Lottery, and the SISTER CIRCLE series coauthored with Campus Crusade cofounder, Vonette Bright.

  Nancy has been married more than thirty years. She and her husband have three twenty-something children and live in the Midwest. She loves history, has traveled extensively in Europe, and has performed in various theaters, symphonies, and choirs.

  To learn more about Nancy and her books, visit her Web site at www. nancymoser. com.

  P R E L U D E

  rother was dead and I couldn’t find his bodv. G~Wy b

  I walked among the bleak mounds of the cemetery, pulling my cape close with one hand while clasping the hood tightly around my head with the other. It was too cold to be beyond the city gates of Vienna in this awful place, yet it was fitting that I was here under such conditions. To search a graveyard on a sunny day seemed wrong. Perhaps if I’d known where he lay and was bringing him a fresh spray of flowers, the sun would have been an appropriate prop. But not knowing his exact resting place, and fearing that I’d never know … cold air and skies that threatened rain were essential ingredients to my inner gloom. Mirroring my regret. Sustaining my sorrow. Sostenuto. Espressivo. An elegy for the dead.

  I smiled at the terminology. My memory of the musical terms would have made our father proud. How many times had he drilled my brother and me about such things?

  I walked on. There were no trees here. No tombstones. St. Marx wasn’t a normal cemetery, where statues of angels and cherubs made the dead less dead. It was devoid of beauty. Yet I did not turn back but kept walking, hoping to discover some detail about my brother’s final fate.

  It was incomprehensible that the two most important men in my life were dead. Father and brother. Two musical impresarios, gone. It wasn’t fair they’d left me such a musical legacy when there was nothing I could do to make it endure.

  I could have-once. I had musical talent. I’d been a wonderchild along with my baby brother. He’d become interested in music by watching inc. It wasn’t my fault Papa had decided only one child could have center stage, only one child could be carefully sculpted for greatness. My brother. Not the girl-child who grew into a young woman too fast.

  We’d started performing together in public thirty years earlier, in 1762. I was five years older than my brother, five years that accentuated his precocious talent and made mine less remarkable. If only we’d started touring when I was six years old and he still a baby. If only I’d had a few moments alone, basking in the glow of fame, letting the warmth of the accolades fall on me. Would Papa have pulled iiic onto his lap, looked into my eyes, and said, “You are an extraordinary child, Nannerl. With my help your talent will shine so kings and empresses will know your name and shake their heads in awe at your music”?

  I tripped on a stone that had invaded the path. I righted my body-and my thoughts. Life wasn’t fair. Otherwise, why was my brother dead at thirty-five, and me alive to … to do what?

  The options were distressingly limited.

  I was familiar with these thoughts and knew they would take me into dark corners where contentment was tightly bound and regrets had free rein. I knew I had to set them aside and get back to the task at hand.

  Mound after mound of the dead.

  I’d passed some nameplates on the outer wall. Perhaps …

  “May I help you, nieine Dame?”

  I nudged the hood aside so I could see the speaker. The man was stooped, dressed poorly, and carried a shovel. “I’m searching for the grave of a relative.”

  “When did he die?”

  “Three months ago. The mountain passes … I couldn’t get through.”

  The man nodded. “There’ll be no grave for him here. Not in this place. None you can visit.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not from Vienna, then?”

  “I live in St. Gilgen.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  Few did.

  “It’s a small town, east of Salzburg.”

  “Ali. It explains why you may not have heard about the law Emperor Joseph decided people were spending too much on fancy funerals-going into debt they were, ‘specially with churches overcharging. He didn’t like timber being wasted on coffins neither, and seeing’s how coffins slow the body going to dust … so a few years back he changed things. People didn’t like it, and he took back some of the law, but still … this is the way we do it most of the time. A few blessings, the ring of a bell, then drop-drop, into a common grave they go. A few handfuls of lime and I cover ‘em up” He made a sprinkling motion with his arm, then nodded around him. “These are them.”

  I shuddered. “So he’s … with … others?”

  “We can fit up to six in a hole depending on how many need burying. We been ordered to dig ‘em up after seven years to make room for more.”

  The way his eyes sparkled … he clearly enjoyed my discomfort. I pointed toward the nameplates on the wall behind me. “There. May I find his name there?”

  “He nobility?”

  I hesitated. He longed to be. “No.”

  “Then you won’t find his name.”

  This was unbearable. With no headstone and no marker, there could be no future flowers set in his memory, no hand on the gravestone making the coldness of death real, no letting my gaze linger on the deeply carved letters of his name and dates.

  No proof he was gone.

  And I was still alive.

  I spotted another mourner close by. Oddly, the man did not politely look away but kept his eyes on me. I lowered my head within the folds of the hood. I did not need an audience for my disappointment.

  “Sorry to upset you,” the grounds keeper said. “Even I admit it’s a bad law. Maybe … what was your loved one’s name so I can say a prayer for him?”

  I hesitated, then decided it was not my place to halt any prayer for my brother’s soul, even one from such a man as this. “Mozart,” I said. “Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He was my brother. I am his sister.” The last I added for vanity’s sake-may God forgive me….

  There was the flicker of recognition on his face, but I didn’t have time to study it, for suddenly the other mourner rushed toward me. His face screamed recognition.

  “Mozart? You’re Mozart’s sister?”

  I took a step back, as did the cemetery worker.

  The man stopped his approach but not his query. “You’re Nannerl?”

  For God to reward me with recognition after I had so pridefully sought such attention just moments before … “Yes, I’m Nannerl,” I said. I let the hood fall open so he could see my face, then pulled it tight again.

  “I’ve been searching for his grave, his name,” the man said. “I’m a writer and an admirer of his music. I have questions. So many questions.”

  I looked at the grounds keeper and nodded at him, giving him permission to go. He withdrew, leaving me alone with this stranger, this man in the middle of a cemetery. Yet I was not afraid nor concerned for my reputation. For who was there to see us but the dead and the grieving who were intent on their own private issues of character and situation?

  The man gestured toward the exit, not twenty steps away. “Shall we, Fraulein Mozart?”

  I accepted the idea of escape from this place and did not correct the name he’d connected with mine. He did not need to know that I was Frau Berchtold now: Baroness Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Berchtold
zu Sonnenburg, but simply Nannerl to all who knew me. I was the wife of a man twice widowed, the mother of six children, and far, far removed from my brother’s fame.

  Too far removed.

  You’re due the recognition. You’re entitled.

  But was I?

  The man paused outside the cemetery walls, giving me no chance to ponder such intricacies of my worth.

  “I have been remiss in not introducing myself. I’m Friedrich Schlichtegroll.” He offered a tight bow

  I let the hood fall to my shoulders. The cold air took possession of the space around my head, nipping at my ears, expelling the warmth I’d so carefully hoarded. “You have questions, Herr… ?”

  “Schlichtegroll. Your brother’s music is well known, but I want to confirm some of the details of his personal life. Is his wife still living? How many children does he have? Are they well? Where do they live? Was he working on any piece of music when he died?”

  Each question produced a weight, as if the gray clouds were descending downward, threatening to release my own private storm. I longed for the anonymity of the hood.

  “Fraulein Mozart?”

  I needed to be away. Immediately. I looked for my carriage and spotted it a short distance to the right. “If you’ll excuse me.” I walked quickly, praying he wouldn’t follow

  I heard no other feet crunching gravel. When I glanced back, he still stood at the entrance. He raised a hand and called after me, “But, Fraulein Mozart … the questions are not difficult.”

  They shouldn’t have been.

  But they were.

  I hugged the wall of the carriage, needing to feel substance around me, supporting me. If only the far wall were close enough to push against my free side to contain me completely, to put a limit to the breadth of my regret.

  The jostling of the carriage on the cobblestone streets of Vienna prevented me from the oblivion of rest. Apropos. I did not look out the window as the world sped by. I did not deserve to be a part of it.

  I heard rain against the carriage roof. It was inevitable the sky overflowed, letting the tears of God rain down on me. For surely the Almighty grieved at the distance that had developed between the brother and sister Mozart.

  How could two siblings who had been bound as one, who thought as one, whose lives played out as if they were one being, lose contact like two appendages of the same body amputated so that neither could function fully?

  Tears demanded escape and I let them come, for each one represented a wasted moment as Wolfgang and I had lived our lives apart.

  The carriage came to a stop at an intersection. I leaned forward and saw two children rush by in the rain, urged on by their fatherthe older one a girl, the younger a boy. Both smiled and laughed while their father’s face showed his opinion that rain was serious business. Hi1ny, hiurq, we have places to be.

  Two proud and happy children. Proud and happy for good reason.

  Like the Mozart children.

  Had been.

  Once.

  0 V E R T U R E

  e Z2- r .7

  A bow from Wolfie and a curtsy from me.

  Applause. So much applause.

  I glanced at my little brother and he winked at me. I wanted to stick my tongue out at him-and if we had been at home, that’s exactly what I would have done. But we were not at home practicing. We were not even in our hometown of Salzburg. And though Papa and Mama were in the audience, there were even more important people to impress here in Vienna. Dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses by the dozens.

  As Wolfie took another bow-he liked bowing; he liked sweeping his right arm to the side dramatically, as he’d seen grown-up courtiers do-I looked in the direction of Empress Maria Theresa and her husband, Emperor Francis. They were the rulers of the Holy Roman Empire, of all Austria, Hungary, and Bohemia. They sat in the front row, and it was their applause that mattered. They were a golden couple, dressed like heavenly angels in white brocade with gold trim. Yet they were not scary and stern as I’d imagined the rulers of an empire to be. Although their silk-covered chairs were a bit more grand than other chairs in the room, they were not massive thrones as I’d expected. And the empress and emperor were not giants in the land, as one would think. They were quite shortPapa was taller than both-and I’d noticed them fidgeting in their seats, and even scratching under their powdered wigs. Like real people. And though at first I’d found this disconcerting, it had also eased my nerves. As for Wolfie? He didn’t have nerves and always played well. Actually, neither of us had made a single error while playing our sonatas on the clavier.

  The applause began to fade, and the emperor leaned forward and rested his elbows on the carved arms of his chair. He pointed his finger at us. “Bravo, children. Yes indeed, bravo. But …” He surveyed the room with a smile, like a boy scheming mischief, and everyone gave him their attention. “It is no great art to play with all your fingers, but if you could play with only one and on a covered keyboard, that would be something worthy of admiration.”

  Papa had taught us such tricks, but before I had time to choose which trick to do first, Wolfie ran to the keyboard and began playing a Scarlatti sonata with one finger, just as His Majesty had requested. Wolfie’s stubby little finger moved swiftly over the keyboard, more swiftly than I had ever seen him play. He did not miss a single note.

  I glanced at Papa. He smiled at Wolfie.

  I would do the next trick and earn my own smile. The worn leather satchel in which we carried our music held a length of cloth we could use to cover the keys. As my brother received his applause with another grand bow, I retrieved the cloth and stepped toward the keyboard. But Papa snatched the cloth from my hand like a magician pulling a scarf from his sleeve.

  He made a great show of covering the keyboard, then adjusted the blue satin pillow Wolfie sat upon in order to reach the keys. With a sweep of his hand, Papa backed away and bowed to Emperor Francis.

  “Your wish is our command, Your Majesty.”

  Through the cloth, Wolfie began to play Haydn’s Sonata Number 5 in C. The lords and ladies gasped and clapped. We did this all the time at home, but I was not surprised they thought Wolfie clever. After all, he was only six. If Papa would let me play one of the really difficult songs, I’d let them see what five additional years of lessons had taught me.

  Without warning, Wolfie stopping playing. He looked left, then right, as if in search of something. “Where is Herr Wagenseil? They said he would be here.”

  Silence enveloped the room as everyone stared at Wolfie, then glanced uneasily at one another. Mama looked horrified, and I could feel my own face growing warm. Wolfie hadn’t learned when to speak and when to keep silent.

  Papa stepped forward, his face and neck a deepening red against the white lace of his jabot. “Forgive him, Your Majes-”

  The empress laughed and snapped her fingers. “Summon Herr Wagenseil at once!”

  The room buzzed with low whispers as two footmen hurried out. Within minutes a man with a long, wavy wig entered and bowed grandly before the emperor and empress.

  “Well, court composer,” said the empress to Herr Wagenseil, “our young Mozart has requested your presence.” She extended a hand toward Wolfie, who was sitting at the clavier.

  Herr Wagenseil raised an eyebrow but, with a bow to Her Majesty, moved toward Wolfie-who scooted over on the bench, making room for him. The composer sat next to my brother, his smile uncertain, his eyes flitting across the audience. There was a hint of disapproval in his expression, as if he did not completely regard his summons with pleasure.

  “Well, young Mozart,” the man said, “what shall I play for you?”

  “Oh no, sir,” Wolfie replied. “I am going to play one of your concertos, and you must turn the pages for me.”

  The room was silent except for Herr Wagenseil’s intake of breath. No one moved-until the empress laughed. “Indeed, Herr Wagenseil. Turn the pages for our young impresario.”

  Wolfie did justice to
the court composer’s piece, but I noticed that even though Papa was nodding and smiling, his eyes were angry. We would pay for making Papa angry.

  After Wolfie finished and everyone applauded, he got so excited he jumped off the pillowed bench and ran toward the empress.

  Don’t run! Wolfie, don’t run! He hadn’t taken a bow, had hardly acknowledged the applause at all.

  Before he could reach Her Majesty, he tripped over the edge of a Persian rug and fell to the marble floor with an oomph. I moved to help him up, but the empress’s daughter Marie Antonie-who was no older than he-was there first, taking his arm, pulling him to his feet.

  Wolfie thanked the little girl, then added, “When I grow up I will marry you.”

  At first no one reacted. Then nervous laughter sped about the room. I wanted to slip away and hide. Why couldn’t he behave?

  But then, turning away from the archduchess, Wolfie seemed to remember why he was running in the first place, and ran up to the empress Maria Theresa herself and climbed into her lap. Then he put his arms around her neck and kissed her.

  I couldn’t move. Neither did anyone else. The man and woman behind me snickered and someone whispered, “The child presumes too much.” Mama took hold of Papa’s arm, and I saw his jaw twitch.

  But then … to everyone’s surprise, the empress hugged Wolfie back-and kissed him. The guests clapped, and my little brother was showered with praise and verbal tokens of affection. I would never cease to marvel at how Wolfie always ended up the darling.

  That took talent.

  Mama and Papa sat across from Wolfie and me in the carriage as we left Vienna’s Schonbrunn Palace. With Mama’s fancy dress and the bulk of my parents’ cloaks, they didn’t have much room, yet the one time I’d suggested Mama sit with Wolfie and I sit with Papa, my idea had received a stern dismissal. “You two squirm and fiddle too much. We would never have any peace.”

  It wasn’t I who squirmed. I sat very still with my hands in my lap just like Mama. At eleven, my feet didn’t touch the floor of the carriage as yet, and they sometimes skirted numbness from dangling. To escape their ache I might move, yet every time Papa flashed me a look, I was still.