by Nancy Moser
Or … there might have been another reason we had not been invited back to Buckingham House. Had we done poorly? One Sunday as we walked to church, I took advantage of the fact that Mama and I were walking alone behind Wolfie and Papa.
“Mama?”
She adjusted her shawl. “Yes, Nannerl?”
“We haven’t had many concerts lately. Did Wolfie and I do something wrong?”
With a glance to Papa up ahead, Mama put a hand on my shoulder and slowed our walk, ever so slightly. “It’s not your fault. Nor your brother’s. It is the fault of the nobility.”
“How so?”
“The concerts we’ve been having for the ordinary people?”
“I like those. We make people happy. The other day a grandmother cried after I played.”
She nodded. “I also enjoy the experience of reaching common folk, exposing them to a bit of the divine.” Mama sighed heavily. “But the nobility don’t like it.”
It only took me a moment to understand. “They want us all to themselves?”
“Indeed.”
“Then why don’t they invite us to do more concerts-for them?”
“Your father thinks it’s a conspiracy: retribution for us having the audacity to share you with the world instead of with just a privileged few The haves are never eager to give up their advantage over the have-nots-not even in England.” She sighed. “But unfortunately, the have-nots seem content to see you just once, while the nobility would ask to see you again and again. Would ask, but aren’t.”
A point entered my mind, but I wasn’t sure I should share it.
Mama must have sensed my desire to say more, for she said, “Speak, Nannerl. Speak now and then we need never speak of it again.
Since she’d asked … “Papa is always worried about money, and since it is the nobility who can pay the good amounts … perhaps we shouldn’t do the other concerts. They don’t pay very well, and I’ve noticed Papa keeps lowering the price.”
She squeezed my shoulder. “You mustn’t worry so much about money, Nannerl. I know being in such close quarters you hear us talk of it, but … your papa has worked very hard to keep us here in London, where all in all, the receipts have been generous. Now that things have turned … a man’s pride is delicate, especially when mixed with his necessity to provide for his family.”
A man of the cloth who was walking in our direction suddenly slowed, then stopped beside us.
“Fraulein Mozart!”
His exuberant greeting caused Papa and Wolfie to stop and come back to join us. The man looked familiar, yet I did not—
But then I did. “Father. Reverend.”
Papa had joined us, Wolfie in hand. His eyes were wary. “Sir?”
The reverend nodded with a little bow “My apologies, sir. Madam. Let me introduce myself. I am Reverend Collins. I had the pleasure of meeting …” He hesitated and looked at me. I hoped he would not give away my secret that I’d taken solace in a nonCatholic church. Finally he said to my parents, “I had the pleasure of hearing your children play at the Swan and Hoop.”
Papa cleared his throat. “Yes, well …” I knew he thought our recent residence at the Swan was an indignity, so for this man to bring it up …
“The performance was glorious,” Reverend Collins said. “I witnessed the children playing the covered keyboard, sitting side by side. The music was quite astonishing. And the four-handed duets were something these ears have never heard.” He gave me a wink. “And then, of course, I especially enjoyed your prodigious playing, Fraulein Mozart.”
I felt myself blush but gave him a quick curtsy. I looked at Papa.
Unfortunately, before Papa smiled at the compliment, I saw his left eyebrow rise. That one gesture disheartened me, but I maintained my smile and manners while Reverend Collins continued his chat, hearing him say that he had also purchased a copy of Wolfie’s sonatas and a copy of the engraving the Parisian Carmontelle had made of me, Wolfie, and Papa performing. For some reason his litany of compliments embarrassed me. Finally he said his good-byes.
“What a nice man,” Mama said as we resumed our walk.
“He liked my playing,” I said softly.
Papa’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me, young lady?”
Mama saved me by taking Papa’s arm and leading him forward with chatter about our afternoon plans.
Wolfie kicked a pebble and it clattered ahead of us, coming to rest near a horse trough. “Your turn. Get it!” he said.
I ignored him and walked on.
Papa waved his hands in the air. “The very sight of all this luggage makes me perspire!”
I agreed. After living in London for fifteen months, we’d accumulated … too much. New clothes, housewares, souvenirs. Papa had spent a great deal of time picking out watches for his friends back in Salzburg-especially Herr Hagenauer. English watches were superior to German watches, but Papa worried whether, if they broke … could they be repaired in Salzburg? And Herr Hagenauer had requested some red cloth that had to be sent ahead because customs regulations in France were stringent about such things-though I had no idea why. There were many details to think about and plan for.
To ease our exit from London on August first, we looked forward to answering an amazing number of invitations: Holland, Copenhagen, Hamburg, and St. Petersburg. Yet even though I would have liked to see Denmark and Russia, none of us wanted to spend the winter in such places. Papa’s plan was to return to Paris to spend the winter concert season there, and afterward, move on to sunny Italy.
But then Papa’s choice of our next venue was decided for him.
Holland.
I’d always wanted to see Holland with its canals and windmills, but Papa had been hesitant, fearing the people there would be crude and base as we had experienced in other lowland places. But the Dutch envoy to London had sweetened the invitation with promises of high pay if we would play at court for William V, the Prince of Orange. When the prince’s sister, Caroline, insisted we come, the engagement was settled.
Unfortunately, with our carriage and many of our possessions stored in Calais, we had to return to the mainland via that route. Luckily, this time our Channel crossing was without queasy incident-the day lovely, and the seas calm. We even had a big lunch once we landed, then headed east to Holland via Dunkirk, Antwerp, and Rotterdam.
Both Papa and Wolfie suffered bad attacks of catarrh along the way, coughing horribly (was the variable weather to blame?), and we were delayed enough that it was six weeks before we entered The Hague in September. Once there, we were very glad to not have missed Holland, for its landscape and towns were unlike any we had ever seen: flat expanses of green, with tree-lined canals bisecting each plot of land. It was all so ordered and … perfect. To better see the land, we even left our carriage behind in Antwerp to utilize the horse-drawn barges on the water.
At The Hague we took lodging at an inn, and Papa sent word to the prince that we had arrived. The prince and princess arranged for us to give the first of many concerts two days after our arrival. They even supplied a carriage for us.
But then I got sick. At first I thought it was merely chest congestion as Papa and Wolfie had suffered. Yet on the night of September twelfth, when we were to present our first concert, I couldn’t go. Mama stayed behind with me. Poor Mama. Always having to play the nurse for the rest of us. Mama never got sick. I admired her strength, and her patience and care. Every time I would wake from sleep, she was beside my bed, ready to help me sip water or broth, or stroke my head.
I tried to get well, I truly did, but each time I attempted to sit or stand, the illness demanded attention and I fell back to bed. After two weeks I realized it was serious, for on the twenty-sixth, a chill and fever took hold. Swallowing became an act of will as my throat was swollen and sore.
A doctor bled me, but I did not get better. He said the blood was very bad; it was inflamed and half of it was white slime and grease. I dared not look and make myself feel sicker still.
As the sickness took on a stronger grip I fell deeper and deeper into a place that had nothing to do with the inn at The Hague. My thoughts lived in places unreal and came in odd bursts that had no connection with one another. I even heard myself speaking in German, then French, then English. I would hear soft laughter then, and if I managed to open my eyes, often found Papa and Mania smiling at me. At something I said? One time Wolfie made a funny face and mimicked me in English, “I want more mutton, if you please!”
But then I’d slip away into a sleep where the odd dreams reigned. Dreams of standing before a massive door that led to a concert hall and having the music going on without me. Not being able to open the door … my fingers freezing on the keyboard, unable to play … watching from a window as Mama, then Papa, then Wolfie rode away.
Sometimes I heard Wolfie’s music as I slept. It comforted me.
There were many doctors, and one blended into the next. I heard one say that he was going to stop up the cough with a milk cure, by driving the matter of the disease down into my lower body where it could be released. Honestly, I didn’t care what they did, as long as I found comfort.
Death would have been welcome. Even Mama and Papa said so. But it was not allowed. Papa fumed, “I will not have one of us die on foreign soil. I will not!” And Mama lamented, “I have lost five children, I will not lose another! Take we, Father! Take iiie.” I welcomed their fighting spirit, for I had little of my own.
For weeks they sat at my bedside. They often told me Bible stories: the story of Jesus healing the nobleman’s son, and the young girl who was brought back from the dead.. At first these stories scared me, for it was apparent my parents found similarities between the dying children and myself.
Was I really dying?
I was really dying. I knew it even before the priest came to give me Holy Communion. Even before the date of October twentyfirst, when the priest was so upset at my condition that he gave me Last Rites. Over and over Mama and Papa reminded me that the world was full of vanity and heaven was a good place. I would be happy there-and free from the pain that wracked my body.
I heard yet did not hear. I spoke but could not speak. I slept.
And then on that same day, another doctor came. I heard Mama say he was the retired doctor of the princess. One of the other doctors was there too, and Papa and the two men argued over me. The old doctor answered questions of the new one, but Papa argued and said, “What is this talk of boils and pocks? There are none present now, and never were!” I wished they would stop arguing as if I wasn’t even there.
But then it was quiet and I opened my eyes to find the new doctor taking my pulse, then touching my forehead. He put on his glasses and examined my eyes and my tongue. He then proclaimed, “It is nothing more than extraordinarily thick mucus. Some good calves’ soup with well-boiled rice will help”
And it did. For I began to recover. I was still weak, but slowly the world came back to me and took over the awful place of my dreams.
But just a week after I gained enough strength to get out of bed in early November, Wolfie became sick with the same illness. For four weeks he fought off death. Fever wracked him, and for a week he just lay there, barely breathing, unable to speak. And frighteningly, his lips turned black and hard, and peeled away.
As they had during my illness, Mama stayed with him from midnight to six in the morning, and Papa took the six-to-noon shift so Mama could sleep. They both stood watch during the day, rarely leaving the room. I tried to help as I could, but I was still weak, and they feared a reoccurrence if I remained too close. Wolfie was completely unrecognizable, nothing but tender skin and little bones.
For three months sickness held our family captive. What God sends must be endured, but as Christmas neared, Papa rejoiced that we had both risen from the dead. Wolfie walked a few steps on his own and received our applause as if he had run a race.
I knew Papa worried about the lost income, as well as the expense of doctors and medicines. But when I apologized for being sick, he said, “Expense must not be considered. The devil take the money, if one only gets off with one’s skin!”
We had not planned to be in Holland so long and regretted having sent our furs and winter clothes on to Paris. How we could have used them in December! It was the people of Holland who made us warm. We made many friends during our stay, and Wolfie made a musical name for himself before he got sick. Alas, I did not have a chance to play there because I took sick the day after our arrival. But I wanted to. I was eager to prove to the Dutch that I was a viable part of this performing duo. It was not the Miracle Child but the Miracle Children.
God did not save me for nothing. I’d make sure of that.
Five months in Amsterdam, Antwerp, Brussels, then back to Paris for two months where we picked up the luggage we had left there. Did we really need these things we’d been without for over two years? Then on to Dijon for two weeks, Lyons for four, and Geneva, Switzerland, for three. Lausanne and Berne, Zurich, Ulm, and Munich. Places that had only appeared as a dot on a map became real in our memories. Before the trip I’d never imagined the vastness of the world. Afterward, I often thought about the people I’d met and imagined what they were doing while I floated on a canal in Holland or crossed a mountain pass in Switzerland. All these people living the same day, the same hours, seeing the same sun and moon and stars … yet so far apart they didn’t even know of one another’s existence.
I knew Only lucky ones like my family knew I sometimes wondered if even kings and queens had seen as much as we. And not just the places, not just buildings and rivers and hills. Not just paintings, museums, and statues. But people. I could never count the number of people we’d seen, and as amazing as that number was, even more so was the number who had seen us and heard us play. The multitude who’d talked to us, often in languages we did not understand. Kings and shopkeepers, ambassadors and farmers. We’d come into contact with them all. Who else could say as much? I didn’t mean to sound proud, but … but who else? God was very gracious.
Along the way we added Wolfie’s compositions to the concerts. Composition became his passion, and he spent many hours each day at work. Once a piece was completed, Papa arranged for it to be engraved (usually dedicating it to some royal personage), and soon after, we played it in public. In Amsterdam we repeatedly heard people humming one of Wolfie’s melodies.
I tried to compose some too. Yet every time I started, Mama or Papa found something else for me to do, or shooed me away from Wolfie saying, “Move on, Nannerl. We must give your brother quiet.”
After a while, I stopped trying.
We returned to Salzburg on November 29, 1766, filled with apprehension and exhaustion. Our trip home from London had taken sixteen months. Even as recognizable mountains graced our view, even as my stomach knotted with anticipation at seeing familiar people and places, Papa held Mama’s hand, shaking his head, clearly worried.
“The archbishop will be angry we’ve been gone so long. Longer than we’d planned,” he said. “Years more.”
“But you’ve sent him music and presents. You’ve sent word through Hagenauer about our triumphs.”
“Wherever we played, people knew our roots,” I offered. “People always knew we were the children of the Kapellmeister of Salzburg.”
“Vice Kapellmeister,” Papa said.
Oh dear. I’d forgotten. On our trip, they’d always called Papa Kapellmeister-and he hadn’t corrected them. But he wasn’t Kapellmeister. Someone else was. I hoped nothing about that detail had gotten back to the archbishop. My own worry grew.
Papa adjusted the cuffs of his waistcoat. “Hagenauer told me there was talk of our going to Scandinavia next, then Russia. And even to China.”
“We’re going to China?” Wolfie asked.
“No, no. We’re not,” Papa said. “Though it is true we were asked to Russia and Denmark. But to have such talk spread …” He shook his head.
“How can it hurt if people think tha
t well of us?” Mama asked. “Surely talk of such invitations-true or not-only strengthens our position.”
“To the populace, yes,” Papa said, raising a finger. “And I have no qualms about letting them think what they may. Our travels are a novelty to them, a dream, a fairy tale beyond their imaginings.” He dropped his finger. “But in regard to the archbishop … if he believes we are leaving again …”
Mama pulled in a breath. “You don’t think he’ll take away your position, do you?”
“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the space between them. “And moreover, I’m not completely sure I care.”
“Not care?” Mama asked.
“Oh … perhaps I’m just weary.” He patted her hand; then their fingers intertwined and sat together on her knee. “As the miles between ourselves and Salzburg have diminished, the rumors and gossip have increased: which Salzburg musicians have composed what, who is controlling whom in His Grace’s court … Life has very obviously gone on without us.” He sighed and crossed himself. “For a few years-praise God-I was at peace and free from such idiocy, and I want to remain so. Truth tell, I’m not sure I’m capable of coming back from the grand courts of Europe to be a mere fiddler.”
Mama drew his hand to her lips and kissed it. “You are much more than that, dear one.”
Papa pulled his hand away and pointed angrily out the window “Not to them I’m not!” He looked across the coach at Wolfie and me, and suddenly seemed embarrassed that we’d seen his outburst. He reached out and patted our knees. “I’m very proud of you, children. These years together have been precious and irreplaceable.” He sat back and looked outside again, but this time his eyes were wistful. “Never to be replaced….”
I appreciated his praise but had a question. “We are leaving again, aren’t we, Papa?”
He looked at each of us in turn. “We do like to travel, yes?”
We all nodded. Although I was glad to be returning home, a part of me was a little afraid of staying put, of not hearing a multitude of languages, not seeing grand museums and concert halls, not being in exotic places beyond the ken of our neighbors. I had the awful fear if I remained at home, I would fall into the domestic destiny Mama had deemed mine. I was fifteen now, and the expectations that haunted my gender loomed distressingly close.
