Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

  Papa began to feel there was a jealousy-based conspiracy against us. He accused all the keyboard players and other composers in Vienna of talking in against Wolfie’s work. Papa even arranged to have one of those who spoke against Wolfie listen to him play. Afterward, the man agreed Wolfie’s skill was unbelievable. But it didn’t silence the gossip.

  At that point Papa hoped to get the singers to support the work, as well as get some backing from the aristocracy. But toward this end, Papa miscalculated. The manager of the theater, Giuseppe Af ligio, was having money troubles and only wanted to produce sure things. An opera by a mere boy, one that didn’t have the complete support of other composers and musicians, was not what he had in mind. Plus, any support Papa might have had with nobility meant nothing to this businessman who was not beholden to the aristocracy (we’d heard that the imperial family did not even pay for their boxes). Paying seats had to be filled. Period.

  Then, while dealing with the frustrations of getting Wolfie’s opera produced in Vienna, near the end of December, Papa got a decree from the archbishop, ordering him to return to Salzburg. Now. Papa did not comply.

  This threat was also made to other Salzburg musicians who’d traveled to Vienna and had not returned, so we were not solely persecuted. But to complicate matters further, we heard that Joseph Meissner, whose bass voice was greatly appreciated, reacted to the archbishop’s request by moving on to Frankfurt. Papa didn’t think he would ever return. This would not improve the archbishop’s mood.

  Yet doggedly Papa insisted we stay and get Wolfie’s opera produced. “Never venture, never win,” Papa said. And though I did not tell him my opinion, I thought it was a mistake to stay. Especially when the rumors we heard about the opera were so daunting. Boring or not, I longed for the stability of Salzburg.

  But Papa said, “Should I sit back in Salzburg with the empty hope of some better fortune, let Wolfgang grow up, and allow all of us to be made the fool until I’m too old to travel and until Wolfgang looks too old to be the prodigy? Was this opera for nothing? Should Wolfgang not continue along this current road that is so easy to follow?”

  Easy to follow? The road seemed arduous and even dangerous in my eyes, like trying to walk on the icy Danube, fearful that any moment the ice might break and topple us into its freezing currents. I, for one, did not want to be swept away.

  Was Papa brave or reckless? I rarely questioned his decisions, but this time … since the singers said they couldn’t sing the parts (amazingly, many couldn’t read music and had to learn their parts by ear) and the musicians didn’t like the idea of being conducted by a boy, continuing on this road seemed foolhardy. Plus, there were complaints that the rhythm combined with the Italian lyrics was slightly off. Were these complaints valid? Without hearing all the portions played together, I couldn’t be sure. Although my brother was talented, was he this talented? At age twelve?

  And then to add salt to our wound, people started saying Papa wrote the music, not Wolfie. Papa said, “If a man has no talents, he is unhappy enough; but if he has talents, envy pursues him in proportion to his ability.”

  To dispel the rumors, Papa arranged for another test. He had people bring in librettos and made Wolfie compose music for the words on the spot. Wolfie did well, and people believed in his talent. Once again Papa pressed the idea that Wolfie was God’s gift to music, and anyone who didn’t agree was not allowing God the honor He deserved.

  Perhaps Papa pressed too much?

  One evening, when we were at a performance of someone else’s opera, I stood near two local composers during intermission. What I heard chilled me. They were talking about Wolfie’s opera, as well as Papa and Wolfie. “If I hear that father say the boy is a gift from God one more time …”

  “I know Enough, I say.”

  “So my talent is not from God? I beg to differ.”

  “Ah, but you are not eleven.”

  The first man laughed. “And neither is he. I’ve heard the father lies about his age.”

  “Oh, really?” The man looked across the room where Papa was introducing Wolfie to a group of adults. “The boy is small in stature….

  “But large in ego. Or soon will be with a father like that. Vienna does not need an upstart barging into our territory, trying to take over.

  “The boy or the father,” the man said, laughing.

  “The father is worse than the boy. For now.”

  “I’ve heard the father is on the verge of being fired by the archbishop back in Salzburg.”

  “As he should be. And if he thinks he can obtain the patronage of another member of the aristocracy … no one around here would hire Leopold for their court. He is not worth the trouble. In spite of the son’s talents.”

  “And the daughter’s.”

  “Is she still around?”

  “I assume. Although I haven’t heard of her of late. Perhaps she’s back in Salzburg.”

  “Getting married and having babies, no doubt.”

  They moved away. But I could not move. Their words were like a smothering blanket. To hear my family disparaged, and my own talent dismissed.

  Rumors. Just rumors.

  And yet … I felt they held more truth than falsehood. For I agreed with the sentiment of “enough” regarding Papa’s deification of my brother.

  Mama walked toward me, the swish of her blue taffeta gown adding to her gentle rhythm. “Come, Nannerl. The opera is resuming. 11

  I did my duty and sat in my place. But I did not listen to the notes; I did not appreciate the phrasing nor marvel at the talent. I could not. For my soul was too distressed.

  It was only after I received an odd look from the man selling hazelnuts in front of St. Stephen’s cathedral that I realized I’d walked around the church-and in front of him-three times. Even as I started on trip number four, I vowed not to pass him again. I had to get past my anger. I had to let it go.

  To do so, I needed to throw the offending letter away, banish it from my mind.

  But I could not.

  I slowed my pace and read the letter from my friend Katherl one more time, my eyes finding the offending passage like a flagellating monk suffering for a cause: I spoke with Frau Hagcnaucr the other day and asked for news of you. She responded by saying that your father’s letters to their family have not even mentioned you. Are you all right? Are you even there?

  I lowered the letter. Was I all right?

  I stopped at the back side of the cathedral, wadded up the letter, and tossed it to the ground. It blew in front of a woman begging for coins at the foot of the spires. She picked it up and, with a glance in my direction, unfolded the angry creases. She smoothed it against her thigh, muttering to herself in a way that made me question the stability of her mind. Then she held up the page, adjusting the reading distance. And though I doubted she could read, the thought that anyone else would read of my humiliation and my father’s disregard incensed me beyond reason. I rushed toward her and grabbed the letter out of her hands. “That’s mine!”

  Two other women begging close by rose to their feet. “You give that back to her!”

  “It’s my letter,” I said.

  The first woman looked to her allies. “She took it from me! A letter from my husband it is, a letter from beyond the grave.”

  The other two beggars moved forward, obviously unable-or unwilling-to recognize the lack of logic in her explanation. To them a possession was a possession, no matter how great or small in value.

  But this was my letter, and I would not let her keep it.

  I clutched the letter to my chest and started to walk away, but the youngest of the women rushed in front of me. Her teeth were cracked and brown, her face streaked with dirt. She held out a hand. “Give it back!”

  “It’s mine,” I said.

  She shook her head. “We saw you toss it away. It’s Frieda’s now Give it to her.”

  I shook my head and realized what an inane conversation it was. Common sense was not in play. I
also realized the only sure way out. With one hand I slipped the letter into a pocket and with the other found a few coins. I tossed them toward Frieda and the third woman. One clattered off the wall of the church. The youngest ran to get her share.

  I-the girl who was not “even there”-ran away.

  Happy birthday to me.

  Mama and Papa invited some of our Viennese friends over to celebrate my seventeenth birthday on July 30, 1768. But even amid their laughter, their gifts, and the toasts to my health and happiness, I felt the need to slip away from the party to our rooms upstairs.

  But the rooms weren’t far enough. I wanted to go home. Home home. Salzburg. Even if that place held few promises beyond the domestic norm, it seemed better than this limbo I currently lived in. In Salzburg, I was a seventeen-year-old woman with friends and prospects. Here in Vienna, I was extraneous, a pesky fly buzzing in and out of a room, only noticed when I flew too close or droned too loudly.

  I closed the door behind me and fell onto my bed. The rigid stays in my corset didn’t appreciate the new position, and I tugged at them until I could breathe and resume feeling sorry for myself.

  I closed my eyes and remembered other birthday celebrations with the Hagenauers in their summer house outside Salzburg. With their children. With Katherl. Celebrations very similar to the one being held downstairs. So why should I long for that instead of this?

  It wasn’t as if I hadn’t celebrated other birthdays on the road. Many birthdays. My twelfth had been near Heidelberg, my thirteenth in London. I turned fourteen in Canterbury, and fifteen in Lyons, France. My last birthday was in Salzburg, so who was I to complain that this one was in Vienna? I’d celebrated birthdays in four countries. How many young women could make such a boast?

  I pulled a pillow close, burying my face into its down. I was an ungrateful, churlish girl who needed to count her blessings.

  And yet …

  I adjusted the pillow to give myself air. What was I doing here? In regard to Vienna specifically, and life in general. Wolfie and I weren’t playing concerts. We weren’t bringing in income. I’d heard Papa despair of the expense of staying here, and him with no salary coming in from the archbishop since last April….

  Opera. It was all about the opera.

  And honor. We stayed to prove the naysayers wrong. I understood the theory that if we left Vienna many would think it was because Wolfie couldn’t compose the opera, or that it was of such poor quality that it could not be performed. They would deem him a failure-and the rest of us, by association, would also suffer. So we stayed. And so Papa pushed Wolfie to create, pushed the musicians to accept him, and pushed the public to believe in the miracle of the boy composer.

  I was not a part of that miracle anymore. I was merely an appendage, an annoying burr on the smooth skin of perfection, an extra expense.

  Happy birthday to me.

  The opera that never was.

  That should have been the title of our folly. It was September again. We’d been in Vienna a year when we’d only planned to be gone three months. There’d been countless hours of work done by Wolfie, and countless arguments between detractors and Papa, which led to the opera not being produced. At all. The theater manager Af ligio was to blame. He was a master of excuses. He’d even reneged on the one hundred ducats he had finally, personally, promised us for the opera. Had he promised the money to keep the peace, never believing the opera would come about at all?

  If so, he got his wish.

  Papa was incensed. He paced even more than usual, shook his head so constantly I feared his neck would snap, and muttered his frustrations to himself-when not voicing them aloud for all to hear. I’m sure our neighbors knew a great many details that should have been private. And Mama’s pleading for Papa to talk more softly only led him to higher volumes. “Why should I be quiet? The whole of Vienna should know of this injustice, this inequity, this betrayal!”

  And they did. I could not go anywhere but that I’d hear murmurings and conversations regarding the opera that never was, and the reasons-both true and false-why.

  One evening, after having a particularly nasty bout with Signor Affligio, Papa sat at the table until the candle was but a stub, writing out his complaints in a petition to present to the imperial family, beseeching them to take up our cause either to see the opera produced or at least offer us compensation for our act of good faith. I overheard Papa read part of it to Mama. “I beseech you to investigate the shamefully envious and dishonoring calumniators who attempted to suppress and cause unhappiness in the capital of his German fatherland to an innocent creature whom God has endowed with an extraordinary talent, a boy whom other nations have admired and encouraged.” It seemed to be strong language to use toward the emperor, and Papa was obviously more hopeful than I that anyone would listen. Or care about the plight of one family.

  Papa had gotten Herr Hagenauer to send more money, and insisted that heaven would repay everything-both bills and slights. But I wasn’t so sure. Even the day before, when I’d wanted to buy a new bonnet, Mama had been forced to say, “Not now, dear girl. It would not be prudent.”

  A wasted year-in so many ways.

  I raised my head off the pillow, held my breath, and listened.

  There it was again. A sniff. A small moan.

  I sat up in bed. “Wolfie? Are you crying?”

  Another sniff.

  I slipped out of bed and glanced toward the door. Papa and Mama were downstairs talking with some friends. I hoped they stayed busy awhile longer. If Wolfie was crying … Papa did not react well to tears.

  The floorboards were cold on my feet and I grabbed a shawl before going to my brother’s bedside. As soon as I sat, he turned in my direction. By the moonlight I could see his cheeks were red and wet. I wiped them with the edge of my shawl. “Why are you crying?”

  “No one likes me.”

  I felt my eyebrows rise. “Everyone likes you. Just tonight the landlady said you were her favorite person in the whole world.”

  He shook his head. “They don’t like my music. My opera.”

  Oh. That.

  He scooted over to make room for me under the covers. His feet were cold. His feet were always cold.

  We lay on our sides facing each other. Even in the moonlight I could see that his complexion still showed evidence of the smallpox. He looked so small amid the covers. I adjusted the goose-down coverlet over his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Wolfie,” I said. “Haven’t you heard Papa talk about the problems with the theater manager, the singers, and the musicians?”

  He nodded against the pillow. “They don’t like me”

  “It has nothing to do with you.” I wasn’t sure this was completely true because I had heard talk about how many professionals weren’t keen on working under a boy or being conducted by a child seated at the harpsichord. In truth, I could see their view. But Wolfie’s age was not his fault.

  He sighed deeply and his eyes closed. Then opened. “They don’t like my music.”

  To this I could respond with my whole heart. “That is not true!” I sat up. “That is never true. Your music … there is none like it. You are the music. You set it free.”

  “Really?”

  I was taken aback by his doubt. Papa always went on and on about his music. Everyone did. Hadn’t he been listening?

  I had.

  Shame overwhelmed me. Oh yes, I’d listened to every compliment and had found them chiding, as if saying nice things about illy brother had been an affront to me. What was wrong with me? How had I let jealousy and envy cloud what should have been happiness and support? Why had I not rejoiced at every glorious note? Why had I focused on the fact they were his notes and not mine? What kind of sister was-?

  “I try so hard,” Wolfie said, interrupting my disgrace.

  “I know you do.” I put my arm beneath his head and pulled him close. He snuggled against my shoulder. “No one tries harder than you, Wolfie. No one.”

  “Then wh
y-?”

  I put a finger to his lips, stopping his uncertainty. “Shhh. No more. Don’t worry about them. Don’t worry about anyone. Just write the music.”

  He nodded against my arm. “It just comes out, Nan. I can’t help it.”

  And there it was. So simple. So plain. The essence of my brother’s talent, his gift from God. Who was I to want more attention from Papa or the world? I had not created music like Wolfie. I played other people’s music-brilliantly, it was true. And I had tried my hand at composing a few times. But it was not necessarily a need in my soul as it was in my brother’s.

  “I love you, Nan,” Wolfie said. “I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

  His tears were gone now, and I kissed the top of his head. After all the recent turmoil, after all the jealousies, frustration, and anger, I was glad I was here too. Here, with this boy who couldn’t stop the music from pouring out-sweet, delicious music the world could not help but savor. Music the world needed to hear.

  I also needed music. But the question was: did the music need me?

  Finally, in January 1769, we arrived home. We’d been gone sixteen months and had little to show for it. Wolfie had managed to compose a few pieces beyond the opera while we were away, but it was not enough to balance the great scales of Papa’s expectationsboth professional and financial. Besides, Papa had always planned to move on from Vienna to Italy, playing on the success of a Mozart opera.

  It was not to be.

  And so, on this return home, we did not approach Salzburg with the same exuberance we’d rendered on our last return two years previous. For then we’d come back as triumphant world travelers who’d conquered the courts of Europe. We’d gone where few Salzburgers had ever gone or could hope to go.

  But this time, returning from Vienna … we had conquered nothing and were far from triumphant. And though I’d privately ached to return home for many months, my stomach tightened as the white Hohensalzburg Fortress on the hill came into view. Did the entire town know of our failures? Had the gossip so prevalent in Vienna reached this town too?