by Nancy Moser
And did Papa even have a job? He’d not received his salary for ten months, and though the archbishop had finally agreed that he could stay away as long as he wanted, there was no guarantee Papa would be accepted back with open arms. I imagined some groveling at the archbishop’s satin-clad feet might be necessary Yet proud as he was, Papa would grovel. For us.
I turned to Mama as I heard her sigh. “Home,” she said.
“For a short while,” Papa said.
She turned toward him. “We are not staying?”
Papa suffered his own sigh, wiping his palms on his thighs. “You are” He looked at me. “And Nannerl is.”
“What?” Mama’s question was explosive.
Papa began to pat her hand, but she pulled it away. “We both sense what little future awaits me here. And as for Wolfgang?” He looked at my brother. “It will only be a few years before this miracle of ours will fade away into something natural. We cannot wait.”
“But, Papa,” I said. “What about me? I want to perform too.”
He reached across the carriage to take my hand, and unlike Mania, I let him do it. “Our finances are strained, Nannerl. To travel with an entire family is a luxury we can no longer afford. If it is just your brother and me, we can stay in monasteries along the way.”
“So it’s merely a matter of money?” I asked. Not lily talon?
When he withdrew his hand and looked out the window at the buildings of Salzburg, I knew my father was going to lie.
“It’s just the money,” he said. He still did not meet my eyes. “Just the money.”
January 5, 1769. No matter when my body would eventually die, this would be the true date of my death.
I N T E R L U D E
To move from the archbishop’s disfavor to favor is an art my father mastered. For ten months he’d received no salary, yet when we returned from Vienna in January 1769, Papa’s salary was restoredas was his position as Vice Kapellmeister. All was forgiven.
I was pleased, of course, but a part of me wondered if it should have been so. Should Papa have been reinstated to the position he’d misused? The position he’d ignored for years?
It was traitorous for me to have such ungenerous thoughts of my father. He’d traveled extensively for the family. He hadn’t sought glory for himself. Not much glory. And if the archbishop chose to restore him to his previous position, I should embrace it as a blessing to the Mozart family. I should not question it.
But I did.
I wished Papa and Wolfie had left on their trip right away. It was bad enough knowing I wouldn’t be joining them on their Italian journeys, but for them to linger from January until the end of the year, planning a trip I would not be taking, talking about it excitedly and incessantly … It was torture.
What was especially difficult was explaining to Katherl and our other friends-and yes, even to our dressmaker and the butcher, for everyone knew-why I was staying behind.
These truths could not be shared easily, and so after a few clumsy answers, I came up with an excuse that was just as embarrassing but less personal: traveling with a family of four was too expensive. Let the reason fall on practical matters, not emotional ones. Even Mama agreed it wasn’t fair. “But life is not fair, Nannerl. Especially for women.
It was a fact I was learning firsthand.
However, during the spring after our return from Vienna, I did everything in my power to convince Papa that I should go along. I practiced with extra fervor, listened intently to all his direction, watched my spending, and even practiced my singing. Since Papa was so enraptured with opera, I wanted to become good enough to sing the arias Wolfie was composing.
But alas, I wasn’t good. Even before Wolfie came into the room the day I was singing-his fingers in his ears, his face pulled into a painful grimaceI knew singing was not my forte. I yelled at him for being rude and chased him out, but I also let go of any aspirations of being a great soloist. One can learn to play the clavier or violin with practice, as those instruments possess their own lofty tone and inbred potential, but if the human voice does not own a lovely timbre … the extent of its improvement is limited.
By God, I suppose, if one wants to think of it that way.
And yet … hadn’t God given me the gift of my other music? I’d been given much talent and God expected me to use it.
But Wolfie had been given more.
I tried not to think that way. It was not right weighing brother against sister, creating a competition. Yet wasn’t that exactly what Papa was doing by pulling us apart and forcing distance-both earthly and emotional-between us?
During the months spent waiting for them to leave, Wolfie and I did have occasion to play together a few times. Our last concert was in October for about fifty people gathered at the Hagenauers’ country home to honor Father Dominicus. I, of course, did not understand it would be our last concert for years….
What I did come to understand was that I had absolutely no understanding of why people acted the way they did. Logic seemed to decree that the archbishop would not be happy about Wolfie and Papa leaving again. Yet in November, just a few weeks before they departed, the archbishop gave them a royal sendoff, including a gift of six hundred florins. Plus, he bestowed upon Wolfie the title of Konzertmeister and the promise of a job once he returned. The title was unpaid, but the prestige for a thirteen-year-old boy …
I could only shake my head in awe. And sorrow. For it was clear that time had run out on our partnership and collaboration. I found a poem by Thomas Gray I’d learned while in England. A poem that spoke of my thoughts:
Was ignorance bliss? Was it folly to be wise? Although sometimes I longed for God to tell me what was in store, I knew it best that He kept it from me. There was enough pain in the present. Why borrow it from the future?
And yet what future did I have in Salzburg? Papa said I should continue to practice, and he lined up four students for me to teach. And I was instructed to help Mama with the household duties.
My excitement was nonexistent.
I received a wave as their carriage pulled away on that cold December day. I received my mother’s arm through mine as we walked back to the house. I received the sound of the front door closing with a click. And I received the silence of that day, which would certainly run into the silence of the next day, and the next.
“Would you like some hot chocolate?” Mama asked as she removed her cloak.
I shook my head and went to the bedchamber. Wise mother that she was, she let me go. Although Papa had promised us a larger apartment, in the nearly twelve months we’d been home he’d been too preoccupied with their travel plans to search for something suitable. Besides, what did Mama and I need with more room?
Once inside the chamber I sat at the window seat in the place that had become my haven in recent months. Take the rest of the house away; make it disappear into fire, wind, or mist; this was my place to be.
Be what?
I covered my face in my hands, ready to cry. But the tears did not come. Nothing came. I was tired of feeling, thinking, being angry and bitter. More than anything, I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. It was exhausting.
I moved my hands to my lap, smoothing my dress against my legs. I took a cleansing breath and looked beyond the room, out the window at the world below Frau Kraus was sweeping the cobblestones in front of her candle shop. She’d been making candles with her husband ever since we’d lived here. That was her lot. That was her life.
Did she enjoy it? Did she have regrets? Did she have buried talents she’d set aside?
Sensing my eyes, she looked up, smiled, and waved. I returned her greeting. And by offering my own smile, I felt some of the bitterness fall away.
Yet surely it couldn’t be that simple.
My gaze left the street and returned to the bedchamber we’d all shared. It fell upon a collection of inlaid boxes I’d received as presents on our Grand Tour. The blue one was from the queen of England, the gold filigree
was from the king of France. How pretty they were.
How pretty they were?
I gasped at the absurdity of the thought. When had I reduced these gifts from the crowned heads of Europe into mere baubles? I moved to the bed stand and picked one up, cupping it in my palm like an injured bird. I remembered the moment when Queen Charlotte had given it to me. Her smile. The way her dangling earrings had bobbed with her laughter.
I curtsied as if she were in the room with me now. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said aloud.
I set the box down with a renewed reverence and moved to the wardrobe that held my dresses. I pulled out the dress I’d worn the first night I’d performed for her and held it against my simple wool garment. The skirt stopped inches above the floor. I pressed a sleeve against an arm. It was far too small.
Holding the dress at arm’s length, it was evident it was made for a girl many years younger than I. It was made for a girl who no longer existed, but who had existed. I had experienced many grand things on our travels. I had done things Frau Kraus had never dreamed of. Could never dream of.
“How ungrateful I am!”
I had not meant to say the words out loud, but they hung in the room like a public condemnation. I must not think about what I didn’t have now but what I’d been lucky enough to experience before. Blessed enough to experience. Forgive my indifference, dear Lord.
I heard Mama in the hall, the soft swish-swish of her skirts as she moved through our tiny three-room apartment made larger now by the exit of half its inhabitants.
How dare I not think about her pain? For she was losing something too-her husband. She had been left to deal with the household on her own. Her partner, her companion, and yes, even her lover, was gone for an indeterminate time. She was alone.
No, she wasn’t.
I tossed the too-small dress on the bed. I found Mama seated in the workroom in her favorite blue chair with the light of the window behind her. It was a good chair for reading or embroidery. She looked up as I came in and managed a smile. But then I saw what she was holding in her lap-a pair of Papa’s leather gloves.
My heart cried. I knelt beside her chair and we looked into each other’s eyes but a second, as if fearful tears would intrude.
I lowered my head to her lap. There I smelled the bite of the old leather as Papa’s gloves caressed my cheek.
As the months of Wolfie and Papa’s absence marched on, Mania encouraged me to get out, indulge in the pastimes of normal eighteen-year-old girls. She even encouraged me to accept the intentions of a certain Franz von Molk. He was the son of the court chancellor and was quite in love with me, making eyes, constantly smiling and bowing. Although it was nice to have his attentionand the small gifts he sent to the house-I was stubbornly uninterested in marriage on principle. I would not succumb to a female’s fate. Not without a fight. I resented being propelled in that direction so quickly. I was not a wife yet. I was a performer.
With a jolt I realized the full truth of that statement.
I was a performer.
Once.
With effort I prevented my thoughts from turning in that direction. Actually, it was another attentive young man that made me forget my bitterness. Joseph. Joseph Ferdinand von Schiedenhofen. He came from a very nice family we’d known for years. That they were well off and had two estates was a fact I could not ignore.
One Saturday afternoon, Joseph stopped by and we talked and took turns playing the clavier. It was a lovely afternoon, and Mama kept poking her head in the room, asking if we wanted some cake or coffee. No, Mama, we haven’t eaten what you brought earlier. The way she winked at me … it made me blush.
But then it turned awkward when Franz von Molk came to call-Franz with the cow-eyes. He asked if I would like to go for a sleigh ride. I didn’t want to hurt him by saying no and immediately realized then how little experience I had regarding the etiquette of such matters. But Joseph took advantage of that particular moment and slid in behind me as I stood in the doorway so Franz could see him.
“Hello, Molk,” he said. “Isn’t it a bit cold for a sleigh ride? It’s plenty cozy in here.”
I must say Franz’s expression was rather humorous-his dropped jaw, his blinking eyes, and his stammer as he bowed and made his apologies, saying he’d come back another day.
Joseph had a good laugh over that as he and I returned to the clavier. “He who comes first eats first.” With a gallant bow, he took my hand and kissed it, then grinned up at me. “Do you agree, my dear Nannerl?”
Yes. At least in this instance. For I was spending the afternoon with the suitor of my choice. Yet having two men interested …
Perhaps there were a few advantages to being left behind.
“Come now, Berta,” I said to my pupil. “Play your G scale again, more evenly this time. You’re getting uneven sounds because your fingers are flat. When you round your fingers and don’t let the first knuckle collapse, your sound will be more controlled and even.”
Little Berta tried a second time.
“There now,” I said. “See what a difference that makes? One more time.”
Berta banged her fingers on the keyboard. “I don’t want to do another scale. I want to play a song. A real song”
Well, then. I took Berta’s hands and placed them gently in her lap, prepared to give her a lecture on the importance of scales and technique. But when I looked into her face and saw her ten-yearold brows dipped with frustration, I relented. I didn’t like playing scales either. The joy of music was not experienced through a scale.
I patted her arm. “All right. Get out the sonatina I gave you last time.”
The little girl’s face lit up. She slid off the bench and retrieved the sonatina I’d copied for her use. She brought it to the clavier reverently, as if to say this is real music.
She returned to her place on the bench and set her hands in place. I noticed how she corrected her fingers’ position, offering a better curve. She looked up at me, as if for permission.
“Remember, Berta, in this piece, you must look and listen for the melody. When your left hand plays the accompaniment too loudly, the melody is obscured. Let the melody soar.”
As she played, I had to admit she had little talent. Not that she couldn’t practice and get every note correct, but I-perhaps more than most-knew there was more to music than correct notes.
“Even,” I said. “Keep the left hand accompaniment even.”
The next measure was improved, but the next fell back into a jerky rhythm. I remembered practicing this very piece with Papa by my side. “Do it again, Nannerl. The music deserves more of you than you’re giving it.” If it had not been for Papa’s patience-and even his impatience, and his insistence I practice more than I desired-I would not have become a true musician.
“Aach!” Berta said as she fumbled a note.
Absently, I pressed the correct key, and she continued playing while I continued my musings. If I was such a great musician, why was I giving lessons to children who would never become true musicians, who had no desire to become true musicians and were only taking lessons because proper society believed it was wise for every child to learn to play?
More of Papa’s words intruded, along with the image of him dressed to leave for Italy with snow skimming the edges of his cloak and hat…. Just before getting in the carriage he’d taken my face in his hands and said, “Take care of your mother while we’re gone, Nannerl. Accept as many pupils as you can and also work on your voice. Perhaps there will be some occasions for you to sing. Bring in whatever money you can, and we will do the same”
Money. It was always about money. Kreuzer, gulden, ducat, franc, or shilling. It was the same wherever one went. Nothing in life was free. Everyone must do their part.
And so I gave lessons.
“Fraulein Mozart?”
How long had my pupil been sitting there, not playing, just looking at me?
I put a hand on her back. “You are getting better, Ber
ta. I’m very proud of you.”
The little girl beamed. At least one of us was satisfied with the situation.
We waited for the dance to begin. Joseph took my hand, leaned close, and whispered in my ear, “Are you ready?”
“Shh!” I told him. But I nodded just the same. As we danced, the plan was for me to remember the first and second phrase of Haydn’s minuet, and he would remember the third and fourth. Then, as soon as it was intermission, we would rush outside into Joseph’s waiting carriage and write it down. We’d planted ink, quill, and paper inside the carriage, ready for our conspiracy.
The plan was for me to take the melodymelodies, for we planned to do this again, after intermission-and compose a complete work on the clavier from it. Or a derivation of the melody. For I would change it slightly. Although it was not unusual for minuet melodies to be used by many composers, it was best not to be blatant about it, whether in the stealing or in the metamorphosis from melody to complete piece.
It was done in fun. I would not dream of making profit from such a game. But I did enjoy the process. The camaraderie with Joseph regarding the scheme, the way we’d sit shoulder to shoulder in the immobile carriage, arguing and laughing as we tried to recreate the melody without benefit of any instrument but our minds.
I’d written to Wolfie about our exploits and had even sent him a copy of my compositions. The last one he’d enjoyed immensely, telling me that I’d composed the bass incomparably well and without the slightest mistake. He’d even begged me to try this kind of thing more often.
I intended to.
In return, he sent Joseph and me copies of the latest Italian dance music. At the last ball we’d attended, Joseph had given the quartet copies. We danced and danced…. I so loved to dance, to look into the eyes of my partner as we slid past each other into our respective lines, our shoulders and arms skimming. Then palm to palm as we passed in our danses a deux. Plus the swish of the gowns as they moved to the rhythm, and the elegant pointed toes of the men as they showed that they too could exhibit grace.
