Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

  Until God moved me on.

  Until then, I would enjoy my lunch-and fine company.

  On the way down the mountain my footfalls found a cadence that reminded me of a marching soldier.

  Marching soldiers …

  A slice of time returned to my thoughts. Wolfie and I watching the soldiers marching at Ludwigsburg, and Wolfie’s childish proclamation that he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up.

  And Mama’s adamant response that his destiny was to make great music.

  And my question to her about my own destiny.

  And her response that my fate lay in having a husband and children. Not in making great music.

  My breathing turned heavy-though not from physical exertion. I stopped on the path and remembered my reaction to Mania’s horrible words. I would be different from other women of my time. I would become a renowned performer in spite of my gender. I would reach the world with my music. I would not succumb to what was expected of me, ordained for me, against my will.

  I put a hand to my eyes, trying to block the memory of that ambitious twelve-year-old. In the seven years that had passed, much had changed. Too much. I was not touring anymore. I was not a part of the Wunderkind phenomenon. I had been left behind to wallow in the mediocrity of the mundane. I should have lived in the fortress on the hill for all the walls that held me captive.

  “There’s no way out,” I said aloud. “I’m no one. I’m unimportant”

  At the sound of my voice I opened my eyes-and saw another sparrow light on the path in front of me. And with the sight of him, I remembered the words I’d heard on the mountain. You are iftipor-tarat to Me.

  But the words did not have the same calming effect they’d had earlier. Once aroused, memory of my ambition could not be so easily appeased. Yet what choice did I have? I possessed little control over my own life, much less over the whims, opportunities, and reactions of others. I could not force my talent on the world. If I could, it would fail and fall on deaf ears. Only the Almighty could make it happen.

  Or not.

  Papa could help. But Papa was not here. And even if he were, his focus and attentions were set elsewhere.

  There was one fact I could not deny: I had no choice but to accept the limitations of my future. If God wanted to make a miracle, He would do it. But if He did not …

  I wrapped my shawl closer around me and walked toward home.

  The sparrow wisely flew away.

  I finished playing the measure, then looked up at Joseph lounging on the chair by the window His eyes were closed.

  “You don’t have to stay while I practice,” I said. “You must have better things to do.”

  He opened one eye. “Can’t think of a one”

  “Are you trying to flatter me?”

  He sat up straight. “Is it working?”

  I began the piece again, preferring to have the safety of musical notes in the air between us. “You need not resort to flattery, Joseph. I’m your friend and will continue to be your friend.” I heard him get up but dared not look at him.

  He leaned on the clavier. “Do you miss it?”

  “Miss what?”

  “Performing.” His arms swept through the air expansively. “Traveling the world and performing for gilded royalty in gilded halls.”

  It took me a moment to change the direction of my thoughts from romance to performance. It was a disappointing transition. “No, I don’t miss it.”

  He flicked a hand against my music, forcing me to stop. “Nan …”

  I put my hands in my lap. “Yes, I miss it. But I don’t miss the too hot and too cold of the travel, the bumpy roads, the bad food, and the sooty rooms.”

  Joseph moved beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re very talented, and Salzburg is lucky to have you here.”

  Though I didn’t want to stir the envy or bitter-tinged thoughts that were never far from the surface, I couldn’t help but snicker. “A lot of good I do here. Playing at dinner parties and weddings.”

  “Ali yes. Meager Salzburg. It must be a disappointment after playing at royal dinner parties and weddings for kings, queens, and empresses.

  “Royalty are just people.” It sounded snobbish.

  He laughed. “Very rich, powerful people.”

  “Who put their knickers on the same way we do”

  “They jump into them?”

  I loved how he made me smile. “Did you know that the palace at Versailles doesn’t have decent plumbing? I saw many a lord relieving himself in the hall.”

  No.

  I raised my right hand. “I did.”

  Joseph leaned on the keyboard case, cupping his chin in his hand. “Ooooh. Gossip. Tell me more.”

  I moved to the display case where Papa had placed our royal gifts. The locked display case. I put my fingers on the glass that prevented me from touching these tokens from my past, from truly owning them. My jovial mood left me. “I don’t remember anything else,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  He came close, and my spine tingled with the thought of him touching my shoulder or back, but instead he took my hand and swung me under his arm in dance. Then he bowed and said, “To cheer you up and to show you just how appreciated you are in Salzburg, my mother has invited you and your dear mania to our country home at Triebenbach.”

  “Your mother has invited us?” I wanted more than that.

  “At illy request.”

  I smiled. “I’ve heard it’s very lovely”

  He took my hand as if to kiss it. “Loveliness is a requirement of any lodging that will be blessed with the presence of the lovely Mozart ladies.” He bit the tip of my finger.

  I pulled my hand away. “I’ll have to ask Mama”

  He winked. “Beg her if necessary”

  I didn’t have to. Mama was as thrilled as I.

  It was very satisfying writing to Wolfie to tell him about something wonderful I was doing. And Mama, of course. Although I wouldn’t have minded going to Joseph’s Triebenbach estate on my own-at nineteen I was old enough, after all I was glad Mama got to go too. While on the carriage ride there she’d been practically giddy, wondering aloud what amusements the Schiedenhofens would have planned, and giving me advice as to which dress to wear first.

  “He’s not my beau, Mama,” I told her.

  Her smile was full of conspiracy. “He could be. And perhaps he will be-after his mother and I are through”

  The thought of them plotting … it’s not that I objected to the end result, for beyond my unrealistic desire to be a great musician, I did want to marry, but I did not want them embarrassing us with their scheming.

  Triebenbach was just outside Salzburg, but it could have been worlds away. Even though Salzburg was not a large city, compared to the silence and serenity of Joseph’s family estate, it was blaring and chaotic. The estate consisted of buildings of yellow and white stucco, with interesting turrets and red-tiled roofs that were striking against the fall colors of the hillside. We passed gardens that led to trails through the woods. Snow-topped mountains were its neighbors, protecting the grounds from the rest of the world. We felt very blessed.

  “I could live here,” I said.

  Mama chuckled. “I’m sure you could.”

  I felt my face redden. I had not meant it so literally. Or had I? Since my time on the mountain-and my disconcerting journey home-I’d let my thoughts turn toward romance and home and nonmusical destinies. It was either that or face a constant inner battle between what was and what could never be.

  As the footman opened the door for us, Joseph rushed out of the house to take our hands and help us down. “Welcome! Welcome!” He kissed both of us on our cheeks. “Come inside. Mother is waiting.”

  Frau Schiedenhofen was a short woman who only came up to her son’s shoulders. I could see where Joseph got his curly brown hair and his plump cheeks-though Frau Schiedenhofen’s plumpness extended beyond her face.

  The next few minutes were a glimmer of greeting
s and niceties. One would have thought our mothers had known each other for years the way they dipped their heads close as they talked, and took each other’s arms as they walked into the parlor for some coffee and cake. Surely they weren’t conspiring already.

  Joseph took my arm. “After we’ve done our duty and performed the required chitchat, I want to take you outside and show you our shooting range. Some other guests are coming in two days, and-”

  “Shooting?” I asked.

  “Air guns. At a target. Unless, of course, you’d rather go after live game?”

  “Targets are fine,” I said.

  I looked again toward Mama and Fran Schiedenhofen. But by the way they smiled and looked in our direction, I wondered if we were the targets.

  Having my own bedchamber was a luxury. Although we’d stayed at the homes of nobility many times on our travels, I had always shared a room. Even if more rooms were offered, Papa had never wanted to press the hospitality of our hosts.

  Actually, sharing had not been an imposition. Wolfie and I had fun staying up too late, talking and giggling out of earshot of Mama and Papa. It was far better than the one room we were used to sharing at an inn and at home. We were not used to large spaces, and the luxury of being able to spread out …

  Here at Triebenbach, my room had a bed covered with a yellow spread, and windows flanked by full-length sashed draperies. There was a writing desk stocked with paper and quill, a mirrored dressing table, and a fireplace the servants kept stoked. I felt like a lady in a manor. Once in bed for the night, I made a point of moving from far left to far right on my bed. It was silly because, once I was asleep, what did it matter how much room I had? But I enjoyed the feeling of spaciousness just the same.

  In the morning I looked in the mirror as Katrina, the lady’s maid, stood behind me and fixed my hair. She pulled the sides back into pinned curls, letting the back hang long. Joseph had said he liked my hair…. I handed Katrina a tortoiseshell comb.

  “Your hair is so much easier to fix than Fraulein Daubrawa’s. This morning she had me come in very early to help her dress for a special breakfast.”

  I sought Katrina’s eyes in the mirror. “Breakfast? Have I missed breakfast?”

  “Oh no, Fraulein. The breakfast for most of the guests will not be served for half an hour. This was a special breakfast between Fraulein Daubrawa and Master Joseph.” She lowered her voice and leaned into my ear confidentially. “I think a match is being made.”

  I nearly gasped. A match? But Joseph and I were … were …

  Were what?

  Friends.

  There was a knock on the door. It was Mama. I expected to see her looking refreshed and relaxed, but her mouth was drawn, her forehead tight. Before I could even say good morning, Mama’s eyes flitted from mine to Katrina’s. “I’ll finish up here, Katrina. Thank you.”

  Katrina handed over the comb and hairpins, gave a little curtsy, and left. Mama did not take the position behind me but moved to face me. “He’s not available,” she said.

  I could have played ignorant, but what was the point? “It’s that Anna Daubrawa, isn’t it?”

  “You heard?”

  “Katrina told me they had a special breakfast this morning.”

  Mama picked up the brush, fingering the shell inlay on the back. “She’s rich, you know”

  “Money? This is all for money?”

  “It’s always for money, Nannerl. You know that.”

  Unable to sit in the midst of my humiliation, I walked to the window. “But Joseph’s already rich. Certainly he doesn’t need more.

  Mama came up behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Das Geld findet eben immer zuni Gelde.” She sighed. “The money finds the money and the rich get richer. It’s a fact of our lives, Nannerl.”

  “But we aren’t poor.”

  “But we aren’t rich. And no matter how we hold your father and his abilities in high esteem, he is still just the Vice Kapellmeister.”

  I turned to face her. “But Wolfie and I have played before kings and queens. Wolfie is composing-”

  Mama shook her head. “It’s not necessarily what you’ve done as much as what title you possess. Name a member of nobility who’s done anything of consequence. That’s why your father’s trip to Italy is so important to all of us. If he can secure a position for Wolfie and himself, our future will be assured.”

  “Or if I marry well.” I looked down. “If I marry at all.”

  Mama lifted my chin. “You are a lovely, talented girl. You will marry and you’ll have many children. That will be your blessing.”

  Or my lot. I moved back to the bench of the dressing table. It was nearly time for breakfast. “I like Joseph,” I said as Mama took the comb to finish my hair. “I could have married him.”

  “Suitors will come and go, but one husband … just one husband is all you need.”

  I knew what she meant, but down deep I also knew a husband was not all that I needed.

  I must admit after my outing to Triebenbach, I was so consumed with disappointment at hearing that Joseph had been matched with another that I did not pay much attention to Papa’s and Wolfie’s letters about his opera in Milan. What had previously happened with his opera in Vienna was happening again. Frankly, all Papa’s talk of conspiracies wore on me. Surely the whole world wasn’t against him. Wolfie. The music.

  But then a letter arrived right after Christmas that said the opera, Mitriadate rc di Ponto-Mithridates, the king of Pontes, was a huge success. It was the first opera of Milan’s season, and though generally those drew weak houses, Wolfie’s had not. The performance-with ballets added in between acts, and with encores-lasted six hours. Although Papa intimated that Wolfie needed to work on his interpretation of the dramatic aspects of opera in general-perhaps he was too young to grasp the emotional intricacies of the storyWolfie did enough right to receive the praise: “Viva it maestrino.”

  I was happy for him. Really I was.

  Then why wasn’t I out with Mama, spreading the news to all of Salzburg? Why wasn’t I right this minute writing a letter in response, sharing my joy and congratulating him on his victory?

  Perhaps I needed another trip up the mountain. Many trips.

  .~7 t!~Z.

  I blamed the sound of snoring for my early rising, but that wasn’t the truth. I got up early and slipped out of the house because of resentment. Papa and Wolfie were home. And not for the first time. They’d already been home from their first Italian trip-home for over four months after being gone fifteen-before taking off for Italy a second time. Now, after being gone four more months in Milan, they were home again. And even last night, as we sat around the fire and heard about their last trip, Papa talked about a third trip to Italy, perhaps next fall.

  “Can we go too?” I’d asked for Mama and me.

  “We’ll see,” Papa said.

  Which meant no.

  I put on my cloak and slipped out of the house. The December air was bitter, and I held the hood tightly around my face. The leather soles of my shoes slipped on the patches of snow that were barely lit by the first of the day’s winter sun. I had the streets to myself. No one else was foolish enough to venture out on such a cold morning without good reason.

  I had a reason. Whether it was a good one …

  My eyes focused on the street, trying to tiptoe my way through the snow and ice, when I heard a door open up ahead. It was Frau Hensler, the baker’s wife. She stepped outside and shook the dust and crumbs from a rug onto the street.

  She looked up and saw me. “Grusse Gott, Nannerl. What are you doing out so early? In the cold?”

  Brooding.

  I glanced back toward home and offered the core of the truth. “Papa and Wolfie are home again, and-”

  Her eyes brightened. “And you’re wanting some special bread for their first breakfast at home.” She opened the door and led me inside the shop.

  The aroma of baking bread elicited feelings of warmth and home. G
ood feelings that made my pettiness seem absurd.

  She spread the rug in front of the door. “The bread won’t be ready for another ten minutes.” Frau Hensler patted a bench, then held out her hands to take my cloak.

  “I’ll leave it on,” I said.

  “As you wish.” She took a seat beside me, taking up two-thirds of the bench with her ample frame. “So. How go the traveling musicians?”

  “They’re well.”

  She waited, clearly expecting more. Although Papa and Wolfie had regaled us with many stories, my mind was blank.

  She patted my arm. “You and your mother have done a fine job while they’ve been gone. The whole neighborhood speaks of it. Not many women have to fend for themselves as you’ve had to do off and on these two years-at least not voluntarily.”

  At least someone understood. “It’s hard having them gone, but …”

  She looked at me a long moment, then nodded. “It’s hard having them return?”

  I added ny own nod.

  Fran Hensler bumped her shoulder into mine. “Men can be difficult,” she said. “Although I have enjoyed the letters your mother has shared. What an honor it was for our little Wolfgang to compose a serenata for the marriage of one of our empress’s sons”

  “Papa hopes they’re pleased enough to offer Wolfie a position in their court.” I leaned forward with my own bit of confidence. “They stayed in Milan until the bridal couple got back from their wedding trip, hoping … And then they did have an audience with Archduke Ferdinand but …” I shrugged. I didn’t tell her that Papa had feigned illness in his letters-coding them to tell Mama he was all right, but with full knowledge that illness was one of the few acceptable reasons for their extended delay home. When Mania had shared the letters speaking of intestinal problems, vertigo, and rheumatism, all of Salzburg sympathized. Or so we thought.

  “Nothing was offered?”

  “Papa is still hopeful.”

  Frau Hensler looked in the direction of the oven and sniffed the air. She did not get up. “I heard the archbishop stopped your father’s pay while he was gone. Again.”