by Nancy Moser
His vulnerability encased him in a vessel of delicate glass. Too easily cracked, too easily broken. I smoothed the edge of the bedcovers. “I was a monkey too.”
He was still a moment; then he moved his arm, peeking out from beneath it. “You and I were partners once.”
“Indeed we were. The Wunderkinder.”
He covered his eyes again and sighed deeply. “I miss that.”
“Me too. Remember the time in Paris when we?”
He turned on his side and snuggled into his pillow. “I need to sleep, Nan. We’ll talk more later.”
A change in plans!
Soon, it would be time to leave on our journey to Italy, to start production of Wolfie’s opera Lucia Silla in Milan. Papa had always said Mama and I would see Italy one day. Oh, to see it this way, for this special event. To witness Wolfie’s opera come to life, to see the sets and the costumes, to hear the applause. Seeing him attain what I could not offered some consolation. It was such a blessing that my jealousy had finally been transformed into pride in my brother. Had I, at age twenty-one, finally attained a laudable measure of maturity? Or was I merely resigned? Either way, it was an acceptable place to be.
We were scheduled to leave in one week’s time. In preparation I looked through my armoire, trying to choose a dress to wear opening night. Wolfie came in the room, one foot bare, carrying a stocking. “Can you darn this? I just poked a hole clean through.”
I swung around with a red crepe in front of me. “What do you think?” I asked.
“That is too open a question, sister dear”
I ignored his barb. “What do you think of the dress, silly. For opening night.”
He tossed the stocking in my direction. It landed on the bed nearby. He moved to a drawer. “Where are the rest of my stockings? When was the last time you did laundry?”
“What?”
He shut the drawer with a slam. “Laundry. Stockings? I have none.
It was hard for me to focus on his question. “There are some hanging in the kitchen.”
“Fine.” He moved to leave.
“Wolfie? Answer my question about the dress.”
He turned around, gave the dress the once-over, then shrugged. “It doesn’t much matter what dress you pick. You’re not going.”
“Not going?”
“To Milan. Only Papa and I are going”
My arms were too heavy to hold the dress in place. “Not going?”
“Papa says it’s too expensive and the mountain passes in late October can be snowy and treacherous. Papa can’t even sleep on such trips because he has to be continually watchful. He still remembers the accident when he hurt his leg so badly. And it will surely be cold.”
“On your first trip to Italy Papa said we couldn’t go because we would have never been able to handle the cold, on the second, the heat … now we’re back to cold again?”
“That’s not the only reason,” Wolfie said. “Once we’re there I’ll be consumed with work. Although I’ve mapped out my basic plan and worked on some of the recitatives, I haven’t even begun to compose most of the arias, and the opening is set for late December, just two months away. And who knows how many adjustments I’ll have to make for this reason or that.”
I tossed the dress at his face and he raised his arms in defense of it. “Mama and I can find things to do. You’ve gone on and on about how beautiful Milan is. Isn’t it time we see it?”
“It’s not up to me, Nan. You know that. It’s not my fault.”
But it was.
I ran at him, pushing him over. He fell hard on the wooden floor.
Within moments Papa came in. “What’s going on here?”
“I tripped,” Wolfie said.
Although I was surprised at his cover-up, I did not want his effort. It was time for all of this to come out. “I pushed him down.”
“Why?” Papa asked.
14 I,,
Wolfie stood and brushed off the back of his breeches. “She’s mad because she can’t go to Milan with us.”
Papa leveled me with a look. “I’ve decided-as I was forced to do before-that it’s too expensive for four of us to travel, Nannerl. Besides, the mountain passes are difficult and-”
I didn’t need to hear the same excuses twice. “But I need to go!”
Papa gave me a condescending smile. “Now, now Need and want are two very different things, and it’s best to realize”
I shook my head and stomped a foot on the floor. “This isn’t fair! Not fair at all!”
Papa’s eyebrows rose. He took a step toward me and it took all my effort to hold fast. When he was close enough for me to smell the bratwurst on his breath, he said, “Is it fair that I was passed over for the Kapellmeister position after over three decades in service? Is it fair your brother works his fingers to the bone and is still not offered a salaried position? Is it fair he and I have to constantly be on the road-rough, dusty, and dangerous roads-staying in inns with far fewer amenities than home, eating bad food, dealing with the stress and nerve-wracking tension of never knowing how things will turn out in spite of our best intentions? Is it fair your mother and I are forced to live out our marriage apart more than we are together? Is it fair that the livelihood and utter future of this family-of you, my dear ungrateful Nannerl-is on our shoulders? Is it fair you get to spend time with friends, playing cards, shooting air guns, taking leisurely strolls through the Mirabel Gardens, while we-your brother and I-barely have time to breathe?”
He took a new breath. He needed it. His chest heaved.
He lowered his voice, but his final words were thick with intensity. “Do not talk to me about what’s fair, nor about need.”
What could I say? I had no defense, no counter to any of his points, each of which had been a lead weight, weighing down my arguments. I stood there, torn between anger and shame.
“I would think you would be more grateful. I’ve given everything to-”
Shame won out. I lunged toward him, wrapping my arms around his torso. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean it.”
He hugged me close and kissed the top of my head. “There’s a good girl, Nannerl. For what I need you to do is keep your mother safe and our house a home so Wolfie and I have something wonderful to think about on our journeys.”
I nodded, rubbing my cheek against the rough wool of his waistcoat. “I will, Papa. I will.”
It was the least-and the most-I could do.
They left me. Again. And then again. First Milan for the opera, then Vienna, where Papa desperately continued his quest to find a post for the two of them. Although they were home a few months in between, it didn’t really count. They were not here. They lived in the future of their minds, in the next commission, the next concert, the next opportunity for a position that was anywhere but home in Salzburg.
When I allowed myself to be understanding, I knew they were being stifled by the new archbishop Colloredo-whom Papa often discredited in private by reminding us that he had been elected on the forty-ninth ballot. Colloredo was completely reshaping the music program that was under his tutelage, and his new Kapellmeister, Fischietti, was loving every minute of it. The only satisfaction Papa gained was that the archbishop was peeved at Fischietti when he found out the man was married. Wives created expense and expected pensions…. Plus, Fischietti showed his true greedy colors by coveting the retired Lolli’s living quarters and holding out for more money.
Not that any of Fischietti’s actions counted against him. For the archbishop still gave him a three-year contract at a ridiculous salary and retained the old-fashioned rococo style of music that Papa had longed to change. Papa would rather have died than be held musically stagnant. So I understood their burning need to go elsewhere. Yet the archbishop had made it clear there would be no pay in their absence.
It was an extremely delicate situation because the more they made it known they were looking for a position, the greater the risk the archbishop would find out and cut P
apa’s ties completely. Plus, I’d heard rumblings from the parent of a piano student that the empress herself was not pleased with Papa and Wolfie putting themselves out there, like itinerant musicians, like beggars. Apparently, they cheapened themselves in her eyes. I wondered if her opinion was the reason her son Ferdinand had not hired them and that so many doors were closed.
Dealing with royalty required a careful balance-being confident could work for or against you. Of course, the empress had more important things on her mind besides the Mozart men. Poland, for one. She was in the midst of a tug-of-war over that country with Empress Catherine of Russia…. The politics were beyond my ken. The empress had her concerns and I had mine.
Which were focused on my father and brother’s continued absence from home. They missed all our birthdays, Christmas, and even Mama and Papa’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. For that momentous event all Papa sent Mama was a note in a letter: Today is the anniversary of our wedding day. It was twentyfive years ago, I think, that we had the sensible idea of getting married, one which we had cherished, it is true, for many years. All good things take time!
“It was twentyfive years ago-I think?” I think? Mama had been distraught on the anniversary day and stayed in bed. Her mood was not improved days later when she received the letter. The least Papa could have done was send it ahead of time, to try to have his greeting-bland though it was-arrive on the actual day. And he forgot St. Anne’s day, Mama’s and my name day, then chastised me for forgetting to send a greeting for his name day-after I did send it.
Yet I’m sure he was too busy to think much of us-except to give us directions about life in Salzburg and to ask for Mama’s handcream recipe. And all the letters from Wolfie, complaining about having to sleep in the same bed with Papa and not getting any sleep, or being together all day, every day, and his intense longing for his favorite liver dumplings and sauerkraut, fell on my deaf ears. Papa even presented the news that some grandstands in Milan had collapsed just across the street from where they were sitting-killing some people-as another reason we should not have been along on that trip.
Even their difficulties with the opera performance in Milan made me roll my eyes. So what if Archduke Ferdinand held up the start of the first performance two hours because he was home writing a New Year’s letter (obviously not being adept at such things). So what if the packed house grew antsy. Singers who overacted, or got sick and had to be replaced? It was trivial to me. Worthless information. An annoyance in my day.
During their months of further travel, I came to believe that what Papa really wanted was to have his son all to himself. How could I think otherwise? For what man would so eagerly give up house and home, along with the companionship of a daughter who loved him?
And a wife. As an adult I was also aware that the long months of abstinence would wear on most men. Yet he chose to repeatedly extend the separation. I’d thought my parents’ marriage strong, yet the very fact they were willing to remain apart so long made me wonder.
It was not something I could talk to Mama about. And on her part, I did not see any hint of true longing. At least, not for … that.
Once, my friend Katherl brought up the subject when we were sitting in the garden doing petit point. “Do you think your father has a mistress?”
It had come forth just that bluntly. I was taken aback, of course-not because I hadn’t asked such a question within my own mind but because Katherl had spoken the words out loud.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “No.” I shook my head. “No, I’m sure he doesn’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because Papa is Papa.” I’d gone back to the leaf of my petitpoint rose. “Besides, German men don’t do such things. Just the French.” I remembered the court at Versailles, where even as a child I was privy to men flaunting their mistresses and women bragging about their lovers. I hadn’t fully realized what it meant back then, but now …
“I bet Italian men do it too,” she said.
“I wouldn’t know” And I wouldn’t, for I had never seen Italy.
Which led me back to the issue at hand….
It wasn’t as if I sat idle while they were gone. I found things to do and was very capable of amusing myself with activities and friendships. It was the principle that rankled my pride. The injustice. Getting invited back to Joseph’s Triebenbach estate was a highlight in our time without Papa and Wolfie. And oh, how Papa went on and on about how happy he was for us! I believe he was happythat we were gaining pleasure and it didn’t cost him anything. He even told us we could have some new dresses made. As if a few dresses could ever take the place of what we were missing in Italy. I told Mama it was bribery, and other than saying, “Oh, Nannerl,” she did not argue with me. And we did get the dresses. I admit to having expensive tastes when allowed.
And then we received a bribe that was probably worth staying home for.
We got a new home. Gone was the three-room cramped quarters we’d rented from the Hagenauers my entire life as we moved across the Salzach River to the Hannibalplatz, to a house called affectionately the Dancing-Master’s House. It had eight rooms on the first floor, one of them a huge room that had been used for dance lessons. The doorways were arched, the floors were covered with a patterned wood parquet, and the windows were large and airy. Best of all, I had my own room from which I could look upon the busy square and people-watch. As a bonus, out back we had a large garden where we could entertain, shoot targets, and rest in real beauty.
It was grand compared to our worn-down, cramped third-story quarters on the Getreidegasse, and I wondered how Papa afforded it. It was hard to know how we were doing financially. Most of the time Papa was frantic about it, and yet, with this move … Wolfie’s commission work must have made the difference. Mama and I were even able to hire a cook and occasionally hire someone to come in and do our hair.
I hated the boring hairstyles of most Salzburg women-shoving their hair back in a hood-and liked mine piled high as I’d seen as a child. Papa and Wolfie made fun of me for my gcshchopftc and teased me about the amount of time I told them I spent creating it. But what should they care? They were not here.
Actually, in many ways, neither was Mama. Although Papa sent her detailed instructions regarding how to handle things while they were gone, it was not something Mama enjoyed doing-nor something she was particularly good at doing. She did it because she had no choice. But those responsibilities, combined with the usual household duties, plus the absence of her husband and son, wore on her emotions and mental state so, I began to fear for her health. She faded. She pulled inward.
It took effort not to follow her.
For all my complaints, it was hard to see Papa and Wolfie return home from Milan disheartened about not getting a position. They’d even had an audience with Empress Maria Theresa herself-to no avail. Papa had delayed their return as long as possible-feigning rheumatism so the archbishop would think he couldn’t travelin hopes of hearing from the courts of Lombardy and Tuscany. Considering both places (as well as Milan) were ruled by children of the empress … it seemed obvious she influenced them. I would imagine the children of an empress would bow to her wishes from two fronts: to please her as a mother, out of loyalty and love, but also to please her as their ruler, out of duty. It was a detail we might never confirm, though I, as much as anyone, knew the influence of a parent on a child.
Yet for Papa and Wolfie, coming back to staid and stodgy Salzburg, with its smothering atmosphere, was like wearing a fur cloak on a summer’s day. Papa had written as much in his final letter from Milan: You cannot think into what confusion our departure has thrown me. Indeed Ifind it hard to leave Italy.
What remained unspoken was the subtext: I find it hard to come home.
In March, after they had been home a few days, I passed the kitchen and heard Mama and Papa talking. The serious tone of the discussion made me hold back and keep my presence unknown.
“So all is lost?” Mama a
sked.
“No! Never.”
“But if all avenues in Italy are closed …” Mama sighed. “What of the Kapellmeister position in Vienna?”
“He’s recovered from his illness. There is no position. If only the archbishop had not been in Vienna on the same day as our audience with the empress ..
“So you think they talked?”
“I’m sure of it.”
I heard Wolfie behind me. I put my finger to my lips, and he joined me in the eavesdropping.
“I’m feeling very old, Anna. I’m afraid the job prospects for an old man and a boy are slim.”
“You can’t give up,” she said.
Wolfie pulled me away, into the music room. As soon as we were there, he let go and began pacing. “I’m going to end up like Papa, I know it!”
The statement took me aback. “But Papa’s a good man. A talented-”
He swung toward me, his eyes blazing. “None of which matters!” His eyes skimmed the doorway and he lowered his voice. “Papa is stuck here. He’s too old to be named Kapellmeister; he gave up his own composing to travel around Europe chasing fireflies. The archbishop pats him on the head and says, `Yes, yes, how nice. Now, get to work.”’
“Papa gave up his own ambitions for us, Wolfie. For you.”
He began pacing again. “A lot of good it’s done me. I’m a great composer. I’m a great musician. Yet I’m made to feel like a peon who’s peddling some carved knickknack or painted teacup. Why can’t people realize who I am? Why can’t they treat me with the respect I deserve?”
Because you have to earn it.
Although I truly thought my brother was God’s gift to music, I didn’t like his new attitude. There was a fine line between pompous and possessing a proper pride in a gift God had bestowed upon—
Wolfie suddenly stopped his pacing, his eyes blinking with a new thought. “I must get away. On my own. Papa’s right; together we’re an old man and a young boy. Two undesirable ends of the spectrum. But alone, I could make them see …”
