Mozart's Sister

by Nancy Moser

  We walked arm in arm to the Boar’s Head, where Papa ordered breaded veal and gnocchi for both of us, with kirsch cake for dessert. He joked with the proprietor and with the other patrons. He was his old self again: confident, outgoing, gregarious. I did not press for the good news. Knowing he had felt out of control so long, I was willing to let him be in control now.

  Finally he was ready to share. He placed his arms on the table and leaned toward me confidentially. “The news is ..:’ He drew it out, smiling at me.

  “Yes, Papa, yes?”

  His eyes glanced furtively around the room, making sure no one was listening. “The archbishop has been humiliated”

  That was it? I sat back, disappointed.

  He pulled my hand, wanting me close again. “I heard that Count Firmian had a conversation with the archbishop about our Wolfgang.”

  “And… ?”

  Papa looked practically gleeful. “The archbishop started by saying, `Now we have one man less in the orchestra,’ to which the count replied, `Your Grace has lost a great virtuoso.’ To which His Grace replied, `Why so?”’ Papa straightened his back, grinning. “The good count replied, `Mozart is the greatest clavier player I have ever heard in my life; on the violin he rendered very good service to Your Grace, and he is a first-rate composer.’ The archbishop was silent, for he had nothing to say!”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  It was his turn to sit back. “That’s the extent of your reaction?”

  “That’s very good.” It was all I could manage.

  “You don’t care that your brother is missed? That his talents are being requested? That the very person who has shamed our family with such deplorable treatment is held accountable and is told he is wrong?”

  I knew I should be happy, even giddy with vindication. I knew that’s what Papa expected.

  And so I gave it to him. Pulling from a place beyond the emotions of here and now, I pasted on a smile, leaned toward my father, took his hand, and willed there to be a gleam in my eyes. “The archbishop is getting what he deserves. Vengeance is ours, Papa.”

  He raised a finger. “Saith the Lord!”

  He’d made the proclamation too loudly, and other patrons looked in his direction. Which made us break into laughter.

  He lowered his voice. “The point is, our dear Wolfie is loved. His talent is acknowledged. And His Grace’s actions have been brought to bear at last. His humiliation is frosting to our cake.”

  This last fact made me a bit nervous, for humiliation was not an emotion most people took lightly. Especially men in power.

  It is a sad fact that one never appreciates a person until they are gone.

  So it was with Mama. When it had been the two of us alone at home, I’d done my share of the chores and had never given too much thought to what slie did. But now that she was gone two months and I was left with her chores as well as my own … Olt, Mania. I’ni so sorry for taking yon forgranted.

  Papa gave me a compliment. He said he was proud of me, and called me industrious and steadfast. I appreciated his kind words, and yet, as I stood in the kitchen, ironing his shirts with the sweat pouring off my brow making the curl in my hair rebel, I found them less than appealing. For the same traits could be said of Therese, our maid and cook, or of Roth, the man who handled our mail, or even Dren, whose job it was to scoop horse muck from the square in front of our house.

  I caught my reflection in the mirror that hung above the hooks that held the bed warmers. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t looked at myself that very morning, but seeing myself in this glance, without benefit of adjusting a smile or a stray hair, was shocking. Was this old woman in the mirror me?

  I left the heavy iron on the stove and moved closer to the mirror to study this person I didn’t know. My fingers ran over my cheeks, my neck, my lips. I was not pretty. My nose was too large, my eyelids too pronounced, my forehead too high. My eyes were brown but devoid of the yellow and hazel flecks that graced Wolfie’s. I had a dimple in my chin, and my mouth was small when compared to my other features, my lips far from voluptuous like some women I knew. My eyebrows were expressive, as if they made up for the blandness of the rest of my face. I had no pronounced cheekbones; the outline of my face was simply drawn, with few variations as points of interest. And my skin … Though without blemish, it was pale to the point of pallor. The slight blush to my cheeks on this day came from the heat of my chore rather than health or happiness. And the lustrous hair of my youth was gone. It had turned a nondescript dark blond, nearly brown, and was without sheen. My hair was the color of a dusty bird’s nest. I leaned closer. Was that one gray? I plucked it and stood back.

  I looked old.

  I was old. I was twenty-six and unmarried. My merits were few. As a young girl I’d seen the world and had entertained princes and queens with my talent. But except for a few trinkets kept in a locked case, my memories of that time were so faded that sometimes I wondered if any of it had been real or if they were merely a pleasant dream. How I wished I’d been an artist, able to sketch the places I’d been … to capture the moments with a picture.

  My adolescent ambition to become a great musician was ailing, if not dead and buried. My European performing career, which was cut short because I’d become of marriageable age, seemed ironically wasted, considering I was not married and had no eager prospects. My career had been sacrificed for a domestic ideal that was … less than ideal.

  I was not only old. I was an old maid.

  A pitiful vocation, all in all.

  No wonder I didn’t have a beau.

  Apparently being industrious and steadfast wasn’t an enticement.

  The music room was a godsend. When we’d lived in the small apartment, we’d had no room to entertain a large group of friends, but here in our larger quarters, with this wonderful room that stretched across the street-side of the house … we could entertain well, giving everyone plenty of room to perform and mingle.

  That evening there was a roomful, including some visiting musicians from the theater whom we’d met after their performance. There was an oboist, a flautist, a cellist, and two violinists. All had brought their instruments. And to my delight Francesco Ceccarelli, the famed castrato, was also present. I had been so impressed with his voice at the performance. Clearer than any woman’s.

  Papa had splurged for this assembly. He often did so with traveling musicians because he hoped they would spread the word about the Mozart name and household along their travels. Word of mouth was so important. In return we often received free tickets. If only Wolfie were here to perform with us. Now, that would have been of even greater benefit. And pleasure.

  Papa clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention, then took up his violin with one hand and pointed to the music on the keyboard with the other. “Gather up, gentlemen. My daughter and I have just completed copying portions of the latest opera by my son, Wolfgang, who is currently off on tour.”

  I inwardly shook my head at Papa’s exaggeration. Tour, indeed …

  The musicians gathered close, finding their parts. “Herr Mozart, we are not a full orchestra. There are parts that will not be played,” the oboist said.

  Papa extended his bow toward me. “That is where our lovely Nannerl comes in. She will cover those parts on the keyboard.”

  “All of them?” the cellist asked.

  He winked at me. “She is very talented.”

  I felt my face flush, and my mind flitted back to the kitchen that very afternoon, where my pallor had been broken only by the heat of my chores. How much better to gain beauty through the compliments of one’s father.

  As the musicians got settled with their music stands and chairs, Signor Ceccarelli took his place to my right. “I will read off your music and turn pages, si, mia cara?”

  Blushing proved rampant that evening.

  Signor Ceccarelli completed his solo. The musicians voiced their approval. “Bravissimo!”

  Ceccarelli bowed but e
xtended an arm to include me and the others in the movement’s success. Therese scurried about with a pitcher, making sure goblets were full as the musicians chatted about the music and lauded their own abilities.

  The oboist, a handsome man with a stunning smile, walked in my direction. I stayed on the bench and waited for him.

  “Well, Frau Mozart. I never dreamed I’d discover such playing in little Salzburg.”

  I ignored the compliment and corrected him on his choice of title. “It’s Fraulein Mozart.”

  He looked confused.

  I pointed to Papa. “He’s my father.”

  The man put a hand to his chest. “Oh my. Forgive me. I thought you were his wife-his younger wife to be sure, but-”

  Papa’s wife? My stomach clenched. I rose, feeling the need to escape. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  I edged my way out of the music room and slipped into the room down the hall that Papa used as a study. I stood behind the door in the dark. My chest heaved and my tears surprised me. The man assumed I—

  Suddenly Papa came in the room, looked around, found me, and said, “I saw you run out. What did that man say to upset you so?”

  “I …” I wished I could draw deeper into the shadows where Papa could not see my pain.

  He pulled me fully into the light of the doorway, his eyes scanning my face. He intercepted a tear on its journey down my cheek, then pointed in the direction of the main room. “If that man’s offended you, I’ll kick him out and-”

  I pulled his arm down. “No, Papa. He didn’t offend. At least not on purpose.

  His shoulders relaxed a bit. “Then why are you here in the dark, crying?”

  My reason would sound absurd. Papa would never understand.

  “Nannerl, I am not leaving until I know the reason.”

  I took a fresh breath. “He thought I was your wife.”

  “My… ?” He shook his head. “Why would he think that?”

  I moved away from him, deeper into the darkened room. “Because I’m twenty-six years old and unmarried. Because I still live with my father. Because I look … old.”

  “You do not look old.”

  It was the only point he could even try to dispute.

  “I should be married, Papa. The years fly by. Most of my friends are married or betrothed. Some have children. And though I have male friends, I don’t have a suitor. Sometimes I feel like sitting in the square and choosing the first man who walks by. The results wouldn’t be any worse than doing as I have been doing.”

  He took my hands in his, pulling the two of us close enough to see each other’s faces, even in the dark. “Never settle, dear daughter. You are far too precious and far too prized to settle.”

  I had to laugh. “Prized?” I pulled my hands away and took a step back. “Papa, I’m an old maid, a spinster. It’s not natural for me to be unmarried. I’ve heard people talk.”

  “Who’s talked?”

  I shook my head and pointed to the music room, where laughter and exuberant talk overflowed. “The nonexistence of suitors makes me look at even Signor Ceccarelli with interest.”

  Papa shook his head vehemently. “The purpose of marriage is to have children. Don’t even think such a-”

  I sighed. “The point is, my prospects are minimal. I don’t have much to offer, Papa.”

  “Nonsense! You are a talented girl, handsome and true. You are … you are industrious and steadfast and … and would make any man happy.”

  Industrious and steadfast. The words haunted me.

  “I don’t want you settling, Nannerl. I won’t-”

  I slipped past him into the hall. “We need to get back to our guests.”

  Sleep did not come easily that night-though it was much needed. I had avoided Papa’s company by helping Therese with the kitchen cleanup rather than helping him straighten the music room. I lingered over the dishes until Papa came into the kitchen and announced he was going to bed. Only then did I leave my drying towel behind and escape to my own room.

  I undressed, sat at the window seat in my smock, and removed the ivory pins from my hair. My mood had not improved after talking to Papa about my marriage prospects-or lack thereof-and it had taken a great deal of effort to return to our guests and assume the happy face of a hostess. I’d managed to avoid the oboist and had given considerable attention to the cellist, a certain Hans Kraubner from Linz.

  I’m sure the man thought my interest was more than I intended, for he asked if he might come calling when next they were in town. I did not even have the strength to create a probable excuse to tell him no. And who knew? Perhaps becoming the wife of an itinerant musician would be my just fate-appropriate or not.

  What other choices did I have?

  It’s not that I didn’t have male friends. Beyond the gatherings at our home, I spent many an evening at concerts or at the homes of friends for dinner. I might have been an old maid, but I was not a hermit. I was well practiced in flirtation and thereby enjoyed the attention of many young men of Salzburg.

  But so far there had been none that truly piqued my interest. My girlfriends and I often discussed the lack of eligibles in our fair city. For one did not marry a coachman, a cooper, or a baker’s son even if he was handsome and made us smile. A woman’s immediate happiness was not to be considered. Nor romance. The future loomed large and must be addressed. How could this man provide? was the question.

  And the truth was, though I should not marry down, the chances of my marrying up were slim. Papa was the Vice Kapellmeister. I was proud of him. But we were not nobility. And though Papa sometimes acted as though the position of paid musician was akin to sitting at Jesus’ right hand, it was a position of servitude. He was certainly higher in rank than a cook or maid, but the people he worked for were his superiors-no matter how hard he pretended otherwise.

  And so, the unspeakable part of my situation, the one Papa would never hear from my lips, was that I did not have much chance of marrying a man who could offer me the financial security that obsessed Papa’s waking moments. Oh, how I prayed Wolfie would be successful and find a good position. For all our sakes.

  As for the sake of my heart? I pulled my knees close and bowed my head against them.

  As soon as Papa left for work, I took our fox terrier, Bimperl, for a longer walk than usual. The November morning was not intolerable, though I could see the effort of my exertion in the bursts of breath that slipped into the folds of my hood. On such days people walked briskly with heads lowered, as if they were thieves in the night trying to make an escape.

  I enjoyed the bite to my cheeks as well as the need to increase my pace. My dog took advantage and pulled her leash out of my hands.

  “Bimperl! Come back-”

  “Whoa there, little one.” A soldier coming from the opposite direction scooped her up with one hand. He nestled her in the crook of his arm, and she tilted her head back, exposing her neck for more attention.

  I hurried toward them. “Thank you,” I said. “If I walk faster than usual, she gets excited and the terrier in her takes over.”

  “Ready for the hunt, yes?”

  “I’m glad you were there to stop her or I may have ended up searching the hills. She likes to chase mice.”

  “As all good terriers do.” He gave me a smart bow, tipping his hat. “Captain Franz d’Ippold, at your service”

  I curtsied. “Maria Anna Mozart, but friends call me Nannerl.”

  His right eyebrow rose. “Mozart?”

  I was surprised to find I felt some trepidation at the fact he knew our name. “My father is-”

  “You are a skilled musician, yes?”

  For a moment I was taken aback. “I play. I give lessons.”

  “I heard you and your brother play a duet for the archbishop last summer. I was quite impressed. Your fingers fairly flew over the keys.”

  “My brother composed that piece especially for us “

  “Composed it very well, I think.” Bimperl squirmed
in his arms, so he handed her back to me. “Would you care to join inc for some coffee or hot chocolate?”

  I could think of nothing better. “We would be delighted.”

  By the way my stomach danced, you would have thought I’d never had a conversation with a handsome man. I tried to mentally couch my excitement by reminding myself that I was in a vulnerable state after the previous evening’s awkward exchange with the oboist. But if I were honest, I had to admit that the pleasure I received in talking with Captain d’Ippold far exceeded the pleasure gained from my conversation in the recent past. With anyone. Male or female.

  Of course, it was made doubly easy because he was extremely handsome. Where the noses of the Mozart family were prominent, the captain’s was small, allowing his blue eyes and wide smile to command the attention. His blond hair was tied with a red bow that matched the red in his uniform. The only detriment to his looks was the accumulation of lines about his eyes and forehead, indicating he was probably at least forty. Yet what difference did age really make?

  Upon acknowledging his maturity, I noted there was no ring on his finger. Although not all men wore wedding bands, the lack of a ring, plus his invitation to join him for hot chocolate, were two vital clues to his marital status.

  I must have been staring at his hand, for he said, “I come here most mornings for a coffee and roll. You’d think with being single so long I would have learned to cook something, but I have surrendered to the fact my talents are not meant for the kitchen.”

  I felt myself blush. But in spite of my pleasure that my deduction was right, I tried to deflect my true interest in his hand by mentioning the scar that bisected its top. “Was that received in battle?”

  He held his hand close, as if long ago forgetting the scar was there. He ran a finger across it. “I should say yes, shouldn’t I? Then I could regale you with some laudable story of bravery and saber fights where I appear the hero.”

  “But that would not be the truth?”

  He sipped his coffee. “The scar is further proof of my ineptitude in the kitchen. It’s a burn. I was stoking the stove and burned it on the top of the opening.” He stroked it again, tenderly. “It did hurt terribly,” he said, smiling.