by Nancy Moser
I smoothed ny hair, hooking a loose tendril behind my ear. “We’re not the Wunderkinder anymore.”
“No, we’re not. We’re better than that. We are the Magnificent Mozarts with a lifetime of experience and practice behind us, and with an overabundance of God’s gracious gifts fueling us on.” He tucked in his shirt as he talked. “We could make a hundred thousand florins and become more famous than Handel or any one of the Bachs.” He tugged at the ruffle of my sleeve. The lace was ripped at the edge. “We could get ourselves luscious, matching clothes and have powdered wigs so tall they’d nip the ceiling. Your neck would be heavy with jewels, and I would have gold and diamond buckles on my shoes”
“Don’t be silly,” I said-though I was laughing. “We could never afford all that.”
“Why not? If the ex love-of-my-life, Aloysia Weber, can get an appointment in Munich that earns her one thousand a year when she’s just a singer, then-”
“One thousand? She makes that much?”
“She is very talented. But so are we, sister. And our talents are far more diverse than hers. I would compose music for the two of us that would showcase our talents and make audiences swoon.”
I giggled. “I’ve never seen an audience swoon.”
He pinched my cheek. “Then you have not lived, dear Nan. You truly have not lived.” Wolfie looked at the clock on the mantel. “When will Papa be home? We must tell him our plans, and we won’t take no for an answer. Not this time.”
The lofty door to the world that had just opened to me snapped shut. “Papa will never allow-”
Wolfie swung toward me. “Allow? I’ve had enough of people allowing me to do things! We are both adults. It is time we created our own life instead of allowing Papa to create one of his making.”
My mind swam with logistics. “But With Mama gone, he has no one, and he has a tendency toward melancholy. He often sulks and barely smiles. He worries about everything and-”
“So that’s it?” He snapped his fingers. “With just the mere thought of him, you abandon our plans?”
“We have to think of reality, Wolfie. You couldn’t find a position in Paris, or Mannheim, or Munich. Why should we think that two of us could do better?”
“We don’t need a position; we just need an audience. I want to write operas, Nan. I can’t do that here. And you could play the keyboard for all of them, and help me direct. You could even help me compose. We could be a team in every musical sense.”
It sounded wonderful.
It sounded impossible. A fantasy.
A knock on the door surprised me. I went to get it. It was Franz. After kissing my cheek, he saw Wolfie. “Am I interrupting something?”
Wolfie looked at me, then Franz, then me again. He was not smiling. “Aha. I see how things are. You’ve made your choice, and it has nothing to do with Papa, or opportunities, or lost chances to use your talent. Seeing what I see … you have no right to give me a hard time about wanting to use my chances, Nan. To each his own. To each his own.”
He grabbed his coat and pushed past Franz on the way out the door.
“What is he so upset about?” Franz asked.
“Life.” lest dreams. Dashed {lopes.
Franz pulled me close, smiling. “I have news. News about our life.”
I pushed away, needing more distance to fully capture what he was going to say. What I hoped he was going to say. “Meaning?”
“I spoke with the archbishop again.”
“About us?”
He nodded and pulled me close again.
Once again, I pushed away. “Did he give us permission to marry?”
“Not yet,” Franz said. “But he assured me he’s giving it the highest consideration.”
It was something, yet not enough.
“You look disappointed.”
I was overreacting. I needed to show my appreciation, offer encouragement, think positively.
I put my hands on his shoulders and traced the curved braid on his waistcoat. “I’m sorry I just want a decision now. I want to marry now.”
“As do I, dear lady. But we must be patient. These things take time.”
His kiss made me forget about the inequities of being a woman.
Life went on, and Archbishop Colloredo controlled us all. Franz and I waited for his permission to marry. Wolfie continued to complain about Colloredo, and Colloredo continued to complain about him with poor Papa in the middle.
A reprieve was received when Wolfie obtained a commission from Elector Karl Theodor to write an opera for Munich’s carni val-an opera called Idomeneo, about the king of Crete, sea monsters, and sacrifice. Both he and Papa were so excited about it that they agreed he should charge less than the normal rate. The librettist, Giambattista Varesco, visited our home in August 1780, and the work began. The archbishop reluctantly granted Wolfie a six-week leave to go to Munich to work on the composition and supervise the rehearsals. It seemed a generous offer but wasn’t because the work wasn’t scheduled to be performed until late January 1781, and with Wolfie leaving on November fourth … I left the discrepancy in time for Papa and my brother to work out.
Papa showed his support by taking over some of Wolfie’s duties under the archbishop and by acting as go-between with Wolfie and Varesco. Changes in the libretto were many, and Papa had to use great tact and grace to make the project come to satisfactory fruition.
Even after Wolfie arrived in Munich, the work did not progress smoothly. The lead character-Idomeneo-was to be played by Wolfie’s friend Anton Raaff. But Raaff was getting old and was not a good actor, and the castrato playing the other lead part wasn’t particularly good at acting or singing and seemed incapable of memorizing. As usual, Wolfie had to adapt the music to the limitations and egos of the singers, which was both frustrating and timeconsuming. Rehearsals commenced in early December, before Wolfie was even done with the composition. It was hard for me to understand why Wolfie loved writing operas so much. The stress and politics involved made the composition of a sonata or flute solo far preferable. At least in my eyes.
But not in Wolfie’s. Although his letters were full of complaints about the process, I could also sense that these types of complications fueled him. Having no musical challenge-as was the case in Salzburg-sapped his life breath and made him suffocate for lack of creative air.
And though I never mentioned such thoughts to Papa, the idea of Wolfie coming home again … I wanted better for him. Despite wanting his company, I knew that the best thing for my brother would be liberation from this place we called home.
Little did I know Papa agreed with me. One night over his mushroom soup, Papa said, “When the opera is complete, Wolfgang needs to make his way to Vienna.”
I choked on a bite of bread, and Papa had to slap my back until I was breathing normally again.
“Eat slowly, Nannerl.”
My choking had nothing to do with the speed of my eating. “What would he do in Vienna?” I asked.
“With the success of Idomenco-and I do believe it will be a success-your brother’s worth will increase in the eyes of the world. He’s been very open to the changes I’ve suggested to him, and the work is progressing nicely. It may even be his best to date. That’s why Vienna is the logical choice. There he will earn new operatic commissions, perhaps even a few in Prague. Plus I’m hoping to get the publisher Breitkopf to print some of his music. We do have other options beyond the archbishop, Nannerl.”
If only it were true. “But his position here … We need the two salaries to survive.”
“Ah.” Papa dabbed a napkin at his mouth. “We needed the two salaries to pay off Wolfgang’s traveling debts. But now, since those are paid ..
“They’re paid?”
He shrugged slightly. “They will be soon-but don’t let Wolfgang know”
“But the pressure of our finances on him …”
“Needs to remain in place in order to keep him focused. You know your brother. If I give him ten florin
s he will spend twenty. If I tell him to save ten he will save five.” Papa reached for my hand across the table. “I believe the time has come where the security of two salaries isn’t worth the drain on our Wolfgang’s talents.” He let go and nodded once. “Your brother’s right. He’s being wasted here.”
There. He’d finally said it plain. I could do nothing more than gape at him.
“What?” Papa asked. “You do not agree?”
I managed to hold in a laugh. “I agree completely. Although I’ll hate to see him go. I know the restraints set by Colloredo are-”
Papa tossed his napkin on the table. “If I could leave with Wolfgang, I would. I am a prisoner here when I long to be in Munich to help with the opera. The archbishop is being incredibly stingy with leave.”
“But you did say the two of us were going to Munich to see the final performance.”
“That is the plan, dear girl. But, in truth, I’d prefer to go earlier.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Actually, that could cone about. The father of His Grace is sick and there is talk he will visit him in Vienna. Let me tell you, if that happens I will not be the only Salzburg musician to slip out of town during his absence.” He suddenly sat back, his face clouded. “Unless Colloredo’s father dies and he cancels the visit. Or … or what if the opera itself is postponed because of the mourning for the death our dear Maria Theresa?”
This time I could not stifle a laugh. “Your compassion for the sick and dead is moving, Papa.”
He raised his chin defiantly. “I am a pragmatic man”
Of that, there was no question.
When Wolfie was little he had a saying, “Next to God conies Papa.” Every night before bed he used to stand on a chair and sing to Papa, kissing him on the tip of his nose, telling him that when he grew old Wolfie would put him in a glass case and protect him from every breath of air, so that he might always give Papa honor and have him close.
Although Wolfie still loved Papa, during our time with him in Munich, seeing his opera come to life before our eyes … I saw my brother in a new light. He was no longer the dependent boy, eager to please. He was a man of twentyfive whose inner essence showed forth with a strength that surpassed even the love of a son for a father. Seeing him direct the orchestra, direct the singers and actors with the knowledge that every movement, every note, and every sound that filled my heart and soul were from his annoying but brilliant mind made me accept that he was not ours anymore. Not entirely ours.
Sitting in the audience as they clapped and shouted, “Bravo!” I realized I could let him go. But glancing at Papa standing beside me, seeing the way his spine was erect and his chin held high … seeing how he perused the room, nodding and smiling as if he too were responsible …
I wasn’t sure Papa could let him go, and I sensed-and fearedthe battles yet to come as Mozart the younger fought for independence.
Papa got his wish about Wolfie going to Vienna. Archbishop Colloredo had gone to that city to see his sick father, taking with him an extensive retinue of his court. Weeks later, after the opera performances were over, he sent word to Wolfie that Wolfie’s presence was required in Vienna. The archbishop was putting together a musical group there (no doubt to show off the musicians as his possessions) and wanted Wolfie to join them.
Papa had wanted Wolfie to go to Vienna, yet for Colloredo to be the one to summon him there was advantageous, but odd. His Grace also made insinuations that Papa needed to get back to Salzburg immediately. The two Mozart men were being purposely separated. None of us was sure how this would play out. Wolfie had wanted to leave Salzburg to escape the thumb of the archbishop. But to be summoned to his city of choice by the archbishop? And what about the question of my marriage to Franz? Would Colloredo ever make a decision? I hated that so many of the major options of our life were in the hands of this one man.
Wolfie agreed to go to Vienna, but of course he had ulterior motives. He would use the time-while under salary-to peruse other alternatives on the sly. Leaving Papa and me, he played out one of his character’s lines: “Andro ramingo, c solo”-he would “wander forth alone.”
Though we parted in Munich as though his trip were temporary, I had a feeling even then that my brother had no intention of ever returning to us. I’d witnessed a different Wolfgang in Munich. Gone was the bitter anger of my Salzburg brother. In its place was a confident, exuberant, significant man who knew exactly what he wanted and was not beyond plucking a few strings to the point of breaking in order to get it.
In truth, I could not imagine this new Wolfie back home with Papa and me. As he’d hinted at before, I’d actually witnessed audiences swoon to his music, and had far too many memories of Salzburg audiences offering no more response than an audience of tables and chairs. How could I deny him the one while condemning him to the latter?
And so I said good-bye to my dear Wolfie with an extra hug and two extra kisses as he headed from Munich to one city and we to another.
Godspeed, brother.
I opened my eyes from sleep, froze, and held my breath.
What sound had taken me from dreams to awake?
I turned my head so both ears were free of the muffling effects of the pillow
Pluck, pluck.
Strings being plucked on a violin? I got out of bed and pulled a dressing gown over my smock. I glanced out the window at the street below. All was quiet. All was dark. It was the middle of the night, nowhere near morning.
Pluck, pluck.
I ignored the need for slippers or light and ventured out in the hall. The door to Papa’s bedchamber was open. I looked inside. The bedding was rumpled, but he was not there.
If he had his violin, he was probably in the music room. But why in the middle of the night?
The plucking sounds drew me closer. And there I found him, sitting in the dark on the bench of the clavier, a violin in his handand not just any violin but the miniature instrument Wolfie had played as a young child. Papa wore only his nightshirt and cap, the moonlight cutting a swath across his figure, revealing a furrowed brow and eyes that stared absently into air. He cradled the violin in the crook of his arm, strumming it as one would a mandolin. He seemed unaware of his action, or its result.
I was about to enter the room when he sighed loudly and changed positions, holding the violin erect in his lap, resting his forehead against its tiny scroll, closing his eyes as if in pain.
I could not stay in the shadows any longer. I stepped into the room. “Papa?”
With a start, he sat erect. “Nannerl. What are you doing up?”
I pointed to the instrument. “I heard …”
He looked at the violin as if only then realizing it was in his possession. “I apologize. I took it up … I needed ..:’
Comfort? From what? I drew a chair close and sat. “What’s bothering you?”
He hooked a finger in a corner of his nightshirt and polished the back of the violin. “Nothing you should worry about”
I extended a hand across the space between us, touching his knee. “Papa, what affects one of us affects all.”
He put his hand on top of mine and smiled wistfully. “‘Tis only too true, dear daughter. Unfortunately, too true.”
His tone frightened me. I pulled my hand away. “What’s happened?”
“The end has begun.”
“Papa?”
His hand stopped its polishing. “Your brother has decided he doesn’t need us; it is we who need him.”
I could not argue, because I saw the truth in the statement. We were depending on him to do well in Vienna. And so far, he had. Beyond fulfilling the requirements of the archbishop, he’d managed to take in a few students and often played in private homes to paying patrons. Between that pay and his salary-which was sent directly to Papa-we were getting by quite well.
Papa interrupted my musings. “Your brother has forced the archbishop’s hand.”
I didn’t understand. “Wolfie is in Vienna with the archbishop, a
t his request. He was chosen to go. Not every” I stopped the sentence, for to finish it would hurt Papa’s feelings. For he, as a musician, had not been invited. Lately it seemed as though Papa’s duties had decayed from those of a valued musician to those of a teacher and manager.
By the way his eyes cast downward, I knew he’d finished the sentence for me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …”
He shook his head and turned the violin over, running a finger up and down the strings on its neck. “I don’t know what to do with Wolfgang. He’s been given special lodging in Vienna, a stipend for meals, opportunities to serve the archbishop, yet his letters are full of venom, complaining about everything. And he doesn’t even have the restraint to use code.”
I’d considered my brother’s rantings about having to eat with the staff and having to parade into concerts with other musicians en masse as typical complaints regarding his perceived position versus reality. Papa had always told us we were unlike other musicians in every respect, and though I wanted to believe it, I had also seen signs that Papa’s opinion differed from the opinions of others in authority. But instead of accepting the signs-as I did-it was apparent Wolfie fought against them. Apparently, at one concert, he’d even refused to gather with the other musicians and had made his own solo entrance, walking straight up to Prince Golicyn, conversing with him while other musicians like Ceccarelli and Brunetti stood against the wall, appalled. Of course, Wolfie’s rendition of this event was told with glee, but I saw beyond the pride in his own boldness, to recognize how it must look to others.
“So you’ve heard that the archbishop is upset with him?”
Papa snickered. “Upset, disgusted, tried beyond bearing.”
“Oh dear.”
Papa stood and returned the violin to its case with the care of a father putting his child to bed. He closed the lid and snapped the latches. He came back to the bench but did not face the keyboard. He showed me his profile and hung his hands between his knees, causing his nightshirt to pull taut against his legs. He looked straight ahead and offered another sigh. “The archbishop has cast him out.”
