Mozart's Sister Page 7

  If so, I needed to compose my own music, yet every time I mentioned it or got out a page of staff paper, Papa said, “No, Nannerl. Concentrate on your playing. Let your brother do the composing.

  And Wolfie was good at it.

  But couldn’t I be good too?

  Perhaps one day. We’d see. Perhaps when we got home and life was more normal.

  We left Versailles and returned to the home of the Count and Countess van Eyck in Paris on the eighth of January, 1764. But our time of giving concerts was not over. We performed at many public concerts and Papa arranged posters. One afternoon, while we were practicing, they were delivered.

  Papa unwrapped the brown paper to see them: Come hear the incredible musical talent of the Salzburg Children! Hear Maria Anna Mozart, aged 11, and her brother, Wolfgang, 6. Be astounded by their musical prowess! Be humbled by their talent! Be amazed at their unparalleled ability!

  It was a nice poster. And yet … “Papa?” I asked. “It says I’m eleven and Wolfie six. I’m twelve now, and Wolfie is seven.”

  Wolfie raised his hand. “Almost eight! In a few weeks I’ll be eight!”

  Papa straightened the posters. “It was necessary. A necessity.”

  Mama shook her head but didn’t say anything.

  He removed one poster and handed it to Mama, then draped the rest over his arm. “Younger is better. Now I must go and arrange for these to be distributed. Get back to your practice.”

  He left with a whoosh of cold air. I looked at Mama, wondering how she really felt about this lie.

  She ran a finger along the edge of the poster, as if reading it again. Then she looked at us. “Get back to your practice, children.”

  Younger. Papa said remaining young was a necessity.

  How were we supposed to do that?

  It was bright sunlight when I awoke. This was not usual. Mama always had us up before the sun.

  I sat up in bed. Wolfie was still asleep, the covers twisted around his legs. But Mama and Papa were gone.

  I heard voices and footsteps in the hall. People hurried up and down the stairs. Something was wrong.

  I got out of bed and put a shawl around my shoulders. The fire in the grate was nearly out. Mama never let it go out….

  I cracked the door just as a maid walked by carrying a shallow pewter bowl. In it was blood.

  Who was being bled?

  As she started down the stairs, I called after her. “Who’s sick?”

  She paused halfway down. “The countess fell in during the middle of the night and spit blood. The doctor has already bled her twice.” She nodded toward the hall. “Your mother is with her.” She continued downstairs.

  The countess was sick enough to be bled? I’d heard that patients were only bled when whatever was harming them had to be given a means of exiting the body. So for the countess to have been bled twice already … I retreated into the room and quickly got dressed.

  Wolfie stirred and opened one eye. “It’s light….”

  I pulled on my stockings. “Go back to sleep,” I said.

  He nodded and snuggled into the pillow

  I put on my shoes and tied the back of my dress as best as I could without help, then hurried down the hall toward the family’s quarters. When I came to the countess’s bedchamber, the door was open, and the count stood in the doorway, his hand to his mouth. He looked in my direction.

  “Sir?” I said. “Is she all right?”

  His eyes returned to the room and he shook his head. “I don’t know” When he looked back at me, I saw tears threatening to spill over. “Will you pray, Fraulein Nannerl? Will you pray?”

  “Of course.” I returned to our room and knelt at the side of my bed. “Father, almighty God, please heal the mistress of the house. Make her well. Make-”

  “What’s wrong?” Wolfie said from his bed.

  I pointed to the place beside me. “We need to pray, Wolfie. Now.”

  “For what?”

  I pointed again. “Now!”

  He climbed out of bed and got on his knees beside me. “Is it Papa?” he asked. “Or Mama?”

  I’d been too curt. He deserved to know our parents were safe. “It’s the countess.”

  “She’s pretty.”

  Pretty didn’t matter right now “Pray!” I commanded.

  The Countess van Eyck was only twenty-three when she died on February 6, 1764. My entire family put on the mourning clothes we’d had to buy when the king’s granddaughter had died the previous November. I didn’t like wearing black, yet how could I possibly wear something gay when someone so young and dear had passed from us?

  Through my tears of sorrow, I was angry at God for taking her. Weren’t our prayers good enough? Perhaps if we’d prayed louder, longer, stronger … Yet Mama reminded me that God’s ways are not our ways.

  Indeed. I would have let her live.

  Then, in addition to the veil of mourning that shrouded the house, Wolfie got sick. He got a sore throat, a cold, and a high fever, then developed such an inflammation of the throat that he was in danger of choking. The doctor stood over him, just as another doctor, in another country, had done before. Back then, it had been rheumatic fever. This time …

  Dr. Herrnschwand was very gentle, stroked Wolfie’s head and spoke softly to him, always smiling. The smile made me hopeful…. Plus the fact that this doctor had not ordered Wolfie to be bled. Since the death of the countess, there had been rumors around the house that the doctor had caused her death by too much bloodletting. So when Wolfie had gotten sick, and the count had offered the use of that same doctor, Papa had politely, but pointedly, declined. There would be no French doctor caring for his son. Dr. Herrnschwand was German. I too found that a comfort.

  The doctor took a few steps away from the bed and motioned my parents close. “He should be inoculated for smallpox.”

  Papa shook his head vehemently.

  “But the shot has been known to help-”

  “No!” Papa glanced at Wolfie, then at me, then lowered his voice. “I have heard of children dying from the inoculation. I won’t risk it. Not with my son. I would rather trust God to save him.”

  I did not know who was right, Papa or Dr. Herrnschwand. What I did know was that there was enough sorrow in this house. The count rarely left his room. His eyes were red and I could often hear his sobs. Repeatedly the maid returned down the hall with his food tray untouched.

  Papa left to see the doctor to the door. Mama sat next to Wolfie.

  “What can we do, Mama?” I asked.

  She shook her head and didn’t answer at first. “This is all happening because we haven’t been observing the fast days here in France.” She looked up. “We tried, but the food was unavailable. We have no kitchen in our room here, and the water is bad and needs to be boiled. We’ve missed many daily masses. And they do not even use rosaries in church.”

  I fingered the rosary I had in my pocket. It was never far from me. Everything Mama said was true. It was hard being a devout Catholic in France. Had our inability to exhibit our devotion caused God to be angry? Was the Almighty punishing us by afflicting the apple of our eye, little Wolfie?

  With a pat to my brother’s hand, Mama stood. “Come, Nannerl. We must make amends.” She grabbed her cloak from the wall hook and handed me mine. “We must find a church and implore them to say a mass for our dear boy.”

  I tied the cloak at my neck. “Does Papa want to come with us?”

  Mama gathered our gloves and was at the door. “He will stay with Wolferl. Besides, praying is women’s work. We may not have influence and power in the here and now, but by our Lord, we have influence with heaven.” She pointed a finger at my nose and leaned close. “And I dare any man to say different.”

  I could not argue. I would not. I liked the idea of having some influence.

  The Lord be praised! After four trips to church, after countless prayers prayed, and after only two visits by Dr. Herrnschwand, Wolfie was up and about. In only fo
ur days.

  Mama and I declared it a miracle. Papa pooh-poohed such a thing but could do nothing to change our minds.

  Mama and I made Wolfie well-with God’s help.

  After nearly five months in Paris, it was April, and I stood at the shore-the shore of an ocean! The feeling of adventure I’d experienced in Brussels when I’d seen oceangoing ships coming to port was multiplied tenfold by standing on the edge of the ocean myself. It was not ever-flowing in one direction like a river with somewhere to go, nor still and mirrored like an Alpine lake. This ocean, this sea, was alive. It ran away and advanced like a child with too much energy. Would it ever be satisfied and remain still?

  Never.

  That, in itself, stirred me. My family had a lot in common with the ocean….

  I walked to the edge of the tide, collecting shells. They were flat and many were broken. Had they come from the depths of the sea? The wet portion of the sand was worn smooth and glimmered in the sunlight. I teased the water, daring it to reach where it had not reached before. As if in answer to my challenge, a wave broke and sped over the wet sand until it nipped the toes of my shoes. Tag! You’re it!

  “Don’t get your shoes wet, Nannerl,” Papa said.

  I retreated a step, even though the ocean beckoned me to do the unthinkable. How I longed to take off my shoes and stockings, lift my skirt and petticoats high, and walk in the water. Play in it.

  “Come,” Papa said, taking Wolfie’s hand. “We must catch our boat to England.”

  I palmed the shells and took one last look across the water. Although warm, the day was overcast, and I found it hard to imagine there was land beyond the foggy horizon. I’d heard it said the earth was round, but looking over the expanse of ocean, I saw only endless flatness.

  It made me afraid. What if we got out in the middle and began to sink? I had never tried to swim. And who would save us? Papa had chartered a boat, so we would not have the luxury of feeling safety in numbers.

  We would not even have the security of all our belongings. We were leaving the carriage and some of the luggage behind with trusted friends. Choosing what to take and what to leave behind had been difficult, for who knew how long we would be in England? Papa had arranged letters of introduction to the court, but we could only hope we were as generously paid there as we had been during our stay in France.

  I must say, I was not sorry to see France go. It was a confusing place, a land of contradictions, with opulence forever nudging the edge of poverty. And though we’d spent time in golden rooms that rivaled heaven itself, just streets away we’d seen legions of poor, many of whom were deformed in atrocious ways. Such suffering! And the suffering did not restrict itself to the poor. For in the Place de Greve there were many public executions. One day, a chambermaid, a cook, and a coachman had been hanged in company, side by side, for embezzling from their blind mistress. We had driven through the square quickly and Papa had said, “Avert your eyes!” But his warning did not come quickly enough, for I saw the bodies hanged by the neck, and I heard the crowd cheer.

  “How can they cheer over death?” I asked.

  Papa said, “However unfortunate, punishment must be carried out to ensure the safety of the masses.” Out of the corner of his mouth he added, “Although this celebratory display is a bit uncouth.”

  I agreed. Shouldn’t punishment for sins be a private matter? Wasn’t there enough shame in a person’s heart to negate the need for public humiliation?

  Besides confusing, daily living in France had also been stressful. The sanitary conditions were deplorable, with waste filling the street with nauseating smells. And we’d all suffered from a sickness of the innards that was embarrassing enough when we were at home, and much more so on the road.

  As for the food … there was little cheese or fruit, and no good seafood. And the fish wasn’t fresh. Oh, to eat fresh fish from a clear Austrian lake! Only wine was inexpensive, and though I didn’t nand the taste, I could not drink much of it without feeling heady. So what alternative was there to thirst? Mama did not trust the milk, and since the water was taken from the Seine River, all of it had to be boiled before we drank. I left France thirsty…

  I left the French oceanside behind. Within the hour I would be riding upon its back.

  May heaven help us.

  “Look!”

  I pointed over the side of the boat to some strange gray animals jumping out of the water around us. They had long noses and fins like a fish. But their size … They were as big as Wolfie.

  Wolfie saw them too and scooted to my side of the boat. “Papa!”

  Papa pulled him back on the bench. “Sit still or you’ll capsize us all!” Papa said.

  “What are they?” Mama asked.

  A man who had paid Papa a fee to fill one of the four extra seats on our charter sailboat tipped his hat to her. In halting German he said, “Pardon, madame, but those are dolphins. They are a … a .. His German failed him. “A mammifere. They breathe …” He took a deep breath, demonstrating.

  They breathed air? I looked back toward the animals-there were three of them now, swimming and jumping in unison as if they were playing and putting on a show just for us. Yet I’d seen them dive deep into the depths of the water. “How can they breathe?”

  He struggled for the word but pointed to the top of his head. “Trou.”

  After a moment, Papa said, “Ah, Bohrung.”

  Hole? I saw that the dolphins did indeed have an air hole on the top of their heads. Periodically, they blew water from them.

  One did so just then, and Wolfie exclaimed, “A fountain! He’s making a fountain.”

  We all laughed. “They seem to be smiling,” I said.

  Papa nodded. “As they should.” He put an arm around Mama and Wolfie, who sat on either side of him. “For they are happy the Mozart family is crossing the Channel to visit such a faraway place.” He lowered his voice. “I am quite sure that not one other citizen of Salzburg has ever traveled so far.”

  I sat back in awe. To be the first …

  Papa nodded. “In fact, I have decided to learn English myself. It will do no harm to have someone at the Salzburg court who speaks English; one never knows how handy it might be.”

  I looked again at the dolphins as they entertained us. So many new things. I was very blessed.

  Perhaps being so enthralled with the dolphins’ dance, watching their constant movement-combined with the pitch and yaw of the boat on the turbulent water-made us in. The man who knew about dolphins said we were seasick.

  Another new experience-one I could have done without. Papa suffered the most, but once we reached Dover …

  The cliffs were bright and striking. Such a difference from the flat, sandy shores of Calais. It was as if England had created its own fortress against the sea.

  To ease our entrance into this strange land of England, Papa hired two new servants. One was an Italian named Porta, who’d taken the France-to-London trip eight times. He knew some English and was very good at handling the porters-who, he warned, had a tendency to grab luggage and hurry it off to the inn of their choice, where they expected exorbitant payment for its return. He would surely save Papa money.

  The other new servant, jean Pierre, took the place of our dear friend and companion Sebastian Winter, who’d been with us since Salzburg. Sebastian left us to return to his hometown to take a position as a hairdresser to its prince, Joseph Wenzeslaus von Fiirsten-berg. Wolfie and I were distraught. Sebastian had spent a lot of time with us, playing, making animal noises, drawing maps of an imaginary land Wolfie had created-the Kingdom of Back. Wolfie often gave me a detailed account of this fantasy world where children reigned. I encouraged him not to let Mama and Papa hear of it, though, for occasionally his descriptions spoke too much of children being free to do as they wished.

  Upon landing, we were immediately glad for Porta’s presence as he took command of our arrival and arranged for a carriage to take us to London.

  Mama and
I noticed the difference in the clothing. It was less fussy than the clothes in France, with fewer adornments. And hats! It seemed no one could cross the street without wearing a hat. Plus parasols. We’d seen them in France but discovered the style had started in England-a necessity against the more frequent rain?

  But as in France, fichus were worn about the neck, demurely covering the chest (as the necklines were low), and lace was the one common decoration. The fabrics seemed lighter in weight, and there were many hand-painted patterns on both silk and cotton. Painting on fabric? Who would have thought of such a thing? We were used to patterns being woven, yet we heard this new type of printed fabric was inspired by the English traders who’d been to the Orient and India. England had earned the title of being the master of colonization, having spread her dominance across the world from America to India and beyond. The entire country benefited from such trade.

  Yet often, oddly, we found it difficult to tell upper-class from lower. There was less ostentation, less heralding one’s position through dress and presence. The distinction between middle and high, ordinary and privileged, was blurred. Even beggars were elevated from the utter hopelessness we’d seen in Paris. In London they didn’t just beg but offered something for the trouble-a quill toothpick, a flower, thread, ribbons, or even a song.

  The immensity of London overwhelmed us. Looking down at the Thames River from London Bridge, I was amazed by a forest of ship masts. And at a zoo I saw an elephant and a horselike animal that had white and coffee brown stripes so evenly spaced that no one could paint them better. While I was interested in parks and animals, Papa was interested in business. He discovered there were 1,318 night watchmen, 166 public paupers’ schools, and fifty squares in London. And the trade directory was the thickness of two fingers and was so commodious that it had to be arranged alphabetically. Certainly, London was beyond any Salzburger’s imagination.

  We immediately felt conspicuous in our French clothes-which we had purchased in order to fit in while living in France. In fact, we experienced prejudice because of them. Some street urchins yelled at us, crying out, “Down with the French!” Apparently, the animosity of the war was still alive. Papa took us shopping the very next day. He mumbled about the expense, but it was important we fit in, for if we elicited the ire of mere peasants with our dress, how could we hope to gain the favor of gentlemen and ladies?