Mozart's Sister Read online

  Mama and I enjoyed our new wide-brimmed hats, and though he would not admit it, Papa looked proud in his new waistcoat and tricorn hat, with Wolfie strutting around in his smaller version. We were all quite dapper. It was an English word I enjoyed saying, the sound making me laugh aloud. Dapper.

  Other things we had to attend to upon entering this new country involved obtaining proper coinage (they did not take French money) and delivering letters of introduction so we could begin to perform. Papa handled all this in his usual expert manner, even though language was continually a barrier. Papa’s desire to learn the language was a good ambition-one he took to with aplomb.

  But then the miracle-after only four days in London we were on our way to give our first concert for the king and queen at Buckingham House. Papa was excited that we’d been able to get started so quickly because our expenses had mounted. “I did not travel to England for the sake of a few thousand gulden.”

  I grew weary about the constant need for money. Although I knew the tour made my parents happy, although I knew we were seeing parts of the world that would be inaccessible if we did not give concerts, sometimes I longed for the simple days when we used to play in the Hagenauers’ parlor. Yet as soon as I allowed myself such thoughts, I forced them away. Ungrateful girl. If I was going to be a great female musician, then I had to pay the piper. I took the whole thing very seriously. My brother did not.

  On the way to the estate, Wolfie looked out the window of the carriage and saw a group of dogs run past. He began to make dog noises, whimpering, barking softly. I poked him in his side to get him to stop.

  He accidentally kicked Papa.

  “Enough!” Papa said. “We’ll be there soon. Behave yourselves.”

  I was immediately still, but not Wolfie. He dropped something on the floor of the carriage. When he was retrieving it, I felt a tugging. He’d untied the ribbons on my shoes. I opened my mouth to tell on him, but he put a finger to his lips, daring me to be quiet.

  In the seat across from us, Papa looked over his glasses. “What’s going on?”

  I’d get him back later.

  “Who’s going to be there, Papa?” Wolfie looked up at our father, the essence of innocence.

  I leaned over and tied my shoes. In double knots.

  “King George the Third and Queen Charlotte will be there. He is German,” Papa said proudly.

  “But I’ve heard he is also very English,” Mama said. “He was the first Hanoverian king to be born on English soil. English is his first language.”

  “Oh.” Papa sounded disappointed. “I’d hoped to converse with him.”

  “I’m sure he knows German,” Mama said. She patted his knee. “I also heard that music is a large part of their lives. When he plays with his children, he often has the royal band perform”

  “He plays with his children?” I asked. It was hard for me to imagine a king cavorting with his offspring-to music, no less.

  “That’s what I heard,” Mama said. “The king plays the violin and flute, and the queen can sing and is quite talented on the harpsichord.”

  Papa snickered. “We’ve heard that before.”

  “She could be talented,” Mama said. “Not all nobility exaggerate their gifts.”

  “Too many do.”

  He was right. It was often awkward-and even painful-to patiently listen to some gentleman or lady perform. And yet we’d all learned to smile and clap as if they had inspired us with their performance.

  Except Wolfie. He still spoke the truth far too often.

  The carriage slowed and pulled up in front of a redbrick mansion with white pilasters, doors, and window frames. Footmen came to open the door and helped us out.

  “We are here,” Papa said. “Make me proud, children.”

  The king had bought Buckingham House for his queen a few years earlier to give them a home near St. James’ Palace, where most of the royal functions were held. It was not as large as Schonbrunn in Vienna, and seemed quite modest compared to the magnificence of Versailles, but I liked it immediately. If such a large place-with its wide, sweeping staircase and massive rooms-could seem homey, it was Buckingham House.

  And the cozy feeling went beyond the ambiance of the building, for never had we received such a warm welcome. Walking through the house, people bowed to us and smiled widely, as if our very presence gave them pleasure. Papa even tried out his newest bit of English, “Good morrow,” and they said it right back. I put my arm around Wolfie’s shoulders, claiming him as my brother. They seemed especially charmed by this, and I heard many ahh’s as we passed by.

  We were led to a great hall where we were met by a stately looking man and woman in their twenties. “Welcome, welcome!” they said, taking Wolfie’s violin case from Papa and setting it aside so they could shake our parents’ hands. The man turned to Wolfie and me, leaning toward us as adults often did. He spoke to us in German. “So these are the talented children. Are you ready to play for us?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “We’re here to play for the king and queen,” Wolfie said.

  The man stood erect and laughed. The other people standing around joined in-but looked nervous. Then the man took our hands and led us through the crowd toward the front of the room, where a beautifully carved clavier was stationed. I glanced back at Mania and Papa. They had just exchanged a comment with each other but smiled at us encouragingly. Yet Papa’s brow was pulled. Something was wrong.

  “Here you are,” the man said, leading me to the bench. He turned to Wolfie. “Will you play violin while your sister accompanies?”

  “I will,” Wolfie said. But then he looked around. “But I need my instrument.”

  “Indeed you do,” said the man. He turned to his right, then clapped his hands. “The boy’s instrument!”

  Two servants ran toward the back of the room. During all this commotion, I noticed the young woman taking a seat at the front of the room in one of two grand chairs. I pulled in a breath. No. It couldn’t be. These two people couldn’t be the

  The servants returned and one of them handed the case to the man, offering a bow of his head. “Your Majesty.”

  It was true! This couple were the king and the queen of all England! Yet it wasn’t just their hospitable demeanor that had fooled us. They were not dressed as sumptuously as other royalty we’d met. In truth, my dress-and Mama’s-was fancier than the attire of the king and queen.

  While I was getting situated at the clavier, I’d been distracted by this revelation and had not heard what the king had last told us. Panicked, I looked to Papa for guidance, but he and Mania were being seated a short distance away in the front row. Others were also sitting now, ready to hear us play. But who was to play first? Had the king given a direction I’d missed?

  Wolfie readied his violin under his chin, his bow arm in place. He was ready for me to play. But which piece? We usually started with my playing alone on the clavier. But because the king had asked for both of us to play …

  Wolfie looked back at me. “Vivaldi,” he whispered.

  Ali. The sonata in G minor. I began, but it took me two full phrases to rid myself of the butterflies in my stomach. Yet once those were gone, the music took over and it didn’t matter who was in the room, or where the room was located. I could have been in the Americas or playing in a field. The world consisted of only my brother and me. And the sound … oh, the sound. When I closed my eyes, I felt it weaving its way between us, wrapping around my torso like the embrace of God giving me comfort and lifting me to places divine.

  Our fingers were not connected to our arms. Mere arms! Mere bodies! The sound came from our souls and merely borrowed our mortal bodies as a vehicle for release. For even without the playing, the music was. It existed. It was eternal, hanging in the cosmos, just waiting to be set free.

  Then suddenly, my hands were still. The combined notes of violin and clavier hung a moment as if wistful at leaving the here and now, unwilling to travel to that place
of waiting in the future where they might be set free once more.

  Applause broke through the stillness. I opened my eyes, and for an instant was surprised to see we were not alone. I put a hand to my cheek and found tears there. Wolfie looked back at me, and though he seemed a bit surprised by my tears, he smiled. He understood. We were a trio: Wolfie, me, and the music. A team and, even more, a partnership. A holy bond, greater than life or even death.

  The king rose. “Bravissimo!” He clapped as he walked toward us. But when he saw me up close, he started. “Oh my dear, Mistress Mozart. Tears?” He pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from his waistcoat and dabbed at my cheek. For my ears alone, he said, “The angels themselves were moved, my dear.” He pressed the handkerchief into my palm, and I knew it would be a prized keepsake, not of worth for itself but for the moment it brought to mind.

  In truth, the rest of the concert was a blur. I played well and did all that was expected of me, but for some reason, I did not recapture the glory of that first piece-nor did it leave me completely.

  Even later, during the carriage ride home, Papa’s happiness at being paid the equivalent of two hundred sixty-four florins did not touch my mood.

  Mama reached across the carriage and put her hand on mine. “Nannerl? Are you ill?”

  Papa’s eyebrows lowered. “You’re not getting sick, are you? We’ve been asked back to play again, and-”

  I shook my head. I was far from in.

  Wolfie poked me and mimicked throwing up.

  “No,” I said, just wanting to be left alone. “I’m fine.”

  “You did very well,” Papa said. “It was a great success. Nowhere have we experienced such a welcome. And the audience was not like those at Versailles, who often treated our performance as an intrusion into their true goal for the evening-their inane conversation. Tonight, the lords and ladies were attentive, and I could tell their interest spurred you to play your best.” He leaned forward and put a hand on each of our knees. “I am very proud of you, children.”

  On any other night I would have soaked in his praise, but tonight I could only pretend to be pleased. For there was a sorrow in my heart that railed against the elation I had felt during the first piece. It perplexed me, and I took solace looking out the window at the dark night, at the candle-lit windows as we passed.

  I’d experienced a good thing. A grand thing. So how could I feel sad?

  Then I thought of Papa’s words: “I could tell that their interest spurred you to play your best.”

  He was wrong.

  It had not been the kind words or the applause that had spurred me to play well, but a near-desperate desire to recapture the ecstasy of that first piece. But no matter how hard I’d tried, no matter how much I’d willed myself to leave the reality of the moment in order to find the fleeting breadth and breath of the music, it had evaded me like mist running from captive arms. Oh, dear music, come to me! Embrace me again!

  I felt Mama’s eyes and looked in her direction. She gave me a pensive smile. She knew something was wrong, yet I couldn’t share. She would think I was odd, or ungrateful, or even a bit mad. To have so much, yet long for an elusive something that held no definition-not in words, and certainly not in will.

  But then, with an intake of breath and a hand pressed to my chest, I realized what was truly bothering me.

  Fear. The fear that I might never find the moment again. I closed my eyes and offered a fervent prayer.

  But even as I sought His comfort, my throat tightened with a horrible thought that He may not grant my wish. Ever.

  Suddenly I was consumed with a terror that threatened to strangle me. “No!” I said. I reached for the handle of the carriage door, knowing, yet not caring, that we were moving through the London streets.

  “Nannerl!” Papa yelled. He grabbed my hand roughly and pushed me back into my seat. “What are you doing?”

  I couldn’t explain; I couldn’t put voice to it. My head shook back and forth, ineffectually speaking for me.

  I saw Wolfie pressed against the other end of our seat, his shoulder against the wall of the carriage, his face confused.

  “Wolferl. Change with me,” Mama said.

  They exchanged places, and within moments Mama’s arms were holding me close, pressing away the fear with her soft arms and gentle words. “Shh, shh, Nannerl. What’s upset you so?”

  I’d recaptured my breath but could not share my fear.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m sorry. I must have dozed and been dreaming.”

  Mama gave me an unbelieving look and rocked me close. I could hear her heart beating, beating, like a drum pounding the rhythm of a dirge. It was an appropriate accompaniment to the fear that was now a part of my being: This will end. It will all end. Soon …

  I closed my eyes and let Mama do what mamas do.

  “But I don’t feel sick,” Wolfie said. “I want to play.”

  Papa bustled about, smoothing his hair in a mirror. He’d told us he had an errand to do that had something to do with not playing at the benefit concert in London that Papa had arranged with the cellist Carlo Graziani. It had already been postponed once, from May seventeenth to the twenty-second-tomorrow-but today Papa had stormed into our room saying we would not be involved in the concert due to Wolfie’s being ill. He was on his way to post that fact in the Public Advertiser.

  He rushed out, the door slamming behind him. I turned to Mama. “I don’t understand. Wolfie’s not sick.”

  Wolfie slumped in a chair, his back curved, his chin to his chest. “I don’t understand either.”

  Mama glanced at the door, then back at us. She sat in an armed chair that had become her favorite and extended her hands to us. “Children.” She took a breath and offered a tined smile. “Your papa is very wise. He knows what’s best for all of us. Yes?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Right after God comes Papa,” Wolfie said.

  Mama stroked our upper arms and nodded. Then she said, “When we agreed to do the concert with Herr Graziani, we did not realize that nobody who has leisure or means remains in London at this time. They are all off to the country. We postponed once, but there are still no patrons in town.” She sighed. “And it does little good to play before a small audience of ordinary folk. Our livelihood depends on the correct people hearing us “

  “But I want to play!” Wolfie said.

  “And you will, dear one,” Mama said. “June fourth is the king’s birthday, and all the nobility will have to be back in town. Your father has decided to promote a new, better concert for the day after. On June fifth you will have an audience worthy of your talent and our hard work.” She took our hands and her smile was genuine. “Would you like to see the copy for the ad your papa wants to place?”

  We did. Mama rose and retrieved a paper on which there were many cross-outs. She and Papa had obviously worked hard on this advertisement. It read: Miss Mozart of eleven and Master Mozart of seven Year of Age, Prodigies of Nature; taking the opportunity of representing to the Public the greatest Prodigy that Europe or that Hunian Nature has to boast of Every Body will be astonished to hear a Child of such tender Age playing the Harpsichord in such a Perfection-it surmounts all Fantastic and Imagination, and it is hard to express which is more astonishing, his Executing upon the Harpsichord playing at Sight, or his own Composition.

  Wolfie clapped. “Bravo, Papa! Many people will come hear us.”

  I nodded, but was not as enthusiastic. Although Papa had mentioned me in the first line-again stating our ages as younger than we were-I was not mentioned again. The advertisement was all about Wolfie. He was the draw. I was-in all ways-the accompanist.

  Wolfie took my hands and did a jig, wanting me to join him. “We get to play! We get to play.”

  I shook his hands away. I took up my hat and headed to the door.

  “Where are you going, Nannerl?” Mama asked.

  “I’m going to wait for Papa.”

  It was a lie
.

  I went outside and turned left. There was a church in the square just a block away. It was not Catholic-since the creation of the Church of England two centuries earlier, Catholic churches had been changed over, though we had found one at the French Embassy. But unfortunately, that church was not close and I needed one. Now. Just like Papa, when I got an idea, now was always preferable to later. Especially when it concerned my need to talk to God.

  I entered the church with trepidation. Would I be welcome? Would God hear my prayers in such a place? Although I had heard Papa suggest that some points of Lutheranism might be valid (we even visited the church in Worms, where in 1521 Luther appeared before the council for his radical views), he had made it very clear that he wanted us to remain faithful to the Catholic faith. But surely he would not object to my seeking solace for my troubled soul?

  I opened the massive doors and stepped inside onto the worn stone floor of the vestibule. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the light. Straight ahead I could see a mighty altar with stained-glass windows behind. On either side were pews facing each otherwhich I thought odd.

  Before entering the sanctuary I looked for a font of holy water but found none. I’d never entered a house of worship without partaking of holy water. But my need was greater than my apprehension. I genuflected and slipped inside, taking a seat in the nearest pew. I waited for God to smite me down.

  He did not. In fact, I felt quite safe here. I even felt His presence.

  I noticed there were some other worshipers sitting quietly by themselves. It took me a few minutes to calm my breathing, which had grown labored from the swift walk as well as my nervousness. But soon I was ready to pray.