Mozart's Sister (11 page)

And then ... we got invited by Madame Pompadour to play in
her private apartments.

The king's mistress. Oh my.

By that time I'd heard more about her. She'd been married
when she'd come to court twenty years previous and had met King
Louis at a masquerade ball. They'd had an affair and she became his
mistress. She left her husband for him.

But what if she hadn't wanted to leave her husband? What if the
husband hadn't wanted her to go?

I suppose neither one had had much choice.

She was the king's mistress for five years, but since then had been
his confidante, even directing him on political matters. Some say she
pushed him to get involved in that Seven Years' War France and
Austria had fought against England and Prussia-a war that had even
carried over onto the soil of the Americas, where native Indians
were involved. The whole thing had been resolved the previous
February, but its effects were still seen. Yet it was odd ... although
we saw great poverty and hardship among the common people, the
royalty at Versailles acted as if nothing had ever happened, as if
extravagance was the key to their country's recovery. Did they act
that way because they wanted to forget anything unruly or
unseemly?

Papa said Madame Pompadour was a handsome woman, still good-looking, even if she was forty-five-about Mama's age. She
reminded him of our own empress Maria Theresa, especially in her
eyes. She was tall and stately, stout, but very well proportioned. She
was extremely dignified and very intelligent.

I thought it odd Papa would agree for us to perform in her
chambers. He and Mama had made it clear (at least to us, in private)
that they did not approve of spouses being unfaithful. Yet it was as
though there were two courts at Versailles. One belonging to the
queen and the royal children, and the other to this mistress. People
lived how they wished here. Life was very sensual. Mama and Papa
had the opinion that if God was not especially gracious, the French
state would suffer the fate of the former Persian Empire, which had
prospered with trade and art but was broken by weak rulers and
decadence. I did not know much of empires, but I wondered something of a more personal nature-wouldn't the queen know of our
performance before Madame and be offended?

Papa thought it wise to play both sides-at least at first. But he
urged us to keep our ears open to what people were saying about us
so we could parry to the other side if advantage was to be made.

"A paradise!" Papa whispered as we entered Madame's apartments. There was gold everywhere and painted furniture, heavy
with carving. Her harpsichord was covered in gold leaf, lacquered,
and painted in intricate detail. The rooms looked out on the gardens. On the wall were two life-sized portraits-one of herself and
one of the king.

She was very gracious and lifted Wolfie onto the bench of the
harpsichord. Then an odd thing happened. We'd been so used to
hugs and kisses, and Wolfie-being of a demonstrative nature anyway-embraced her. But she repelled his affection, as if she wanted
none of it. Wolfie pouted a bit and did not play his best. Afterward,
when we were back in our room, he exclaimed, "Who does she
think she is, not wanting to kiss me? Why, the empress herself kissed
me!"

Mama consoled him, and Papa agreed it was rude. I remained
quiet, for I never got as many hugs and kisses as my brother. Yet I
did get praise. Just that day I'd heard Papa telling a gentleman, "My
little girl plays the most difficult pieces with unbelievable precision and in such a manner that even fine musicians cannot conceal their
jealousy." I hoped he wasn't just speaking as my father but out of
true appreciation.

In regard to the choice between Madame Pompadour's court
and the queen's? Even though we played for both, Papa chose the
queen's. He cemented his choice by suggesting Wolfie dedicate two
of the four sonatas he'd composed (and that we were having
engraved) to the queen's court. One was to Madame Victoire, the
most shy of the queen's daughters, and the second was dedicated to
a lady-in-waiting who was the daughter of an influential duke. Papa
also made sure the engravings noted that the composer was only
seven years old. We looked forward to the furor that would cause.

All these women of influence ... We came to see that it was
women who made things happen in Paris. They were the people
who could help us-or hurt us. It was odd to see women have such
power, but it was the Parisian way. Being a woman of influence ...
Perhaps one day I would end up in this place, as a great woman
musician.

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.