Mozart's Sister (14 page)

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.

But where to begin? I was not used to making up prayers: I said
ones from my prayer book or those taught to me as a child. Occasionally I'd offered one to the Almighty, but I was not good at such
things.

I sat forward and took hold of the pew in front of me. I rested
my forehead on my hands. Perhaps I shouldn't be praying. My
thoughts were far from pure.

"Miss?"

I sat back and saw an old man in a black coat standing in the
aisle. He wore a white cravat like a priest, except there were two
long bands hanging down upon his chest. Was he a pastor, a vicar,
a preacher? I repeated the line I had learned here in England. "I
speak no English."

He smiled. "Deutsch?"

Relief poured over me. `7a."

"Ways ist los?" he asked.

Much was the matter. But how much could I say to this man?
He was not a priest. And yet his manner was kind, his eyes attentive.

He spread a hand toward the pew. "May I sit?"

I moved over, giving him room. He sank onto the pew with a
groan as if his muscles complained. He spoke to me in German, his
accent good enough to make me believe he had lived there once.
"You come here with a problem?"

I nodded.

He smiled at me. "I listen well." He pointed upward. "And so
does He."

I nodded again and let a sentence loose. "Thou shalt not covet."

It was his turn to nod. "Ali. What do you covet?"

This was harder to say. "My brother ... I ..." I drew in a fresh breath. "My brother receives more attention than I. We used to be
equal, but now ... he has risen above me."

"'Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth."'

"But I am talented too."

His left eyebrow rose. He did not know who I was, and I was
not about to tell him. He put a hand on mine. "It's hard seeing
praise go to someone else. Make the Almighty proud, young miss.
For `Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a
fall. "

I had not heard these words before.

The pastor took a deep breath. "And perhaps it is also difficult
seeing him take too much pride in himself? Perhaps your brother
makes you feel unworthy?"

I shook my head vehemently. "But he doesn't! He's very gracious. He's my best friend."

"Then who?"

I stood. I did not want to delve further into my thoughts, even
if they could be offered as prayer. "I must go," I said.

I fled the church and ran home to Mama, who loved me. To
Wolfie, who encouraged me.

And to Papa.

Although we did not reschedule our concert with the cellist Carlo
Graziani, Papa did follow through and arrange our public debut for
the day after the king's birthday, on June fifth, when everyone would
be back in town. If only the concert could have been in the winter,
we might have gotten up to six hundred people, but as it was, there
were over two hundred in attendance, and those, from the highest
classes. Ambassadors and nobles. Papa arranged the whole thing,
renting a hall down by St. James' Park, getting music stands, two
harpsichords, candles, and even hiring extra musicians. We had two
singers, a violinist, and a cellist. Papa charged half a guinea admission. Even with all the expenses, we made a profit of ninety guineas,
receiving nearly four times as much as we'd received playing at
Buckingham House-and that fee had been generous.

But even though I was glad about the income that caused Papa
such happiness, what truly brought gladness to my heart was what
he wrote to our dear friend Hagenauer. He read it aloud to all of us
before sending it. "What it all amounts to is this, that my little girl,
although she is only twelve years old, is one of the most skillful
players in Europe, and that, in a word, my boy knows in this his
eighth year what one would expect only from a man of forty." He
lowered the letter and peered at us over his glasses. "See what pride
I feel?"

I ran to his side and hugged him. Wolfie climbed onto his lap.
"I love you, Papa," I said.

He cleared his throat and nodded. "Now, now Away, children.
It's bedtime."

As I let Mama herd us away, I looked back and caught Papa
wiping his eyes.

Papa loved London and called England an exceptional nation.

We agreed with him and appreciated England for much more
than its generosity. There was a sense of freedom here we had never
experienced before, and a politeness between the few hundred Londoners who lived lavishly and those who did not.

One day, right from our window, we saw thousands of workers
filing past, all wearing the green apron of a weaver. They brandished
black flags and called out their protests against some French-import
policy that was costing them employment. Their sheer numbers
were intimidating.