Mozart's Sister (19 page)

The innkeeper made it very clear we could not stay. Papa sought
the help of a friend, Count Podstatsky, who made light of the fact
that Wolfie had the pox and ordered rooms to be readied in his own
home. He sent his private physician to the inn, from where Wolfie
was dispatched to the count's home, again swathed in furs, his red
swollen face nearly overwhelmed by the protective coverings.

At the count's we were waited on by his staff and treated with
such kindness that we thought it was Christ himself showing us
divine compassion. And though Wolfie suffered blindness for nine
days, he did recover.

As did I. For I too got the smallpox. Obviously, the pockmarks
of my youth had offered no immunity. Papa had risked my life, leaving me behind....

I was not allowed such self-pity for long. After being away from
home, away from Vienna for two months, enter the opera, Lafinta
semplice-The Pretend Simpleton, and with it another testing of the
familial ties.

After the smallpox epidemic had passed, we returned to Vienna,
needing six horses to pull our carriage through the January snowdrifts. It was safe now, for once the imperial family accepted the miracle of inoculation, everyone else followed suit. In spite of the
state of mourning at court, Papa still held on to the hope that we
would be allowed to perform, that our trip to Vienna would find
some profit. Yet people were wary of us because of the pox. It didn't
help that Wolfie's pockmarks appeared redder in the cold. And I also
heard talk that this time our musical "tricks" would not be so
quickly accepted with pleasure. Had we become passe?

Yet, only nine days after we returned to the center of Vienna,
three months after the death of the Archduchess Maria Josepha, we
were presented at court in a private event attended by the imperial
family. It went well-for others. Mama and the empress spoke passionately about childhood illnesses and our Grand Tour, and Wolfie
and Papa chatted with the emperor Joseph about music.

I received no attention-other than one single time when the
emperor commented on my blossoming beauty, which, of course,
was pure flattery. It was clear I was of no consequence, any more
than a nice vase or a finely upholstered chair. There was no attention
given to me as a musician, or as an exceptional young woman of
any kind. And we received no compensation, except a pretty medal
that had no monetary value. Apparently, the empress had gotten into
the habit of leaving issues of payment to her son, the emperor, who
was very tight with his coins. Papa said, "The emperor enters it in
his book of oblivion and believes that he has paid us by his most
gracious conversations."

I would have liked to be a part of such conversations, but once
again, Wolfie got the nod. In jest Emperor Joseph mentioned something to Wolfie and Papa about Wolfie composing an opera. It was
nothing really, not a request, more of a comment made during small
talk. Most certainly not a commission.

Yet Papa jumped on the idea as if our heavenly Father had
requested an additional book to the Bible. Actually, I believe the
idea was in his head all along, and he simply took the emperor's
comment as vindication of his own will. A sign. An accomplishment
that would lead us to the land of opera-Italy.

For the next seven months, the opera was the thing, the only
thing. Oh yes, how it would increase Wolfie's notoriety to compose
an opera at age twelve. Any other attempts to procure us concerts halted so Wolfie could concentrate on this great composition. "Shh,
Nannerl! Your brother needs silence to work" rang through our
rooms, forcing me to find solace on long walks where I'd often end
up in the square, feeding pigeons. I began to name them. There was
Alfons, Dieter, Klaus, and Henrietta. At least they liked me and took
what I had to offer.

Snow yielded to green. And heat. And dust ... We hadn't
brought summer clothes with us, only furs and wools. Papa sent
word to Herr Hagenauer to send some lighter garments.

Yet, in spite of the boredom and the endless days, I found that I
could not stay angry at my brother. Poor Wolfie. Forget playing ball
or tag or marbles-Papa had him holed up in the room for hours a
day. And though I knew my brother enjoyed it, I wondered if he
missed just being a boy and doing boyish things. Perhaps. Perhaps
not.

Finally, in July, the opera was complete and I looked forward to
a return to normalcy. Perhaps the focus could return to both of the
Mozart children.

But the completion of the opera was only the start of new
troubles. In trying to get it produced, negative talk surfaced-on
both sides. As people spoke disparagingly about the opera, Papa
talked badly about the nobility's taste for inconsequential music, and
despaired over their tight pockets. Since Emperor Joseph was tight,
so were they. Papa said, "If the chief is extravagant, everyone lets
things rip. But if the chief economizes, everyone wants to have the
most economical household." This philosophy was not good for our
pocketbook.

Papa began to feel there was a jealousy-based conspiracy against
us. He accused all the keyboard players and other composers in
Vienna of talking in against Wolfie's work. Papa even arranged to
have one of those who spoke against Wolfie listen to him play. Afterward, the man agreed Wolfie's skill was unbelievable. But it didn't
silence the gossip.

At that point Papa hoped to get the singers to support the work,
as well as get some backing from the aristocracy. But toward this
end, Papa miscalculated. The manager of the theater, Giuseppe
Af ligio, was having money troubles and only wanted to produce sure things. An opera by a mere boy, one that didn't have the complete support of other composers and musicians, was not what he
had in mind. Plus, any support Papa might have had with nobility
meant nothing to this businessman who was not beholden to the
aristocracy (we'd heard that the imperial family did not even pay for
their boxes). Paying seats had to be filled. Period.

Then, while dealing with the frustrations of getting Wolfie's
opera produced in Vienna, near the end of December, Papa got a
decree from the archbishop, ordering him to return to Salzburg.
Now. Papa did not comply.

This threat was also made to other Salzburg musicians who'd
traveled to Vienna and had not returned, so we were not solely persecuted. But to complicate matters further, we heard that Joseph
Meissner, whose bass voice was greatly appreciated, reacted to the
archbishop's request by moving on to Frankfurt. Papa didn't think
he would ever return. This would not improve the archbishop's
mood.

Yet doggedly Papa insisted we stay and get Wolfie's opera produced. "Never venture, never win," Papa said. And though I did not
tell him my opinion, I thought it was a mistake to stay. Especially
when the rumors we heard about the opera were so daunting. Boring or not, I longed for the stability of Salzburg.

But Papa said, "Should I sit back in Salzburg with the empty
hope of some better fortune, let Wolfgang grow up, and allow all of
us to be made the fool until I'm too old to travel and until Wolfgang
looks too old to be the prodigy? Was this opera for nothing? Should
Wolfgang not continue along this current road that is so easy to
follow?"

Easy to follow? The road seemed arduous and even dangerous
in my eyes, like trying to walk on the icy Danube, fearful that any
moment the ice might break and topple us into its freezing currents.
I, for one, did not want to be swept away.

Was Papa brave or reckless? I rarely questioned his decisions, but
this time ... since the singers said they couldn't sing the parts (amazingly, many couldn't read music and had to learn their parts by ear)
and the musicians didn't like the idea of being conducted by a boy,
continuing on this road seemed foolhardy. Plus, there were complaints that the rhythm combined with the Italian lyrics was
slightly off. Were these complaints valid? Without hearing all the
portions played together, I couldn't be sure. Although my brother
was talented, was he this talented? At age twelve?

And then to add salt to our wound, people started saying Papa
wrote the music, not Wolfie. Papa said, "If a man has no talents, he
is unhappy enough; but if he has talents, envy pursues him in proportion to his ability."

To dispel the rumors, Papa arranged for another test. He had
people bring in librettos and made Wolfie compose music for the
words on the spot. Wolfie did well, and people believed in his talent.
Once again Papa pressed the idea that Wolfie was God's gift to
music, and anyone who didn't agree was not allowing God the
honor He deserved.

Perhaps Papa pressed too much?

One evening, when we were at a performance of someone else's
opera, I stood near two local composers during intermission. What
I heard chilled me. They were talking about Wolfie's opera, as well
as Papa and Wolfie. "If I hear that father say the boy is a gift from
God one more time ..."

"I know Enough, I say."

"So my talent is not from God? I beg to differ."

"Ah, but you are not eleven."

The first man laughed. "And neither is he. I've heard the father
lies about his age."

"Oh, really?" The man looked across the room where Papa was
introducing Wolfie to a group of adults. "The boy is small in stature....

"But large in ego. Or soon will be with a father like that. Vienna
does not need an upstart barging into our territory, trying to take
over.

"The boy or the father," the man said, laughing.

"The father is worse than the boy. For now."

"I've heard the father is on the verge of being fired by the archbishop back in Salzburg."

"As he should be. And if he thinks he can obtain the patronage
of another member of the aristocracy ... no one around here would hire Leopold for their court. He is not worth the trouble. In spite
of the son's talents."

"And the daughter's."

"Is she still around?"

"I assume. Although I haven't heard of her of late. Perhaps she's
back in Salzburg."

"Getting married and having babies, no doubt."

They moved away. But I could not move. Their words were like
a smothering blanket. To hear my family disparaged, and my own
talent dismissed.

Rumors. Just rumors.

And yet ... I felt they held more truth than falsehood. For I
agreed with the sentiment of "enough" regarding Papa's deification
of my brother.

Mama walked toward me, the swish of her blue taffeta gown
adding to her gentle rhythm. "Come, Nannerl. The opera is resuming. 11

I did my duty and sat in my place. But I did not listen to the
notes; I did not appreciate the phrasing nor marvel at the talent. I
could not. For my soul was too distressed.

It was only after I received an odd look from the man selling
hazelnuts in front of St. Stephen's cathedral that I realized I'd walked
around the church-and in front of him-three times. Even as I
started on trip number four, I vowed not to pass him again. I had to
get past my anger. I had to let it go.

To do so, I needed to throw the offending letter away, banish it
from my mind.

But I could not.

I slowed my pace and read the letter from my friend Katherl one
more time, my eyes finding the offending passage like a flagellating
monk suffering for a cause: I spoke with Frau Hagcnaucr the other day
and asked for news of you. She responded by saying that your father's letters
to their family have not even mentioned you. Are you all right? Are you
even there?

I lowered the letter. Was I all right?

I stopped at the back side of the cathedral, wadded up the letter,
and tossed it to the ground. It blew in front of a woman begging for
coins at the foot of the spires. She picked it up and, with a glance
in my direction, unfolded the angry creases. She smoothed it against
her thigh, muttering to herself in a way that made me question the
stability of her mind. Then she held up the page, adjusting the reading distance. And though I doubted she could read, the thought that
anyone else would read of my humiliation and my father's disregard
incensed me beyond reason. I rushed toward her and grabbed the
letter out of her hands. "That's mine!"

Two other women begging close by rose to their feet. "You give
that back to her!"

"It's my letter," I said.

The first woman looked to her allies. "She took it from me! A
letter from my husband it is, a letter from beyond the grave."

The other two beggars moved forward, obviously unable-or
unwilling-to recognize the lack of logic in her explanation. To
them a possession was a possession, no matter how great or small in
value.

But this was my letter, and I would not let her keep it.

I clutched the letter to my chest and started to walk away, but
the youngest of the women rushed in front of me. Her teeth were
cracked and brown, her face streaked with dirt. She held out a hand.
"Give it back!"