Mozart's Sister: A Novel (22 page)

“There, you see? You’ve said it, too; it’s serious!”

“No, I didn’t say that. Calm down, Mama. In any case it’s no use torturing yourself. Whatever has happened, from here you can do absolutely nothing about it.”

“You certainly know how to comfort a person!”

“He’s the one who wanted us to stay home, right?” she said, shrugging her shoulders and raising her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth.

“It’s pointless to talk to you,” Anna Maria declared in irritation, then she took the cup in her hands and swallowed a mouthful of soup that burned her esophagus. “Tresel!” she cried. “Good heavens, didn’t you let it cool a little before serving it?”

“Frau Mozart, it was you who told me to hurry.”

“It’s true,” Nannerl added. “You said you were hungry.”

“What’s wrong with you two? Are you in league against me?” Frau Mozart was about to launch into a string of remonstrances when Nannerl cut her off with a surprise announcement.

“Mama, I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve decided to give a concert at court.” Then, very calmly, she took the spoon, filled it with soup, blew on it, and swallowed.

Frau Mozart’s face was miraculously, suddenly transformed. Her eyebrows widened, her pout dissolved, her lips relaxed, and, her eyes alight with excitement, she exclaimed, “At court? You, sweetheart?”

XXVI.

The news spread rapidly through Salzburg. The good people of the city waited impatiently for the
rentrée
of Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart, Anna Maria had transformed the bedroom into a dressmaker’s atelier, and, meanwhile, Victoria was practicing secretly ten hours a day; she no longer felt pain in her wrists, and between her knuckles small, round, powerful muscles had developed.

“Oh, it looks wonderful on you,” Frau Mozart said happily, arranging the muslin around the neckline. “You are really a fashion plate, Nannerl, dear. When you take your bows everyone will see how lovely you are! Isn’t it true, Tresel, that she looks like an angel?”

The servant, pouring coffee into the cups, let out a monosyllable open to various interpretations.

“Now make a nice curtsy, a preview, just for me,” Anna Maria said and stepped away, admiring again the costly work of the dressmaker, which squeezed the girl’s bust like a trap and at the waist opened out over the hips in a puff of yellow taffeta dotted with flowers, and then fell to the floor in an exultation of flounces. To encourage her, the mother clapped and said, “Come, my love, place your hands on the sides of the skirt, lightly, then cross your feet and bend your knees just slightly. And don’t forget: smile.”

Nannerl followed the instructions with scant interest, remaining as stiff as a pole, but in any case the whalebone stays would have impeded any attempt to bend.

“No, dear, that won’t do. You look like a sack of potatoes. Watch me.” She positioned herself and then performed an elaborate bow, with a wide smile that, more than anything else, made evident the lack of a pair of premolars. “Luckily you still have all your teeth. Come, try again and let me see them.”

With appreciable effort Nannerl repeated the bow, obviously holding her breath, and even managed to smile.

“Excellent, sweetheart. You’re a wonder. The baron will die when he sees you.”

“Let’s hope it happens before he leaves home, so he’ll stay there.”

“Oh, come. He wouldn’t miss it in any case. Or who will read the famous poem?”

Nannerl looked at her. “What poem?”

“The one he wrote for you, you know? ‘My Lady Nannerl in Springtime’! He’s supposed to recite it at the beginning of the concert.”

“And who gave him permission?” Nannerl asked with some irritation.

“The master of ceremonies, of course! Countess von Esser told me that his proposal had been accepted immediately and with great enthusiasm. It seems odd that you don’t know anything about it.”

Nervously Nannerl began to take off the dress, and Tresel went to help her.

“And to tell you the truth, there are a couple of other things that seem to me a little odd,” Anna Maria continued, scrutinizing her daughter, but she was busy fighting with the laces and didn’t notice. “First of all, why haven’t you complained that the bust is too tight and you won’t be able to play?”

The question left Nannerl nonplussed. She murmured, “Really, it’s not so tight.”

“Heavens! Only a few years ago you would have been complaining endlessly! And then there’s another thing I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?” she asked, somewhat tense.

“Why in the world don’t I hear you practicing? I was expecting you to shut yourself in the music room for weeks at a time, and yet you haven’t been playing at all.”

Instinctively Nannerl hid her hands behind her back, just under Tresel’s nose, as she was busy unlacing the corset. With a strained smile she said, “What’s the matter, Mama, are you afraid I’ll make you look bad?”

“Oh, not at all. You were always wonderful, and you will be again this time, I have no doubt.” She went to her and caressed her cheek. “Do what seems best to you, you’re the musician, and I don’t understand anything about it. Tresel, did you put on the water for the bath?”

“Yes, Frau Mozart, some time ago. Do you want me to check it?”

“No, dear, I’ll go. You help Nannerl take off all those things, and hang them up neatly on the mannequin, please.” She disappeared through the door. Nannerl, staring out the window, stood still as Tresel undressed her. With surprising audacity, a swallow landed on the windowsill and chirped merrily, but she, absorbed, didn’t even hear it. The skirt was spread on the chair, the bustier laced around the wooden torso, the petticoats hanging on hooks, when she heard Tresel’s harsh voice.

“You’re fond of that girl, eh?”

Nannerl shook herself and looked at Tresel in bewilderment.

“Try to be a little fonder of yourself,” the servant said, then brusquely handed her a dressing gown and went out.

XXVII.

The Knights’ Hall at the Palace was overflowing, and the final latecomers hurried up the grand staircase in a swish of skirts and clicking of heels, as a few three-cornered hats, slipping out of the careless hands of the owners, rolled down the steps. The local nobility had turned out in its usual fashionable rivalry, in an orgy of colors bright enough to wound the optic nerve. Even Anna Maria, as the esteemed mother of the performer, had been busy: she wore a wine-colored dress embroidered with silver, with a wide neckline adorned with ribbons and braid. It was impressive, but a mere rag compared to the superb toilette of Katharina von Esser, in bright pink with orange insets, the skirt draped with lace and supported by panniers so broad that she had to perform complex maneuvers to get through doorways. The task had been completed, however, and she had spread herself out on a sofa intended for three, occupying it entirely. To speak to her in confidence, Frau Mozart was forced to stand behind her.

“I’ve already received five new requests for lessons,” she murmured in excitement. “You see, Countess? Five, even before the start! After the concert it will be at least three times that.”

“My dear, are you really sure it’s a good thing?” Countess von Esser asked, pretending to enjoy the perfume of the flower—artificial, of course—that was sewn onto her glove.

“Well, of course. Why, don’t you think so?”

“My friend, I can understand the needs of your family, but I wouldn’t like Nannerl to be transformed into a sort of vestal of music. At this rate she is in danger of being occupied night and day with her pupils, and completely neglecting her social life. Let’s be clear: the baron’s patience is not infinite, and if Nannerl insists on refusing him, which sincerely grieves me, we must bow to the inevitable and go in search of someone she likes. Otherwise, we really are in danger of having her beauty wither in solitude. Don’t you think?”

Frau Mozart nodded silently as she observed her daughter, who at that moment seemed farther than ever from romantic proposals: she was talking, in fact, with the Reverend Joseph Bullinger. The two were standing near the platform on which the harpsichord stood, and the man of the church had placed his large hands on her shoulders affectionately.

“I am so happy for you, my dearest girl,” he said.

“Really, Father?” she said, lowering her head.

“Oh, of course! I was afraid that you had abandoned your gifts forever, and that made me profoundly unhappy. Let me tell you one thing, Nannerl, please. Sacrifice is not always a meritorious act and meant for good; it is so only when it makes us genuinely happy:
quo veraciter beati esse possimus.
And self-punishment has never made anyone happy, my girl.”

She was evidently uneasy, and he thought it was because of his preacherly tone.

“You’re right; I shouldn’t speak to you like that just when you are about to perform. I should be happy for you, and express my good wishes and no more than that. But the truth is I’ve thought about you a great deal, and until now I haven’t had an opportunity to speak to you. I’ve seen you rather seldom in church.”

“It’s true, Father, and I’m sorry.”

He stopped her with a gesture. “You mustn’t ask pardon of me. And in any case I’m certain that from now on things will change. A return to performance is like coming back to life for you; I read it clearly in your aspect and in your more tranquil movements. Now, that’s enough. I’m going to sit in the first row. And my attention, my dear, will be all on your art.”

He embraced her, and she hid her tense face in his ecclesiastical robe. As soon as he moved to go and take his seat, she turned her back. Her guilty gaze rested on a small door behind the stage, then on the proudly garbed audience assembled there for her, and, finally, on her mother, who, seated in the middle of the room, gestured encouragingly toward her—poor woman. The prince-archbishop had settled himself on the throne, a shriveled old man of power, and inclined his head toward her, the performer, with a benevolent air; beside him was Major d’Ippold, a robin redbreast in his uniform. He, however, avoided looking at her, ostentatiously, perhaps still harboring ill feelings toward her. And if everything went according to plan, the major really would detest her; he would want to run her through with his sword…But the chamberlain had already taken his place and was introducing the program. The evening’s entertainment was officially beginning, and it was too late for second thoughts. So Nannerl drew up her courage and, in a silence charged with expectation, mounted the stage beside Baron Johann Baptist von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg.

The poet held in his hands a creased parchment, and his magnetic eyes had lost much of their usual mockery, which made him even more handsome. Nannerl sat in a chair at the side while he prepared to make public the verses he had written for her and, with them, the violent attraction he felt for her. He unrolled his parchment and began to read with a surprising lack of inflection.

“My Lady Nannerl in Springtime

Winter are your hands,

locked promises, motionless, tenacious.

Summer is your voice

Of vibrant, quiet gold, and unexpected thunder…”

The baron’s voice was a steady sensual whisper. Nannerl listened to him, struck in spite of herself by verses so unlike the ones she was by now used to.

“Autumn is your hair,

soft and loose, warm in color.

Springtime is your face,

its fresh scents, a tender glow.”

He stopped and rolled up the parchment. The audience remained in bewildered silence.

“That’s it, ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

There was faint, polite applause; hands clapped without conviction, while a perplexed murmur of voices arose. The only one who exhibited no sign at all was the archbishop, for he had fallen asleep and was snoring lightly.

Katharina nodded to Frau Mozart to come to her. “My dear,” she whispered, “I fear that the baron has gone mad. I’ve never heard anything so awful, without even a rhyme! Maybe your daughter is not completely wrong in refusing him. That man must be mentally unstable.”

On the stage the unstable man had gone over to Nannerl, and she was looking at him in a new way. She offered him her hand without even thinking about it, and he took it and, kissing it ardently, noticed the long, uncared-for nails. His expression became skeptical and perplexed: How could Nannerl play, with those claws? They would get caught between the keys and break off; and surely the fingers could not run swiftly nor the pads have the proper sensitivity. She guessed his thoughts, pulled her hand away, and said, “It’s time, Baron. If you don’t mind…”

With those eyes of different colors, Baptist gave her a puzzled look and went to sit in the audience.

Slowly, Nannerl reached the instrument. She raised the lid. She turned to the audience and for an instant didn’t move. She distinctly felt her heart beating against her chest; she breathed through dilated nostrils. With all her soul she prayed that things would go well. With all her soul she asked forgiveness for the lie she had told. With all her soul she tried to convince herself that she was acting for the good. After all, what had the Reverend Bullinger said? Giving to our neighbor is a good thing when it makes us happy. And this particular gift had made her happy, up to that moment; and would make her ecstatic, if only God would help Victoria not to be overwhelmed by emotions.