Mozart's Sister: A Novel (25 page)

“Wolfgang, be serious. No woman composes.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Remember Maria Antonia, the sister of Prince Maximilian? The one who sang your ‘Ah, Heaven, what have I done?’ in the voice of a cat whose tail is being pulled? Well, she writes operas in the Italian style, right? So there’s at least one other in the world.”

She was silent for a long time, then she murmured, “You compare me to the sister of a prince? Weren’t we the king and queen?”

V.

Countess Katharina Margarethe von Esser was in a bad mood that afternoon. Perhaps she was beginning to realize that her daughter played just as badly as she had at her first lesson. At home she insisted that she practice, and while Barbara obeyed, as soon as her mother left to go visiting, she slammed down the lid of the keyboard and moved on to games that were more fun. Her father had given her a mechanical duck that could squawk, smooth its feathers, peck at its feed, eat it, and even eliminate it; she adored this duck, and fed it cakes made of mud and raisins. Then there was her favorite among her ten dolls, the doll as big as she was, which could wear her clothes, the velvet and brocade skirts, the hoods and hats for going out—but she was inanimate and would never be able to play an instrument, lucky her! For the little countess, the day of her lesson was torture, and she would have done anything to avoid it, but parental dictates were not to be discussed, and so she rebelled by playing even more clumsily than she could, in the hope that her mother, sooner or later, would give up.

Nannerl seemed incapable of listening to her. She was sitting on the sofa beside the countess and, while Katharina nervously fanned herself, her face appeared lost in thought. She could no longer identify her own feelings, which changed continuously between frustration and satisfaction, resolve and a terrible sense of impotence. These were bitter thoughts, so she preferred to keep herself busy with practical duties and work, and avoid them; but if work was fruitless, as in the case of Barbara, she plunged inevitably into an abyss of depression and felt that her life had no meaning.

Suddenly the door opened and two people came in laughing loudly: Wolfgang and Mademoiselle Jeunehomme. They were elbowing and shoving each other, clutching their stomachs in hysterical laughter provoked by who knows what. The presence of Nannerl and the two visitors did not restrain them but, rather, seemed to increase their hilarity. Barbara stopped playing with an uncertain look, and even the countess’s fanning missed a beat.

“Excuse me, dear sister.” As he spoke, Wolfgang couldn’t stop howling. “I’m so sorry, Countess, it’s just that…that…” He was suddenly silent, and placing his hands on Mademoiselle Jeunehomme’s hips, he pushed her out of the room. Trying to suffocate a laugh that came out through his nose with a piglike sound, he addressed Barbara: “It’s just that we wanted to compliment you on your outstanding musicality.”

Then he went out, banging the door.

Katharina’s mobile jaw was paralyzed. It was clear as day that the two had been making fun of them, and if good manners had not prohibited her she would certainly have run after them and insulted them. It was Nannerl who tried to get to them: she jumped up and went to the door, opened it, and saw the two at the end of the hall, arm in arm, mocking her, imitating her.

She went back into the room and crossed it rapidly, then turned back, angrily wringing her hands. After a moment Barbara, to whom the interruption hardly mattered, burst out, “What should I do, start again?” Nannerl, continuing to pace, didn’t answer, and so, grunting, she began again.

The child’s hands seemed to play against each other rather than together. Undoubtedly she did it on purpose. And those two were surely listening, and continuing to mock her and, above all, her teacher. Wolfgang and the Frenchwoman were insolent, cruel brutes, but they were right. Barbara had one indisputable ability: to reduce a small graceful piece of music to something inelegant. What the author had intended was unrecognizable once it passed through her hands. Why was she, a Mozart, forced to endure such an insult? Not one, but a long series of insults. Teaching might make sense in some cases, but otherwise it was pure humiliation, of her professionalism and of her talent; and it was a lie that everyone accepted. Her students in general had little aptitude, and she knew it but couldn’t say so to them; even her mother realized it but would never say so, and the parents of the girls themselves were aware of it but kept up the pantomime as a matter of form. And meanwhile Barbara continued to pound on the keys, making sounds that were increasingly intolerable. Now she was playing very loudly, maybe to attract attention or maybe because that was her particular way of mocking the situation. Well, the little countess was the only worthwhile person in that bunch of hypocrites. She hated music and didn’t pretend not to. She came only because her idiot mother made her, and she wouldn’t dream of letting her think she liked it. She, too, was a victim, just like Nannerl. She had to help free Barbara from her yoke. She had to do something for her at least.

“Good Lord!” Fräulein Mozart cried with as much voice as she could. “You are hopeless, Barbara. You’re hopeless for music. You must stop coming to lessons. It’s just a waste of time.”

The little countess, for the first time since she had known her, smiled at her with immense gratitude and at that moment managed even to seem pretty. Katharina, on the other hand, deeply offended, took the child by the hand, dragged her away, and left the Mozart house, firmly intending never to return.

VI.

“What’s between you and that Frenchwoman?”

She had burst into the kitchen, where, by the light of a lamp, in the middle of the night, Wolfgang was transcribing scores. The young man glanced coldly at his sister.

“Nothing. And anyway, what’s it to you?” Placidly, he dipped his pen in the ink. “Oh damn, I’ve made a blot. Would you hand me a clean rag?”

She approached, restless. “Where’s the blot?”

She looked at the manuscript, but didn’t see it. She saw instead a piano part written in the elegant hand that she knew well and that resembled hers so much, with those slender brackets on the left side of the sheet of paper and the whimsical inclination toward the right of the bar lines. Then, on the upper line of the staff, she could make out a mass of notes, short, close together, which continued for many beats, delineating a section that was complex and intended for effect: a passage for a real virtuoso.

“What are you writing?” she asked, vaguely alarmed.

“A concerto, as you can clearly see. For piano, of course, and then strings, two oboes, two horns. As its title it will have the name of the artist who will perform it in front of six hundred people. Or even more, maybe, let’s hope. ‘Jeunehomme Concerto.’ Don’t you think it sounds good? Papa likes it a lot.”

She froze, then turned her back and went out. He shouted after her, “Didn’t you say you don’t want to play anymore? What am I supposed to do, Nannerl? Stop composing to imitate you?”

VII.

In fact there were more than six hundred people. What is more enticing than a local star who writes a concerto, and conducts it, for an international star? All the people of Salzburg identified with Wolfgang and were proud of him and, therefore, of themselves. The foyer of the theater was overflowing, and a frenzied crowd was pushing its way in; a pair of guards was ready to bar the doors to limit the flood. The canniest headed immediately for the orchestra to assure themselves of a seat, and those who could not resist a few moments of gossip were irritated, because the others stepped on their toes. Everyone was there: nobility, bourgeoisie, a few politicians, musician colleagues, amateur players, instrument sellers, the directors of rival theaters, a small group of military men, and then Katharina von Esser, Johann Baptist von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg, the Reverend Bullinger, and even Armand d’Ippold with Victoria.

But Nannerl wasn’t there.

Leopold and Anna Maria, clinging to each other, made their way through the throng; he was in the grip of uncontrollable anxiety, as if the concerto were his. “I’m going to make sure that everything is in place. You stay here,” he ordered, and disappeared into the hall. Frau Mozart, disoriented, looked around in search of a familiar face; everyone seemed taller than she, and she could distinguish only imposing wigs, necks covered by long hair tied with ribbons, and broad shoulders adorned with insignia. Suddenly a gap opened in the crowd, at the end of which she saw Countess von Esser, with her husband, the count, and another aristocratic couple. Katharina was wearing one of her magnificent outfits, a
robe à l’anglaise
of an ample cut but with narrow panniers: the last word in fashion. Anna Maria, who was wearing the same wine-colored dress she had worn at the court concert, felt she made a poor showing, but she knew that her friend was indulgent toward her lack of means and, with a big smile, joined her. That smile vanished immediately.

“Where is that rude daughter of yours?” the countess addressed her. “Did she stay at home to wallow in her spiteful behavior?”

Frau Mozart tried to ask for an explanation, but her throat was dry. The count looked at her haughtily. “Is this the mother of that Nannerl?” he asked.

“Yes, exactly,” the countess said, and turned to her friends. “That woman’s daughter is an extremely vulgar girl. She treated my Barbara in an unforgivable fashion, and in front of me! The only thing to say is: those of ignoble birth act ignobly. Let’s go, my dears, it’s time to take our seats.”

And she went off without a glance.

Anna Maria froze as the crowd hurried around her and the foyer emptied. A sensation of humiliation and dismay pressed against her eyelids. She saw a chair and collapsed into it, trying to get control of herself; she took a handkerchief from her purse, closed her eyes, and daubed at them, smudging her makeup. The first thing she saw as she reopened them was a pair of shapely masculine legs sheathed in breeches hemmed at mid-calf by a narrow ribbon. The man knelt down on one knee and took her hands. It was Baptist.

“Your daughter has nothing vulgar about her, Frau Mozart,” he said warmly. “And those of noble birth are worth very little, believe me. Nobility can be bought, and genius cannot: that is innate and touches the elect few. And your daughter is among the elect. You know I’m right.”

Anna Maria was in danger of bursting into tears again. “Yes, but Nannerl must correct her behavior once and for all. She must, damn it! She mustn’t always be so hard with people, or she’ll create an emptiness around herself. She’ll be a lonely, bitter, mean old maid.”

“No, Frau Mozart, don’t worry; that will never happen.”

“On the contrary. And what if I were not here, what would become of her? I could drop dead unexpectedly for some reason. It could happen anytime, even soon.”

“What are you saying, Madame? You are so young!”

Anna Maria touched his carefully shaved cheek in an impulse of maternal gentleness, and whispered, “Baron, you would be the right man for my daughter. It’s a real pity.”

Then she rose and went wearily into the hall.

She was greeted by the noise of the instruments tuning up, quietly, each on its own. There was not a single empty seat, and people were standing crowded along the walls, but luckily her husband had laid his coat over two seats in the front row. Leopold was on the stage giving some hysterical advice to Wolfgang, who, however, appeared calm and self-assured. An oboist called to him with a question; he went over and pointed to the score with an air of encouragement, then firmly, kindly, pointed his father to his seat.

The moment had arrived. Herr Mozart took his place beside his wife. The musicians stopped tuning their instruments, and silence fell on the audience as well. Mademoiselle Jeunehomme entered, sat down confidently at the piano, bowed her head briefly in concentration, then looked expectantly at the maestro, and Wolfgang, with a decisive gesture, gave the beat.

At the same instant, in the Mozart house, the key clicked in the lock of the piano lid, then dropped on the floor, and was lost under the instrument. The score of the concerto was ready on the music stand; an illicit copy made by Nannerl in secret.

Fräulein Mozart is alone in the music room, as bright as day in the light of lamps and candelabra; she observes her hands, whose nails, finally, are cut short—and she plays. There is no one around her. She can do it. Her family and the entire city are at the theater. No one will ever know. Not even Victoria. Not even Wolfgang. And not Mademoiselle Jeunehomme.

The two pianists play in unison. With the same mastery and the same passion. The same abandon and the same control. The same sweat dripping from pale foreheads onto the keys. The only difference is that Nannerl is alone, while the other is followed by a rapt, attentive audience that sometimes bursts into warm applause in the middle of the piece. Because it’s surprising, the “Jeunehomme Concerto.” It’s something that has never been attempted before, and Nannerl is aware that she would never be able to write such innovative music. But play it, yes. The piano is the protagonist from the opening bars. It plays a dialogue with the audience, creating a counterpoint that excites, a dramatic contrast that draws one into the heart of the action as soon as the curtain is raised. And then that series of embellishments that her brother has set out unequivocally, leaving nothing to the fancy of the interpreter, the most original trills and cadenzas that have ever been imagined; and the second movement, slower and of a shadowy beauty, with passages that seem inspired by a recitative in opera; and, finally, the fast-paced rondeau, with its disconcerting, restful minuetto right in the middle, an oasis in the heart of pure frenzy…