Mozart's Sister (13 page)

But as in France, fichus were worn about the neck, demurely
covering the chest (as the necklines were low), and lace was the one
common decoration. The fabrics seemed lighter in weight, and
there were many hand-painted patterns on both silk and cotton.
Painting on fabric? Who would have thought of such a thing? We
were used to patterns being woven, yet we heard this new type of
printed fabric was inspired by the English traders who'd been to the
Orient and India. England had earned the title of being the master
of colonization, having spread her dominance across the world from
America to India and beyond. The entire country benefited from
such trade.

Yet often, oddly, we found it difficult to tell upper-class from
lower. There was less ostentation, less heralding one's position
through dress and presence. The distinction between middle and
high, ordinary and privileged, was blurred. Even beggars were elevated from the utter hopelessness we'd seen in Paris. In London they
didn't just beg but offered something for the trouble-a quill toothpick, a flower, thread, ribbons, or even a song.

The immensity of London overwhelmed us. Looking down at
the Thames River from London Bridge, I was amazed by a forest of
ship masts. And at a zoo I saw an elephant and a horselike animal
that had white and coffee brown stripes so evenly spaced that no
one could paint them better. While I was interested in parks and
animals, Papa was interested in business. He discovered there were
1,318 night watchmen, 166 public paupers' schools, and fifty squares
in London. And the trade directory was the thickness of two fingers
and was so commodious that it had to be arranged alphabetically.
Certainly, London was beyond any Salzburger's imagination.

We immediately felt conspicuous in our French clothes-which
we had purchased in order to fit in while living in France. In fact,
we experienced prejudice because of them. Some street urchins
yelled at us, crying out, "Down with the French!" Apparently, the
animosity of the war was still alive. Papa took us shopping the very
next day. He mumbled about the expense, but it was important we
fit in, for if we elicited the ire of mere peasants with our dress, how
could we hope to gain the favor of gentlemen and ladies?

Mama and I enjoyed our new wide-brimmed hats, and though
he would not admit it, Papa looked proud in his new waistcoat and
tricorn hat, with Wolfie strutting around in his smaller version. We
were all quite dapper. It was an English word I enjoyed saying, the
sound making me laugh aloud. Dapper.

Other things we had to attend to upon entering this new country involved obtaining proper coinage (they did not take French
money) and delivering letters of introduction so we could begin to
perform. Papa handled all this in his usual expert manner, even
though language was continually a barrier. Papa's desire to learn the
language was a good ambition-one he took to with aplomb.

But then the miracle-after only four days in London we were
on our way to give our first concert for the king and queen at Buckingham House. Papa was excited that we'd been able to get started
so quickly because our expenses had mounted. "I did not travel to
England for the sake of a few thousand gulden."

I grew weary about the constant need for money. Although I
knew the tour made my parents happy, although I knew we were
seeing parts of the world that would be inaccessible if we did not give concerts, sometimes I longed for the simple days when we used
to play in the Hagenauers' parlor. Yet as soon as I allowed myself
such thoughts, I forced them away. Ungrateful girl. If I was going to
be a great female musician, then I had to pay the piper. I took the
whole thing very seriously. My brother did not.

On the way to the estate, Wolfie looked out the window of the
carriage and saw a group of dogs run past. He began to make dog
noises, whimpering, barking softly. I poked him in his side to get
him to stop.

He accidentally kicked Papa.

"Enough!" Papa said. "We'll be there soon. Behave yourselves."

I was immediately still, but not Wolfie. He dropped something
on the floor of the carriage. When he was retrieving it, I felt a tugging. He'd untied the ribbons on my shoes. I opened my mouth to
tell on him, but he put a finger to his lips, daring me to be quiet.

In the seat across from us, Papa looked over his glasses. "What's
going on?"

I'd get him back later.

"Who's going to be there, Papa?" Wolfie looked up at our
father, the essence of innocence.

I leaned over and tied my shoes. In double knots.

"King George the Third and Queen Charlotte will be there. He
is German," Papa said proudly.

"But I've heard he is also very English," Mama said. "He was
the first Hanoverian king to be born on English soil. English is his
first language."

"Oh." Papa sounded disappointed. "I'd hoped to converse with
him."

"I'm sure he knows German," Mama said. She patted his knee.
"I also heard that music is a large part of their lives. When he plays
with his children, he often has the royal band perform"

"He plays with his children?" I asked. It was hard for me to
imagine a king cavorting with his offspring-to music, no less.

"That's what I heard," Mama said. "The king plays the violin
and flute, and the queen can sing and is quite talented on the harpsichord."

Papa snickered. "We've heard that before."

"She could be talented," Mama said. "Not all nobility exaggerate
their gifts."

"Too many do."

He was right. It was often awkward-and even painful-to
patiently listen to some gentleman or lady perform. And yet we'd all
learned to smile and clap as if they had inspired us with their performance.

Except Wolfie. He still spoke the truth far too often.

The carriage slowed and pulled up in front of a redbrick mansion with white pilasters, doors, and window frames. Footmen came
to open the door and helped us out.

"We are here," Papa said. "Make me proud, children."

The king had bought Buckingham House for his queen a few
years earlier to give them a home near St. James' Palace, where most
of the royal functions were held. It was not as large as Schonbrunn
in Vienna, and seemed quite modest compared to the magnificence
of Versailles, but I liked it immediately. If such a large place-with
its wide, sweeping staircase and massive rooms-could seem homey,
it was Buckingham House.

And the cozy feeling went beyond the ambiance of the building,
for never had we received such a warm welcome. Walking through
the house, people bowed to us and smiled widely, as if our very
presence gave them pleasure. Papa even tried out his newest bit of
English, "Good morrow," and they said it right back. I put my arm
around Wolfie's shoulders, claiming him as my brother. They
seemed especially charmed by this, and I heard many ahh's as we
passed by.

We were led to a great hall where we were met by a stately
looking man and woman in their twenties. "Welcome, welcome!"
they said, taking Wolfie's violin case from Papa and setting it aside
so they could shake our parents' hands. The man turned to Wolfie
and me, leaning toward us as adults often did. He spoke to us in
German. "So these are the talented children. Are you ready to play
for us?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"We're here to play for the king and queen," Wolfie said.

The man stood erect and laughed. The other people standing
around joined in-but looked nervous. Then the man took our
hands and led us through the crowd toward the front of the room,
where a beautifully carved clavier was stationed. I glanced back at
Mania and Papa. They had just exchanged a comment with each
other but smiled at us encouragingly. Yet Papa's brow was pulled.
Something was wrong.

"Here you are," the man said, leading me to the bench. He
turned to Wolfie. "Will you play violin while your sister accompanies?"

"I will," Wolfie said. But then he looked around. "But I need
my instrument."

"Indeed you do," said the man. He turned to his right, then
clapped his hands. "The boy's instrument!"

Two servants ran toward the back of the room. During all this
commotion, I noticed the young woman taking a seat at the front
of the room in one of two grand chairs. I pulled in a breath. No. It
couldn't be. These two people couldn't be the

The servants returned and one of them handed the case to the
man, offering a bow of his head. "Your Majesty."

It was true! This couple were the king and the queen of all
England! Yet it wasn't just their hospitable demeanor that had fooled
us. They were not dressed as sumptuously as other royalty we'd met.
In truth, my dress-and Mama's-was fancier than the attire of the
king and queen.

While I was getting situated at the clavier, I'd been distracted by
this revelation and had not heard what the king had last told us.
Panicked, I looked to Papa for guidance, but he and Mania were
being seated a short distance away in the front row. Others were also
sitting now, ready to hear us play. But who was to play first? Had
the king given a direction I'd missed?

Wolfie readied his violin under his chin, his bow arm in place.
He was ready for me to play. But which piece? We usually started
with my playing alone on the clavier. But because the king had
asked for both of us to play ...

Wolfie looked back at me. "Vivaldi," he whispered.

Ali. The sonata in G minor. I began, but it took me two full
phrases to rid myself of the butterflies in my stomach. Yet once those
were gone, the music took over and it didn't matter who was in the
room, or where the room was located. I could have been in the
Americas or playing in a field. The world consisted of only my
brother and me. And the sound ... oh, the sound. When I closed
my eyes, I felt it weaving its way between us, wrapping around my
torso like the embrace of God giving me comfort and lifting me to
places divine.

Our fingers were not connected to our arms. Mere arms! Mere
bodies! The sound came from our souls and merely borrowed our
mortal bodies as a vehicle for release. For even without the playing,
the music was. It existed. It was eternal, hanging in the cosmos, just
waiting to be set free.

Then suddenly, my hands were still. The combined notes of
violin and clavier hung a moment as if wistful at leaving the here
and now, unwilling to travel to that place of waiting in the future
where they might be set free once more.

Applause broke through the stillness. I opened my eyes, and for
an instant was surprised to see we were not alone. I put a hand to
my cheek and found tears there. Wolfie looked back at me, and
though he seemed a bit surprised by my tears, he smiled. He understood. We were a trio: Wolfie, me, and the music. A team and, even
more, a partnership. A holy bond, greater than life or even death.

The king rose. "Bravissimo!" He clapped as he walked toward us.
But when he saw me up close, he started. "Oh my dear, Mistress
Mozart. Tears?" He pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from his
waistcoat and dabbed at my cheek. For my ears alone, he said, "The
angels themselves were moved, my dear." He pressed the handkerchief into my palm, and I knew it would be a prized keepsake,
not of worth for itself but for the moment it brought to mind.

In truth, the rest of the concert was a blur. I played well and did
all that was expected of me, but for some reason, I did not recapture
the glory of that first piece-nor did it leave me completely.

Even later, during the carriage ride home, Papa's happiness at being paid the equivalent of two hundred sixty-four florins did not
touch my mood.

Mama reached across the carriage and put her hand on mine.
"Nannerl? Are you ill?"

Papa's eyebrows lowered. "You're not getting sick, are you?
We've been asked back to play again, and-"

I shook my head. I was far from in.

Wolfie poked me and mimicked throwing up.

"No," I said, just wanting to be left alone. "I'm fine."

"You did very well," Papa said. "It was a great success.
Nowhere have we experienced such a welcome. And the audience
was not like those at Versailles, who often treated our performance
as an intrusion into their true goal for the evening-their inane
conversation. Tonight, the lords and ladies were attentive, and I
could tell their interest spurred you to play your best." He leaned
forward and put a hand on each of our knees. "I am very proud
of you, children."

On any other night I would have soaked in his praise, but
tonight I could only pretend to be pleased. For there was a sorrow
in my heart that railed against the elation I had felt during the first
piece. It perplexed me, and I took solace looking out the window
at the dark night, at the candle-lit windows as we passed.

I'd experienced a good thing. A grand thing. So how could I
feel sad?

Then I thought of Papa's words: "I could tell that their interest
spurred you to play your best."