Mozart's Sister (15 page)

Yet as we watched them Papa said, "How wonderful to see how
these workers have the right to demonstrate and force a change for
either better or worse. This is quite something, children. We would
not see this back in Salzburg, where we are sometimes ruled according to whim, and certainly not in France, where mobs often rule.
Freedom, children. Freedom should be cherished."

The reverence I heard in his voice ... I rarely saw Papa in awe.

Wolfie grabbed my handkerchief and started marching around
the room, pretending to wave a flag. He shouted, "No imports! No
imports!" until Mama shushed him.

I would have liked to stay longer at the window To watch what
had touched my father so ...

Things went along very well, but then, catastrophe. In July Papa
became very in. We were scheduled to play a six o'clock concert at
the Earl of Thanet's home. Papa sent for a coach, but being a Sunday, there were none available, so he got a sedan chair and put Mama, Wolfie, and me into it. He followed us to Grosvenor Square
on foot. But he couldn't keep up, and it was a hot afternoon. When
he arrived, he was sweating profusely. Then, when the evening air
turned cool, he felt chilled and buttoned his cloth coat over his silk
waistcoat. During the concert, with the windows open ... By the
time we were finished at eleven, Papa needed his own sedan chair
to follow our own. Mama got him right to bed, and he tried to
make light of it, saying it was likely a native complaint called a
"cold."

But it wasn't. A few days later, after trying to cure himself by
perspiring, his throat was sorely inflamed, and a doctor was called.
Many remedies were tried: bleeding, purging, and even opium. But
Papa only got sicker. Mama railed over the foreign doctor. She'd
brought some home remedies with her from Salzburg, but English
apothecaries didn't understand them, and so we were forced to use
their remedies.

Which didn't work.

Papa got sicker and sicker, and experienced stomach pains and
issues with his nerves. This was no simple "cold," or had at the very
least become something worse through the treatments. The doctor
had the audacity to say, "Mr. Mozart, it is obvious you are not a
suitable subject to take such medicine." With that, he left.

Blaming Papa because the medicine didn't work? We all stood
around Papa's bedside.

"What shall we do now, Leopold?" Mama asked.

With effort Papa swallowed. His voice was barely more than a
whisper. "Get Herr Sipurtini. His cousin is a doctor."

"The cellist Sipurtini? The Dutch Jew who lives here in London?"

Papa said only one word: "Go."

Mama nodded. "Nannerl, take care of things here. I'll be back
as soon as I can."

As the door closed, the silence was heavy. I was in charge?
Wolfie looked at me expectantly. Don't look at me, I don't know what
to do!

Papa moaned. His eyes were closed and his forehead furrowed
with pain.

Wolfie carefully climbed onto the foot of the bed and curled up
at Papa's feet, one hand near but not touching him. He looked ready
to cry. And so, without truly making the decision, I knelt beside
Papa's bed, leaned my head against the mattress, and prayed.

It was all I could do.

God hears prayers. And the new doctor was wise.

Three weeks after getting sick, Papa was well enough to be carried to St. James' Park for some fresh air. A week after that, we all
moved to lodging an hour outside of London, to Chelsea, where
the air was of better quality. Papa contacted Herr Hagenauer and
had twenty-two masses said for us at five different churches.

Good came from the bad, for the view around Chelsea was
beyond lovely. Wherever I turned I saw gardens and fine estates in
the distance. It was calm there, and the air was fresh and invited me
to take deep breaths that fueled me. And fueled Wolfie too. The
place inspired Wolfie to compose his first symphony that included
all the instruments, including trumpets and kettledrums. We were
not allowed to touch the keyboard (so as not to disturb the quiet for
Papa), so Wolfie and I sat side by side, and I would copy the symphony as he composed it. "Remind me to give the horn something
worthwhile to do," he'd say. It was a special time between us.

Slowly Papa got better. But he was weak and didn't feel like
eating. It was disconcerting to see mighty Papa as fragile as a child.

When we first moved to Chelsea, we'd had our food sent to us
from an eating house, but it wasn't very good. Not that we ever
enjoyed English food. Although we liked the meat, the cider was
unhealthy, and Papa didn't like the taste of the alcoholic punch and
rum. And we were in complete agreement about the horrid plum
pudding. So, with Papa's sickness, Mama took matters into her own
hands and began cooking for us. It was nice to eat familiar foods
again: potato soup, liver dumplings, and sauerbraten. So nice that
Mama decided she would continue cooking for us while we
remained in England. We had all lost weight.

Papa despaired of how his sickness had impaired our concerts. Two months with no income; having to spend our savings to survive. Yet Papa said that if God would grant us good health, we need
not worry about the guineas. Papa always worried about guineas, so
for him to say that ...

Perhaps during his illness he and God had come to an agreement?

Did Papa fear dying? One time I heard him and Mania whispering with trepidation about dying in a strange land, saying how
the pension Mama could expect from the Salzburg court would be
pitifully small. We would endure a difficult fate if Papa succumbed.
So I prayed even harder that he would get completely well. And stay
that way.

One day, Papa declared himself well enough to start thinking of
the future. He was ready to move back to London, where he promised to spare no effort to get us back into the concert scene. He
vowed not to go back to Salzburg until he had hauled in a fine
fish-a good catch of guineas. Several thousand were mentioned.

The question of our age loomed large. Although Papa fudged
our ages, if we did not take advantage of the opportunities in this
rich nation now, we would be fools. Yet I no longer looked like a
child, and even Wolfie-always small for his age-did not look
seven anymore. I, especially, felt time running by too quickly. For
too soon I would be of marriageable age. If I did not establish myself
as a great artiste by then ...

If only time could stand still.

But alas, even God could not grant such a request.

After two months of sickness and silence, we were asked back to
Buckingham House to play before the king and queen.

We were late leaving the inn. Papa, Wolfie, and I stood at the
curb, the carriage ready, waiting for Mama. Papa pulled out his
pocket watch for the third time and looked upward toward our
room. "What is she doing up there?" he asked.

"I'll go get her." I ran upstairs, holding my heavy skirt and
petticoat high. I found Mama trying to communicate with our English maid, Amanda. She was pointing to her hair, then pulling
her hands apart. She wanted her ribbons. Probably her blue ones.

Amanda skittered around nervously, holding up a comb, then a
jeweled hair bauble.

"I can't make her understand!" Mama said. Amanda held up a
hairpin. "Nein! Blauc Bander!"

I stopped Amanda's frenzy with a hand on her arm. "Blue ribbon," I said.

Amanda's eyes widened with recognition, and she went to a box
in the armoire and pulled out two.

Mama fell to sitting on the bed. `7a schliclich!"

Amanda set to work weaving the ribbons into Mama's coif. I
went to the window and called down to Papa. "We'll be right
down." To expedite things, I handed Mama a mirror. "You really
should learn English, Mama."

"I know English. `Good morrow, sir,"' she said. "And I try to
understand them, but the only Englishman I can understand is the
night watchman calling the hours."

I was shocked. "Really?"

She turned her voice into a watchman's thick baritone: "Three
o'clock and all is well!"

I had never heard her parody anyone, and I must have stared
because she suddenly started laughing. Amanda stopped her work to
look at me, and then we both looked at Mama.

"All is well!" Mama repeated, a baritone again.

Amanda and I began to laugh. Then I heard heavy footsteps on
the stairs and remembered that all would not be well if Mama and I
didn't get downstairs. Now

Mama heard it too because she stood and did the last tucking of
the ribbon on her own. She opened the door at the same time Papa
did and sidled past him to the stairs. "Good morrow, sir," she said.

Papa looked perplexed. I held in my laughter and followed her
down.

My mama, the wit.

While we performed at Buckingham House, Wolfie sat on the
lap of Christian Bach-the son of the late Johannes Sebastian Bach.
He was the reigning master of music for the royal family now, having
taken Handel's place in their court. Such names were sovereign in
the world of music, and there was my brother, sitting between Bach's
knees, taking turns on the harpsichord, improvising new music for
hours.

Although I enjoyed listening to the two of them, it was another
evening of struggle for me. I started out standing near the instrument, the ever-attentive sister and compatriot, waiting for my turn.
But as thirty minutes neared an hour, and as neither the audience's
attention (nor my brother's or Master Bach's enthusiasm) showed
signs of waning, I slowly edged away from the harpsichord, skimmed
the aisle by the wall, nodded slightly to the lords and ladies, and
pulled away from the scene. I ended up in the adjoining room.

Once there, I took a desperate breath. Had I been holding it as
I'd made my escape?

Two footmen guarded the door, and I saw their eyes flicker in
my direction. I moved toward the window, needing air. And though
the October breeze made me shiver, I embraced it as I would an
elixir taken to cure an illness.

For I was suffering. Yet my ailment was not something I cared
to name. Only the Protestant reverend in the church knew of lily
despicable condition.