Mozart's Sister (20 page)

"It's mine," I said.

She shook her head. "We saw you toss it away. It's Frieda's now
Give it to her."

I shook my head and realized what an inane conversation it was.
Common sense was not in play. I also realized the only sure way
out. With one hand I slipped the letter into a pocket and with the
other found a few coins. I tossed them toward Frieda and the third
woman. One clattered off the wall of the church. The youngest ran
to get her share.

I-the girl who was not "even there"-ran away.

Happy birthday to me.

Mama and Papa invited some of our Viennese friends over to
celebrate my seventeenth birthday on July 30, 1768. But even amid
their laughter, their gifts, and the toasts to my health and happiness,
I felt the need to slip away from the party to our rooms upstairs.

But the rooms weren't far enough. I wanted to go home. Home
home. Salzburg. Even if that place held few promises beyond the
domestic norm, it seemed better than this limbo I currently lived in.
In Salzburg, I was a seventeen-year-old woman with friends and
prospects. Here in Vienna, I was extraneous, a pesky fly buzzing in
and out of a room, only noticed when I flew too close or droned
too loudly.

I closed the door behind me and fell onto my bed. The rigid
stays in my corset didn't appreciate the new position, and I tugged
at them until I could breathe and resume feeling sorry for myself.

I closed my eyes and remembered other birthday celebrations
with the Hagenauers in their summer house outside Salzburg. With
their children. With Katherl. Celebrations very similar to the one
being held downstairs. So why should I long for that instead of this?

It wasn't as if I hadn't celebrated other birthdays on the road.
Many birthdays. My twelfth had been near Heidelberg, my thirteenth in London. I turned fourteen in Canterbury, and fifteen in
Lyons, France. My last birthday was in Salzburg, so who was I to
complain that this one was in Vienna? I'd celebrated birthdays in
four countries. How many young women could make such a boast?

I pulled a pillow close, burying my face into its down. I was an
ungrateful, churlish girl who needed to count her blessings.

And yet ...

I adjusted the pillow to give myself air. What was I doing here?
In regard to Vienna specifically, and life in general. Wolfie and I
weren't playing concerts. We weren't bringing in income. I'd heard
Papa despair of the expense of staying here, and him with no salary
coming in from the archbishop since last April....

Opera. It was all about the opera.

And honor. We stayed to prove the naysayers wrong. I understood the theory that if we left Vienna many would think it was
because Wolfie couldn't compose the opera, or that it was of such poor quality that it could not be performed. They would deem him
a failure-and the rest of us, by association, would also suffer. So we
stayed. And so Papa pushed Wolfie to create, pushed the musicians
to accept him, and pushed the public to believe in the miracle of
the boy composer.

I was not a part of that miracle anymore. I was merely an
appendage, an annoying burr on the smooth skin of perfection, an
extra expense.

Happy birthday to me.

The opera that never was.

That should have been the title of our folly. It was September
again. We'd been in Vienna a year when we'd only planned to be
gone three months. There'd been countless hours of work done by
Wolfie, and countless arguments between detractors and Papa,
which led to the opera not being produced. At all. The theater manager Af ligio was to blame. He was a master of excuses. He'd even
reneged on the one hundred ducats he had finally, personally, promised us for the opera. Had he promised the money to keep the
peace, never believing the opera would come about at all?

If so, he got his wish.

Papa was incensed. He paced even more than usual, shook his
head so constantly I feared his neck would snap, and muttered his
frustrations to himself-when not voicing them aloud for all to hear.
I'm sure our neighbors knew a great many details that should have
been private. And Mama's pleading for Papa to talk more softly only
led him to higher volumes. "Why should I be quiet? The whole of
Vienna should know of this injustice, this inequity, this betrayal!"

And they did. I could not go anywhere but that I'd hear murmurings and conversations regarding the opera that never was, and
the reasons-both true and false-why.

One evening, after having a particularly nasty bout with Signor
Affligio, Papa sat at the table until the candle was but a stub, writing out his complaints in a petition to present to the imperial family, beseeching them to take up our cause either to see the opera produced or at least offer us compensation for our act of good
faith. I overheard Papa read part of it to Mama. "I beseech you to
investigate the shamefully envious and dishonoring calumniators
who attempted to suppress and cause unhappiness in the capital of
his German fatherland to an innocent creature whom God has
endowed with an extraordinary talent, a boy whom other nations
have admired and encouraged." It seemed to be strong language to
use toward the emperor, and Papa was obviously more hopeful than
I that anyone would listen. Or care about the plight of one family.

Papa had gotten Herr Hagenauer to send more money, and
insisted that heaven would repay everything-both bills and slights.
But I wasn't so sure. Even the day before, when I'd wanted to buy a
new bonnet, Mama had been forced to say, "Not now, dear girl. It
would not be prudent."

A wasted year-in so many ways.

I raised my head off the pillow, held my breath, and listened.

There it was again. A sniff. A small moan.

I sat up in bed. "Wolfie? Are you crying?"

Another sniff.

I slipped out of bed and glanced toward the door. Papa and
Mama were downstairs talking with some friends. I hoped they
stayed busy awhile longer. If Wolfie was crying ... Papa did not
react well to tears.

The floorboards were cold on my feet and I grabbed a shawl
before going to my brother's bedside. As soon as I sat, he turned in
my direction. By the moonlight I could see his cheeks were red and
wet. I wiped them with the edge of my shawl. "Why are you
crying?"

"No one likes me."

I felt my eyebrows rise. "Everyone likes you. Just tonight the
landlady said you were her favorite person in the whole world."

He shook his head. "They don't like my music. My opera."

Oh. That.

He scooted over to make room for me under the covers. His feet were cold. His feet were always cold.

We lay on our sides facing each other. Even in the moonlight I
could see that his complexion still showed evidence of the smallpox.
He looked so small amid the covers. I adjusted the goose-down coverlet over his shoulder. "It's not your fault, Wolfie," I said. "Haven't
you heard Papa talk about the problems with the theater manager,
the singers, and the musicians?"

He nodded against the pillow. "They don't like me"

"It has nothing to do with you." I wasn't sure this was completely true because I had heard talk about how many professionals
weren't keen on working under a boy or being conducted by a child
seated at the harpsichord. In truth, I could see their view. But
Wolfie's age was not his fault.

He sighed deeply and his eyes closed. Then opened. "They
don't like my music."

To this I could respond with my whole heart. "That is not true!"
I sat up. "That is never true. Your music ... there is none like it.
You are the music. You set it free."

"Really?"

I was taken aback by his doubt. Papa always went on and on
about his music. Everyone did. Hadn't he been listening?

I had.

Shame overwhelmed me. Oh yes, I'd listened to every compliment and had found them chiding, as if saying nice things about illy
brother had been an affront to me. What was wrong with me? How
had I let jealousy and envy cloud what should have been happiness
and support? Why had I not rejoiced at every glorious note? Why
had I focused on the fact they were his notes and not mine? What
kind of sister was-?

"I try so hard," Wolfie said, interrupting my disgrace.

"I know you do." I put my arm beneath his head and pulled
him close. He snuggled against my shoulder. "No one tries harder
than you, Wolfie. No one."

"Then why-?"

I put a finger to his lips, stopping his uncertainty. "Shhh. No
more. Don't worry about them. Don't worry about anyone. Just
write the music."

He nodded against my arm. "It just comes out, Nan. I can't
help it."

And there it was. So simple. So plain. The essence of my
brother's talent, his gift from God. Who was I to want more attention from Papa or the world? I had not created music like Wolfie. I
played other people's music-brilliantly, it was true. And I had tried
my hand at composing a few times. But it was not necessarily a need
in my soul as it was in my brother's.

"I love you, Nan," Wolfie said. "I'm so glad you're here with
me."

His tears were gone now, and I kissed the top of his head. After
all the recent turmoil, after all the jealousies, frustration, and anger,
I was glad I was here too. Here, with this boy who couldn't stop the
music from pouring out-sweet, delicious music the world could
not help but savor. Music the world needed to hear.

I also needed music. But the question was: did the music need
me?

Finally, in January 1769, we arrived home. We'd been gone sixteen months and had little to show for it. Wolfie had managed to
compose a few pieces beyond the opera while we were away, but it
was not enough to balance the great scales of Papa's expectationsboth professional and financial. Besides, Papa had always planned to
move on from Vienna to Italy, playing on the success of a Mozart
opera.

It was not to be.

And so, on this return home, we did not approach Salzburg with
the same exuberance we'd rendered on our last return two years
previous. For then we'd come back as triumphant world travelers
who'd conquered the courts of Europe. We'd gone where few Salz-
burgers had ever gone or could hope to go.