Mozart's Sister (37 page)

Especially since my new beau, Captain d'Ippold-for he had
become my beau, even though we'd kept it discreet so Papa
wouldn't know-was appointed the court war counselor by the
archbishop. Although Salzburg was independent and not directly
involved, being on the edge of the conflict, with soldiers at the borders of its neighbors, meant there was tension. Soldiers were seen in
the streets more often, and the anxiety of all-out war added to the
distress of having our loved ones gone. Mama was worried that she'd
never be able to find a safe passage back to Salzburg. Surely she
would die of fright if she came upon soldiers on the road.

Yet in spite of everything, we were determined Mama would
come home soonas soon as Wolfie left for Paris with his music
partners.

But it was not to be-and it had nothing to do with the wrangling of kings and emperors. Suddenly, without warning, we started
getting letters from Wolfie decrying the morals of the very partners
he had previously commended to us, indicating he would not enter
into any job opportunities with them. Surely, Papa would not want
him to be involved with such people.

It did not make sense. How could he be so completely
enmeshed and enraptured with these three men, writing glowing
accounts of their character, talent, and hopes for a future in Paris,
and next call them unfit to be his friends and totally without religion?

Then Wolfie's letters changed from woe at losing three friends
to glee at gaining others: the Weber family. To my astonishmentand Papa's horror-Wolfie stated he was in love with Aloysia Weber,
an opera singer with four siblings. My brother's plan to find himself
a position to support our family suddenly expanded into a grand
scheme with himself as Aloysia's manager, seeking out venues
throughout Europe for her voice based on the Mozart name so he
could help support the Webers! He wanted to take her to Holland
or Switzerland-and stop by in Salzburg so we could meet her.

He was totally smitten. And totally off task. We worried he was
spending money on her-and on her family-that he should have
been spending on our own concerns. And on Mama.

Unfortunately, there was little insight to the situation via Mama's
notes, which were added at the end of Wolfie's letters. Her words
seemed guarded, as if Wolfie was her censor, her literary captor. This
had been illustrated to its fullest extent the previous day in the latest
notation we received in her hand: In greatest secrecy and haste while he
is at table so that I am not caught ... in a word, he prefers being with
others to being with me. I take exception to one and another thing not to my
taste, and that annoys him. This family has bewitched him. For such a
person he is ready to give his life and all he holds dear. You yourself must
ponder what is to be done.

Papa exploded when he read that and went into Wolfie's room
and tore through it, upsetting the bed, pulling out the old clothes,
tossing them every which way. If Wolfie would have been in his
presence, there might have been bruises. Before this time Papa had
not been a violent person. But Wolfie was pushing him beyond his
limits.

And I understood all of it. If it would have helped matters, I
would have joined Papa in his tirade.

The next morning I found Papa packing. "Where are you
going?" I asked.

"To Mannheim. To retrieve your mother. To save her from our
ungrateful son. To salvage something from this horrid situation."

I put a calming hand on his arm. "But, Papa, you can't leave.
The archbishop's concert is tomorrow ..."

He stopped all movement, staring at the satchel on the bed. There was no sound at all, as if he too had stopped breathing-for
I certainly had.

Then he turned his head and looked at me. "I can't leave. I can't
save her."

His face was so drawn, so lined with the stress of the past few
months. "She can still come home, Papa. Even if Wolfie doesn't go
to Paris, even if he marries this-"

"Marries? He can't marry. He has God's work to do!" Papa
tossed the shirt on the bed. "He's too hotheaded and rash. Somehow
I have to save him from himself." He touched the shirt with the tip
of his fingers. "The greatest reserve and highest acumen are needed
with women. Nature herself is the enemy, and a man who does not
call upon his entire and keenest judgment will have to extricate himself from a labyrinth, a misfortune that often ends in death."

"Death?"

Papa looked directly at me. "Disease, dear girl. He's playing with
fire. He's already given this girl his heart and his common sense. If
he hasn't already, he'll give her ... more. And then all will be lost."

Suddenly everything became clear. I knew my brother. I knew
how easily-and totally-he could let his entire self become consumed, especially by someone who offered him the love and adoration he craved as much as air. Getting involved with this Aloysia,
traveling about Europe for her sake instead of his own ... our own.
And now with Papa so incensed with my brother's love life, there
would be little hope he would be open to my own.

"Don't cry, girl. We will find a way"

I hadn't realized I was crying and wiped the tears away. Who
was I crying for? Wolfie? Papa? Mama? Or myself?

The packing forgotten, Papa strode toward the door. "Tears benefit no one. Action must be taken; your brother must be stopped.
The Mozart name is at stake. If you'll excuse me, I have a letter to
write. Wolfgang must complete the task and find his destiny. He
wanted to go to Paris? He will go to Paris-and your mother will
go with him as his chaperone. We will get him away from this siren
of a woman, one way or the other."

I sank onto the bed exhausted. What horrible irony that the person with whom we'd planted our hopes seemed oblivious to all
but himself.

My life became consumed with the sagas of Mania and Wolfie's
moving on to Paris and getting settled, of dealing with Papa's tirades
against the inadequacies of Wolfie's life choices, and his ranting
against how little the two travelers wrote, as well as their method
(they often didn't answer questions he'd asked in his letters). In
addition, Papa reviled the way the post often brought letters out of
order.

Yet in spite of all this, I did have joy in my life.

Franz. I enjoyed his company immensely, and could actually
thank the distraction of Wolfie's misbehavior for keeping Papa occupied.

Not that I misbehaved. It was not my nature. But with Papa's
attention consumed elsewhere, I attained a certain freedom to see
Franz-to take walks in the Mirabel Gardens, include him in our
shooting forays, and even invite him to our musical evenings.

The other highlight of my life was the music. The castrato
Ceccarelli was present at our home many evenings, and his voice
and ability on the violin inspired me to expand my own talent. I
wrote a bass part to one of his solos that prompted Papa to an effusive compliment that ended with him encouraging me to write
more.

Papa encouraging me to compose? The world was indeed
upside down.

But it was another musical venture that piqued my interest.
Count Czernin, who was a nephew of the archbishop, decided to
start an amateur orchestra. Participants were from every social class,
age, and walk of life. There were students, nobility, tradesmen, and
some professional musicians (Papa among them). But there was only
one woman considered good enough to be included.

Me. I accompanied all the music on the keyboard. My talent
was the glue that held them together. It was the first time in lily
adult life that I felt fully appreciated. And I had Papa to thank. For it had been his attention and his lessons that had spurred me to move
beyond the level of playing that I'd been lolling in for years into this
advanced level where Papa could brag, "She plays as well as any
Kapellmeister."

Occasionally there would be women soloists who would sing or
play a keyboard solo, but I was the only female member of the
orchestra.

However, we were not a great orchestra. Some of the nobility
who pushed their way onto the solo lineup were far from good, and
Papa declared that new time signatures were often created. But I
didn't care. It was the first chance for me to show Salzburg my
newly honed accompanying skills. If Wolfie failed in his quest to
find a position good enough to support us, I was hopeful I could at
least support myself. Added to this was the fact that some of our
music pupils received a chance to perform, thus in a backhand way
showcasing the skills of me and Papa as educators. At the moment,
Papa was teaching Countess Lodron's two older children, and I was
teaching the two younger ones. Last week the countess commented
on how improved her children were since we'd taken over their
instruction from Aldgasser (since his death). The importance of such
compliments could not be taken lightly.

So I didn't. In fact, they sustained me.

Papa picked up his quill. "Would you like to add anything for
your mother? The post will be here any minute."

"Did you tell her I am sending her something for her name
?
ay."

"I did." We both looked toward the street as the sounds of the
post announced its presence. "Oh dear. I suppose I will finish it
tomorrow. Go see if we have a letter."

There was one, and I brought it to Papa. He opened it and
began reading aloud. But suddenly his words slowed. "'I have very
sad and stressing news to give you. My dear mother is very in. She
has been-"'

"Ill?"

He held up a hand and continued. "'She has been bled as in the
past; a necessity. She felt quite well afterward, but a few days later
she complained of shivering and feverishness, accompanied by diarrhea and headache. At first we only used our home remedies-antispasmodic powders. We would gladly have tried a black powder too,
but we had none and could not get it here in Paris, where it is not
known even by the name of Pulvis cpilipticus."'

"We should have sent her some of the powder, Papa. We
should-"

"Let me finish!" He adjusted his glasses. "'As she got worse and
worse-she could hardly speak and lost her hearing, so that I had to
shout to make myself understood. Baron Grimm sent us his doctor,
but she is still very weak and is feverish and delirious. They give me
some hope-but I do not have much."'

"Do not have much? What is he-?"

"Shh, Nannerl." He read some more. "'For a long time now I
have been hovering day and night between hope and fear. I have
resigned myself wholly to the will of God and trust that you and my
dear sister will do the same."'

Papa stopped reading aloud, his eyes devouring the rest of the
first page, then the next. "This is absurd. He goes on to talk about
the symphony he's writing."

"He what?" I took the letter from him. "There has to be more
about Mama. He has to give us more details!"

But there was only Wolfie talking about rehearsals for some
symphony and how upset he was at the orchestra's progress.

As if orchestras mattered. As if music mattered.

Papa grabbed the letter back from me, poring over the words.
"She can't hear. She's delirious. And the doctor ... How long did
Wolfgang wait to send for him? Is he German or some French
quack? I remember when you nearly died at the hands of a French
doctor. Do they even have proper doctors in France? I should have
fetched her from Mannheim. If I would have been with her, she
would not be sick. She would not!"

I began to cry, the tears turning into sobs that made me fall to
my knees.

"Stop that!" Papa said, pulling at my arm, trying to get me to
stand.

But I did not want to stand. I wanted to fall even farther to the
floor and lie upon it, prostrate before God as an offering to Him.
Save Mania, dear Lord. Save Mama.

Papa stopped his pulling and pressed his hands into his eyes.
"No, no, no, this can't be happening. No. This cannot happen without me there. This cannot. I won't allow it. Our fate cannot be in
the inept hands of my son, a son who hasn't had the decency to
make sure his mother has a fire to warm her, who abandons her so
he can go out and have fun, who-"