Mozart's Sister: A Novel Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Overture

  Part One

  The Kingdom of Back

  Intermezzo

  The Journey to Italy

  Mademoiselle Jeunehomme

  Bitter Interlude

  Part Two

  The Gallant Officer

  I Am Grateful for Your Hand

  The Break

  Finale: Scherzo

  Author’s Note

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people helped me directly in the production of the book you have in your hands. First of all, my heartfelt thanks to Crown and in particular to my editor, Allison McCabe, for her confidence, her perseverance, and her patience. I also wish to thank my Italian publisher, Corbaccio, in the person of Cecilia Perucci: she was the first to bet on my novel, and the result is deeply indebted to her. Last but not least, I would like to thank my literary agents, Dorie Simmonds and Roberta Oliva.

  Many friends stood by me with encouragement and advice. My thanks to Doug McKinlay, who, as soon as I told him about my project, literally shouted in my face, “It’s a great idea!” I would like to thank psychologist Giulia Corrao, for our long, intense conversations on the character of Nannerl, and for drawing attention to the most profound recesses of her soul.

  Various people helped me indirectly: I refer to the teachers I have been fortunate to meet during my studies. I want to thank, above all, Lucia Lusvardi, my wonderful piano teacher. My thanks to Dara Marks, a teacher of screenwriting and storytelling, whose fascinating work is based on deep psychological research. I thank José Sanchis Sinisterra, a teacher of dramaturgy, a refined intellectual, and an exquisitely simple man.

  Thanks to Genevieve Geffray, of the Mozarteum in Salzburg, who welcomed me within the precious walls of the Mozart Library and helped me with my research.

  A special thank-you goes to my sister, Chiara, who, many years ago, first spoke to me of the mysterious sister of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

  Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to every thing.

  —PLATO

  A woman’s education must therefore be planned in relation to man. To be pleasing in his sight, to win his respect and love, to train him in childhood, to tend him in manhood, to counsel and console, to make his life pleasant and happy, these are the duties of woman for all time, and this is what she should be taught while she is young.

  —JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU, EMILE

  Overture

  Salzburg, February 21, 1777

  Dearest Fräulein Mozart!

  I am entrusting this letter to Victoria, on the eve of a mission that will keep me away from the city for some time, because I wish you, my charming young friend, to have in your hands something that, during this period, will remind you of me. It’s a bold wish, I’m aware, but stronger than modesty is my fear that what happened may dissipate in our ordinary daily actions and remain confined to a single night.

  The thought of you has been with me from the moment I saw you vanish into the darkness. I didn’t want you to leave me, even if it was I who insisted; but it would not have been proper, I think, to stay longer, with the risk of being discovered by a passing watchman. I don’t know what excuses you gave your family for your late return, and I do not intend to ask; I am sure that you did not involve me in the matter, and that is sufficient. Little Victoria, for her part, was fast asleep, and when I asked her to take this to you she didn’t blink. I think, in fact, she was pleased.

  Dear Fräulein Mozart, you must know how rare it is to meet a person who possesses such depth and clarity of thought, such a remarkable and keen sensibility. It was a pleasant surprise for me to discover these qualities in you, since in Salzburg (and I hope you are not upset by my frankness) you are known, rather, as a woman who is aloof, intimidating, and quick-tempered. You know that I don’t frequent the salons of the beau monde and do not willingly indulge in gossip; besides, it would be unseemly, given my position. But whenever I have chanced to hear you named at the Palace by a colleague or an aide, it has been to contrast you with your brother, Wolfgang: he so lively, with his ability to entertain large audiences, not only through his music but, in particular, thanks to a ready tongue and a fluent and sometimes salacious wit; not to mention his generous spirit, which is legendary. Of you, however, people say the exact opposite!

  In no uncertain terms I will tell you that I consider it a shame. Why do you conceal from the world your charm and sweetness, sides of you that I have had the great privilege to see?

  But I care little for the world or its gossip. Truly, what is important to me is to give you a token of my friendship: a friendship that I hope may be affectionate, if you will allow me to offer it. I would be extremely happy to have the pleasure of your company again, as soon as I return to Salzburg, and, until then, to continue to write to you and to read with trepidation the longed-for replies that you might wish to send. When Victoria comes to her piano lesson, she will be able to bring you my letters, and in return take yours to send to me, thus enabling you to avoid embarrassing and premature explanations to your family.

  If, however, your feelings are not the same as mine, I will withdraw into the shadows without a word and not disturb you further; have no fear. You don’t even have to say no: confine yourself to not answering; and, I pray you, in that case destroy this.

  With respectful admiration,

  Major Franz Armand d’Ippold

  Salzburg, February 28, 1777

  Dearest Armand,

  I have a suspicion that Victoria read your letter…and maybe you are reading this, too, naughty girl! Fold it up immediately and don’t you dare interfere, do you understand? Otherwise you’ll never have another lesson with me, and your precious hands will be reduced to horrid dry twigs!

  And now, my dear Armand, see how that image of intransigence and scorn behind which I habitually hide, and behind which I have chosen not to hide from you, suddenly lifts. Why conceal oneself from the world and reveal oneself to few? Believe me, I don’t do it on purpose; but I know that, after all, in the little universe that I inhabit, my personal behavior matters in a very relative way. What is most important is to be an outstanding teacher of girls who aspire to play the piano; and if I have the reputation of being severe, no one doubts that I am an equally capable teacher…and this gratifies me, and satisfies me. And if at one time, in a child’s too-vivid fantasy, I had higher musical ambitions, today I am truly happy with what I have, and of art I ask nothing more, truly nothing.

  But now enough of these excuses…the letter inscribed by your hand is here, beside me on the table, and the trembling light of the candle warms your already affectionate words, which have roused so much emotion in me. A drop of wax has fallen beside the words “little Victoria,” as if to point them out to me, as if to make me smile with greater tenderness toward the one who bears that name, toward the one who gave it to her, and toward that somewhat incongruous (forgive me…) adjective. Perhaps, dear Armand, Victoria will forever be “little” to you; and yet she is the same age as Wolfgang, or only five years younger than me, so she is over twenty by now. My father, imagine, stopped considering me a child when I was barely twelve…but now that I’m speaking of it, I wonder if it was a good thing or not.

  The truth is that I am writing to you without restraint, in the middle of the night, which is my friend, tossing out the thoughts as they come: for you are the first person to allow me this, the first who hasn’t judged me. For that reason I am not afraid to open up to you…and for that reason, to
o, I long to see you and embrace you again. Yes, I wish for that moment, which I hope is not too distant, Major d’Ippold; I tell you that officially…and I respond to your declaration of friendship with an equally intense ardor; for indeed I, too, have been thinking of that night, from the moment we parted; and the thought of you is with me constantly, in every waking moment, and I am happy, yes, to begin this correspondence with you, as happy, perhaps, as I have ever been…

  I will stop here, for now. With that fundamental mutual assurance, the rest can be tasted and enjoyed in every syllable, in every blink of an eye. Don’t you think, my dearest?

  With grateful affection,

  Nannerl Mozart

  Vienna, March 10, 1777

  My dear, dearest Nannerl!

  Your letter made me happier than I can ever remember being. You, sweetest girl, have wakened in me sensations I felt certain were closed off to me forever. In recent days I have performed every duty with a light heart, and even the other officers have noticed my state of mind. Thank you, Nannerl; thank you sincerely for responding to my feelings! Now, though we are distant, I can feel you near me, and it seems to me that I can caress your lovely face, and recall with intense emotion every moment spent at your side. Yet I don’t think I know the right words to express what I feel; besides, I have never been good at expounding on certain subjects. The only thing I can tell you is that I, too, long for our next meeting and wish to do my utmost so that everything between us will be smooth, and a token of our growing affection.

  I am writing to Victoria as well, separately, and among other things, I forbade her to read our correspondence. But you know my daughter well, and are aware that although she undoubtedly fears parental authority, she is nonetheless quite capable of happily violating the dictates it imposes on her. Therefore, when you reply to me, never forget that that young lady (because you are right, dear Nannerl, she is now of marriageable age!) could, as you say, “interfere” in our exchange of thoughts and emotions.

  Thinking about Victoria and what she has told me about you as a teacher and a musician, and rereading your letter, I find something jarring, something that you experts would call a “dissonance.” (I may allow myself these observations, may I not?) You say, dear Nannerl, that you once had higher musical ambitions but abandoned them graciously and without regret: it is that absence of regret that I find not entirely convincing. I know that you composed music from early childhood (because Victoria told me) and that, until some time ago (and everyone knows this), you often performed, as part of a duo with your brother and also as a soloist. But, of a sudden, you abruptly stopped both those activities, to devote yourself solely to teaching, in that way squandering (forgive my audacity, but by now I’ve made sure that my frankness doesn’t wound you) your rare talent.

  Was a choice of that kind truly made without regrets? And (what counts more) is it really an irreversible choice? Perhaps, if you were to go back on your decision, you would taste again joys that would gladden your heart. If I say all this to you, believe me, it is only because your happiness is as important to me as my own: rather, because mine is lovingly dependent on it.

  With respect and esteem,

  Major Franz Armand d’Ippold

  Salzburg, March 24, 1777

  Armand,

  My first impulse was to answer you harshly, but then I made an effort and waited an entire week for my irritation to diminish. So only now—and I am still trying not to lose control—do I say to you: you don’t want me to ask questions about poor Monika, right? Your beloved wife, who is unfortunately no longer among us, is a subject that I am not allowed even to touch on. In the same way, I would ask you not to make inferences of any sort regarding my decision to give up playing concerts and composing. Your words, Major, are salt in the wound. A wound that bleeds every day, because at every moment, even at this precise moment, exactly as when I was a child, the music presses inside me to come out; it’s like an assault wave that rushes up from my guts to my throat and my brain and makes it whirl; it’s an internal tempest that can’t find an outlet, so the only possible choice is to ignore it and devote myself to something else. Is it clear to you now, Armand? Teaching, and in particular teaching Victoria, who, as you well know, is my best student, is the only narrow path into which I can channel this confusion, and silence it, at least temporarily. And you, like my brother, come to me now to say that I am wasting my talent? And with what right?

  Forgive me; I haven’t managed to moderate my tone. I don’t even know if I will let you see this letter. Maybe I would do better to tear it up and wait until later, and then pretend to myself to have forgotten your words.

  Nannerl Mozart

  Vienna, April 5, 1777

  My dear friend (I hope that you are still my friend),

  You were very right to send me your letter, which I’ve finished reading just this instant; and you were even more right to reproach me for my unwarranted intrusion into matters that do not concern me and which I understand even less. I beg you sincerely to forgive me and I assure you that if you were here, or if I were where you are, I would ask your pardon on my knees and would not find peace until I had obtained it. The thought of having vexed you torments me, for it is the exact opposite of my deepest desires; it is the exact opposite (paradoxically) of what I wished to gain. But the truth is only this. You said you were happy that I, among the first in the world, did not judge you, and instead I have done so, like the greatest of fools, with regard to a decision for which you have taken every responsibility yourself; and I have also tried to make you go back on that decision, as if to transform you into someone who you, my dear perfect creature, are not.

  While my pen runs on, my thoughts leap ahead, more rapidly, in a frantic search for something I can do to make up for it. What can I do? I beg you sincerely: tell me, Nannerl. And with my heart in my hand I implore you not to cut me out of your life. I swear to you that I will never again ask questions or make bold assumptions about your music—never. But I beg you, leave an opening for our friendship.

  With sorrow and regret,

  Armand

  Salzburg, April 15, 1777

  Armand, my dear,

  The idea of cutting you out of my life never occurred to me. If it had, not only would I not have sent you my previous letter but I wouldn’t even have written it. In fact, what I wish for is precisely the opposite: I would like you to know as much as possible about me.

  Because, as I pondered the little argument we’ve just had, and for which it is I who ought to ask forgiveness, I was surprised to find myself thinking that your intention of never again mentioning my music does not augur well for our future: that there is something wrong with that (my fault, of course, and no one else’s).

  So I’ve decided to tell you everything. I will do it myself: I won’t leave you to ask me questions that at the moment you would certainly be afraid to ask. Naturally, my dearest confidant and loving friend, you remain free to interrupt the reading and respond to me, and write to me about other things, whenever you like…

  The Kingdom of Back

  I.

  “Please, my love, let’s go home…call a carriage, quickly,” murmured the woman sitting wearily on a chair, pressing her stomach with her hands as if trying to hold it in. Her husband didn’t answer; he was waiting for the harpsichordist, whose playing was execrable, to finish her ridiculous performance. As she caressed the keys, she moved her shoulders gently and smiled, opening and closing her lips. Every nobleman could be sure that he could approach those lips, and enjoy them, and enjoy her entire body: he had only to ask.

  “My dear, I’m serious…we had better leave.”

  “Just a moment,” he said in annoyance, as feeble applause broke out. Then he turned and jumped up. “Where did she go?”

  “There, look…but don’t let it last too long, please.”

  With a leap, the man reached the child who was squatting in a corner, absorbed, as she repeatedly opened and closed a fan; he tore it
from her hand, made her stand up, and adjusted her dress. “Be good, Nannerl…as you always are, my angel,” he begged her, with a tremor of anxiety in his voice, while her blue eyes gazed into his and she uttered some strange monosyllables. She was odd, that girl. Anyone who didn’t know her well might have thought she was slowwitted.

  “Are you ready?”

  She nodded, still muttering to herself.

  “Then go. Now!”

  The whisper was lost in the breeze of chatter that began to blow through the salon. The little girl trotted over to the stool in front of the harpsichord, and with some effort climbed up onto it.

  “Excuse me…most noble ladies, honorable gentlemen, a moment of your attention, if you please!”

  Suddenly the chattering stopped, and all eyes were directed toward the stranger. He was certainly not an aristocrat; who knew what recommendation had gained him entrance to that salon. He might even be a professional musician! Irritation crept in among the patricians of Salzburg. Another performance now, just as they were finally returning to gossiping, to flirting, to showing off? And what sort of music could be produced by that little blond dwarf, whose chubby hands could barely encompass a fifth?

  “I have the honor to introduce to you this spectacular child prodigy…Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart! She is, truly, one of the best harpsichord players ever to touch an instrument, and, wonder of wonders, she is only five years old. I, Leopold Mozart, her father, was able to perceive her great talent thanks to my own activities as a musician, in service at the court of His Excellency the Prince Archbishop. It would be an outrage against God himself if that gift were to remain unknown and uncultivated.”