Mozart's Sister: A Novel Page 4

  Maria Antonia whispered to the Elector: “Eleven? That girl is at least fifteen!” He tightened his lips in acknowledgment and nodded. In reality he hadn’t heard a word: like many men contending with wives, mothers, or sisters, he switched off his hearing automatically when she spoke to him.

  “And I, naturally, am the father, Leopold Mozart, vice kapellmeister at the Court of Salzburg, on leave at the moment, in order to promote my children’s art throughout the world. We come now to the program: Nannerl will begin the evening by performing the First Sonata of Johann Gottfried Eckard, then Wolfgang will interpret a partita for solo violin by Johann Sebastian Bach. At the end of the concert I will be honored to accept any small token of your appreciation.” He bowed, whispered to his daughter, “Now!” and hurried to sit beside his wife.

  Wolfgang settled himself on a stool at one side of the stage, and Nannerl sat at the harpsichord. Apart from the Elector, who observed the two children with curiosity, the audience appeared indifferent; some repressed a yawn, others clapped their hands in a semblance of welcome.

  Leopold felt as if he were sitting on a hot grill. He whispered to his wife, “Nannerl is growing like a reed. She’s beginning to look too big. Soon you’ll have to bind her chest.”

  “Goodness, there’s time enough for that!”

  “Let’s hope.”

  Praying that everything would go well, Nannerl began the sonata, which was extremely difficult. Few musicians dared to perform Eckard’s works, not wanting to risk embarrassment; but Nannerl’s hands, with their strong, shapely fingers, independent of one another, seemed to forge the keyboard to their pleasure, rather than adapting to it. Her only problem was the corset, which was crushing her chest so that she could hardly breathe. It forced her to keep her back straight as a broomstick, which wasn’t so serious, since even if she couldn’t lean over, she could move to the sides; besides, the flapping of her wide sleeves was not an encumbrance and her arms could bend as they needed to. But that pressure on her chest made her short of breath and therefore nervous, and although the room was not well heated and her dress had a low neckline, she began to feel her throat, shoulders, and forehead burning.

  Wolfgang immediately realized her discomfort. While continuing to play, she gave him a desperate glance, but how could he help her? He could hardly go over and loosen her stays. The sonata arrived at an extremely complex point in which the right hand executed a theme in the middle of the keyboard and the left jumped rapidly from one end to the other; Nannerl was gasping for breath, the heat was insupportable, and now, too, the volants of her sleeves had become a hindrance, a lock of hair was falling over one eye, and her entire body was sticky with sweat. She would have preferred a thousand times to be naked—yes, naked in front of the prince and princess and all the aristocracy of Bavaria. She couldn’t care less, if only she were allowed to play freely! The right hand repeated the theme over and over, and the left went up and down, and, in a burst of anger, right in the middle of the passage, Nannerl raised her hands from the keyboard and there was silence.

  A nervous sense that something was wrong spread through the room. Maximilian looked at Nannerl with a bewildered frown, while Maria Antonia whispered in his ear something that he (obviously) didn’t hear; Leopold was glued to his chair, torn between fear that the concert would end in fiasco and his fundamental lack of interest in his daughter; Anna Maria was too busy scratching a spot off her skirt to realize what was happening; Wolfgang jumped down from his chair, not knowing whether to approach his sister or grab the violin and start playing, to distract people’s attention.

  But Nannerl surprised her audience by suddenly starting again, with torment on her face and her eyes narrowed in frustration. Skipping the repeats and variations, she reached the final notes of the piece, which ended in less than a minute, and then she ran into the wings without even taking a bow. Wolfgang followed her.

  The applause burst automatically: after all, the show was over, or at least so it seemed—otherwise, why had that girl disappeared backstage? And quickly the clapping faded and the room filled with idle chatter. Some gentlemen stood up, in part to stretch their legs, in part to get a pastry from the buffet table that was set up at the back of the room; meanwhile, the stage remained empty.

  Leopold began to boil: What was Wolfgang waiting for? The theater has precise rules; you can’t cut off the emotional flow, or you risk facing an audience that will be hard to win back. And, as if to confirm his fears, the chatter increased and, with it, a lack of interest in the music. In a fit of anxiety, he jumped to his feet with the confused idea of improvising a speech; maybe, once on the stage, he would be able to find out what the devil his children were up to and take measures. There, that’s what he would do! Excellent idea! He leaped onto the platform and began:

  “Your Grace, magnificent Prince, esteemed public! I would be honored to call your delightful and distinguished attention to a subject that is surely of interest to you all: the technical preparation, achieved through methodical and careful study, of the two youngsters present here before you, or, that is to say, in the vicinity…”

  The lecture was interrupted by a sound from backstage. It was the voice of the violin, which wound its way between the folds of the curtain, descended to the parquet, and then rose up to the vaults of the ceiling, filling the space with its fine, lustrous velvet.

  “Exactly! Preparation without which the present performance would not be possible. Enjoy the rest!” And in a fraction of a second Leopold had returned to his seat.

  The violin charmed the listeners like a snake in a basket. With suspended breath, they stared at the stage in expectation of the magician: and from the wings little Wolfgang emerged, giving sensual impulses to his bow and happily enjoying his enchanter’s power as he walked about the stage playing, and behind him came Nannerl, her waist noticeably expanded, so that she was finally free to breathe. She held a flute, and at the right moment joined in, and the timbres of the two instruments, so light but so potent, mingled and echoed amid the vividly painted walls, moving in time; they excited their listeners, strangled them, blew life into their cheeks.

  Leopold was fuming. Since when did his children and most promising students permit themselves to perform something that was not predetermined by him in every detail? But now the show had begun, and one never interrupts the show, so Herr Mozart had to submit to the artistic revolt of his children, trying to assume the air of one who knows everything because he has foreseen everything, including the unforeseeable.

  On the stage, Wolfgang and Nannerl were improvising as they loved to do for themselves, without much structure and with the absurdity of genius. Playfully they shared forms and leaps of tone that no other could intuit, that passed from his mind to hers and then returned, as Nature willed. She abandoned the flute and sat at the harpsichord, then he abandoned the violin and she accompanied him as he sang, and then he sat at the harpsichord and she sang, accompanied by him. Lacking only the courage to rebel against her father’s ban, she didn’t touch the violin; but the ecstatic applause they received at the end repaid her even for that renunciation. And her joy was even greater when her brother, after bowing to the ovation, flung his arms around her neck, crushing her in an enthusiastic embrace, and planted a loving kiss on her lips.

  X.

  “It’s true, Herr Mozart. What you said really is true. Nothing like it has ever been seen, nothing even remotely comparable. I must offer you the liveliest compliments on your children.”

  Maria Antonia stared at Leopold with her flat yet piercing gaze and at the same time glanced at Wolfgang, who, perched on the arm of a chair, was noisily eating a chocolate. The impudence of that child annoyed her, while she inwardly approved of Nannerl, who nibbled a tart without letting even a crumb drop; Anna Maria, on the other hand, who, red in the face, did not dare even to touch the royal porcelain for fear of breaking it, was not worthy of her attention.

  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” Leopol
d answered, putting down the plate with the piece of cake that he had barely tasted, “but I would like to explain, if you will allow me, that talent is not their only gift. Wolfgang and Nannerl are children of exceptional character, accustomed to work and discipline. Without strict guidance, talent is in danger of being squandered; you, who are an illustrious musician, know this better than I.”

  “If I am illustrious it is due more to my position than to my music,” she said with false modesty, and bestowed on him a little smile.

  “I think it’s time to play now!” the Elector exclaimed. He was not taking any refreshment but wandered around the salon with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Of course, Maximilian,” said the princess. “Just wait, if you don’t mind, until we finish paying homage to the work of the pastry chefs. You don’t want anything to eat?”

  He shook his head, left the group, and began to rub rosin over the bow of his cello. She, meanwhile, spoke kindly to Nannerl: “You are an extraordinary performer, my girl. Yes, extraordinary: Eckard himself could not play his own sonatas with such precision.”

  “You are very gracious.”

  “But how old are you, really?”

  Nannerl glanced uncertainly at her father, who immediately intervened: “Eleven! I said so at the start of the concert.”

  “And I heard you, Herr Mozart, don’t worry. I’m just curious to know when she will be twelve.”

  “Well, actually, that is, to tell the truth, next month.”

  “Ah, I knew it! And the boy, how old is he—eighteen and still small, thanks to a divine joke?”

  “Of course not! Wolfgang is, that is, not six, but—seven last January, actually.”

  Leopold had not many times in his life come close to stuttering. But this was one of them. Anna Maria, still unnoticed, stared in wishful frustration at the pastries, unaware of the bad impression her husband was making.

  “As I see it, Herr Mozart,” Maria Antonia insisted with royal sadism, “you choose to lower the ages of your children to make them appear even more phenomenal! I would give you some advice, if you will allow me: forget it. The lie is believable in the case of the boy, but not of the girl, who seems even older than she is.”

  “Shall we play now?” the Elector interrupted, holding up the perfectly tuned cello.

  “Really, Maximilian; right now, when the conversation is starting to get interesting?”

  “Why, what are you talking about?” he asked, approaching.

  “About this adorable girl. An exceptional player of many instruments, don’t you think? If only she were able to compose, as we do, her talent would truly be complete. But, as it is…”

  “Who says Nannerl doesn’t know how to compose? She’s way better than you!” cried Wolfgang, spitting out bits of chocolate every which way.

  Leopold would happily have dug a hole in the floor that would swallow up his whole family, him first. “Son, be quiet, for heaven’s sake. Excuse him, Your Highness, the child doesn’t know what he’s saying. I entreat you, change the subject.”

  “No, indeed, Herr Mozart, this particular subject seems to me of great interest!” Maria Antonia said, in annoyance. “So, young lady, what have you composed?”

  Nannerl felt all eyes upon her, like rays of burning light. “My brother exaggerates. I’ve written some arias, a duet…but they’re small things, not at all comparable to Your Grace’s operas in the Italian style.”

  “What do you mean, you liar? ‘Ah, Heaven, what have I done?’ Is that a small thing?” said Wolfgang.

  “Wolfgang, stop it,” she murmured anxiously.

  “Is that the title of an aria? Is there a cello part?” Maximilian broke in with interest, but this time, by contrast, it was his sister who didn’t listen to him.

  “You know what? She always carries all her music with her!” Wolfgang shouted in Maria Antonia’s face. “She has a pouch hidden under her skirt. Come on, I’ll show you!” And he jumped on his sister, immobilizing her, lifted her skirt, found the secret pouch among her petticoats, and removed the packet of manuscripts, which he threw on the princess’s lap with a cry of triumph: “Look at that if you don’t believe me!”

  Leopold Mozart had gone from stammering to near-paralysis. His lower lip was contracting in uncontrollable spasms, and although he tried to make his vocal cords vibrate in some expression of regret, his throat appeared lifeless. Anna Maria had finally stopped gazing at the pastries and her eyes were fixed on Nannerl’s legs, still indecently uncovered; Nannerl herself hadn’t even realized it, too intent on observing her precious scores in Maria Antonia’s wrinkled hands. Maximilian, too, was examining them, in a desperate search for something he could play at that moment, which finally he found: “‘Ah, Heaven, what have I done?’ Aria for soprano and strings. Is this what you were talking about, little boy?”

  “Yes! Why don’t we try it now?” Wolfgang burst out.

  “Can you play the viola?” the Elector asked him. What a stupid question! He realized it immediately and continued rapidly: “Of course. Maria Antonia can sing, I play the cello, naturally, and the two violins—”

  He broke off and turned toward Leopold and Nannerl. Her heart was beating so hard that her ribs could be seen rising and falling even through her dress.

  “There doesn’t seem to be any other solution! To you I leave the choice of who plays first violin and who second; but I would suggest, Herr Mozart, that out of gallantry and paternal love, you give first place to your daughter.”

  Nannerl looked at her father with feigned submissiveness, and her voice came out hoarsely, in a clever portrayal of distress: “In truth, my Prince, the violin is not an instrument for girls.”

  “Of course,” Maximilian answered politely. “It’s not right for a young lady to play the violin in public. But here we are practically family, aren’t we, dear Leopold?”

  Herr Mozart nodded with his eyelids, the only part of his body he could still control. Maximilian threw a precious Italian instrument toward him and only the fear that it would crash to the floor overcame his paralysis. Nannerl, her eyes shining with joy, took another polished violin from the Elector’s hands and hugged it to her as one hugs a rediscovered friend. Maria Antonia began gargling to warm up her voice; she had the look of one of who, from the heights of magnanimity, is doing the masses a favor, but in fact she wasn’t too secure about her sight-reading. Maximilian took his place, Nannerl distributed the parts, and while Anna Maria, finally ignored by everyone, could stuff her mouth with gelatins, the rehearsal began, and the composition of Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart echoed clear and proud through the rooms of the Castle of Nymphenburg in Munich!

  My father, Leopold Mozart—what can I tell you about my father? I imagine you know him at least slightly, since you must have met him at court, and certainly you must have an excellent impression; he is indisputably a man of great intelligence, vast culture, and courtly manners; and I guarantee you, dear Armand, that he is capable of love, and that he loves his family intensely, but in different ways.

  He married my mother out of love. More than anything he was fascinated by her natural vitality, which was something completely unknown to him; far from despising her unruly behavior, he observed it with patience and interest, even though at times he suffered from the effects of it. Then Wolfgang arrived, and he added to that vitality a sublime capacity for abstraction and a fierce imagination; and the boundaries of my father’s world contracted, inevitably, to the relationship between him and his male child.

  There is only one thing for which I cannot forgive Leopold Mozart: he so exhausted my brother that Wolfgang became ill—it’s a miracle that he’s so healthy and robust today. I was bigger and stronger, and was better able to withstand the discomforts of those journeys, the irregular meals, the endless series of performances; but as a small boy he had to endure typhoid, rheumatic fever, skin inflammations, and a number of minor ailments, from vomiting to recurrent headaches, not to mention smallpox, which,
thank Heaven, we both survived. But nothing would sway Herr Mozart from his purpose, and the end of every illness was the beginning of a new activity, the preparation for a new and exhilarating success.

  Because the European tour was a triumph! The concerts produced a lot of money; nobles and commoners both went wild over my brother’s and my virtuosity, Wolfgang’s fame was established, his musical culture became richer every day. I, too, nourished my soul on sights and experiences that in small, dull Salzburg I would never have known. But it wasn’t enough for my father, and we had to raise our sights and aim at London. And perhaps he already had in mind the future, even more ambitious move: to Italy. He would put up with the people of the south, whom he despised, in order to bring Wolfgang to the land of opera and make him into a star of the stage…

  And for the journey to Italy, above all, I should be grateful to Leopold Mozart; for it was precisely that journey that led, indirectly, dearest, to our meeting. Consider then, Armand, that you should think kindly of my father in a particular way.

  XI.

  At the center of the fresco shone a divine, half-naked coachman with a gilded cloak over his shoulders that stayed in place despite the speeding chariot. How many horses were there? Maybe two, one the shadow of the other, but at that distance and with your head back it wasn’t easy to distinguish them. The chariot gleamed, but everything around it was gray. Among some humbler figures at the base of the painting were two women who seemed to be frowning, as if despite their altitude they were not superior to human sufferings but, rather, eager to descend and mingle. Nannerl smiled to herself as she imagined those maidens, in their flowing classical robes, circulating among the noblewomen, with their elaborate, low-cut gowns, who crowded the salon. She looked down and suddenly everything seemed to have spots; this increased her sensation of being in an unreal place.

  Versailles was more than a palace, more than a castle—it was a city made for princes. Everything was excessive, from the enormous park filled with bronze and marble statues and gigantic pools to the vast buildings, their wide windows hung with lush draperies. The walls of the innumerable salons were covered with plaster reliefs and rose- and orange-colored stone; tall narrow-necked vases and busts of illustrious whiskered men stood on pedestals, and beside doorways were gigantic mirrors in ornate gilded frames. There was gold everywhere: gold statues, gold cornices, even the doors were of gold. And then the tapestries on the walls and the carpets on the floors, immense carpets covering surfaces as large as the main square of a normal city! On the hearths burned fires that could have swallowed up a herd of cows, and yet it was terribly cold: How could those ladies with their bold necklines survive the winters?