Mozart's Sister: A Novel (4 page)

The Reverend Joseph Bullinger had the girl leave the confessional and, taking her by the hand, led her toward the pews.

“I don’t even know how I managed to get here,” she sobbed. “I haven’t eaten for days, and I don’t have the strength to get up in the morning. If it were up to me, I would stay in bed until the end of my days.”

“What did you tell your family?”

“A lot of lies.” Awareness of that further sin made her cry even harder. “If I tell them, they’ll throw me out of the house. And if the rumor spreads, there will be a scandal, and I can’t even think of the consequences. I don’t know what to do, Father. Help me.”

There was only one solution, and he was silent as he searched for the words most suitable for proposing it; in the meantime, he observed her wrinkled clothes and tear-stained veil with a sad smile. He had been hearing ugly gossip about this tormented young woman for some time, and at first he had paid no attention to it. In his role as preceptor, Joseph Bullinger had regular contacts with the families of the aristocracy; he had never liked those vacuous circles, and was always hoping to improve them through education and culture.

“My child,” he said, “don’t cry. You have no reason to despair, believe me. Often the Lord indicates to us the just path in an unexpected way. When one reaches what seems a dead end, there may be a doorway to happiness: the doorway through which the Almighty offers you the chance to begin a new life, upright and pure, in His name.”

The musician sniffed and looked at him, filled with hope.

“You will construct in your heart a system of new and just values, in the absence of which you have unfortunately committed this grave sin. You may repair the evil done through work and helping others, and learn to appreciate asceticism and contemplation.”

“I understand,” she said, but in fact she had understood nothing. “But what must I do, exactly?”

“Leave the city as soon as possible and, safe from the gossip, bring the pregnancy to term. I will take care of finding a good situation for the child when it is born; and for you, I already have in mind the convent where you will take your vows.”

The harsh cry of dismay rattled the windows: “You mean, I am to become a nun?”

Protests followed, expressed in every form and every tone of voice, and a vain search for alternatives. As the reverend insisted, trying his best to convince her, she withdrew into a dangerous silence, accompanied by a new flood of tears, and so, disheveled and weeping, as she had arrived, she hurried to the door of the church and almost bumped into Leopold Mozart.

“Watch how you—” he grumbled, wiping his shoes on his calves, then he made the sign of the cross, approached the reverend, and uttered:
“Ave clare sacerdos! Magnum gaudium mihi affert in te incidere.”

Bullinger appeared to appreciate the learned phrases and answered in kind:
“Eadem laetitia afficior, carissime frater. Asside mihi.”

The priest was a man of influence, and Herr Mozart sat down beside him and started in on the speech that he had carefully prepared. “Reverend, I have formulated a particular plan for my life and that of my family; before putting it into action, however, I wish to confer with you, because your guidance is, for me, the one and only shining light.”

Bullinger confined himself to a slight nod. The musician’s ingratiating ways sometimes annoyed him.

“I intend to take Wolfgang on a tour. Not a short trip, like the one that took us to the court of Vienna, although that gave me great satisfaction. This time I intend to visit Munich, Frankfurt, and Brussels; then, God willing, I will go on to Paris and, finally, even to London.”

It was an ambitious plan, and the Reverend Bullinger began to suspect that Leopold wanted something more than advice from him.

“You know how fond I am of our splendid city. And yet I feel that in this provincial environment my son’s talent cannot receive the necessary stimulus to make it flourish and bear fruit as it deserves. Ours will not be a journey of mere promotion but one also of intense and thorough study: I want Wolfgang to have lessons from the finest masters.”

“I take your point, Herr Mozart. But doesn’t he seem too young for this?”

Leopold had foreseen this objection. “It is nature, not I, who rushes onward. My son, at his tender age, is already a composer: with his childish hands, he draws perfectly formed notes on the page. I can’t let such a treasure be lost.”

“I realize that. But aren’t you worried about the risk of exposing him to diseases during the journey? You could undermine the health of your children irreparably.”

“I trust in the protection of Our Lord. What He decides, I will accept with a heart full of faith. Naturally I will take every precaution so that my son—”

“Do I misremember, or don’t you have a daughter as well?”

For this question, however, Leopold was not prepared. He looked at the priest, sincerely bewildered, and didn’t know what to say.

“From the start of our conversation you have been speaking of your son,” Bullinger continued. “And yet at the time I introduced you into the circles of the aristocracy, the girl was your pride and joy. Do you intend to leave her in Salzburg?”

“Of course not! Nannerl will perform duets with her brother! On the other hand, it’s obvious that it wouldn’t make any sense for a girl to learn composition.”

“That is for you to decide—I cannot judge. I say only that all the creatures of the world are equal in the eyes of God, hence it is fitting that they should be also in the eyes of men.”

“Yes, of course…Naturally, most reverend sir.”

“Very well. Now explain to me how you propose to finance the journey.”

Leopold gradually regained his confidence. “For one thing, I trust in gifts from the princes and so forth, and then, whenever possible, I will arrange for Wolfgang to give paid concerts, and, naturally, Nannerl, too! Also the girl, Reverend. In addition, my landlord has promised me a loan.”

“I deduce, then, that that is not the reason you have come asking for my assistance. Shall we at last speak plainly, dear brother?”

“Yes, well…,” Leopold stammered, trying to hide his nervousness behind tight lips, “as you can certainly imagine, I will have to ask the archbishop for a long leave of absence, and, further, I would expect, once I have returned from the tour, to take up my post again, for without it, my family’s subsistence would be in serious danger. Your intercession would be a great help.”

“We have come to the point! I appreciate your frankness, Herr Mozart. On the other hand,” he added, not entirely convinced, “you must realize that your request is rather exorbitant. What arguments do you imagine I should use with His Excellency?”

Leopold’s face lighted up. This was the best part of his speech, the part that he had studded with solid rhetorical effects.

“One alone, beloved Father: that it was our Lord who gave a spark of musical genius to an ordinary child of Salzburg. Certainly it is not through any merit of mine, or of his mother, if this boy performs miracles with notes that have never been heard before. And if our Lord willed this, He did so in order that one day that child might sing His praises and celebrate His glory through music. We must all dedicate ourselves, each within the limits of his own role and using the humble means available to man, so that it may happen as soon as possible.”

“That’s enough! My stomach is beginning to complain about lunch.” The priest rose stiffly. “All right, I will speak to the archbishop.
Cura ut valeas.”
And he went off.

And meanwhile I went on writing music, passionately. I always wrote at night. I waited until I heard the regular breathing of my brother, the quiet hum of my father exhaling, my mother’s loud snoring. Then I got out of my bed, went barefoot along the hall, turned the mother-of-pearl handle, and let myself into the room with the instruments.

I have always liked the night. And now, when I’m writing to you, dearest Armand, it’s the middle of the night, and between you and me there is only a lamp, a sheet of paper, and a pen. You and I are alone, and intimately, profoundly, close. You understand me, and you, too, have the same feelings, is that not true? And my family, from whom a mere wall separates me, are a million miles away.

They have never violated, and I don’t think they have ever discovered, these lovely isolated moments of mine, when time expands, when no one has the power to tell me what I must or must not do. We live in a larger house now, and each of us has our own room, so I don’t need to make complicated maneuvers to be alone, and there is no risk of being found out; but at that time, entering the music room meant the jealous, fearful crossing of the threshold between the world and myself.

In the silence I opened the window, listened to the rustling waters of the Salzach, breathed in the cool air, stared into the darkness. Finally I lighted a candle and sat at the harpsichord, with the slow solemnity of one who is performing a rite. I couldn’t play (I would have waked the entire building!), but to compose I had only to touch the keys, without pressing my fingers down; to listen to my internal ear. My knowledge of counterpoint was confined to what I managed to overhear of the lessons that my father gave Wolfgang, but I took this not as a limitation but as a stimulus. Arias, canons, lieder. Vocal music was what I loved, perhaps because I had some talent as a singer. My voice has been melodious since I was a child, and deep, even in speaking; I haven’t trained it with any consistency, but if I had, I would be a mezzo-soprano or a contralto—the idea of being on the stage has never appealed to me. I’ve preferred the role of the one who, in the shadows, invents; and then, in the shadows, listens to the results.

I filled the pages with notes, I inscribed the titles in my best, most elegant handwriting, I blew on the ink, blotted it, and, finally, folded every page and put it in my secret pouch. I had sewn a kind of pouch that was fastened with long laces, and I tied it around my waist, hidden among my petticoats; thus my music never left me. During the day it sat at the table, worked, and played with me; at night, when I went to bed, it slept with me, warmed by the covers and by my skin. It was invisible to the world, but to me always present, like a limb, an organ, a lock of hair. I imagined giving it to my father, at the right moment, and then, I was sure, he would realize what I was capable of, and would encourage and support me. After all, the sister of the Prince Elector of Bavaria liked to write operas in the Italian style; I, who was Queen of the Kingdom of Back—couldn’t I be like her?

VI.

“Put down the violin, Mama’s little angel.”

“No!”

“How can I sew the jacket if you’ve got both arms busy?”

“Papa said I can play the violin as much as I want. And now I want to play!”

Anna Maria resigned herself to working on the trousers. For her children’s traveling clothes she had chosen fabrics that were durable but difficult to get the needle through; and if Wolfgang didn’t stop playing with that damned instrument, sooner or later she would box his ears.

Nannerl was alone in the kitchen peeling potatoes. She was wearing a big apron, and amused herself by peeling in spirals, creating a single long strip for each potato; she also amused herself by listening to her brother’s musical games, and singing along with him in an undertone. The larger the heap of peeled potatoes grew, the louder she sang, until Wolfgang heard her and answered with the violin.

“You little witch. Don’t you start, too!” yelled her mother, but, far out of sight, Nannerl ignored the command, and sister and brother began tossing the music back and forth like a ball. Far, too, from the tedious lessons of their father! Who said that music has to be played in particular moments, in particular places, and in a particular way? Their notes ran, improvised and anarchic, wild and noisy, from one door to the other; they pursued, caught up, became entangled, and let go; they flew out the window, paused on the king’s throne, blew over the hats of passersby, mixed with the rumble of a rushing carriage. Suddenly Nannerl left the kitchen and headed toward her brother; sight intensified their communication, and while their mother, pricking her finger, cursed, brother and sister sang and shouted more and more joyfully. Nannerl was still holding a potato, whose peel hung down to the floor; Wolfgang was bowing away like a gypsy. Then they exchanged objects and she found herself with the violin in hand and he the potato; and, meanwhile, the orgy of sound reached new heights. Their mother was yelling that in those conditions it was impossible for her to sew and she couldn’t understand them in the least, but they paid no attention and went on with their wild music, until Anna Maria broke off a thread too energetically and Wolfgang’s shorts split, leaving him with his bottom out.

At that moment, Leopold Mozart appeared in the doorway and the following sight presented itself to his horrified eyes: a wife desperate before a ripped garment, a daughter in an apron holding a violin, a son with his buttocks bared and a potato in his hand.

The sound of the door slamming interrupted the stream of sound like the blow of an ax and for a very long minute they all held their breath. Leopold stared at the three of them, flustered, as his eyes seemed to turn from blue to pitch black; then, with measured steps, he approached his daughter.