Mozart's Sister: A Novel (9 page)

XV.

“Herr Tschudi, I am honored by your welcome, and I must acknowledge, of course, that you are a skilled craftsman. And yet I confess to you that this new instrument—how can I put it? It doesn’t convince me. An Italian invented it, right? It’s time for that riffraff from the south to stop illegally trying to take over the music business.”

“I understand your point of view, Herr Mozart. But may I be permitted to remind you that while the pianoforte was indeed invented by the Cristofori, it was perfected by Gottfried Silbermann, that is, a German—”

“Of course! And I am aware, besides, that Johann Christian Bach has already composed for the pianoforte. Make no mistake; I am, in all modesty, quite well informed. In spite of that, I don’t think this instrument will have a wide circulation. One of those passing fashions that are gone as soon as they have arrived—surely you know what I’m saying?”

They were having tea in the workshop of the best-known maker of pianos. There was no habitation in London where the teakettle was not ready from morning to evening, and on every visit one was unfailingly welcomed with tea and buttered scones. And it seemed that the custom extended to craftsmen’s workshops, or at least those that were doing well; and to judge from the fine Chinese porcelain cups and the heavy silver teapot, Mr. Burkhardt Tschudi was managing very well. He also had an assistant, a man in a white coat who was sitting calmly in a corner working with glue and file.

Nannerl couldn’t wait to try the modern instrument, which had replaced the metallic and essentially tedious sound of the harpsichord with a completely new, much more expressive timbre, thanks to an ingenious system of levers and hammers. She was excited by the idea of investigating a broad spectrum of acoustic effects, depending on the intensity with which she touched the keys, from the delicacy of a light rain to the tremendous power of thunder, passing through a thousand intermediate shadings.

While the adults were conversing, she silently approached the magnificent instrument. Close up, it did not seem different from a harpsichord. It was of cedar, without decoration, and massive; it had a single keyboard, not the two, one above the other, that many harpsichords did. The moment she pressed her fingers to the keys, Nannerl felt the same emotion as when she had seen her newborn brother, and she realized that her life would no longer make sense without the pianoforte. Wolfgang joined her, mouth open in amazement, while she ran her hands up and down the keyboard, and crossed them, and then, still playing, stood up to see what the hammers were doing to the strings. She experimented freely, following only her own whim, instinct, passion.

“What are you doing—are you by chance improvising?”

It was the voice of Leopold. Mr. Tschudi looked at him with some disappointment, while Nannerl put her hands back in her lap.

“Girls should not give in to the wish for fantasy,” Herr Mozart continued. “Eh! What would the world be if men did not take on the task of reining in feminine vanities?”

Anna Maria, who was adjusting a hairpin, stopped abruptly and tried to assume the air of a serious person.

With studied calm, Leopold put down his cup and wiped his hands and mouth with the napkin. “Very good! We have seen the instruments, and now I would say that we can go. Thank you, Herr Tschudi.”

“Oh, so soon?” he said, unhappily. “We have some others upstairs. Don’t tell me you don’t want to see them! They are my best pieces.”

“It would be very interesting, but you must understand that my son is wasting precious time that he should be devoting to practice.”

“There is also a harpsichord upstairs. Wouldn’t he like to try it out? It might, after all, be useful, in an educational sense.”

Wolfgang’s cry echoed amid the opened sound boxes. “Yes! I want to try playing both together.”

“But of course, little one. My assistant will go with you.”

Wolfgang darted away with the man in the white coat, followed by his mother and a resigned Leopold. Nannerl prepared to go with them, but Tschudi rapidly, furtively, closed the door to the stairs: “Come, play for me as you were doing before.”

She glanced nervously at the door.

“Don’t worry. They can’t hear anything from upstairs.”

“No, it’s better if I go. My father will notice that I’m not there and come down.”

“No one has ever played an instrument of mine as you did. Please, go back to it. Do this old man a favor.”

Timidly, Nannerl sat down on the stool. She sounded some light chords, played a short scale, then a trill. Finally she let herself be possessed by a feeling of pleasure and at the upper end of the keyboard she spun a melody that contained echoes of treetops tossed by the wind on a beloved hillside near Salzburg, of the cool dampness of a cut bough, of the beating wings of a woodcock. She kept the volume low, fearing her father’s ire, but there was no need; he was too much in the spell of Wolfgang’s abilities, upstairs, and had forgotten her. And at the end, the old craftsman, with his faintly greasy complexion, gave her brief, emotional applause, the most gratifying she had ever received, and whispered a phrase that she never forgot: “Have the courage to fight for your dreams, little Miss Mozart.”

XVI.

They had arrived. The Maestro lived in a four-story mansion with a green lacquered door. From above a long and oddly mobile nose, a butler as elegant as a lord gazed over the heads of the Mozarts and said only, “Follow me.”

Pressing her scores to her breast, Nannerl felt her heart beating violently; a vise gripped her from the pit of her stomach to her throat, and she was afraid of stumbling on the steps.

“Welcome! It’s a pleasure to meet you. How are you?”

“I am deeply honored to make the important acquaintance of the most esteemed and illustrious Herr Johann Christian Bach!” Leopold exclaimed, touching the Maestro’s fingertips.

“Come now, there’s no need to be so formal among colleagues. Frau Mozart,
enchanté.
Please, let me show you the way.”

Above the majestic grand piano hung a portrait of Johann Sebastian Bach, with his severe, troubled expression and an enormous wig of white curls that hung down to his chest. The son, so different and so young, turned in a friendly manner to Wolfgang and Nannerl: “And here are the little Mozarts! The two prodigies I’ve heard so much about.”

“And I’ve heard so much about you!”

“Silence, Wolfgang. Children should speak only if spoken to.”

“No, no, Herr Mozart, let the little one express himself. So, what do you know about me?”

“That you are better than Papa! Nannerl said so.”

A heavy silence fell. Bach, amused, said, “My dear girl, in art there is no established hierarchy, and it’s certainly not a contest, that one can win or lose. But you, little boy, you must try to preserve this lovely impudence. If you can put it into your music, no one will be able to stop you.”

“Impudence? I think that music is a matter of discipline,” Leopold muttered.

“No doubt, discipline is indispensable. But it is only the means that allows us to express passion.”

“As in the works of your father!” Nannerl interrupted headlong. “He was the first composer who—”

“Shall we get to the point?” And abruptly, and almost discourteously, Leopold offered Bach a bundle of scores. “These are Wolfgang’s most recent compositions. I would hope that you might examine them as soon as possible, to assess the possibility of taking him as a student.”

“Of course! I can even do it right away, if you have the patience to wait a little while.”

“Pardon me…I have some things to show you, too, if you wouldn’t mind: a lied with
basso continuo,
a duet, and even a cantata.” With trembling hands, Nannerl offered her music to the Maestro.

“I’m impressed. So you, too, compose!”

“Let’s not talk nonsense!” Leopold grew more and more nervous. “No woman composes.”

“But I do—my scores prove it.”

“Careful, Nannerl: this is the sin of pride! And as Saint Augustine says,
superbia parit discissionem, caritas unitatem.”

“You call me proud? And making a show of your own learning—isn’t that a sin of pride?”

Herr Mozart was dumbstruck, but only for an instant. “Be quiet, you foolish girl!” he shouted, his red face a breath from hers. He seemed ready to strangle her with his own hands.

There was a long silence. Embarrassed, Bach stared at the image of his father, as if looking for help. Nannerl held out the scores, but he didn’t take them. She felt her mother grab her by the arm.

“Come, dear,” she said, dragging her bodily. “Let’s go in the other room, so Herr Bach can give Wolfgang a lesson; and then, if there’s time, he will also listen to you. Come on, my sweetheart.”

As they left the room, the fixed smile vanished from her face. “Your father is right—you really are foolish. Did you have to cause a scene in front of the gentleman?”

“I wanted him to listen to my music.”

“You’re a young lady. You’ll never become a kapellmeister. Will you get that through your head? Papa has told you a thousand times.”

“Are you taking his side now? Then I am telling you that to me it doesn’t matter at all what Papa says! Or you!”

“Don’t you dare! Holy shit!”

At that moment the butler arrayed like a noble entered with the never-failing tea tray. He looked at Anna Maria in shock, nearly dropped it as he put it down, and left.

“What a bad impression you’ve caused me to make!”

“Oh, of course. Now it’s my fault.”

“That’s enough, Nannerl. You must stop using that tone.” She took her by the shoulder and looked her in the eye. “Your father has arranged everything for our well-being: Wolfgang is the pillar of the family, and it is he who is to become a composer. We’ll take him to study in Italy when he’s older, and he’ll become famous all over the world and we’ll all be happy. Even you!”

“What do you know about what will make me happy?”

“And then we’ll find you a husband. You’ll have children. What’s the use of all this passion for music?”

The half hour that followed was, for Nannerl, genuine torture. Through the closed doors, notes began to sound: Wolfgang was playing the pianoforte for Christian Bach. And meanwhile, flinging herself onto a chair, she waited in silence, doing absolutely nothing. Sitting on the sofa like a sultan, her mother drank tea and ate scones and tried to involve Nannerl in the feast, but her stomach had become a dry sack. She clasped her hands in her lap and began to twiddle her thumbs; suddenly exhausted, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Then she made an effort and got up. She went to the window and looked out, searching for any sort of distraction, but the room was at the back of the house and there were no passersby. Suddenly the music stopped; the door opened and Herr Bach appeared holding Wolfgang in his arms like an infant.

“Well, well, well, Frau Mozart! Do you know, it seemed to me that I went back many years? In your son I saw myself as a child.” He put him down gently and suggested: “Now go to your sister. I must speak to Papa and Mama about your future.”

Swifter than a gust of wind, Nannerl left the parlor, and Wolfgang trotted after her. “You know, he liked your cantata a lot. I told him that you wrote it, but he didn’t believe me. He thinks I wrote it!”

“Leave me alone!” And she tried to go down the stairs but he held her by the skirt, giggling.

“Where are you going, you big goat? Want to play hide-and-seek?”

She slapped his hand, and he stopped short; she hurried down the stairs while the little boy stood there bewildered. “Nannerl! Why are you acting like this?” He tried to catch her, but she was already on the ground floor, heading down the hallway toward the door. She wanted to leave as quickly as possible, vanish, perhaps wander through the city alone, perhaps march to London Bridge and jump into the Thames.

“Nannerl! Here forever happy are we!”

She didn’t turn.

“Here forever happy are we! Answer me!”

Nannerl shook the door angrily, but it wouldn’t open. The stupid little wheels it rolled on were blocked. What a ridiculous system. Finally she succeeded, and was about to run into the street, but he reached her and pulled her hair: “Here forever happy are we! Now answer me, you bad—”

“I hate you!”

Was it my anger that made him sick? I fear it is so, Armand, and whenever I think back on the small, weakened body of my adored brother, of his face as it broke into a sweat again and again, his eyes without consciousness, I wish I could punish myself for the brutality that dwells in my soul, for those fits of fury that I don’t know how to control, that I always become aware of too late. I promised you, my dearest, that you will never bear the brunt of this, but having reflected at length (because writing to you has led me to reflect), I have a fear of not being able to guarantee it.

I don’t know from what deep place my anger comes, and I don’t know what the causes are. I know only that it’s sometimes difficult for me to understand the motivations of others, when they’re different from mine, and that my first, instinctive reaction is, from the height of a nonexistent perfection, to judge their claims to be mistaken. However hard I’ve tried to correct this behavior, I am a prisoner of it. But I don’t want to dwell on this matter. I wish rather to tell you, now, even if every single fraction of that memory is painful to me, of my little brother at the end of his life, and of how he came back from the abyss.