Mozart's Sister (29 page)

For all my complaints, it was hard to see Papa and Wolfie return
home from Milan disheartened about not getting a position. They'd
even had an audience with Empress Maria Theresa herself-to no
avail. Papa had delayed their return as long as possible-feigning
rheumatism so the archbishop would think he couldn't travelin hopes of hearing from the courts of Lombardy and Tuscany.
Considering both places (as well as Milan) were ruled by children of
the empress ... it seemed obvious she influenced them. I would
imagine the children of an empress would bow to her wishes from
two fronts: to please her as a mother, out of loyalty and love, but
also to please her as their ruler, out of duty. It was a detail we might
never confirm, though I, as much as anyone, knew the influence of
a parent on a child.

Yet for Papa and Wolfie, coming back to staid and stodgy Salzburg, with its smothering atmosphere, was like wearing a fur cloak
on a summer's day. Papa had written as much in his final letter from
Milan: You cannot think into what confusion our departure has thrown me.
Indeed Ifind it hard to leave Italy.

What remained unspoken was the subtext: I find it hard to come
home.

In March, after they had been home a few days, I passed the
kitchen and heard Mama and Papa talking. The serious tone of the
discussion made me hold back and keep my presence unknown.

"So all is lost?" Mama asked.

"No! Never."

"But if all avenues in Italy are closed ..." Mama sighed. "What
of the Kapellmeister position in Vienna?"

"He's recovered from his illness. There is no position. If only the
archbishop had not been in Vienna on the same day as our audience
with the empress ..

"So you think they talked?"

"I'm sure of it."

I heard Wolfie behind me. I put my finger to my lips, and he
joined me in the eavesdropping.

"I'm feeling very old, Anna. I'm afraid the job prospects for an
old man and a boy are slim."

"You can't give up," she said.

Wolfie pulled me away, into the music room. As soon as we
were there, he let go and began pacing. "I'm going to end up like
Papa, I know it!"

The statement took me aback. "But Papa's a good man. A
talented-"

He swung toward me, his eyes blazing. "None of which matters!" His eyes skimmed the doorway and he lowered his voice.
"Papa is stuck here. He's too old to be named Kapellmeister; he gave
up his own composing to travel around Europe chasing fireflies. The
archbishop pats him on the head and says, `Yes, yes, how nice. Now,
get to work."'

"Papa gave up his own ambitions for us, Wolfie. For you."

He began pacing again. "A lot of good it's done me. I'm a great
composer. I'm a great musician. Yet I'm made to feel like a peon
who's peddling some carved knickknack or painted teacup. Why
can't people realize who I am? Why can't they treat me with the
respect I deserve?"

Because you have to earn it.

Although I truly thought my brother was God's gift to music, I
didn't like his new attitude. There was a fine line between pompous
and possessing a proper pride in a gift God had bestowed upon-

Wolfie suddenly stopped his pacing, his eyes blinking with a new
thought. "I must get away. On my own. Papa's right; together we're
an old man and a young boy. Two undesirable ends of the spectrum.
But alone, I could make them see ..."

"People know how young you are."

He laughed sarcastically. "Of course they do. Papa's made sure
of that. And bragging about my youth and even shaving off years
was fine then, but now ... I must be seen as a man. An independent, vital, mature man of the world."

To look at him, there was no way people would think of him as
being even as old as he was-which was nearly eighteen. He looked
fourteen, perhaps fifteen. And his habit of flailing his arms when he
talked, of bouncing on the balls of his feet when excited, of showing
every emotion on his face like a child ...

He took two steps toward the doorway, then stopped. "I will tell
Papa that the time has come for me to go off by myself." He looked at the doorway, then back at me. "Yes?"

His indecision and need for approval made him seem younger
still.

Papa's voice sounded from another room. "Wolfgang? Where are
you, boy? We have work to do."

Like a breath taken in, then released, he was gone to Papa. I did
not doubt his desire to be free. I too felt the lure of independence.
I was twenty-two. I should have been married. I should have had
my own household, my own husband, my own life. To feel the draw
to be elsewhere was one thing. But actually doing-

Papa's voice resounded again. "Nannerl?"

"Coming, Papa."

I set down Papa's letter with a sigh.

Mama looked up from her darning. "Are the opera rehearsals
going badly?"

"They are going better than expected."

"Then why the sigh, Nannerl?"

I brought her the offending letter. "Papa offers yet another
excuse why we can't go to Munich to see the opera's premiere. He
says if we all leave Salzburg, it might appear as if we are thinking of
moving away, perhaps seeking a position with the elector. The archbishop would not-"

"The archbishop, the archbishop," Mama said. "I grow weary of
speculating on his reaction or action regarding our family's business."

I was surprised by her tone. Mama was the one family member
who encouraged peace at all costs. Yet we'd both looked forward to
seeing Wolfie's latest opera, Lafinta giardiniera-The Pretend Garden
Girl. The premiere was tentatively set for the Munich pre-Lenten
carnival season. Munich was only a two-day journey, and many of
our Salzburg friends attended carnival there. We'd been left behind
on the Italian journeys, as well as Papa and Wolfie's trip to Vienna.
This time ... we were determined to go.

But Papa continued to offer excuses for us to remain at home,
the main one being that he and Wolfie had needed to go to Munich
ahead of time, in December 1774, so Wolfie could write the arias to fit the singers' voices. How would Mama and I get there at a later
date? And since the men's lodging was too small for our inclusion,
where would we find lodging during this busiest time of Munich's
season?

I didn't know I didn't care. Just so it happened.

Mama finished reading the letter on her own. Her hand fell to
her lap. "I'll stay here."

"What?"

"If I stay behind, Colloredo cannot imagine our defection from
Salzburg."

"I can't let you do that, Mama."

She set her darning aside and moved to the desk. She took up
quill and paper.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm writing to your father telling him of my decision."

"But, Mama ..."

"Go watch for the postman. I'll write as quickly as I can."

I wrapped a cloak around my shoulders and stepped outside
onto the square, feeling guilty for her sacrifice.

And elated.

I was set free on the third of January, 1775. And though I knew
a cage awaited my return, I took advantage of the time away from
Salzburg and relished each moment. For myself. And for Mama,
who'd sacrificed her own joy for the sake of the archbishop's suspicions and Papa's fears.

Arrangements had been made for me to travel-free of chargewith our family friend Frau von Robing. Once in Munich, I stayed
at a respectable boardinghouse, and brought with me some music
Papa needed, many clothes for parties and sightseeing, and the costume of an Amazon for the masquerade ball. Papa had wanted me
to wear the Salzburg national dress. But at age twenty-three, I made
my own decision-at least in this. Actually, it worked out fine
because Papa did not see the costume until the night of the ball, and
by then it was too late for him to argue. It was a small victory that was enhanced by Wolfie's whispered comment, "You look amazing,
Horseface."

But in spite of the wonderful times of merriment in Munich,
first and foremost, we were there for the opera. At home I'd read
the libretto-which was a bit farfetched, with more disguises, mistaken identities, and deceptions than were easily grasped. I'd urged
Wolfie to make changes, but at this stage in his operatic career, he'd
thought it best to use what he'd been given. Would he not be given
additional praise for making the mediocre great?

And he did make it great. The entire theater was so crowded
that many were turned away. After each aria there was a terrific
noise: the clapping of hands and cries of "Viva Maestro!" I was so
proud of him. Her Highness the electress and the dowager electress,
who were sitting across from us, even called out "Bravo!" And afterward, Wolfie went to a room where the whole court passed by, and
where he kissed the hand of the elector.

The opera was performed a second time a week later, and then
a third, but alas, that was all. There was much competition during
the season. Over twenty operas were performed, so one could not
be greedy-though Wolfie certainly deserved to be. An additional
disappointment was that the archbishop did not time his visit to
Munich to avail himself of the performance, though we received
some consolation by knowing that others told him about the opera's
success. How the praise must have galled him....

At first Papa had only planned for me to be in town twelve days,
but as my ride back to Salzburg did not materialize (I had secretly
hoped and even suspected it would not), I was allowed to stay and
return with Papa and Wolfie on the sixth of March, two months
after my arrival. Although I missed Mama's presence during this
extended visit, it was the first time since our Grand Tour that I'd
truly felt a part of things again. Wolfie and I even performed
together a few times. The applause was a soothing elixir and fuel to
my dormant dream of being a performer. After all, nothing was happening on the husband-family front, so could God have been opening a door to a career?

Yet all good things must come to an end. As did my season of
freedom. Salzburg beckoned because the current Kapellmeister, Fischietti, was on the outs with the archbishop, and the larger question loomed: Would he be let go? Would there soon be an opening
for Papa to move up?

We sped home to place ourselves close to the action, Papa, full
of hope, and Wolfie and I, full of deep reluctance. For we had both
enjoyed our time in Munich, breathing free.

The emotions were so strong that as our carriage neared the
town of our birth I found my throat constricted and my chest heavy.
And as the view of the road from Munich was swallowed up by
familiar streets and buildings, I heard the door of my cage slam shut.

Why do things never work out as we plan? I'd returned from
Munich with hopes that the performing Mozart siblings would find
life again. A voice. A European audience.

It did not happen.

Although we performed around Salzburg, we never managed to
travel elsewhere, to get away, to breathe the air of freedom. The
same people who'd always heard us play heard us again. And again.
Until we were seen as talented but nothing that special.

We'd also returned from Munich with hopes Papa would be
promoted. When Kapellmeister Fischietti left to pursue his own
composing (ahead of the end of his three-year contract), the archbishop asked Papa to assume some of the Kapellmeister duties until
he made a decision about who would officially take the position. It
was a good sign, and so Papa did as he was asked-for no additional
pay.

But then two years passed....

Papa came in the house, slamming the door so hard the crucifix
on the wall fell to the ground.

We all came running. "What's wrong?" Mama asked.

"He hired another Italian!"

We all understood who "he" was. The archbishop Colloredo.
Cocky, cantankerous, callous Colloredo.

Mama and I led Papa to a chair, but he popped right out of it,
his anger demanding movement.

"Who, Papa? Who?" Wolfie asked.