Mozart's Sister (22 page)

I set the box down with a renewed reverence and moved to the
wardrobe that held my dresses. I pulled out the dress I'd worn the
first night I'd performed for her and held it against my simple wool garment. The skirt stopped inches above the floor. I pressed a sleeve
against an arm. It was far too small.

Holding the dress at arm's length, it was evident it was made for
a girl many years younger than I. It was made for a girl who no
longer existed, but who had existed. I had experienced many grand
things on our travels. I had done things Frau Kraus had never
dreamed of. Could never dream of.

"How ungrateful I am!"

I had not meant to say the words out loud, but they hung in the
room like a public condemnation. I must not think about what I
didn't have now but what I'd been lucky enough to experience
before. Blessed enough to experience. Forgive my indifference, dear
Lord.

I heard Mama in the hall, the soft swish-swish of her skirts as she
moved through our tiny three-room apartment made larger now by
the exit of half its inhabitants.

How dare I not think about her pain? For she was losing something too-her husband. She had been left to deal with the household on her own. Her partner, her companion, and yes, even her
lover, was gone for an indeterminate time. She was alone.

No, she wasn't.

I tossed the too-small dress on the bed. I found Mama seated in
the workroom in her favorite blue chair with the light of the window behind her. It was a good chair for reading or embroidery. She
looked up as I came in and managed a smile. But then I saw what
she was holding in her lap-a pair of Papa's leather gloves.

My heart cried. I knelt beside her chair and we looked into each
other's eyes but a second, as if fearful tears would intrude.

I lowered my head to her lap. There I smelled the bite of the
old leather as Papa's gloves caressed my cheek.

As the months of Wolfie and Papa's absence marched on, Mania
encouraged me to get out, indulge in the pastimes of normal
eighteen-year-old girls. She even encouraged me to accept the
intentions of a certain Franz von Molk. He was the son of the court
chancellor and was quite in love with me, making eyes, constantly
smiling and bowing. Although it was nice to have his attentionand the small gifts he sent to the house-I was stubbornly uninterested in marriage on principle. I would not succumb to a female's
fate. Not without a fight. I resented being propelled in that direction
so quickly. I was not a wife yet. I was a performer.

With a jolt I realized the full truth of that statement.

I was a performer.

Once.

With effort I prevented my thoughts from turning in that direction. Actually, it was another attentive young man that made me
forget my bitterness. Joseph. Joseph Ferdinand von Schiedenhofen.
He came from a very nice family we'd known for years. That they
were well off and had two estates was a fact I could not ignore.

One Saturday afternoon, Joseph stopped by and we talked and
took turns playing the clavier. It was a lovely afternoon, and Mama
kept poking her head in the room, asking if we wanted some cake
or coffee. No, Mama, we haven't eaten what you brought earlier. The
way she winked at me ... it made me blush.

But then it turned awkward when Franz von Molk came to
call-Franz with the cow-eyes. He asked if I would like to go for a
sleigh ride. I didn't want to hurt him by saying no and immediately
realized then how little experience I had regarding the etiquette of
such matters. But Joseph took advantage of that particular moment
and slid in behind me as I stood in the doorway so Franz could see
him.

"Hello, Molk," he said. "Isn't it a bit cold for a sleigh ride? It's
plenty cozy in here."

I must say Franz's expression was rather humorous-his dropped
jaw, his blinking eyes, and his stammer as he bowed and made his
apologies, saying he'd come back another day.

Joseph had a good laugh over that as he and I returned to the
clavier. "He who comes first eats first." With a gallant bow, he took
my hand and kissed it, then grinned up at me. "Do you agree, my
dear Nannerl?"

Yes. At least in this instance. For I was spending the afternoon
with the suitor of my choice. Yet having two men interested ...

Perhaps there were a few advantages to being left behind.

"Come now, Berta," I said to my pupil. "Play your G scale again,
more evenly this time. You're getting uneven sounds because your
fingers are flat. When you round your fingers and don't let the first
knuckle collapse, your sound will be more controlled and even."

Little Berta tried a second time.

"There now," I said. "See what a difference that makes? One
more time."

Berta banged her fingers on the keyboard. "I don't want to do
another scale. I want to play a song. A real song"

Well, then. I took Berta's hands and placed them gently in her
lap, prepared to give her a lecture on the importance of scales and
technique. But when I looked into her face and saw her ten-yearold brows dipped with frustration, I relented. I didn't like playing
scales either. The joy of music was not experienced through a scale.

I patted her arm. "All right. Get out the sonatina I gave you last
time."

The little girl's face lit up. She slid off the bench and retrieved
the sonatina I'd copied for her use. She brought it to the clavier
reverently, as if to say this is real music.

She returned to her place on the bench and set her hands in
place. I noticed how she corrected her fingers' position, offering a
better curve. She looked up at me, as if for permission.

"Remember, Berta, in this piece, you must look and listen for
the melody. When your left hand plays the accompaniment too
loudly, the melody is obscured. Let the melody soar."

As she played, I had to admit she had little talent. Not that she
couldn't practice and get every note correct, but I-perhaps more
than most-knew there was more to music than correct notes.

"Even," I said. "Keep the left hand accompaniment even."

The next measure was improved, but the next fell back into a
jerky rhythm. I remembered practicing this very piece with Papa by
my side. "Do it again, Nannerl. The music deserves more of you than
you're giving it." If it had not been for Papa's patience-and even his
impatience, and his insistence I practice more than I desired-I
would not have become a true musician.

"Aach!" Berta said as she fumbled a note.

Absently, I pressed the correct key, and she continued playing
while I continued my musings. If I was such a great musician, why
was I giving lessons to children who would never become true
musicians, who had no desire to become true musicians and were
only taking lessons because proper society believed it was wise for
every child to learn to play?

More of Papa's words intruded, along with the image of him
dressed to leave for Italy with snow skimming the edges of his cloak
and hat.... Just before getting in the carriage he'd taken my face in
his hands and said, "Take care of your mother while we're gone,
Nannerl. Accept as many pupils as you can and also work on your
voice. Perhaps there will be some occasions for you to sing. Bring
in whatever money you can, and we will do the same"

Money. It was always about money. Kreuzer, gulden, ducat,
franc, or shilling. It was the same wherever one went. Nothing in
life was free. Everyone must do their part.

And so I gave lessons.

"Fraulein Mozart?"

How long had my pupil been sitting there, not playing, just
looking at me?

I put a hand on her back. "You are getting better, Berta. I'm
very proud of you."

The little girl beamed. At least one of us was satisfied with the
situation.

We waited for the dance to begin. Joseph took my hand, leaned
close, and whispered in my ear, "Are you ready?"

"Shh!" I told him. But I nodded just the same. As we danced,
the plan was for me to remember the first and second phrase of
Haydn's minuet, and he would remember the third and fourth.
Then, as soon as it was intermission, we would rush outside into
Joseph's waiting carriage and write it down. We'd planted ink, quill,
and paper inside the carriage, ready for our conspiracy.

The plan was for me to take the melodymelodies, for we
planned to do this again, after intermission-and compose a complete work on the clavier from it. Or a derivation of the melody.
For I would change it slightly. Although it was not unusual for minuet melodies to be used by many composers, it was best not to be
blatant about it, whether in the stealing or in the metamorphosis
from melody to complete piece.

It was done in fun. I would not dream of making profit from
such a game. But I did enjoy the process. The camaraderie with
Joseph regarding the scheme, the way we'd sit shoulder to shoulder
in the immobile carriage, arguing and laughing as we tried to
recreate the melody without benefit of any instrument but our
minds.

I'd written to Wolfie about our exploits and had even sent him
a copy of my compositions. The last one he'd enjoyed immensely,
telling me that I'd composed the bass incomparably well and without the slightest mistake. He'd even begged me to try this kind of
thing more often.

I intended to.

In return, he sent Joseph and me copies of the latest Italian dance
music. At the last ball we'd attended, Joseph had given the quartet
copies. We danced and danced.... I so loved to dance, to look into
the eyes of my partner as we slid past each other into our respective
lines, our shoulders and arms skimming. Then palm to palm as we
passed in our danses a deux. Plus the swish of the gowns as they
moved to the rhythm, and the elegant pointed toes of the men as
they showed that they too could exhibit grace.

The musical introduction began, and the dancers stepped into
place. My memory prepared to grab hold of the notes as my body
employed the correct moves. As we bowed and curtsied to begin,
Joseph made a face, trying to distract me.

With a lift of my chin, I looked away. I would not be distracted
by his handsome smile.

That would come later. In due time.