Mozart's Sister (42 page)

What sound had taken me from dreams to awake?

I turned my head so both ears were free of the muffling effects
of the pillow

Pluck, pluck.

Strings being plucked on a violin? I got out of bed and pulled a
dressing gown over my smock. I glanced out the window at the
street below. All was quiet. All was dark. It was the middle of the
night, nowhere near morning.

Pluck, pluck.

I ignored the need for slippers or light and ventured out in the
hall. The door to Papa's bedchamber was open. I looked inside. The
bedding was rumpled, but he was not there.

If he had his violin, he was probably in the music room. But
why in the middle of the night?

The plucking sounds drew me closer. And there I found him,
sitting in the dark on the bench of the clavier, a violin in his handand not just any violin but the miniature instrument Wolfie had
played as a young child. Papa wore only his nightshirt and cap, the
moonlight cutting a swath across his figure, revealing a furrowed
brow and eyes that stared absently into air. He cradled the violin in
the crook of his arm, strumming it as one would a mandolin. He seemed unaware of his action, or its result.

I was about to enter the room when he sighed loudly and
changed positions, holding the violin erect in his lap, resting his forehead against its tiny scroll, closing his eyes as if in pain.

I could not stay in the shadows any longer. I stepped into the
room. "Papa?"

With a start, he sat erect. "Nannerl. What are you doing up?"

I pointed to the instrument. "I heard ..."

He looked at the violin as if only then realizing it was in his
possession. "I apologize. I took it up ... I needed ..:'

Comfort? From what? I drew a chair close and sat. "What's
bothering you?"

He hooked a finger in a corner of his nightshirt and polished
the back of the violin. "Nothing you should worry about"

I extended a hand across the space between us, touching his
knee. "Papa, what affects one of us affects all."

He put his hand on top of mine and smiled wistfully. "'Tis only
too true, dear daughter. Unfortunately, too true."

His tone frightened me. I pulled my hand away. "What's
happened?"

"The end has begun."

"Papa?"

His hand stopped its polishing. "Your brother has decided he
doesn't need us; it is we who need him."

I could not argue, because I saw the truth in the statement. We
were depending on him to do well in Vienna. And so far, he had.
Beyond fulfilling the requirements of the archbishop, he'd managed
to take in a few students and often played in private homes to paying
patrons. Between that pay and his salary-which was sent directly to
Papa-we were getting by quite well.

Papa interrupted my musings. "Your brother has forced the
archbishop's hand."

I didn't understand. "Wolfie is in Vienna with the archbishop, at
his request. He was chosen to go. Not every" I stopped the sentence, for to finish it would hurt Papa's feelings. For he, as a musician, had not been invited. Lately it seemed as though Papa's duties had decayed from those of a valued musician to those of a teacher
and manager.

By the way his eyes cast downward, I knew he'd finished the
sentence for me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean ..."

He shook his head and turned the violin over, running a finger
up and down the strings on its neck. "I don't know what to do with
Wolfgang. He's been given special lodging in Vienna, a stipend for
meals, opportunities to serve the archbishop, yet his letters are full of
venom, complaining about everything. And he doesn't even have
the restraint to use code."

I'd considered my brother's rantings about having to eat with the
staff and having to parade into concerts with other musicians en
masse as typical complaints regarding his perceived position versus
reality. Papa had always told us we were unlike other musicians in
every respect, and though I wanted to believe it, I had also seen signs
that Papa's opinion differed from the opinions of others in authority.
But instead of accepting the signs-as I did-it was apparent Wolfie
fought against them. Apparently, at one concert, he'd even refused
to gather with the other musicians and had made his own solo
entrance, walking straight up to Prince Golicyn, conversing with
him while other musicians like Ceccarelli and Brunetti stood against
the wall, appalled. Of course, Wolfie's rendition of this event was
told with glee, but I saw beyond the pride in his own boldness, to
recognize how it must look to others.

"So you've heard that the archbishop is upset with him?"

Papa snickered. "Upset, disgusted, tried beyond bearing."

"Oh dear."

Papa stood and returned the violin to its case with the care of a
father putting his child to bed. He closed the lid and snapped the
latches. He came back to the bench but did not face the keyboard.
He showed me his profile and hung his hands between his knees,
causing his nightshirt to pull taut against his legs. He looked straight
ahead and offered another sigh. "The archbishop has cast him out."

"What?"

"I've heard firsthand accounts of an awful row. The archbishop
screamed at Wolfgang-and Wolfgang screamed back"

My heart pulled and I pushed a hand against it. "I cannot imagine such a thing. Are you sure?"

Papa's smile was eerie. "Apparently when His Grace's father
recovered and he decided to come home to Salzburg, he gave his
employees permission to follow One at a time they left Vienna."

"But Wolfie hasn't said anything about being given leave to
return."

"Everyone has been given their instructions to come homeexcept Wolfgang."

I had trouble swallowing. "But perhaps ... Wolfie had always
planned on asking for an extended leave so he could stay in Vienna
and-"

"He never got a chance to ask for it, because the archbishop
found a way to make sure he had to come back here. He told Wolfgang he had a very important package he needed him to bring back
to Salzburg."

"Wolfie wouldn't like being treated as a messenger."

"Your brother doesn't like a lot of things. And apparently he
made a string of excuses why he couldn't leave Vienna, the strongest
being that he needed to stay in order to collect fees for lessons and
concerts he'd given, suggesting that surely His Grace would not
insist upon doing him financial injury...."

"Was this the truth or-?"

Papa rose, as did his voice. "Of course not. It always comes
down to Wolfgang only wanting to do what Wolfgang wants to do."

I could not argue, for more and more I'd noticed that his rebellious streak had widened.

"As it played out, Wolfie took the advice of the archbishop's
valet, who suggested he show himself cooperative by meeting faceto-face with the archbishop, to explain how he couldn't take the
package because there were no available seats on the coaches." Papa
shook his head. "It was a trap. He was lured into a trap by a valet
loyal to His Grace. In fact, I don't believe there ever was a package."

"What happened?"

Papa stood at the window. The moonlight cast the front of him
in light, leaving his back in darkness. "The archbishop greeted him
by saying, `Well, boy, when are you going?' To which Wolfgang offered the valet's excuse of there being no seats. Others took the
opportunity to come forward and accuse him of lying-which he
was. Which gave fuel to the archbishop's listing all of Wolfgang's
indiscretions, such as not waiting outside his antechamber for
instructions every day like the other musicians did. He called him
the most negligent knave he knew, and complained about how
badly Wolfgang had served his court." Papa took a breath and looked
in my direction. "The archbishop was ranting, red in the face, in a
terrible rage."

"What did Wolfie do?"

Papa shook his head and snickered. "He yelled back. `So Your
Grace is not satisfied with me?' To which the archbishop
replied ..." Papa looked to the ceiling. "Let me make sure I get this
correct . . . `What? You dare threaten me? You miserable fool! Oh,
you miserable fool! Look, there is the door. I will have nothing more
to do with such a rogue."'

"Oh no."

"To which your brother answered, `Nor I any longer with you.'
He was shown the door." Papa looked back to the street. "Everything we've worked for is over. Ruined. Finis."

I went to his side, put my hands on his shoulders, and leaned my
cheek against his back. "Oh, Papa . . ." I wanted to say everything
would be all right, but I wasn't sure it was the truth.

Had Wolfie gone too far?

It was over an hour before Papa and I returned to bed-but not
to sleep.

Archbishop Colloredo had fired my brother. My brother had
yelled at the archbishop and further strained the already faltering
relationship between His Grace and the Mozart family. The hate
he'd previously shown had surely been fed to the point of satiation.

Yet in our favor was the fact that Papa had been a good
employee of late. He'd done whatever the archbishop had asked of
him. So perhaps the court would accept Wolfie's indiscretions as
those of an immature individual and not those of the Mozart family
as a whole.

My own words spoken earlier interrupted my wishful thinking:
"What affects one of us affects all."

Then, with a bolt as swift as lightning, my thoughts sped to dear
Franz, who'd asked the archbishop for permission to marry.

No, no, no, no,no...

No matter how many times I repeated my mantra, willing the
answer to be otherwise, I knew the archbishop would refuse our
request.

There would be no marriage. All our waiting had been for
nothing.

I slapped my hands against my mouth, my head still shaking in
a feeble attempt to stop the inevitable. Tears came, tears of frustration, sadness, and ... and ...

Even hate.

How could Wolfie do this to me?

I tore off the covers and started to dress. I would go see Franz
and share the horrible news. Surely he'd say I was overreacting, calm
me, and take me in his arms, where all things were possible.

But as I saw the deepness of the night through the lace curtains,
I knew I could not go out. Although Franz lived just across the
square in the school in which he taught, I could not risk disturbing
others simply because my worries loomed large and frightening.

I forced myself to sit on the bed, to pause amid my panic.

My heart thundered against my chest and my breathing was
audible. The worry pressed around me, threatening to smother me
and crush my bones to dust.

I shook my head, fighting against its presence. I'd always lived a
life of hope; I could not let this worry break me. The fact the whole
situation was out of my control was nothing new I'd lived with such
limitations every day of my life. I'd survived. And I'd held on to
hope.

As I had to do now

I forced a deep breath into my chest and pressed a hand against
the beat of my heart. Calm. Calm. Things might work out. Perhaps
by some miracle of God, the archbishop would look upon Franz
and me with mercy and grant our request, allowing two of his subjects to marry out of love.

Perhaps it would snow in June.

I opened the door and felt a wave of dread enter with the summer heat.

Franz stood before me, his eyes holding mine for but a moment
before seeking the floor.

"The archbishop said no, didn't he?" I said.

He came inside and shut the door behind him. He took my
hands. He nodded.

I shook his touch away. "Did he give his reason?"

Franz gave me a look. "His Grace did not say why-he did not
have to, either by protocol or common sense. We all know why."

W lfie.

"Did you remind him that my father and I are very loyal? That
my father has served the court for over thirty years?"

"One does not argue with His Grace"

Wol/ie did.

And look where it got him.