Mozart's Sister: A Novel (2 page)

I am writing to Victoria as well, separately, and among other things, I forbade her to read our correspondence. But you know my daughter well, and are aware that although she undoubtedly fears parental authority, she is nonetheless quite capable of happily violating the dictates it imposes on her. Therefore, when you reply to me, never forget that that young lady (because you are right, dear Nannerl, she is now of marriageable age!) could, as you say, “interfere” in our exchange of thoughts and emotions.

Thinking about Victoria and what she has told me about you as a teacher and a musician, and rereading your letter, I find something jarring, something that you experts would call a “dissonance.” (I may allow myself these observations, may I not?) You say, dear Nannerl, that you once had higher musical ambitions but abandoned them graciously and without regret: it is that absence of regret that I find not entirely convincing. I know that you composed music from early childhood (because Victoria told me) and that, until some time ago (and everyone knows this), you often performed, as part of a duo with your brother and also as a soloist. But, of a sudden, you abruptly stopped both those activities, to devote yourself solely to teaching, in that way squandering (forgive my audacity, but by now I’ve made sure that my frankness doesn’t wound you) your rare talent.

Was a choice of that kind truly made without regrets? And (what counts more) is it really an irreversible choice? Perhaps, if you were to go back on your decision, you would taste again joys that would gladden your heart. If I say all this to you, believe me, it is only because your happiness is as important to me as my own: rather, because mine is lovingly dependent on it.

With respect and esteem,
Major Franz Armand d’Ippold

Salzburg, March 24, 1777

Armand,

My first impulse was to answer you harshly, but then I made an effort and waited an entire week for my irritation to diminish. So only now—and I am still trying not to lose control—do I say to you: you don’t want me to ask questions about poor Monika, right? Your beloved wife, who is unfortunately no longer among us, is a subject that I am not allowed even to touch on. In the same way, I would ask you not to make inferences of any sort regarding my decision to give up playing concerts and composing. Your words, Major, are salt in the wound. A wound that bleeds every day, because at every moment, even at this precise moment, exactly as when I was a child, the music presses inside me to come out; it’s like an assault wave that rushes up from my guts to my throat and my brain and makes it whirl; it’s an internal tempest that can’t find an outlet, so the only possible choice is to ignore it and devote myself to something else. Is it clear to you now, Armand? Teaching, and in particular teaching Victoria, who, as you well know, is my best student, is the only narrow path into which I can channel this confusion, and silence it, at least temporarily. And you, like my brother, come to me now to say that I am wasting my talent? And with what right?

Forgive me; I haven’t managed to moderate my tone. I don’t even know if I will let you see this letter. Maybe I would do better to tear it up and wait until later, and then pretend to myself to have forgotten your words.

Nannerl Mozart

Vienna, April 5, 1777

My dear friend (I hope that you are still my friend),

You were very right to send me your letter, which I’ve finished reading just this instant; and you were even more right to reproach me for my unwarranted intrusion into matters that do not concern me and which I understand even less. I beg you sincerely to forgive me and I assure you that if you were here, or if I were where you are, I would ask your pardon on my knees and would not find peace until I had obtained it. The thought of having vexed you torments me, for it is the exact opposite of my deepest desires; it is the exact opposite (paradoxically) of what I wished to gain. But the truth is only this. You said you were happy that I, among the first in the world, did not judge you, and instead I have done so, like the greatest of fools, with regard to a decision for which you have taken every responsibility yourself; and I have also tried to make you go back on that decision, as if to transform you into someone who you, my dear perfect creature, are not.

While my pen runs on, my thoughts leap ahead, more rapidly, in a frantic search for something I can do to make up for it. What can I do? I beg you sincerely: tell me, Nannerl. And with my heart in my hand I implore you not to cut me out of your life. I swear to you that I will never again ask questions or make bold assumptions about your music—never. But I beg you, leave an opening for our friendship.

With sorrow and regret,
Armand

Salzburg, April 15, 1777

Armand, my dear,

The idea of cutting you out of my life never occurred to me. If it had, not only would I not have sent you my previous letter but I wouldn’t even have written it. In fact, what I wish for is precisely the opposite: I would like you to know as much as possible about me.

Because, as I pondered the little argument we’ve just had, and for which it is I who ought to ask forgiveness, I was surprised to find myself thinking that your intention of never again mentioning my music does not augur well for our future: that there is something wrong with that (my fault, of course, and no one else’s).

So I’ve decided to tell you everything. I will do it myself: I won’t leave you to ask me questions that at the moment you would certainly be afraid to ask. Naturally, my dearest confidant and loving friend, you remain free to interrupt the reading and respond to me, and write to me about other things, whenever you like…

The Kingdom of Back

I.

“Please, my love, let’s go home…call a carriage, quickly,” murmured the woman sitting wearily on a chair, pressing her stomach with her hands as if trying to hold it in. Her husband didn’t answer; he was waiting for the harpsichordist, whose playing was execrable, to finish her ridiculous performance. As she caressed the keys, she moved her shoulders gently and smiled, opening and closing her lips. Every nobleman could be sure that he could approach those lips, and enjoy them, and enjoy her entire body: he had only to ask.

“My dear, I’m serious…we had better leave.”

“Just a moment,” he said in annoyance, as feeble applause broke out. Then he turned and jumped up. “Where did she go?”

“There, look…but don’t let it last too long, please.”

With a leap, the man reached the child who was squatting in a corner, absorbed, as she repeatedly opened and closed a fan; he tore it from her hand, made her stand up, and adjusted her dress. “Be good, Nannerl…as you always are, my angel,” he begged her, with a tremor of anxiety in his voice, while her blue eyes gazed into his and she uttered some strange monosyllables. She was odd, that girl. Anyone who didn’t know her well might have thought she was slowwitted.

“Are you ready?”

She nodded, still muttering to herself.

“Then go. Now!”

The whisper was lost in the breeze of chatter that began to blow through the salon. The little girl trotted over to the stool in front of the harpsichord, and with some effort climbed up onto it.

“Excuse me…most noble ladies, honorable gentlemen, a moment of your attention, if you please!”

Suddenly the chattering stopped, and all eyes were directed toward the stranger. He was certainly not an aristocrat; who knew what recommendation had gained him entrance to that salon. He might even be a professional musician! Irritation crept in among the patricians of Salzburg. Another performance now, just as they were finally returning to gossiping, to flirting, to showing off? And what sort of music could be produced by that little blond dwarf, whose chubby hands could barely encompass a fifth?

“I have the honor to introduce to you this spectacular child prodigy…Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart! She is, truly, one of the best harpsichord players ever to touch an instrument, and, wonder of wonders, she is only five years old. I, Leopold Mozart, her father, was able to perceive her great talent thanks to my own activities as a musician, in service at the court of His Excellency the Prince Archbishop. It would be an outrage against God himself if that gift were to remain unknown and uncultivated.”

The aristocratic irritation became palpable. One could only hope that the concert would quickly begin and end even more quickly, and that that pompous clown would stop strutting! Herr Mozart realized it, and hastily returned to his wife.

Impetuously the child began to play, and it was as if a lightning bolt had ripped through the frescoed ceiling, setting ablaze the curtains and the tapestries. There was nothing human about little Nannerl when she was making music; she seemed to be possessed by a primitive divinity, just waiting to get to an instrument to burst forth and leave listeners stunned. Her small hands produced clear and rapid sounds, obeying a supreme harmonic instinct, and the result was at the same time assured and undisciplined. The contradiction between her more-than-adult mastery and her child’s body was disconcerting. Her notes were words of a language still unknown, a language both fascinating and disorienting. Where’s the trick? No, there is no trick. And yet there must be! The lords and ladies approached, examined, were struck dumb; and, meanwhile, the child played melodies that she drew at random from her mind, inspired by the shapes of objects, by the crackle of the fire in the hearth, by the crash of a glass falling to the floor from the clumsy hands of one of the ladies.

Then, abruptly, she stopped, without even finishing the passage. She jumped down from the stool, ran to her father, took the fan, and began to open and close it again, swaying from one foot to the other and whispering strange words.

The ovation exploded, shaking the walls and the windows. How different from the applause for the voluptuous dilettante! It was the crash of an ancient tree trunk, the shouts and cries as a building falls. The women crowded around Leopold Mozart, who took his daughter in his arms and showed her off like a trophy, shaking jeweled hands, offering her to rouged mouths. Nannerl, however, showed no interest in that adoration meant for her alone; the fan absorbed her attention completely.