Mozart's Sister (21 page)

But this time, returning from Vienna ... we had conquered
nothing and were far from triumphant. And though I'd privately
ached to return home for many months, my stomach tightened as
the white Hohensalzburg Fortress on the hill came into view. Did the entire town know of our failures? Had the gossip so prevalent in
Vienna reached this town too?

And did Papa even have a job? He'd not received his salary for
ten months, and though the archbishop had finally agreed that he
could stay away as long as he wanted, there was no guarantee Papa
would be accepted back with open arms. I imagined some groveling
at the archbishop's satin-clad feet might be necessary Yet proud as
he was, Papa would grovel. For us.

I turned to Mama as I heard her sigh. "Home," she said.

"For a short while," Papa said.

She turned toward him. "We are not staying?"

Papa suffered his own sigh, wiping his palms on his thighs. "You
are" He looked at me. "And Nannerl is."

"What?" Mama's question was explosive.

Papa began to pat her hand, but she pulled it away. "We both
sense what little future awaits me here. And as for Wolfgang?" He
looked at my brother. "It will only be a few years before this miracle
of ours will fade away into something natural. We cannot wait."

"But, Papa," I said. "What about me? I want to perform too."

He reached across the carriage to take my hand, and unlike
Mania, I let him do it. "Our finances are strained, Nannerl. To travel
with an entire family is a luxury we can no longer afford. If it is just
your brother and me, we can stay in monasteries along the way."

"So it's merely a matter of money?" I asked. Not lily talon?

When he withdrew his hand and looked out the window at the
buildings of Salzburg, I knew my father was going to lie.

"It's just the money," he said. He still did not meet my eyes. "Just
the money."

January 5, 1769. No matter when my body would eventually
die, this would be the true date of my death.

To move from the archbishop's disfavor to favor is an art my father
mastered. For ten months he'd received no salary, yet when we
returned from Vienna in January 1769, Papa's salary was restoredas was his position as Vice Kapellmeister. All was forgiven.

I was pleased, of course, but a part of me wondered if it should
have been so. Should Papa have been reinstated to the position he'd
misused? The position he'd ignored for years?

It was traitorous for me to have such ungenerous thoughts of my
father. He'd traveled extensively for the family. He hadn't sought
glory for himself. Not much glory. And if the archbishop chose to
restore him to his previous position, I should embrace it as a blessing
to the Mozart family. I should not question it.

But I did.

I wished Papa and Wolfie had left on their trip right away. It was
bad enough knowing I wouldn't be joining them on their Italian
journeys, but for them to linger from January until the end of the
year, planning a trip I would not be taking, talking about it excitedly
and incessantly ... It was torture.

What was especially difficult was explaining to Katherl and our
other friends-and yes, even to our dressmaker and the butcher, for
everyone knew-why I was staying behind.

These truths could not be shared easily, and so after a few clumsy
answers, I came up with an excuse that was just as embarrassing but less personal: traveling with a family of four was too expensive. Let
the reason fall on practical matters, not emotional ones. Even Mama
agreed it wasn't fair. "But life is not fair, Nannerl. Especially for
women.

It was a fact I was learning firsthand.

However, during the spring after our return from Vienna, I did
everything in my power to convince Papa that I should go along. I
practiced with extra fervor, listened intently to all his direction,
watched my spending, and even practiced my singing. Since Papa
was so enraptured with opera, I wanted to become good enough to
sing the arias Wolfie was composing.

But alas, I wasn't good. Even before Wolfie came into the room
the day I was singing-his fingers in his ears, his face pulled into a
painful grimaceI knew singing was not my forte. I yelled at him
for being rude and chased him out, but I also let go of any aspirations of being a great soloist. One can learn to play the clavier or
violin with practice, as those instruments possess their own lofty
tone and inbred potential, but if the human voice does not own a
lovely timbre ... the extent of its improvement is limited.

By God, I suppose, if one wants to think of it that way.

And yet ... hadn't God given me the gift of my other music?
I'd been given much talent and God expected me to use it.

But Wolfie had been given more.

I tried not to think that way. It was not right weighing brother
against sister, creating a competition. Yet wasn't that exactly what
Papa was doing by pulling us apart and forcing distance-both
earthly and emotional-between us?

During the months spent waiting for them to leave, Wolfie and
I did have occasion to play together a few times. Our last concert
was in October for about fifty people gathered at the Hagenauers'
country home to honor Father Dominicus. I, of course, did not
understand it would be our last concert for years....

What I did come to understand was that I had absolutely no
understanding of why people acted the way they did. Logic seemed
to decree that the archbishop would not be happy about Wolfie and
Papa leaving again. Yet in November, just a few weeks before they
departed, the archbishop gave them a royal sendoff, including a gift of six hundred florins. Plus, he bestowed upon Wolfie the title of
Konzertmeister and the promise of a job once he returned. The title
was unpaid, but the prestige for a thirteen-year-old boy ...

I could only shake my head in awe. And sorrow. For it was clear
that time had run out on our partnership and collaboration. I found
a poem by Thomas Gray I'd learned while in England. A poem that
spoke of my thoughts:

Was ignorance bliss? Was it folly to be wise? Although sometimes I longed for God to tell me what was in store, I knew it best
that He kept it from me. There was enough pain in the present.
Why borrow it from the future?

And yet what future did I have in Salzburg? Papa said I should
continue to practice, and he lined up four students for me to teach.
And I was instructed to help Mama with the household duties.

My excitement was nonexistent.

I received a wave as their carriage pulled away on that cold
December day. I received my mother's arm through mine as we
walked back to the house. I received the sound of the front door
closing with a click. And I received the silence of that day, which
would certainly run into the silence of the next day, and the next.

"Would you like some hot chocolate?" Mama asked as she
removed her cloak.

I shook my head and went to the bedchamber. Wise mother
that she was, she let me go. Although Papa had promised us a larger
apartment, in the nearly twelve months we'd been home he'd been
too preoccupied with their travel plans to search for something suitable. Besides, what did Mama and I need with more room?

Once inside the chamber I sat at the window seat in the place that had become my haven in recent months. Take the rest of the
house away; make it disappear into fire, wind, or mist; this was my
place to be.

Be what?

I covered my face in my hands, ready to cry. But the tears did
not come. Nothing came. I was tired of feeling, thinking, being
angry and bitter. More than anything, I was tired of feeling sorry for
myself. It was exhausting.

I moved my hands to my lap, smoothing my dress against my
legs. I took a cleansing breath and looked beyond the room, out the
window at the world below Frau Kraus was sweeping the cobblestones in front of her candle shop. She'd been making candles with
her husband ever since we'd lived here. That was her lot. That was
her life.

Did she enjoy it? Did she have regrets? Did she have buried
talents she'd set aside?

Sensing my eyes, she looked up, smiled, and waved. I returned
her greeting. And by offering my own smile, I felt some of the bitterness fall away.

Yet surely it couldn't be that simple.

My gaze left the street and returned to the bedchamber we'd all
shared. It fell upon a collection of inlaid boxes I'd received as presents on our Grand Tour. The blue one was from the queen of
England, the gold filigree was from the king of France. How pretty
they were.

How pretty they were?

I gasped at the absurdity of the thought. When had I reduced
these gifts from the crowned heads of Europe into mere baubles? I
moved to the bed stand and picked one up, cupping it in my palm
like an injured bird. I remembered the moment when Queen Charlotte had given it to me. Her smile. The way her dangling earrings
had bobbed with her laughter.

I curtsied as if she were in the room with me now. "Thank you,
Your Majesty," I said aloud.