Mozart's Sister (27 page)

But he could refuse. If I'd learned anything, it was that no one
could force royalty to do anything they didn't want to do.

Not even Papa.

Papa and Mama were out for the evening having dinner with
friends, leaving Wolfie and me alone. It was a rare occasion when
we had our apartment to ourselves, and I planned to make the best
of it. I went to the kitchen and took up two pieces of stollen and
some wine. An evening spent talking and enjoying each other's
company sounded perfect.

I walked into the workroom, my arms full. "Food for the prodigy! Refreshment for the-"

I stopped. Wolfie sat at the clavier, his head in his arms.

"What's... ?"

He lifted his head to look at me. "Don't call me that."

I tried to remember my words. "Prodigy?"

"I'm sixteen. I'm not a prodigy anymore. I'm no one special."

I set the food on a table, catching the bottle of wine as it rolled
toward the edge. "You arc special. Just because you aren't six doesn't
negate your talent."

"But if I were six they would notice me, smile at me, love me."
He got up from the bench and began to pace. "As it is now, I'm just
a short, ugly man with pox scars on my face."

It was true he was not terribly handsome. Stunning looks were
not my lot either. Our noses were too large and our eyes too wide set. I changed the subject. "I could wager that no one on the face
of this earth has had multiple operas produced by age sixteen." I
pointed to the work on the desk and the clavier. "With two more
in progress.

Wolfie stopped at the edge of the instrument and fingered the
top page, making it come into line with the one behind it. "To
produce on demand ..." He looked at me. "Sometimes it's difficult."

I went to his side, linking my arm with his. "But you do it.
Somehow this miracle happens and you do it. I often wonder where
you get your ideas, one upon another."

He strolled to the table, unstopped the wine, and poured two
glasses. "When Papa and I were in Venice we stayed at a lodging
that housed a lot of musicians. Above and below us were violinists,
next to us was a singing teacher who gave lessons, and in the room
opposite ours was an oboist. It was exhilarating to compose in such
a place. I picked up many ideas." He downed the wine, then poured
some more. "But here in Salzburg ..."

He didn't have to elaborate.

"Papa is right," he continued. "We can't stay here. I must go
elsewhere to get a position. One for myself and one for Papa."

And none for me.

I was hesitant to bring this up, but ... "Papa is old. To find two
positions will be difficult."

He set the glass down hard. "Which means that the financial
future of this family falls on me!" He strode back to the keyboard
and picked up some papers lying nearby. "This is the libretto for the
opera-or part of it. The writer gets it to me in bits and pieces, and
I am supposed to compose music for it. How can there be any consistency in that? And then we go to the town of the opera's production to start rehearsal, and the violists don't like their part, or the
soprano complains that the runs are too difficult or not difficult
enough to show off her voice." He threw the pages into the air,
letting them float to the floor. "It's all about them. It's never about
the music." His face was stricken. "It should be about the music!"
He fell into my arms and rested his head against my shoulder. "I'm
so tired, Nan. So many depend on me. How I wish Papa would have let you compose too. Then we could have worked together."
He pulled back to look at my face. "Wouldn't that have been
grand?"

What I really wanted to say was overpowered by what he
needed to hear. "I would have liked that."

Wolfie returned to the table and took a huge bite of stollen.
Raisins and nuts fell to the floor. "I asked Papa why he didn't let
you compose.

My mouth went dry. "What did he say?"

"He said, `What would be the use? She's a girl. It's hard enough
for a man to get his music noticed, much less a woman."'

I sucked in a breath.

Wolfie was quick to my side. "Did I offend you? I didn't
mean

"No, no," I said. "You have not said anything I didn't know" I
picked up my glass, wanting a diversion from my impending tears.

It didn't work. I began to cry.

It was Wolfie's turn to comfort me. "Shh. There, there, Horseface. Sometimes I envy you being female."

I swiped the tears with a finger and snickered. "Why would you
ever do that?"

"Because you don't have to worry about finances every waking
moment. You can go to parties, and go shooting, and-"

"And have absolutely no way to earn decent money on our
own, making us totally dependent on men. Women have to marry
in order to survive. Have to. And not just anyone will do. Our
spouses must have means. It's not fair."

Wolfie scrunched up his nose. "I guess it's tit for tat." His eyes
brightened and he took my hands, turning me in circles about the
room. "I know a smashing solution to all our troubles! We'll run
away and you can wear breeches under your petticoats, and I'll wear
a corset under my waistcoat, and we'll shave our hair and go live in
the Kingdom of Back. Remember that?"

I did. When we were little, on our travels, he'd created an imaginary Kingdom of Back where there were no adults and we could
do what we wanted. Our servant Sebastian had even made maps of
it.

In our circling, my hip bumped into the table, making the pewter goblets tip over. So much for our kingdom.

Wolfie headed to the kitchen. "I'll get a towel"

I righted the goblet and waited for him. Our frivolity had been
fleeting --as were the games and wishes of our youth. They had no
place in the here and now God had created us, male and female.

It was my unlucky fate to have been created the latter.

The music made Wolfie sick.

That was too strong a statement, yet essentially true. The pressure to create the music was the knife that Papa wielded. It may have
been sheathed in love, but it still wielded a sharp edge that scraped
away at my brother's fortitude until he ended up in bed, completely
drained.

One morning after Mama and the doctor left and I was on my
way out of the room, Wolfie grabbed my arm. "Stay," he whispered.

Mania paused at the door, "Nannerl? Come now. Leave your
brother to rest."

"In a minute, Mama."

She eyed me, then Wolfie and, apparently satisfied it was a
mutual choice, nodded and left us.

I took a seat beside the bed, managed a smile, and tugged at a
lock of his hair. "So . . ." I'd let him fill in the silence.

He took a deep breath, though it was evident it took effort. "I
can't do it, Nan. Papa has had to tell Venice that I cannot give them
an opera for carnival, the appointment with Archduke Ferd-face has
never materialized, and even the job Papa tried to get me with a
music publisher has cone to nothing."

I knew of all these disappointments. "He's asked too much of
you.

Wolfie nodded, and I was relieved he made the admission. "Papa
thinks the music comes from some magic place."

I gasped in mock shock. "Are you saying it doesn't?"

He didn't smile but looked away, his head shaking back and
forth. "I do have talent, but . . ." He sighed deeply.

I offered him a laugh. "Yes, I think you have a bit of that."

He turned on his side, his arm under his pillow His eyes were
glazed and rheumy, his skin yellow. "I have talent, but the composing takes work. I am learning, Nan. All the time learning from those
who've composed before: Haydn, Gluck, Handel, Gassman ... even
Papa. I'm influenced by their work, learning from their mistakes,
taking their successes and molding them to what's in my head."

"We know that."

He suddenly grabbed my wrist roughly, his eyes wild. "No, no
you don't! I may have been a prodigy once, but even the majority
of that involved being a performing monkey, rehashing what others
had done."

"But you used to improvise before an audience for hours."

He looked at his hand on my wrist and suddenly let go as if he
hadn't realized the extent of his aggression. He laid his ink-stained
fingers on my arm, making amends. "That was a game. A glamorous
game I thought could continue. But this reality is far different from
appeasing the ears of a few royals." He leaned back on the pillow
"As is said, I do have talent. Perhaps great talent. Perhaps I even tap
into moments of the divine. But it's work, Nan. Hard, hard work."
His eyes filled with tears as he rested his forearm across his forehead.

His vulnerability encased him in a vessel of delicate glass. Too
easily cracked, too easily broken. I smoothed the edge of the bedcovers. "I was a monkey too."

He was still a moment; then he moved his arm, peeking out
from beneath it. "You and I were partners once."

"Indeed we were. The Wunderkinder."

He covered his eyes again and sighed deeply. "I miss that."

"Me too. Remember the time in Paris when we?"

He turned on his side and snuggled into his pillow. "I need to
sleep, Nan. We'll talk more later."

A change in plans!

Soon, it would be time to leave on our journey to Italy, to start
production of Wolfie's opera Lucia Silla in Milan. Papa had always said Mama and I would see Italy one day. Oh, to see it this way, for
this special event. To witness Wolfie's opera come to life, to see the
sets and the costumes, to hear the applause. Seeing him attain what
I could not offered some consolation. It was such a blessing that my
jealousy had finally been transformed into pride in my brother. Had
I, at age twenty-one, finally attained a laudable measure of maturity?
Or was I merely resigned? Either way, it was an acceptable place
to be.

We were scheduled to leave in one week's time. In preparation
I looked through my armoire, trying to choose a dress to wear opening night. Wolfie came in the room, one foot bare, carrying a stocking. "Can you darn this? I just poked a hole clean through."

I swung around with a red crepe in front of me. "What do you
think?" I asked.

"That is too open a question, sister dear"

I ignored his barb. "What do you think of the dress, silly. For
opening night."

He tossed the stocking in my direction. It landed on the bed
nearby. He moved to a drawer. "Where are the rest of my stockings?
When was the last time you did laundry?"

"What?"

He shut the drawer with a slam. "Laundry. Stockings? I have
none.

It was hard for me to focus on his question. "There are some
hanging in the kitchen."

"Fine." He moved to leave.

"Wolfie? Answer my question about the dress."

He turned around, gave the dress the once-over, then shrugged.
"It doesn't much matter what dress you pick. You're not going."

"Not going?"

"To Milan. Only Papa and I are going"

My arms were too heavy to hold the dress in place. "Not
going?"

"Papa says it's too expensive and the mountain passes in late
October can be snowy and treacherous. Papa can't even sleep on such
trips because he has to be continually watchful. He still remembers the accident when he hurt his leg so badly. And it will surely be
cold."