Mozart's Sister (33 page)

She knew very well how old he was. She'd made him a new
waistcoat for his twenty-first birthday, the previous January. I ignored the jab. "My brother's experience has far exceeded the needs of our
humble town."

"Such is his oft-voiced opinion." Another glance. "Or so I've
heard."

I felt my face redden. I knew Wolfie and Papa had an awful
habit of disparaging the musical opportunities of working for the
archbishop's court. They'd made it known they believed Salzburg
would never be a city of high culture such as Vienna, Paris, or
Milan. It was an opinion I shared-in private.

Marta continued. "All those years when your family traveled and
the old archbishop paid your father's salary in his absence ..." She
shook her head. "His Grace was so patient. So kind"

In comparison to the current archbishop, Colloredo, I agreed
that his predecessor, Schrattenbach, had been a gem. I pointed to
the lace in her hands. "I'd like the lace replaced. The quality ... it
didn't last."

"It's the quality you paid for."

"I'd like it repaired and replaced." I positioned a rent seam in
front of her. "Here too."

She shrugged and pretended to study the tear. "I heard that the
archbishop instructed your brother to go to Italy and enroll in one
of its conservatories-to get a real education."

This was a direct slap to our father. "He said no such thing."

Marta did not apologize but merely offered me another shrug.
"Then for your brother to ask to be released from his position so he
could travel some more ..."

"He did not ask to be released." Not exactly. "He simply asked
for a leave in order to travel. It's the archbishop who took it too far
and let him go. Wolfie was quite willing to stay and-"

Marta removed her glasses and looked at me. "I suppose I will
repair it. Though I do think it's received hard wear, I am a woman
of my word and good reputation."

The way she looked at me was as if she would like to add
"Unlike some."

My thoughts reeled. Some of the things she said went against
what Papa had told me about the break with the archbishop. But
surely Papa wouldn't have lied to me. To Mania.

As Marta wadded up the petticoat, I grabbed it away from her
and shoved it in my satchel. "I'll fix it myself," I said. I strode toward
the door and offered her one parting barb. "My stitches are quite
fine and I take pride in my work."

"Pride." She snickered. "That's something your family is familiar
with. Suit yourself. After all, I'm sure you can do it better than anyone else."

I strode home in double time, intent on confronting Papa, asking him to deny everything Marta had said. But once I reached the
square in front of our house and saw him sitting on a bench alone,
I could not. By the stoop of his shoulders, I could see he was still
not himself. There was no vibrancy and power in his manner, just
awkward surrender and brokenness as he meekly read a book, his
glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Did knowing the whole truth
really matter? If Papa thought it necessary to pad a few details to
make himself feel better or to shield Mama and me from worry, so
be it. My loyalty was not to the rumormongers of Salzburg but to
my family.

Sometimes I envied Wolfie's escape.

We lived for the letters. There were fewer than we would have
liked, and the ones we did get were void of the details we craved.
The truth was, Papa was the one who had the talent to write letters
with detail. The rest of us got by with as few lines as possible. Yet,
every day Papa looked forward to the post, and if there was nothing
for us, he would brood and sulk.

When we did get letters, beyond the lack of detail, there was a
notable tone of frivolity and irresponsibility on Wolfie's part. He
spoke of going to the theater and sitting with the nobles in their
boxes while Mama either sat in the general audience or remained
back at the inn, alone. Although Mama was a homebody, considering she wasn't at home, and the rooms they were staying in to conserve money were probably small, dank, and dark ... it was not a
pleasant image. She'd written that in order to save money, she only
had the fire lit in the morning and evening when she was dressing. The thought of Mama cold and huddled ... I wished Wolfie would
have included her in more of his excursions. If he were traveling
with Papa, the two of them would rarely have been apart.

I remembered Wolfie's opinion of Mama before they left. How
he'd called her dull as a chair, and how he had nothing to say to her.
Obviously this trait was not stopping him from socializing or making
friends. But I feared for dear Mama. How lonely she must be. And
what did she do in the room all day and evening? Mend clothes?
Read? Look out the window? Worry about how Wolfie was behaving beyond her sight? After all, he was a vibrant, virile young man,
and had revealed to me a burgeoning appetite for copious quantities
of wine as well as the company of young ladies. Mama had enjoyed
many friends here in Salzburg but did not take to strangers easily.
When Papa and Wolfie had been traveling, they were of equal status
and could divide up to make contacts. Not so with poor Mama.

The news we'd received after they'd been gone only a little over
two weeks was that Munich had proved unfruitful. Though Wolfie
had been offered a position, Papa had told him it did not possess
enough status and would not let him take it. "The archbishop will
mock him if this is all he gets," Papa said. A step down was not
acceptable. The world must appreciate him for the genius he was.

After Munich, Mama and Wolfie moved on to Augsburg, where
Wolfie performed. Papa was disappointed there wasn't a newspaper
story about the performance that he could fling in the archbishop's
face. I was glad there wasn't.

They didn't stay in Augsburg long and arrived in Mannheim just
four days later. Along the way they did not stop at Dischingen or the
abbey or Wallerstein-which incensed Papa. "Why don't they follow the route I laid out for them? They have missed many opportunities!"

"Perhaps the people you wanted them to visit weren't home?" I
suggested.

Papa turned on me, his finger pointing. "Don't defend them!
They are acting without logic. I paved their way. I made the best
choices for them. I borrowed money so they could go. I swallowed
my pride to return to a job I hate. I've given up everything...." He
withdrew his finger and turned away. "The least they could do is follow my directions and give us some proper details." He moved to
his desk. "Get me some paper. I have some things to tell our pitiful
travelers."

I brought him paper and quill and started to edge out of the
room to return to my ironing. But Papa called me back. "Stay. Listen
to my words and learn from them." He dipped the quill in the ink
and began. "First," he said after quickly writing the salutation, "it
grieves me that you have chosen to ignore my directions regarding
lucrative stops along your journey from Munich to Mannheim.
Only you know what would cause you to be so thoughtless and
unwise. But since you are now in Mannheim, please be quiet about
your intentions so you do not make the other musicians jealous.
Also, since the costs in Mannheim are notably higher than Munich,
I assume you have found a private lodging. You must do whatever
it takes to be frugal. The money I procured for your excursion must
last until you have been victorious and must be supplemented with
income from concerts given." He glanced up at me. "I expect to
have my investment repaid-with interest."

I found it hard to swallow I would not have liked to be under
such pressure....

He went back to writing. "Make sure you practice your Latin
so no fault can be found with your sacred pieces, and continue your
compositions, for they may prove to be the most lucrative way to
cover your expenses. If you cannot find a proper copyist in Mannheim, send them home and Nannerl will do it for you. Do not let
poachers get ahold of the copies and sell them for their own gain.
The cost of a reliable copyist is an acceptable expense. If needed, we
will find you the name of one with good reputation." He nodded
at me, and I nodded back. He had added to my to-do list.

"Nannerl goes to mass every morning to pray for the state of
your souls and for your safe journey. Wolfie, please behave and make
your mother and me proud. Restraint, dear boy . . ." He took a fresh
breath. "Above all, treasure each other, and keep safe."

"And write more often and with greater detail," I added.

Papa nodded, added the words, then said, "We send you a thousand kisses."

And a thousand and one admonitions.

I prayed Wolfie would heed them.

My fingers amazed me. The way they sped across the keys so swiftly,
as if they had a life of their own. And the miracle of it all. My eyes
saw the notes on the page, and somehow my fingers lived out what
the eyes saw I'm sure my mind was involved, yet I never consciously
thought, "That is a D flat. That is an E That is a trill." The music
seemed to bypass my mind and rush to a greedy partnership
between eye and hand-for the ear's pleasure.

Odder still were the pieces I knew by heart. It was not as if my
mind had copied a picture of the page. I did not see the notes in
order to play them. In fact, I usually played best with my eyes-and
my mind's eye-closed. I dared not think much at all about the
music and could even let my mind think of other things, like the
food I wanted Therese to make that night for our company or what
I should wear. At such times my fingers were alive and in charge.
They were the part of my anatomy that knew the music, that
remembered. This was profoundly evident when a mistake was
made and the fingers came to a halt. At such times they weren't sure
what to do or how to begin again, for they had no page, no measure, no beat as reference. They only had a feeling, the indefinable,
pulsing lifeblood that made the notes flow one to another. How
could they recapture that life and flow again?