Mozart's Sister (48 page)

It would have been foolhardy to choose the former. This was
the better way. For in this choice lived hope and movement and a
continuation of more eighth notes portraying the light in my eyes.

I would make this work. I would.

The wedding night was ... difficult. Although I deserved the
extra five hundred florins I'd received for being a virgin, I wasn't
totally ignorant. My married friends had shared some of their experiences. I knew the basics of how it should work.

And Johann was kind. Very kind.

But as I lay beside him my mind slipped back to Salzburg, back
to Franz, back to dreams that had to remain dead and buried. This
was my life now This was my husband.

With God's help it would get better. The Almighty would help
me be a good wife.

My life depended on it.

I awakened with a start. Lying on my side I saw four-year-old
Johann standing by the bed. From my place on the high mattress,
our eyes were nearly level. With a glance over my shoulder, I was
mindful of my new husband asleep beside me. "What's wrong?" I
whispered.

"I'm scared."

As my eyes focused in the moonlight, I saw the glisten of tears
on his cheeks. I didn't know the usual procedure in the Berchtold
household regarding bad dreams and frightened children, but I did note little Johann had chosen to come to my side of the bed instead
of the side of his father.

While I was pondering all this, the boy snuggled his cheek
against the mattress just inches away from my head. He smelled a
little too much like busy boy. Tomorrow I would give instructions
regarding baths and the washing of teeth. But until then ...

I lifted the covers. He looked at my eyes, asking permission.
"Come in," I said.

He climbed onto the bed and I lowered the covers. He scooted
toward me, pressing his back into my torso. I wrapped my arm
around him, pulling him tight and safe, two spoons fitting one to
another.

Once he was settled and still, I whispered into his ear. "Better?"

He nodded.

And it was.

St. Gilgen was my wilderness, marriage my trap, and the children ...

I knew it wasn't right that I often thought of my stepchildren as
wild beasts, but that's how they acted. Yet could one blame them?
From the moment Maria was born until little Karl, death had occupied this house. Eleven children had been born. Six had died. The
first mother died in childbirth (no doubt worn out from having nine
babies in ten years), and then a few years later, the next passed away.
Both women gave their lives in the quest to fulfill their duty to
propagate the earth. The children's father was often withdrawn and
uninvolved, and I wondered if it was his way of dealing with grief.
Or was he simply overwhelmed with the responsibilities of providing for such a troupe?

My first order of business had to do with hygiene. The day
after the wedding I made sure the children had baths and knew
how to wash their teeth and comb their own hair. I swept through
their bedchambers, gathering all their clothes, determining which
ones needed mending and which should be assigned to the rag
bin.

"But that's my favorite skirt," Maria complained.

"We'll get you a new one," I said.

She shook her head. "Papa won't approve."

Her comment ignited my doubts, for Johann and I had not gone over the household budget. Yet I maintained my resolve. "Don't
worry. I will convince him."

She continued to shake her head.

At dinner that night, with five clean faces and fifty clean fingers
at the table, I was faced with my next challenge.

After grace was said in a quick murmur that defied translation,
after I'd filled each plate with sauerbraten, bread, and potatoes,
seven-year-old Joseph scooped some potatoes into his mouth-with
his hand. And Wolfgang, aged ten, chewed his bread with his mouth
completely open, making the most horrid sight and sound. My
patience was sorely tested when Maria slurped her drink noisily and
wiped the drip on her chin with the back of her hand.

"Enough!" I said, putting my fork down.

They all froze, including Johann. "There is a problem?" my husband asked.

I covered the racing of my heart by adjusting the napkin in my
lap. "There is."

"Can we eat?" little Johann asked.

"No, you may not," I said. "Not until you show some manners."

"Hun-gee!" yelled two-year-old Karl.

"Let them eat, Nannerl," Johann said. "I have work to do."

Identifying their father as their savior, the children all started
whining and talking at once. Their cacophony was silenced when I
pushed my chair back and stood. I looked at my husband. "May I
speak with you in the other room, please?"

Johann had the audacity to swipe his bread through the juice of
his meat. "Not now, Nannerl, I-"

"Now."

He looked across the table at me, and it took all my will not to
sit back down and accept the piggish condition of my new familyor run from the room in total defeat. I hesitated, but in that hesitation realized that my next action would determine much more than
a civil dinner table.

To my surprise, Johann stood. "I find this ridiculous."

He could find it whatever he pleased, as long as I had his ear. As
I walked into the parlor, I felt a nervous tingle up my spine. Would
he follow?

He did. "I don't have time for this."

I hid my shaking hands in the folds of my skirt. "I know you
don't. That's one reason I'm here. Yes?"

"Well, yes, I suppose-"

I took strength in his concession. "As their mother, it is my job
to teach the children the basics of life, from bathing to proper ways
of addressing one another to being able to eat with table manners
that would be acceptable in anyone's home-in the home of the
emperor himself."

Johann snickered. "I doubt my children will ever-"

"Our children."

He blinked. And in that blink, I knew I'd won.

"May I have free rein?" I asked.

Johann turned back toward the dining room. "Do what you
need to do."

The children did not particularly like me those first few months.
The poor dears. Yet as we addressed the niceties of life one by one,
as we turned chaos into order, they came to respect me. The love
would come later.

I hoped.

It was no wonder Johann had wanted to marry me. I could do
something of the utmost importance: I could help. Yet any good
woman could have done what I attempted to do. At first I wondered
why Johann didn't simply hire a governess to help the cook, chambermaid, and undermaid. But as time passed, as I observed the failings and severe limitations of these three servants, as I met the people
who populated the work force in the area, I realized that finding a
wife was probably easier than finding good help. In their defense,
the people of St. Gilgen were salt-of-the-earth people who fished
on the lake-the Aberseeor worked in the salt industry or in the
glassworks, or catered to the pilgrimage trade that came through on
their way to St. Wolfgang's a few kilometers away. But I could also
recognize that the main reason they were a coarse people had to do
with education, which they sorely lacked-and for which they
showed little respect.

St. Gilgen did not even have a real school. Twenty-some children met in the cobbler's home and in the upper floor of the house
next door: boys in one location, girls in the other. They were taught
only the most elementary level of catechism, reading, writing, and
arithmetic.

The biggest hurdle to getting them a decent education was the
absence of a full-time teacher. The man who held the job of sexton
taught when he had time. Which he didn't have much of because
his duties of caring for the devotional vessels of the church and selling religious artifacts took priority. As a result, the classes were unreliable. Often when the teacher was available, the children were
scattered. It was a shameful arrangement.

Yet what teacher in their right mind would accept the position?
Who would want to live in tiny St. Gilgen with its one church,
three inns, public bathhouse (where blood was let and teeth pulled),
and a Saturday market that only offered the basic essentials?

I was constantly having to write to Papa, begging him to shop
for me in Salzburg. We kept the woman who traveled between our
towns selling glassware busy with our weekly letters and trade. And
despite what Johann said, I was never extravagant in my requests. I
truly needed mustard, vegetables, books, lemons, candles, lard, and
various items of clothing. The children's shoes were deplorable, and
I traced their feet and had some felt shoes made in Salzburg. Papa
did his best to spend our money wisely, but one kreuzer was one
too many kreuzers to Johann, and I hated having to question Papa
about the costs on my husband's behalf. The entire financial process
did nothing to increase Johann's reputation in my father's eyes.

As far as my reputation in the eyes of my children? The littlest
one, Karl, was always on my hip. To him, I was instantly Mama. The
other three boys were more concerned with wrestling one another
and with what was being served for dinner to take much mind of
me. The one I best hoped to befriend was the oldest, Maria, who
was just thirteen. Perhaps I felt a kinship with her because we shared
the same given name; perhaps I felt an empathy for her because I
knew she, like myself, had been forced to assume too much responsibility too soon. So it was Maria whom I first invited to partake of
keyboard lessons.

One afternoon, after being there four months, I made sure the
boys were occupied elsewhere. It was an exceptionally warm winter
day, and I told them to go play in the garden near the lake right
outside our door. Only then did I call Maria into the front room, to
the pianoforte. I closed the doors behind us, turned, and smiled at
her. "So," I said.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked.

I blinked but understood the precedent in her question. "Not at
all. I simply wondered if you would like to begin your lessons."

She looked at the piano as if it could reach out and grab her.
"On that?"

That was my savior here in the wilderness. If I had not gotten
into the habit of playing its lovely keys for a few hours every day, I
would surely have jumped into the lake and willingly sunk to its
bottom. My hope was that I could teach the children how to play
well enough to perform duets. I simply had to create some kind of
musical community here. I'd already discovered that most of the
local musicians who played at weddings and dances had learned the
folk tunes by rote and were incapable of reading a note. They would
do me no good whatsoever.

I put my hands on her shoulders and moved her to the bench,
pressing her to sit. "This is a very lovely instrument that can open
the world to you."

She looked up at me, her brow furrowed. As if she didn't understand the term "world"?

"At your age I was playing in London and Paris for royalty. I
played for kings, queens, and emperors, and spoke to them as I am
speaking to you now"