Mozart's Sister: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

always liked the night. And now, when I’m writing to you, dearest Armand, it’s the middle of the night, and between you and me there is only a lamp, a sheet of paper, and a pen. You and I are alone, and intimately, profoundly, close. You understand me, and you, too, have the same feelings, is that not true? And my family, from whom a mere wall separates me, are a million miles away.
    They have never violated, and I don’t think they have ever discovered, these lovely isolated moments of mine, when time expands, when no one has the power to tell me what I must or must not do. We live in a larger house now, and each of us has our own room, so I don’t need to make complicated maneuvers to be alone, and there is no risk of being found out; but at that time, entering the music room meant the jealous, fearful crossing of the threshold between the world and myself.
    In the silence I opened the window, listened to the rustling waters of the Salzach, breathed in the cool air, stared into the darkness. Finally I lighted a candle and sat at the harpsichord, with the slow solemnity of one who is performing a rite. I couldn’t play (I would have waked the entire building!), but to compose I had only to touch the keys, without pressing my fingers down; to listen to my internal ear. My knowledge of counterpoint was confined to what I managed to overhear of the lessons that my father gave Wolfgang, but I took this not as a limitation but as a stimulus. Arias, canons, lieder. Vocal music was what I loved, perhaps because I had some talent as a singer. My voice has been melodious since I was a child, and deep, even in speaking; I haven’t trained it with any consistency, but if I had, I would be a mezzo-soprano or a contralto—the idea of being on the stage has never appealed to me. I’ve preferred the role of the one who, in the shadows, invents; and then, in the shadows, listens to the results.
    I filled the pages with notes, I inscribed the titles in my best, most elegant handwriting, I blew on the ink, blotted it, and, finally, folded every page and put it in my secret pouch. I had sewn a kind of pouch that was fastened with long laces, and I tied it around my waist, hidden among my petticoats; thus my music never left me. During the day it sat at the table, worked, and played with me; at night, when I went to bed, it slept with me, warmed by the covers and by my skin. It was invisible to the world, but to me always present, like a limb, an organ, a lock of hair. I imagined giving it to my father, at the right moment, and then, I was sure, he would realize what I was capable of, and would encourage and support me. After all, the sister of the Prince Elector of Bavaria liked to write operas in the Italian style; I, who was Queen of the Kingdom of Back—couldn’t I be like her?
     
    VI.
     
    “Put down the violin, Mama’s little angel.”
    “No!”
    “How can I sew the jacket if you’ve got both arms busy?”
    “Papa said I can play the violin as much as I want. And now I want to play!”
    Anna Maria resigned herself to working on the trousers. For her children’s traveling clothes she had chosen fabrics that were durable but difficult to get the needle through; and if Wolfgang didn’t stop playing with that damned instrument, sooner or later she would box his ears.
    Nannerl was alone in the kitchen peeling potatoes. She was wearing a big apron, and amused herself by peeling in spirals, creating a single long strip for each potato; she also amused herself by listening to her brother’s musical games, and singing along with him in an undertone. The larger the heap of peeled potatoes grew, the louder she sang, until Wolfgang heard her and answered with the violin.
    “You little witch. Don’t you start, too!” yelled her mother, but, far out of sight, Nannerl ignored the command, and sister and brother began tossing the music back and forth like a ball. Far, too, from the tedious lessons of their father! Who said that