Read Online Mozart's Sister by Nancy Moser - Free Book Online

the sister of the king of
Prussia. Yet even though she was a princess, she didn't have any
money. Her traveling party was quite Spartan, not royal at all. Yet if
the kisses she gave us could have been transferred to gulden, we
would have been rich. But neither the innkeeper nor the postmaster
was paid in kisses. She even tried to get us to not go to Paris but to
Berlin instead. Papa thought this ridiculous, for Paris was to be the
jewel in our tour.
    And there was more that the princess offered Papa... .
Although Papa spoke of it in hushed tones to Mama, there were
implications that one of her proposals was of a more intimate kind.
I thought less of her because of that. And yet, for her to be intrigued
with Papa ... he was a handsome man. So tall. So proud. He had a
way of holding himself that made a person believe anything he said,
that made a person want to be whatever he wanted them to be.
Whatever kind of person I wanted myself to be.
    How I strived to be that person as we continued on our Grand
Tour.

     

KZI-41 14e--
    Oh, to be alone, to have five minutes to myself.
    Cramped quarters, cramped carriages, being together every hour
of every day ...
    One autumn afternoon in Brussels, while we were waiting for
Prince Charles to summon us for a concert (weeks we waited),
Mama needed some black headache powder from the apothecary,
so I offered to go. Alone. At first Papa objected, worrying that I
would feel uncomfortable venturing out on my own in such a
strange place.
    He was correct, of course, but my discomfort was eclipsed by
my desire-alas, even my need-to be away from family. To walk
among strangers, where nothing was expected of me except to stay
on my side of the street, was akin to taking a cure. It was a refreshment, and as I walked I felt my nerves ease back beneath my skin.
When my lungs filled with deep breaths of tranquility, I realized
how short and constrained my breathing had become of late, mimicking the jerks of the carriage or the hurry-hurry as Papa herded
us toward our next performance.
    Since Brussels was such a large city, I blended in. I was interested
in the wooden shoes. How awkward to walk on a surface that did
not give way, and yet ... the wood might have been a good buffer
against the cobblestones. My leather shoes felt every stone, every
juncture.

    I walked past the shops and stalls selling lace and tapestries, and
saw interesting vegetables called Brussels sprouts. So many vendors
plied their trade and called out to me as I passed: coopers, fowlers,
thatchers, bakers, smiths. The ships that took their wares to faraway
places came up the canals in the center of the city on their way to
the sea. The sea. I had never seen the sea....
    Or sea gulls. When I first saw the white birds diving and soaring
I had no name for them, but Mama told me what they were. Sea
gulls. Nannerl from landlocked Salzburg was seeing a bird of the sea!
    A gothic cathedral loomed ahead. If Papa and Mama had been
along, we would have gone inside. But I'd seen enough cathedrals,
spent enough time in their cold halls. We'd already gone sightseeing
at other churches and museums here. At one, Papa had stood transfixed in front of a Last Supper altarpiece by Dirk Bouts. His interest
surprised me because I didn't like the piece. At all. The disciples
were too lean and stilted, the perspective odd. I much preferred the
movement of the Bruegel paintings we'd seen at museums that captured the life of the people around me, eating, laughing, playing
games. They told a story that continued, while the Bouts work only
captured a moment that seemed to have no future.
    Papa would get after me for saying such a thing about a scene
depicting Jesus, yet it's not the subject I objected to but the cold way
it was portrayed. Even at age twelve I was quite full of opinions.
Taking after Papa, I suppose.
    I stopped a moment to check the address of the apothecary. A
little dog sniffed at my feet and