Franz Xaver Mozart

Franz Xaver - my brother's younger son and my nephew, has paid a visit. He is a composer in Lemburg but I have not heard any of his compositions. Reminds me of Jack Pudding – the way he talks -very fast - the shape of HIS forehead - wide - HIS gestures - restless - and HIS scent - a faint musk that remains when he has gone. We talk in waves. He insists he has learnt more about his father from his old auntie than from anyone he has known before, including his mother whose apartment I can see inside my head. I ask him to visit my son, Leopold in Innsbruck before he returns to Lemburg – I tell him they are more like brothers than cousins. Feel very close to this fine young man and share his sense of melancholy.

30th July 1829
My last Will and Testament while I can still think and speak:
I give Mama’s two jeweled rings to my nephews, Karl Thomas and Franz Xaver Mozart. What rights that I retain to my brother’s Requiem shall also be transferred to them. All other monies and worldly goods I bequeath in their entirety to my son, Leopold Berchtold zu Sonnenburg.

It is true that except in the matter of this diary, I have been an exile from what has gone before. I am sometimes gripped by a pattern of lights, a glittering aura that I cannot blink away. Just as it persists, without any intention on my part, it will suddenly cease to be and what I perceive in its aftermath appears fainter, until I can only imagine the shadows in front of me, for I cannot see.

It lasts - this aura- no more than six or seven seconds or the experience would be more than spirits could bear. Perhaps it is a moment of dying, a pleasurable signal and not a thing of fear that I am returning to the place from where I came, an instant of reckoning where I feel compelled to recapture what is past without a quill. I am quite tired.

Franz Xaver has brought some visitors - met English publisher, Vincent Novello and wife. They bring money from admirers in England. Good to be sister of genius.
Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart zu Sonnenburg

My Lover

I have been avoiding this - a description that goes beyond the white silk stockings and the lace handkerchief. Well, if you hear it from me, you hear it from the one person who has the right to say it. When he smiles, I laugh. When he is serious, I am as long faced as a horse. Yes, I desire him when I fall asleep. Yesterday I composed a Rondo with a tune he whistled on a sleigh ride in the woods. During this same sleigh ride, he took my hand from out of my muff and kissed it as Mama was not looking. He has a small tuft of golden hair inside each nostril and I saw the reflection of my eyes in his - we were that close. It will cost me six kreuzer per sheet to have my music copied, so being poor and unwilling to copy it myself, I will send him the original. In my next entry, I hope to have some good news but I must neither rejoice nor worry too soon. N

Fear Itself

Everyone has something to hide or at least thinks so, which is much the same. Mine is fear itself. I am not afraid of spiders but I am of a pair of hands that hides under my bed at night, waiting to grab hold of my ankles as I leap onto my coverlet. I have perfected the art of the leap, making sure that the lower part of me is in the air when I dive, out of reach from this headless, bodyless mannikin. Since I am always telling Wolfie I am fearless, I am afraid he will see me flying and my secret will be out. N.

Connections

I have no great hopes of anything happening in Munich. Frau von Durst has chicken pox. My brother's opera is delayed. Papa has said that he doesn't wish to work for the Elector under any circumstances and running about as he has done these last weeks and teaching singers to suck eggs when they know how to do so already is a dog's life. We are all to return to Salzburg and my dear Mama forthwith. I have made an extraordinary discovery this morning. I am my father in petticoats. N.

Valerian

I know a doctor who prescribes this remedy in such doses that may lead to weeping, heartbreak, though not of a fatal kind, the occasional gnashing of teeth and a prolonged morning sleep after a night of severe restlessness. What is the point? N.

The Waltz

I prefer a slow, gliding waltz, a Schleifer, to a minuet. Wolfie is tuning his fiddle to play because his E string snapped and his new one refuses to stick. The servants are shifting the widow's furniture to make space for an impromptu ball and Papa asks Frau von Durst for the first dance, which she accepts. I am picking at the harpsichord, listening to the scarlet coat with white silk stockings knocking at the door. I adore Herr - , but does he adore me? The sun has set and the widow looks quite skittish as she swirls. N.

The Widow Von Durst

She has no more than twenty-six years and her late husband was a salt merchant. It is true that she discourages all visitors to her apartment and that she dresses her dark brown hair by herself. She does not care for the society of philanderers, nor society as such I would say, but prefers the presence of her lap-dog, Finette. Papa arranged for me to have a harpsichord in Frau Von Durst's room, which looks out onto the market place. I think she is quite taken with Papa for she asks me to read aloud a passage from his treatise on violin playing before she retires to bed each night. I was not aware that she understood the finer points of string instruments but I noticed that her cheeks were uncommonly pink when I said the art of vibrato is to enrich the sound. It is my belief that her greatest art is not to conceal what she knows. N.

A Lap-Dog in Munich

Papa, Wolfie and I are in Munich, though I am lodging separately with the Widow Von Durst. Wolfie is pacing up and down my room like a small dog with fleas. It is because the performance of his opera buffa, La finta giardiniera has been postponed and the carnival is already in full swing. There are gambling tables set up in the Salle de Redoute and people are wearing masks and making a perpetual noise and I am quite thankful that today I am in bed with toothache. Frau Von Durst's lap-dog, Finette, who has not got fleas, is keeping me company together with Wolfie. Papa said the postponement of La finta is a good thing as nothing sensible is performed here at this time because no one pays any attention. He also said he wants me to acquire the habit of dressing my own hair very neatly, putting on a neglige cap and making up my face without any help, but Wolfie says I am much better with my arpeggios.

My Future

The loss of my great aunt has reminded me that I must earn a living if Papa were to die. He asked me why I was practising my gallanteries with such zeal and such determination.
'Your death,' I replied.
'Not yet,' he said.
'Not yet,' I agreed. "But when it happens, I will become a music teacher in Salzburg to pay for a pie.'
He laughed and said, 'Over my dead body.'
Exactly. N.

A Death in the Family

Papa and Wolfi have returned from Italy and we have moved across the river to an apartment in Hannibal Platz. The windows look out onto the square and I can see our visitors arrive, which is useful when I want to run away.

Between the making and the rising of a pie to celebrate our new home, a very old aunt of my father was gasping for breath like a canary in a cage. She whistled with her head against the pillows as we gathered round, mother and I, wishing it were otherwise. The abbe came with enough rosaries for a choir. I could not help but feel it was for the best when she breathed no more and was out of pain.

The pie had burnt into a small pile of cinders but remembering my great aunt, I made another with more careful attention. We cut a fillet of venison into three or four slices, seasoned it with savoury spice, a little minced up sage and some sweet herbs, laid it all in the pie with six fine slices of pig at the bottom. Betwixt each piece, I greased it and closed the pie. N.

My Family

My father, Leopold Mozart :
He is happy to believe HIS talent has passed to the son and cajoles the archbishop not for himself but for Wolfgang. It is true he knows where to find my fur boots - in the trunk under the the roof - from a thousand miles away. My father has laid two eggs in one basket and is lying on them both just in case.
My mother:
She is devoted to her husband and God in that order. Anna Maria Mozart, nee Pertl, possesses a fine voice which is finest when she is vexed with the servants. Above all else, my mother has a wicked wit and a rare understanding of holiness.
My brother, Wolfgang:
He is a prey to toothache and an interest in his prettier cousins - a miniature rendition of a man, a boy prodigy who will soon be everything that my father forsees.
My lover: He has gold buttons on a scarlet coat and silk stockings on his legs- a cock of a man who visits me in dreams.
My future husband:
I have not met him yet but I know he will be dull by comparison. Perhaps I will die in childbirth. N

A Sin

The church bells are tolling to remind us of our sins. Here is one of mine: lust. I have a lust for satisfaction of ALL my appetites. It is a type of greed that takes hold at unexpected moments and is never satisfied. I was at church the whole day on Sunday. Between sermons, I tried to lay aside all thoughts that would ruin me and failed. So wild was my imagining, I fancied I drank spa water with a certain friend and spoke in French, which I cannot do otherwise, and was observed to look ill. It was no doubt due to the hankering kindness I felt for Herr -- who told me of a sonata for violin and clavier he had composed, which he would like me to play. Play WITH him! I would like to play WITH the curls on his wig and blow wind very gently behind his ears. I would like to COMPOSE myself! In all my fancies, I am like a tree that has been sunk into a flowerpot and can be lifted out very easily when I am in his company. But alas, this is a sin of dreaming and only my distraction is real. N.

My Beloved Brother

Mama and I are both longing for you to make your fortune as we believe that your success will mean happiness for us all. Although I wish to embrace you, I will delay such thoughts until you are NOT composing and can spare the time to receive them in spirit. Alas to bed I now must steal and with these words I do impart - as long as you can piddle, shit or deadly fart, our art will surely grab our heart O brother mine, the queerest fish, my dainty dish, your loving sister, Nan. Postum Scriptum Nonsensicum: the Latin psalms are difficult to read and a German translation would be helpful! What a pity this is not a letter but the dullest entry from your darling blister. N.

Out of Sorts

When you left, there were a thousand matters which I simply could not discuss because I was ill, confused, out of humour, full of doubts, sad and miserable. I do not regret who I am - how pointless that would be - but I wish to be considered by yourself without regard to my sex. I would like to be cross when I have a reason - not for the vapours or my monthly cloth or the state of my heart. The truth is, I am mad with rage! I cannot make this composition work, upside down or sideways. I will have to start again. Poof! N.

The Song Bird

Sometimes I have a dream without an image. There is only sound – a ravishing sound of a woman's voice, which I hear in that moment half way between sleeping and waking. It has –
1) the range of three octaves
2) always the same tune with the same embellishments and
3) the same degree of softness and loudness.
Can it be a dream if there is nothing to see? N.

An Admirer!

I have a certain friend, who is plagued by nits. He has shaved off his own hair and rubbed his head in lavender oil as a precaution. He has called for the nit-picker to clean his wig, where I am told the nits have lodged in his curls. He has taken to wearing a silver, filigree basket containing lard, which he hangs around his neck. This is his decoy for the hungry monster and this is my admirer. I must buy myself a fine bone comb. N.

A Warm Bath

Last night, while Mama played cards, I went to the theatre and slept through the entire play, which is a measure of how good the spa in Gastein is or how bad the play was - I am not sure which. I had spent the afternoon at the baths and dipped my feet into the warm water with my puffbox and handkerchief in a little tray that was tied to my waist. It kept floating out in front of me as I tried to remember an Italian madrigal about love. My mind was drawn to a number of ladies all around me, smiling in that half way at each other as people do when they don't know another soul. We retired to the assembly room to share our gossip but unfortunately, there was very little in the way of wickedness. N.

Scandal

There is always some scandal or other to discuss in small towns. Life would be very dull otherwise. A certain abbe is regarded as a holy man in these parts but I do not believe it. At breakfast, according to my uncle, who is the finest tenor to have sung in the church at St Gilgen, their saint will drink three cups of strong wine after his hot chocolate before beginning mass. I have had the honour of lunching with this holy man and seen for myself that he ate six sweet pastries, a plate of venison, three small birds while consuming a decanter of wine, two saucers of milk with lemon and five cups of coffeee, which altogether makes a piffle of mama's and my two trouts apiece. Moreover, he takes several little snacks during the afternoon. N.

Confession

This is a diary, not a collection of letters, more thoughts that people think and rarely ever say - dull when I am feeling dull or revelatory when there is something to reveal. To anyone who may happen on it by accident, I cannot change to please.

Last night Mama and I dined with my uncle, her brother, Anton Pertl, who sang for our supper in the church at St Gilgen. He has a fine tenor voice. We ate two trouts apiece and had such bellyaches and looseness of stool that I never want to eat trout again. N

What Is In The Bottom Drawer

I have mentioned it twice - this bottom drawer - the fourth one down in the walnut chest next to my nun's bed. It contains all that I value - letters from admirers tied up with ribbon, my compositions, Wolfie's drawings for our targets in archery - mostly cartoons of naked bottoms, some small squares of silk from the dresses I've outgrown, family locks of hair and a collar that I made for Miss Pimperl when she was a puppy. It's a motley lot but it is mine. My compositions are there because they are the private proof of my passion. Everything contained in this sliding box is private or secret because I alone have the key. The bottom drawer seemed more discreet than the top, less likely to be discovered, although I sent Wolfie a copy of my latest song with a long story full of scandalous gossip. 'Cara Sorella Mia,' he wrote back post haste, 'you compose SO well . . . foul your bed, make a mess of it.' Does he mean, to hang with the consequences? I am perfecting my form. N.

I Am a Little Jealous, August 1770

I am bored with my own company and this morning I found myself saying 'pop goes the weasel' to the walls of our apartment in Getreidegasse 9 - I wish I were in Italy. It is raining all over Salzburg and Mama says the living is becoming more expensive every day. Soon enough, we will have to manage on what Papa earns each month - there are NO more jewelled toothpicks, NO more gold snuffboxes that we can sell.
Papa and Wolfie have escaped the heat of Rome – or Milan - to stay at a country house in Bologna, which is owned by a Count BOLONYETTI. They eat ripe peaches, figs and melons, which look like small, Chinese lanterns…. and Wolfie is becoming fat. The bed linen is finer than a nobleman's shirt – and I wonder why my dear Papa doesn't make one for Wolfie by cutting up his sheet.
My brother has had to remove the silk thread from around his diamond ring because his fingers have grown so plump and his singing voice has gone. Poof! Papa says it is neither high nor low, nor good for even five small notes! Mine is clear as a bell. I sing my own songs and have sent the latest one to Wolfie - the others remain in my bottom drawer, waiting for someone to discover that I CAN COMPOSE! I might as well ride on a donkey... N.

Postscript by Franz Xaver Mozart

Salzburg, 29th October, 1829
My beloved Aunt Nannerl died some time after midnight. It seemed she would never let go but wept in her bed and swallowed cups of water to replace the tears she had shed. Unable to see the walls of her room, she mumbled about the clouds on the tops of Nonnberg, Capuzinerberg and the Devil’s Horn. She described that point in the river Salzach where it curves beyond the bridge and where the water runs so fast. I kept waiting for the moment in the process of dying when the suffering is so great that the fear of death dissolves and both the mind and the body stop clinging to life. It happened in the earliest hours of the morning, which is when, the doctor told me, that most people slip away.
‘Wolfie,’ she began.
‘Yes, Auntie.’
‘You’re still there.’
‘I’m still here.’
She fell deeply asleep and never awoke. According to her wishes, she will be buried in a colonnaded vault in Saint Peter’s here in Salzburg. As soon as it can be arranged, I shall conduct my father's Requiem to celebrate her life.
Franz Xaver Wolfgang Mozart - henceforth known as W.A.M.
P.P.S. Am burning all her compositions in the stove, again according to her wishes, but have decided to keep her diaries from this willful pyre - will read them tomorrow from the beginning. Rest in peace, dear Auntie...

Blind and Stroke-Ridden

31st July, 1829
Writing too difficult – Franzl in Salzburg with visitors - met English publisher, Vincent Novello and wife. They bring money from admirers in England. Good to be sister of genius. N.

As Dictated to Josef Metzger:

30th July 1829
My last Will and Testament while I can still think, speak and see a little:
I give Mama’s two jeweled rings to my nephews, Karl Thomas and Franz Xaver Mozart. What rights that I retain to my brother’s Requiem shall also be transferred to them and I instruct Franz Xaver Mozart to destroy all existing compositions by me. The snuffbox with the royal crest I give to my stepdaughter Maria-Anna zu Sonnenburg and my second best ivory snuffbox to the surviving niece of Katharina Gilowska. All other monies and worldly goods I bequeath in their entirety to my son, Leopold Berchtold zu Sonnenburg.

It is true that except in the matter of this diary, I have been an exile from what has gone before. I am sometimes gripped by a pattern of lights, a glittering aura that I cannot blink away. Just as it persists, without any intention on my part, it will suddenly cease to be and what I perceive in its aftermath appears fainter, until I can only see the shadows in front of me. That I know, though I cannot see.

It lasts - this aura- no more than six or seven seconds or the experience would be more than spirits could bear. Perhaps it is a moment of dying, a pleasurable signal and not a thing of fear that I am returning to the place from where I came, an instant of reckoning where I feel compelled to recapture what is past without a quill. I am quite tired.
Maria Anna Walburga Ignatia Mozart zu Sonnenburg

Too Late To Turn Back

Too late to turn back…
Lingering
like the winter fly… N.

Franz Xaver Mozart

Franz Xaver - Wolfie's child and my nephew, has paid a visit. He is a professor of music in Lemburg and a composer but I have not heard any of his compositions. Reminds me of Jack Pudding – the way he talks -very fast - the shape of HIS forehead - wide - HIS gestures - restless - and HIS scent - the faint, sweet musk that remains when he has gone. We talk in waves. He insists he has learnt more about his father from his old auntie than from anyone he has known before, including his mother whose apartment I can just see from a corner of my window. I ask him to visit Leopold in Innsbruck before he returns home - telling him many times they are more like brothers than cousins. Feel very close and share a sense of melancholy. N.

Is This The Worst To Come?

I try to forget the 1st September, 1805. Can a mother really forget the bleakness of such a day? I write as a blind woman, forming each letter with infinite care and seeing nothing on the page. Much grieving on the way – you understand, Salzburg was not a haven for my beloved Jeanette Babette – for my darling child, who fretting, faded, quickly ailed, and was taken by God after only sixteen years on this earth – it was the first day of spring. She is now buried with Papa. Am I to survive my little flower? Take me too, for I am almost emptied of purpose. But then I remember Leopoldl and I pray to God to give me fortitude. N.

Extract of a Letter for My Diary:

'We have battered our way for days through freezing gales. The water broke across the decks and the rigging has gone to ice - colder than the day I came to visit you in Hannibal Platz when you performed one of your compositions. I remember frost on the windowpanes and how I was thinking more about you than the music and how you ran out into the courtyard without a coat, you were so cross with me…
I realise now that in all this dreadful cold at sea, the ravages of scurvy play havoc with men’s lives. The captain can barely muster a crew for the ordinary duties of the Watch and I have taken the precaution of eating more limes…I practise my violin to while away the hours but keep bumping my bowing arm against the wall of the cabin when the ship is in a violent roll. Nannerl, my dear…’
Your loving friend, Jakob

A Partial Revelation

My pupils come to the apartment for their piano lessons and I am so tired when they have gone that I find myself drowsing in a chair, half-dreaming of a walk in Saint Gilgen. Where are you now, Jakob? On the shore of Adventure's Bay? I can hear the trees in the wind, see the catkins blow and shiver as they spill their pollen on the lae. When I stir, I look through the apartment window at the cobbles in the square and I am remembering the first day you came for your violin lesson with Papa. N.

A Sea Voyage

‘The Atlantic Ocean, 7th January, 179-
My Dear Nannerl,
I am on a journey to the other side of the world, having boarded a ship called the Oracle at Portsmouth. I do not know when I shall return… You may never read this letter, but I like to think you will. I shall write to you anyway because first of all I made a promise that I would and secondly, (this has the same intensity as the first), because you matter more to me than anyone I have known.
If you find it difficult to accept my parting gift - Josef Metzger will describe it in more precise detail that you may understand my reasoning. I ask you to think of all the graves in the world and say to yourself, Mozart’s body could not be left to moulder amongst foreign worms. One day, you will rest near him, but not yet…’
This and other letters had been brought to me in a rusty box by Herr Metzger, who is both a fellow lodger in this building and a kind friend. The words belong to Jakob Hofmann and are meant to console me both for the loss of my brother and the absence of a friend. Therein lies another tale, but I am not yet certain if it is one for my diary. I will think on it. N.