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The night my brother died, I knew I would never be happy again. I knew this even before I had received the letter confirming Wolfgang’s fate: I dreamt the night of December 5 that I stood by the side of his bed with the rest of his dearest friends and harshest enemies, my arms around his wife, while he arose from the bed, guided to Heaven by a host of angels. I awoke sobbing, and though my husband tried desperately to console me, telling me it was all just a dream, I could not stop the tears. I was certain they never would stop.
It had already been a hard year, with the death of my daughter only a few months before, and I had been finding it hard to summon up good cheer before now. After the prophetic dream, I refused to keep trying to be happy. I lay in bed the rest of the night, trying to quiet my tears so that my husband could fall back to sleep, though sleep would not come for me. As slivers of sunrise slipped through the curtains, my husband’s snores slowed and he finally blinked awake. “Nannerl?” he murmured. I could not look at him. I could not look at anyone. I could not bear to face the world that had taken my one true friend away from me.
I lost track of time, lying in bed. Just the day before, I had begun to decorate the house for Christmas, and had planned to slip out today for the children’s St. Nicholas’ Day treats. Now, everything seemed distant and fogged up, like I was trapped in a box, or drowning at the very depths of the ocean. The only content of my thoughts were the happy times I had spent with my brother—playing piano together, sprawled under our childhood dining table creating a make-believe kingdom, his repeated entreaties to me to keep making music—and how those times would never come again.
My husband, to his credit, was as patient as a man could be. I refused to let him call a doctor, so he let me lie in bed, drifting in and out of fitful slumber. He tucked treats into the children’s shoes for St. Nicholas’ Day, and otherwise left Christmastime outside our house entirely. Our bedroom became an oasis of mourning, undisturbed by anything except occasional entrées by my family to bring me food and urge me to eat, and by my occasional sobs when the pain got too much for me to bear in silence. By the time that the letter from Constance came to inform me definitively of Wolfgang’s death, I had nearly lost the will to live myself.
A few days after the letter arrived—a fortnight after the terrible dream and Wolfgang’s death—there was a tentative knock on the door. I lifted my head up from the pillows; my husband and all my children were waiting in the doorway.
“I am sorry to wake you, Nannerl,” my husband said. “But the children have something for you.” He ushered them through the door and they eagerly streamed in. The youngest were beaming excitedly, rushing towards my bed, while the oldest, already learning the fine arts of seriousness and secret-keeping, tried to keep a straight face, holding something behind their backs.
“We got a present!” little Jeanette announced proudly, climbing onto the bed and crawling over my legs to squash herself into my arms. “A present for Mama!”
All the children huddled around my bedside as I wrapped my arms around Jeanette, distracted from tragedy for a moment by my children’s excitement. Leo grabbed the present from behind his siblings’ backs, and presented it to me: a basket, in which was nestled the tiniest little kitten.
“Frau Kronecker’s cats just had kittens,” my husband explained from the doorway. He gave me a small, shy smile. “This good sir was born on December 5, and he has already gotten up to so much trouble that Frau Kronecker was eager to give him up. He seems to be much more interested in getting into the sugar and flour than learning to be a good mouser.”
I delicately lifted the kitten out of the basket. It blinked its eyes slowly, and then before I could so much as take a breath, it climbed out of my hands, scampered out of my arms, and then marched onto the bedspread as if it owned the place. I giggled despite myself. My husband’s smile broadened, and Jeanette clapped her hands in delight. The kitten seemed to enjoy the attention: it looked around at all the smiling faces, licked itself, stared back up at us again, and then darted off the bed, under my husband’s legs, and out into the hall. I gently put Jeanette on the floor, pulled the bedclothes off for the first time in weeks, and chased after it, followed by my laughing family.
The kitten quickly grew into a darling member of our family. I made a little bed for it out of an old scrap of curtain, and it slept contentedly in the corner of our bedroom. Every morning, it would wake me by climbing up onto the bed and standing on my chest, meowing insistently until I moved, then jumping off and leading me to the kitchen, where it would continue to meow until I got it a little dish of milk for breakfast. During the day, the children would chase it around the house, and I would sometimes join in with their games. If Jeanette would tumble over during their games and cry, the kitten would bound over to her and gently lick her face until she giggled and got back up to play more. And when I found it hard to summon a smile or leave my bed, the kitten would adopt the same attitude, gently licking at my face and hands until I managed a slight smile or pulled myself out from under the bedclothes.
Of course, Frau Kronecker’s warnings as to the kitten’s behavior were absolutely correct. The kitten spent nearly the same amount of time playing as it did getting into trouble. It delighted in squeezing through the partly closed door to the kitchen and spilling cream or sugar everywhere; I soon became used to checking the kitchen as soon as I noticed the kitten was missing. It also enjoyed hiding under furniture, popping out and startling anyone who walked by.
Most often, however, it would circle the harpsichord that sat in the corner of our parlor. As the days progressed, it learned how to jump up onto the seat, which became its favorite place to nap. About a week after it had arrived in our home, it learned how to make the leap from the bench to the harpsichord keys. I learned of this accomplishment when I heard a queer racket coming from the parlor, and rushed in to find the kitten parading proudly over the keys, looking like a lost little prince who had found his way home to his kingdom.
My breath hitched as I walked to the harpsichord. I had not played it in years, perhaps not since the last time my brother came to visit, and much to the chagrin of my late father no one else in my family was particularly musically inclined.
I put my hands on my hips, staring incredulously at the kitten, who was still standing on the keyboard. “And what do you want me to do?” I asked it softly. It was foolish of me to be talking so frankly to a kitten, but the kitten cocked its head as if it understood me, and pressed its paw down on a key next to it.
The keys had grown dusty, disturbed only now by the kitten’s paws. I reached towards the keyboard and pressed a C key. The kitten danced up the keyboard, landing to rest on the highest keys. I followed its lead, and slowly played a C major scale up the keyboard, and then back down. I played the scale through thrice more before stopping and lifting my hands from the keyboards. The kitten ran back down the keyboard and stopped to stare at me in a manner I found almost accusatory. It pressed a paw to a key again. I shook my head. “I am not my brother. If I had any talent once, it has long since disappeared from lack of practice.”
I had said much the same words to my brother the last time I had seen him, when he came to visit Salzburg with Constance shortly after their marriage. And just as the kitten did now, leaping from the keyboards, Wolfgang had seated himself at the harpsichord bench, pulling me down next to him. “Play with me, Nannerl, please,” he had implored, and I could see the same plea in the eyes of the kitten as it sat expectantly on the harpsichord bench. My brother had always preferred playing duets.
I swept my skirts aside and sat down on the harpsichord bench next to the kitten. I started with the basic scales and arpeggios that had been the first things my father had taught me, before I even knew my letters and numbers. I had often practiced them sharing the bench with Wolfgang, our shoulders touching as we moved up and down the octaves. Now, the bench just felt empty.
I paused once I had exhausted all my scales and lifted my hands from the keys. But before I could think about getting up from the harpsichord and resuming the rest of my day, the kitten leapt from the bench, marching along the lower keys in an elegant melody. I smiled despite myself, and copied the melody on the higher notes. It was quite a nice melody for something played by a cat, though it needed something more. I added a simple counterpoint with my left hand, and the kitten jumped back onto the bench to give me more room to play.
Slowly, steadily, my fingers found the keys, avoiding any of the awkward fumbling that I had feared. I repeated the simple melody the kitten had given to me until I thought of a somber but delicate eight-note strain to continue it. My left hand found the corresponding chords easily, and the kitten purred beside me. It was like speaking my mother tongue for the first time in years. I would repeat the melody I was composing until I had memorized it, and then add on the next notes. The hurt in my chest loosened just a little, my heart opened, my mind flew free.
The next morning, I had more to wake up for than just the kitten. As soon as it leapt upon my chest, I gathered it up in my arms, slipped out from the bedclothes, and headed to the kitchen, fetching my dressing gown along the way. Rather than leaving the kitten in the kitchen with its bowl of milk, I brought both to the parlor, leaving the bowl next to the harpsichord for the kitten to lap at. I thought of my brother, and let my fingers run wild.
I worked all morning at the little melody I had started writing, until my children tumbled into the parlor clamoring for attention and reminding me of the little tasks of daily living. I did not begrudge the day’s tasks; I composed an entire orchestral accompaniment to my little melody while washing the children’s clothes and preparing their food. Once my children were safely tucked into bed and each given a goodnight kiss, I hurried to my writing desk, rifling through the drawers until I found a sheaf of paper already scored for sheet music. It had been a gift from Wolfgang when he had come to visit, bestowed upon me with a kiss on the cheek and a whisper: “Don’t let your gift die, Nannerl.” I lit a candle and copied down the melody I had written. With each stroke of my pen, a concerto began to take shape.
It took me weeks to finish the concerto, during which time the kitten grew into a cat: too big to hide easily under furniture, though no less prone to mischief. It sat on my lap as I wrote the final notes, and as I put the concerto aside and began a letter:
My dear Constance,
My heart has been heavy these last weeks. The world has lost a genius, and we two have lost a light of our lives. However, I believe that Wolfgang’s spirit has not truly left us.
I am enclosing a concerto inspired by my brother within. I hope that your connections with musicians in Vienna will enable it to find a worthy home. I believe that more pieces may soon come to you, if you are willing to receive them. If you need somewhere to stay – to grieve or to breathe – my home is open to you, as is my heart.
Your sister, always,
Nannerl
I sprinkled a little sand over the paper and shook it off, then folded it with the score I had written and placed it in the envelope to Constance. Another piece was already starting to take shape in my mind. I lifted the cat from my lap and to my breast. It lapped at my cheek, and I thought of my brother kissing me on the cheek the last time I had seen him.
“I will not let my gift die,” I whispered to the cat. It purred in agreement.