MOZART
Although Mozart's (1756-1791) earliest years were passed at Salzburg,
the musical influences which surrounded his cradle were mainly Italian.
Salzburg imitated Vienna, and Vienna, in spite of Gluck, was still
Italian in its sympathies, so far at any rate as opera seria was
concerned. Mozart wrote his first opera, 'La Finta Semplice,' for
Vienna, when he was twelve years old. It would have been performed in
1768 but for the intrigues of jealous rivals and the knavery of an
impresario. It was not actually produced until the following year, when
the Archbishop of Salzburg arranged a performance of it in his own city
to console his little _protégé_ for his disappointment at Vienna. It is
of course an extraordinary work when the composer's age is taken into
account, but intrinsically differs little from the thousand and one
comic operas of the period, Mozart's first German opera, 'Bastien und
Bastienne,' though written after 'La Finta Semplice,' was performed
before it. It was given in 1768 in a private theatre belonging to Dr.
Anton Meszmer, a rich Viennese bourgeois. It follows the lines of
Miller's Singspiele closely, but shows more originality, especially in
the orchestration, than 'La Finta Semplice.' The plot of the little work
is an imitation of Rousseau's 'Devin du Village,' telling of the
quarrels of a rustic couple, and their reconciliation through the good
offices of a travelling conjurer. It was significant that the Italian
and German schools should be respectively represented in the two infant
works of the man who was afterwards to fuse the special beauties of each
in works of immortal loveliness. Mozart's next four operas were, for the
most part, hastily written--'Mitridate, Re di Ponto' (1770) and 'Lucio
Silla' (1775) for Milan, "La Finta Giardiniera' (1775) for Munich, and
'Il Re Pastore' (1775) for Salzburg. They adhere pretty closely to the
conventional forms of the day, and, in spite of the beauty of many of
the airs, can scarcely be said to contain much evidence of Mozart's
incomparable genius. In 1778 the young composer visited Paris, where he
stayed for several months. This period may be looked upon as the
turning-point in his operatic career. In Paris he heard the operas of
Gluck and Grétry, besides those of the Italian composers, such as
Piccinni and Sacchini, whose best works were written for the French
stage. He studied their scores carefully, and from them he learnt the
principles of orchestration, which he was afterwards to turn to such
account in 'Don Giovanni' and 'Die Zauberflöte,' The result of his
studies was plainly visible in the first work which he produced after
his return to Germany, 'Idomeneo.' This was written for the Court
Theatre at Munich, and was performed for the first time on the 29th of
January, 1781. The libretto, by the Abbé Giambattista Varesco, was
modelled upon an earlier French work which had already been set to music
by Campra. Idomeneo, King of Crete, on his way home from the siege of
Troy, is overtaken by a terrific storm. In despair of his life, he vows
that, should he reach the shore alive, he will sacrifice the first human
being he meets to Neptune. This proves to be his son Idamante, who has
been reigning in his stead during his absence. When he finds out who the
victim is--for at first he does not recognise him--he tries to evade
his vow by sending Idamante away to foreign lands. Electra the daughter
of Agamemnon, driven from her country after the murder of her mother,
has taken refuge in Crete, and Idomeneo bids his son return with her to
Argos, and ascend the throne of the Atreidæ. Idamante loves Ilia, the
daughter of Priam, who has been sent to Crete some time before as a
prisoner from Troy, and is loved by her in return. Nevertheless he bows
to his father's will, and is preparing to embark with Electra, when a
storm arises, and a frightful sea monster issues from the waves and
proceeds to devastate the land. The terror-stricken people demand that
the victim shall be produced, and Idomeneo is compelled to confess that
he has doomed his son to destruction. All are overcome with horror, but
the priests begin to prepare for the sacrifice. Suddenly cries of joy
are heard, and Idamante, who has slain the monster single-handed, is
brought in by the priests and people. He is ready to die, and his father
is preparing to strike the fatal blow, when Ilia rushes in and entreats
to be allowed to die in his place. The lovers are still pleading
anxiously with each other when a subterranean noise is heard, the statue
of Neptune rocks, and a solemn voice pronounces the will of the gods in
majestic accents. Idomeneo is to renounce the throne, and Idamante is to
marry Ilia and reign in his stead. Every one except Electra is vastly
relieved, and the opera ends with dances and rejoicings.
The music of 'Idomeneo' is cast for the most part in Italian form,
though the influence of Gluck is obvious in many points, particularly in
the scene of the oracle. Here we find Mozart in his maturity for the
first time; he has become a man, and put away childish things. In two
points 'Idomeneo' is superior to any opera that had previously been
written--in the concerted music (the choruses as well as the trios and
quartets), and in the instrumentation. The chorus is promoted from the
part which it usually plays in Gluck, that of a passive spectator. It
joins in the drama, and takes an active part in the development of the
plot, and the music which it is called upon to sing is often finer and
more truly dramatic than that allotted to the solo singers. But the
chorus had already been used effectively by Gluck and other composers;
it is in his solo concerted music that Mozart forges ahead of all
possible rivals. The power which he shows of contrasting the conflicting
emotions of his characters in elaborate concerted movements was
something really new to the stage. The one quartet in Handel's
'Radamisto' and the one trio in his 'Alcina,' magnificent as they are,
are too exceptional in their occurrence to be quoted as instances, while
the attempts of Rameau and his followers to impose dramatic significance
into their concerted music, though technically interesting, do but
faintly foreshadow the glory of Mozart. The orchestration of 'Idomeneo,'
too, is something of the nature of a revelation. At Munich, Mozart had
at his disposal an excellent and well-trained band, and this may go far
to explain the elaborate care which he bestowed upon the instrumental
side of his opera. The colouring of the score is sublime in conception
and brilliant in detail. Even now it well repays the closest and most
intimate study. 'Idomeneo' is practically the foundation of all modern
orchestration.
Mozart's next work was very different both in scope and execution. It
has already been pointed out that the two first works which the
composer, as a child, wrote for the stage, followed respectively the
Italian and German models. Similarly, he signalised his arrival at the
full maturity of his powers by producing an Italian and German
masterpiece side by side. 'Die Entführung aus dem Serail' was written
for the Court Theatre at Vienna, in response to a special command of the
Emperor Joseph II. It was produced on July 13, 1782. The original
libretto was the work of C.F. Bretzner, but Mozart introduced so many
alterations and improvements into the fabric of the story that, as it
stands, much of it is practically his own work.
The Pasha Selim has carried off a Christian damsel named Constanze, whom
he keeps in close confinement in his seraglio, in the hope that she may
consent to be his wife. Belmont, Constanze's lover, has traced her to
the Pasha's country house with the assistance of Pedrillo, a former
servant of his own, now the Pasha's slave and chief gardener. Belmont's
attempts to enter the house are frustrated by Osmin, the surly
major-domo. At last, however, through the good offices of Pedrillo, he
contrives to gain admission in the character of an architect. Osmin has
a special motive for disliking Pedrillo, who has forestalled him in the
affections of Blondchen, Constanze's maid; nevertheless he is beguiled
by the wily servant into a drinking bout, and quieted with a harmless
narcotic. This gives the lovers an opportunity for an interview, in
which the details of their flight are arranged. The next night they make
their escape. Belmont gets off safely with Constanze, but Pedrillo and
Blondchen are seen by Osmin before they are clear of the house. The hue
and cry is raised, and both couples are caught and brought back. They
are all condemned to death, but the soft-hearted Pasha is so much
overcome by their fidelity and self-sacrifice that he pardons them and
sends them away in happiness.
Much of 'Die Entführung' is so thoroughly and characteristically
German, that at first sight it may be thought surprising that it should
have succeeded so well in a city like Vienna, which was inclined to look
upon the Singspiel as a barbarian product of Northern Germany. But there
is a reason for this, and it is one which goes to the root of the whole
question of comic opera. Mozart saw that Italian comic operas often
succeeded in spite of miserable libretti, because the entire interest
was concentrated upon the music, and all the rest was forgotten. The
German Singspiel writers made the mistake of letting their music be, for
the most part, purely incidental, and conducting all the dramatic part
of their plots by dialogue. Mozart borrowed the underlying idea of the
opera buffa, applied it to the form of the Singspiel, which he kept
intact, and produced a work which succeeded in revolutionising the
history of German opera. But, apart from the question of form, the music
of 'Die Entführung' is in itself fine enough to be the foundation even
of so imposing a structure as modern German music. The orchestral forces
at Mozart's disposal were on a smaller scale than at Munich; but though
less elaborate than that of 'Idomeneo,' the score of 'Die Entführung' is
full of the tenderest and purest imagination. But the real importance of
the work lies in the vivid power of characterisation, which Mozart here
reveals for the first time in full maturity. It is by the extraordinary
development of this quality that he transcends all other writers for
the stage before or since. It is no exaggeration to say that Mozart's
music reveals the inmost soul of the characters of his opera as plainly
as if they were discussed upon a printed page. In his later works the
opportunities given him of proving this magical power were more frequent
and better. The libretto of 'Die Entführung' is a poor affair at best,
but, considering the materials with which he had to work, Mozart never
accomplished truer or more delicate work than in the music of Belmont
and Constanze, of Pedrillo, and greatest of all, of Osmin.
In 1786 Mozart wrote the music to a foolish little one-act comedy
entitled 'Der Schauspieldirektor,' describing the struggles of two rival
singers for an engagement. A sparkling overture and a genuinely comic
trio are the best numbers of the score; but the libretto gave Mozart
little opportunity of exercising his peculiar talents. Since his
original production various attempts have been made to fit 'Der
Schauspieldirektor' with new and more effective libretti, but in no case
has its performance attained any real success.
For the sake of completeness it may be well to mention the existence of
a comic opera entitled 'L'Oie du Caïre,' which is an exceedingly clever
combination of the fragments left by Mozart of two unfinished operas,
'L'Oca del Cairo' and 'Lo Sposo Deluso,' fitted to a new and original
libretto by the late M. Victor Wilder. In its modern form, this little
opera, in which a lover is introduced into his mistress's garden inside
an enormous goose, has been successfully performed both in France and
England.
Not even the success of 'Die Entführung' could permanently establish
German opera in Vienna. The musical sympathies of the aristocracy were
entirely Italian, and Mozart had to bow to expediency. His next work,
'Le Nozze de Figaro' (1786), was written to an adaptation of
Beaumarchais's famous comedy 'Le Mariage de Figaro,' which had been
produced in Paris a few years before. Da Ponte, the librettist, wisely
omitted all the political references, which contributed so much to the
popularity of the original play, and left only a bustling comedy of
intrigue, not perhaps very moral in tendency, but full of amusing
incident and unflagging in spirit. It speaks volumes for the ingenuity
of the librettist that though the imbroglio is often exceedingly
complicated, no one feels the least difficulty in following every detail
of it on the stage, though it is by no means easy to give a clear and
comprehensive account of all the ramifications of the plot.
The scene is laid at the country-house of Count Almaviva. Figaro, the
Count's valet, and Susanna, the Countess's maid, are to be married that
day; but Figaro, who is well aware that the Count has a penchant for his
_fiancée_, is on his guard against machinations in that quarter. Enter
the page Cherubino, an ardent youth who is devotedly attached to his
mistress. He has been caught by the Count flirting with Barberina, the
gardener's daughter, and promptly dismissed from his service, and now
he comes to Susanna to entreat her to intercede for him with the
Countess. While the two are talking they hear the Count approaching, and
Susanna hastily hides Cherubino behind a large arm-chair. The Count
comes to offer Susanna a dowry if she will consent to meet him that
evening, but she will have nothing to say to him. Basilio, the
music-master, now enters, and the Count has only just time to slip
behind Cherubino's arm-chair, while the page creeps round to the front
of it, and is covered by Susanna with a cloak. Basilio, while repeating
the Count's proposals, refers to Cherubino's passion for the Countess.
This arouses the Count, who comes forward in a fury, orders the
immediate dismissal of the page, and by the merest accident discovers
the unlucky youth ensconced in the arm-chair. As Cherubino has heard
every word of the interview, the first thing to do is to get him out of
the way. The Count therefore presents him with a commission in his own
regiment, and bids him pack off to Seville post-haste. Figaro now
appears with all the villagers in holiday attire to ask the Count to
honour his marriage by giving the bride away. The Count cannot refuse,
but postpones the ceremony for a few hours in the hope of gaining time
to prosecute his suit. Meanwhile the Countess, Susanna, and Figaro are
maturing a plot of their own to discomfit the Count and bring him back
to the feet of his wife. Figaro writes an anonymous letter to the Count,
telling him that the Countess has made an assignation with a stranger
for that evening in the garden, hoping by this means to arouse his
jealousy and divert his mind from the wedding. He assures him also of
Susanna's intention to keep her appointment in the garden, intending
that Cherubino, who has been allowed to put off his departure, shall be
dressed up as a girl and take Susanna's place at the interview. The page
comes to the Countess's room to be dressed, when suddenly the
conspirators hear the Count approaching. Cherubino is hastily locked in
an inner room, while Susanna slips Into an alcove. While the Count is
plying his wife with angry questions, Cherubino clumsily knocks over a
chair. The Count hears the noise, and quickly jumps to the conclusion
that the page is hiding in the inner room. The Countess denies
everything and refuses to give up the key, whereupon the Count drags her
off with him to get an axe to break in the door. Meanwhile Susanna
liberates Cherubino, and takes his place in the inner room, while the
latter escapes by jumping down into the garden. When the Count finally
opens the door and discovers only Susanna within, his rage is turned to
mortification, and he is forced to sue for pardon. The Countess is
triumphant, but a change is given to the position of affairs by the
appearance of Antonio, the gardener, who comes to complain that his
flowers have been destroyed by someone jumping on them from the window.
The Count's jealous fears are returning, but Figaro allays them by
declaring that he is the culprit, and that he made his escape by the
window in order to avoid the Count's anger. Antonio then produces a
paper which he found dropped among the flowers. This proves to be
Cherubino's commission. Once more the secret is nearly out, but Figaro
saves the situation by declaring that the page gave it to him to get the
seal affixed. The Countess and Susanna are beginning to congratulate
themselves on their escape, when another diversion is created by the
entrance of Marcellina, the Countess's old duenna, and Bartolo, her
ex-guardian. Marcellina has received a promise in writing from Figaro
that he will marry her if he fails to pay a sum of money which he owes
her by a certain date, and she comes to claim her bridegroom. The Count
is delighted at this new development, and promises Marcellina that she
shall get her rights.
The second act (according to the original arrangement) is mainly devoted
to clearing up the various difficulties. Figaro turns out to be the
long-lost son of Marcellina and Bartolo, so the great impediment to his
marriage is effectually removed, and by the happy plan of a disguise the
Countess takes Susanna's place at the assignation, and receives the
ardent declarations of her husband. When the Count discovers his mistake
he is thoroughly ashamed of himself, and his vows of amendment bring the
piece to a happy conclusion.
It seems hardly possible to write critically of the music of 'Le Nozze
di Figaro,' Mozart had in a superabundant degree that power which is
characteristic of our greatest novelists, of infusing the breath of life
into his characters. We rise from seeing a performance of 'Le Nozze,'
with no consciousness of the art employed, but with a feeling of having
assisted in an actual scene in real life. It is not until afterwards
that the knowledge is forced upon us that this convincing presentment of
nature is the result of a combination of the purest inspiration of
genius with the highest development of art. Mozart knew everything that
was to be known about music, and 'Le Nozze di Figaro,' in spite of its
supreme and unapproachable beauty, is really only the legitimate outcome
of two centuries of steady development. Perhaps the most striking
feature of the work is the absolute consistency of the whole. In spite
of the art with which the composer has Individualised his characters,
there is no clashing between the different types of music allotted to
each. As for the music itself, if the exuberant youthfulness of 'Die
Entführung' has been toned down to a serener flow of courtliness, we are
compensated for the loss by the absence of the mere _bravura_ which
disfigures many of the airs in the earlier work. The dominant
characteristic of the music is that wise and tender sympathy with the
follies and frailties of mankind, which moves us with a deeper pathos
than the most terrific tragedy ever penned. It is perhaps the highest
achievement of the all-embracing genius of Mozart that he made an
artificial comedy of intrigue, which is trivial when it is not squalid,
into one of the great music dramas of the world.
Mozart's next work, 'Don Giovanni' (October 29, 1787), was written for
Prague, a city which had always shown him more real appreciation than
Vienna. It was adapted by Da Ponte from a Spanish tale which had already
been utilised by Molière. Although, so far as incident goes, it is not
perhaps an ideal libretto, it certainly contains many of the elements of
success. The characters are strongly marked and distinct, and the
supernatural part of the story, which appealed particularly to Mozart's
imagination and indeed determined him to undertake the opera, is managed
with consummate skill.
Don Giovanni, a licentious Spanish nobleman, who is attracted by the
charms of Donna Anna, the daughter of the Commandant of Seville, breaks
into her palace under cover of night, in the hope of making her his own.
She resists him and calls for help. In the struggle which ensues the
Commandant is killed by Don Giovanni, who escapes unrecognised. Donna
Elvira, his deserted wife, has pursued him to Seville, but he employs
his servant Leporello to occupy her attention while he pays court to
Zerlina, a peasant girl, who is about to marry an honest clodhopper
named Masetto. Donna Anna now recognises Don Giovanni as her father's
assassin, and communicates her discovery to her lover, Don Ottavio;
Elvira joins them, and the three vow vengeance against the libertine.
Don Giovanni gives a ball in honour of Zerlina's marriage, and in the
course of the festivities seizes an opportunity of trying to seduce her.
He is only stopped by the interference of Anna, Elvira, and Ottavio, who
have made their way into his palace in masks and dominoes. In the next
act the vengeance of the three conspirators appears to hang fire a
little, for Don Giovanni is still pursuing his vicious courses, and
employing Leporello to beguile the too trustful Elvira. After various
escapades he finds himself before the statue of the murdered Commandant.
He jokingly invites his old antagonist to sup with him, an invitation
which the statue, to his intense surprise, hastens to accept. Leporello
and his master return to prepare for the entertainment of the evening.
When the merriment is at its height, a heavy step is heard in the
corridor, and the marble man enters. Don Giovanni is still undaunted,
and even when his terrible visitor offers him the choice between
repentance and damnation, yields not a jot of his pride and insolence.
Finally the statue grasps him by the hand and drags him down, amid
flames and earthquakes, to eternal torment.
The taste of Mozart's time would not permit the drama to finish here.
All the other characters have to assemble once more. Leporello gives
them an animated description of his master's destruction, and they
proceed to draw a most edifying moral from the doom of the sinner. The
music to this finale is of matchless beauty and interest, but modern
sentiment will not hear of so grievous an anti-climax, and the opera now
usually ends with Don Giovanni's disappearance.
The music of 'Don Giovanni' has so often been discussed, that brief
reference to its more salient features will be all that is necessary.
Gounod has written of it: 'The score of "Don Giovanni" has influenced
my life like a revelation. It stands in my thoughts as an incarnation of
dramatic and musical impeccability,' and lesser men will be content to
echo his words. The plot is less dramatically coherent than that of 'Le
Nozze di Figaro,' but it ranges over a far wider gamut of human feeling.
From the comic rascality of Leporello to the unearthly terrors of the
closing scene is a vast step, but Mozart is equally at home in both. His
incomparable art of characterisation is here displayed in even more
consummate perfection than in the earlier work. The masterly way in
which he differentiates the natures of his three soprani--Anna, a type
of noble purity; Elvira, a loving and long-suffering woman, alternating
between jealous indignation and voluptuous tenderness; and Zerlina, a
model of rustic coquetry--may especially be remarked, but all the
characters are treated with the same profound knowledge of life and
human nature. Even in his most complicated concerted pieces he never
loses grip of the idiosyncrasies of his characters, and in the most
piteous and tragic situations he never relinquishes for a moment his
pure ideal of intrinsic musical beauty. If there be such a thing as
immortality for any work of art, it must surely be conceded to 'Don
Giovanni.'
'Così fan tutte,' his next work, was produced at Vienna in January,
1790. It has never been so successful as its two predecessors, chiefly
on account of its libretto, which, though a brisk little comedy of
intrigue, is almost too slight to bear a musical setting. The plot
turns upon a wager laid by two young officers with an old cynic of their
acquaintance to prove the constancy of their respective sweethearts.
After a touching leave-taking they return disguised as Albanians and
proceed to make violent love each one to the other's _fiancée_. The
ladies at first resist the ardent strangers, but end by giving way, and
the last scene shows their repentance and humiliation when they discover
that the too attractive foreigners are their own lovers after all. There
is much delightful music in the work, and it is greatly to be regretted
that it should have been so completely cast into the shade by 'Le Nozze
di Figaro,'
Mozart's next opera, 'La Clemenza di Tito,' was hastily written, while
he was suffering from the illness which in the end proved fatal. The
libretto was an adaptation of an earlier work by Metastasio. Cold and
formal, and almost totally devoid of dramatic interest, it naturally
failed to inspire the composer. The form in which it was cast compelled
him to return to the conventions of opera seria, from which he had long
escaped, and altogether, as an able critic remarked at the time, the
work might rather be taken for the first attempt of budding talent than
for the product of a mature mind. The story deals with the plotting of
Vitellia, the daughter of the deposed Vitellius, to overthrow the
Emperor Titus. She persuades her lover Sextus to conspire against his
friend, and he succeeds in setting the Capitol on fire. Titus, however,
escapes by means of a disguise, and not only pardons all the
conspirators, but rewards Vitellia with his hand. The opera was produced
at Prague on the 6th of September, 1791, and the cold reception which it
experienced did much to embitter the closing years of Mozart's life.
'Die Zauberflöte,' his last work, was written before 'La Clemenza di
Tito,' though not actually produced until September 30, 1791. The
libretto, which was the work of Emanuel Schikaneder, is surely the most
extraordinary that ever mortal composer was called upon to set.
At the opening of the opera, the Prince Tamino rushes in, pursued by a
monstrous serpent, and sinks exhausted on the steps of a temple, from
which three ladies issue in the nick of time and despatch the serpent
with their silver spears. They give Tamino a portrait of Pamina, the
daughter of their mistress, the Queen of Night, which immediately
inspires him with passionate devotion. He is informed that Pamina has
been stolen by Sarastro, the high-priest of Isis, and imprisoned by him
in his palace. He vows to rescue her, and for that purpose is presented
by the ladies with a magic flute, which will keep him safe in every
danger, while Papageno, a bird-catcher, who has been assigned to him as
companion, receives a glockenspiel. Three genii are summoned to guide
them, and the two champions thereupon proceed to Sarastro's palace.
Tamino is refused admittance by the doorkeeper, but Papageno in some
unexplained way contrives to get in, and persuades Pamina to escape with
him. They fly, but are recaptured by Monostatos, a Moor, who has been
appointed to keep watch over Pamina. Sarastro now appears, condemns
Monostatos to the bastinado, and decrees that the two lovers shall
undergo a period of probation in the sanctuary. In the second act the
ordeal of silence is imposed upon Tamino. Pamina cannot understand his
apparent coldness, and is inclined to listen to the counsels of her
mother, who tries to induce her to murder Sarastro. The priest, however,
convinces her of his beneficent intentions. The lovers go through the
ordeals of fire and water successfully, and are happily married. The
Queen of Night and her dark kingdom perish everlastingly, and the reign
of peace and wisdom is universally established. The humours of Papageno
in his search for a wife have nothing to do with the principal interest
of the plot, but they serve as an acceptable contrast to the more
serious scenes of the opera.
The libretto of the 'Die Zauberflöte' is usually spoken of as the climax
of conceivable inanity, but the explanation of many of its absurdities
seems to lie in the fact that it is an allegorical illustration of the
struggles and final triumph of Freemasonry. Both Mozart and Schikaneder
were Freemasons, and 'Die Zauberflöte' is in a sense a manifesto of
their belief. Freemasonry in the opera is represented by the mysteries
of Isis, over which the high-priest Sarastro presides. The Queen of
Night is Maria Theresa, a sworn opponent of Freemasonry, who interdicted
its practice throughout her dominions, and broke up the Lodges with
armed force. Tamino may be intended for the Emperor Joseph II., who,
though not a Freemason himself as his father was, openly protected the
brotherhood; and we may look upon Pamina as the representative of the
Austrian people. The name of Monostatos seems to be connected with
monasticism, and may be intended to typify the clerical party, which,
though outwardly on friendly terms with Freemasonry, seems in reality to
have been bent upon its destruction. Papageno and his wife Papagena are
excellent representatives of the light-hearted and pleasure-loving
population of Vienna. It is difficult to make any explanation fit the
story very perfectly, but the suggestion of Freemasonry is enough to
acquit Mozart of having allied his music to mere balderdash; while,
behind the Masonic business, the discerning hearer will have no
difficulty in distinguishing the shadowy outlines of another and a far
nobler allegory, the ascent of the human soul, purified by suffering and
love, to the highest wisdom. It was this, no doubt, that compelled
Goethe's often expressed admiration, and even tempted him to write a
sequel to Schikaneder's libretto. 'Die Zauberflöte' is in form a
Singsgiel--that is to say, the music is interspersed with spoken
dialogue--but there the resemblance to Hiller's creations ceases. From
the magnificent fugue in the overture to the majestic choral finale, the
music is an astonishing combination of divinely beautiful melody with
marvels of contrapuntal skill. Perhaps the most surprising part of 'Die
Zauberflöte' is the extraordinary ease and certainty with which Mozart
manipulates what is practically a new form of art. Nursed as he had been
in the traditions of Italian opera, it would not have been strange if he
had not been able to shake off the influences of his youth. Yet 'Die
Zauberflöte' owes but little to any Italian predecessor. It is German to
the core. We may be able to point to passages which are a development of
something occurring in the composer's earlier works, such as 'Die
Entführung,' but there is hardly anything in the score of 'Die
Zauberflöte' which suggests an external influence. Its position in the
world of music is ably summarised by Jahn: 'If in his Italian operas
Mozart assimilated the traditions of a long period of development and in
some sense put the finishing stroke to it, with "Die Zauberflöte" he
treads on the threshold of the future, and unlocks for his country the
sacred treasure of national art.'
Of Mozart's work as a whole, it is impossible to speak save in terms
which seem exaggerated. His influence upon subsequent composers cannot
be over-estimated. Without him, Rossini and modern Italian opera, Weber
and modern German, Gounod and modern French, would have been impossible.
It may be conceded that the form of his operas, with the alternation of
airs, concerted pieces and _recitativo secco_, may conceivably strike
the ears of the uneducated as old-fashioned, but the feelings of
musicians may best be summed up in the word of Gounod: 'O Mozart, divin
Mozart! Qu'il faut peu te comprendre pour ne pas t'adorer! Toi, la
vérité constante! Toi, la beauté parfaite! Toi, le charme inépuisable!
Toi, toujours profond et toujours limpide! Toi, l'humanité complète et
la simplicité de l'enfant! Toi, qui as tout ressenti, et tout exprimé
dans une langue musicale qu'on n'a jamais surpassée et qu'on ne
surpassera jamais.'