Paris, and had even begun to make his preparations, but his father's
urgent appeals for patience and further effort had the effect of
postponing for the time the carrying out of his schemes. In the
meantime Mozart seized the opportunity for which he had been longing
of paying a visit to Salzburg to present Constanze to his father, and
at the same time of fulfilling a vow which he had made that, if
Constanze became his wife, he would have a Mass composed by him for
the occasion performed in her honour. It was, on the whole, a very
happy visit, and later on, when Mozart and his wife had once more
settled down in Vienna, they had the pleasure of welcoming the father
on a return visit. Leopold found his son immersed in work, and it
gladdened his heart to witness the appreciation in which his playing
and compositions were held. One never-to-be-forgotten evening they
spent together in the company of Haydn, when, after hearing several of
Mozart's quartets performed, Leopold was made the happy recipient of a
testimony to his son's greatness, which he treasured above all else
that had been spoken or written in his favour, and which came as a
fitting reward for the unremitting care and solicitude which he had
bestowed upon Mozart's welfare and training. Haydn took the old man
aside at the close of the evening, and said: 'I declare to you before
God as a man of honour that your son is the greatest composer that I
know, either personally or by reputation. He has taste, and, beyond
that, the most consummate knowledge of the art of composition.'
This pleasant time was rendered the happier by the fact that Leopold
found Wolfgang and his wife in somewhat better circumstances, and
their home brightened by the presence of a little grandson, Karl, who
clambered upon his grandfather's knee, and filled the old man's mind
with tender recollections of a little son whom he had lost before
Wolfgang's birth. But it was destined to be the last meeting between
Mozart and his father, for shortly after Leopold's return he was
seized with illness, on hearing of which Wolfgang wrote to him a
letter, in which he expressed his own views on death. 'As death,
strictly speaking, is the true end and aim of our lives, I have
accustomed myself during the last two years to so close a
contemplation of this, our best and truest friend, that he possesses
no more terrors for me--nothing but peace and consolation. And I thank
God for enabling me to discern in death the _key_ to our true
blessedness. I never lie down in bed without remembering that,
perhaps, young as I am, I may never see another day, and yet no one
who knows me can say that I am melancholy or fanciful. For this
blessing I thank God daily, and desire nothing more than to share it
with my fellow-men.'
The news of his father's death, which occurred on May 28, 1787,
reached Mozart shortly after he had accomplished one of the greatest
successes of his life. The name of his latest opera, 'Le Nozze di
Figaro,' was on every one's lips; its performances in Vienna and
Prague had been hailed with enthusiastic delight by crowded audiences;
its songs were to be heard in every street, and wandering minstrels in
the country, as they halted at the village alehouses, were compelled
to satisfy their groups of listeners with selections from its
entrancing airs. Michael Kelly, the singer and friend of Mozart, who
took part in the opera, has thus described its reception by the
orchestra and performers: 'Never was anything more complete than the
triumph of Mozart, and his "Nozze di Figaro," to which numerous
overflowing audiences bore witness. Even at the first full-band
rehearsal all present were roused to enthusiasm, and when Benucci came
to the fine passage, "Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla gloria militar,"
which he gave with stentorian lungs, the effect was electric, for the
whole of the performers on the stage, and those in the orchestra, as
if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated, "Bravo! bravo!
Maestro! Viva, viva, grande Mozart!" Those in the orchestra I thought
would never have ceased applauding by beating the bows of their
violins against the music-desks.' As for Mozart himself: 'I never
shall forget his little animated countenance when lighted up with the
glowing rays of genius; it is as impossible to describe it as it would
be to paint sunbeams.'
Despite the success of 'Figaro' Mozart still remained a poor
man--still was he compelled to earn a living by the hated drudgery of
teaching. 'You happy man,' he said to a young musician who was leaving
for a tour in Italy; 'as for me, I am off now to give a lesson to earn
my bread.' The desire to visit England was once more uppermost in his
mind, and when the Emperor, with a view to retaining him in Germany,
appointed him Kammer-compositor at a salary of eight hundred gulden
(about eighty pounds sterling), it must have occurred to many besides
Mozart himself that such a 'beggarly dole' but poorly represented the
value which his Majesty professed to set upon the composer's services
to art. This feeling was accentuated in Mozart when he discovered how
trivial were the requirements of his royal master in connection with
the position. 'Too much for what I produce, too little for what I
could produce,' were the bitter words which he penned on the official
return stating the amount of his salary.
The 'beggarly dole,' indeed, brought small relief to the domestic
anxieties which now more than ever oppressed Mozart and his wife. The
latter's ill-health necessitated frequent change of air, and in this
way tended to increase their embarrassments. Applications to friends
for assistance became more and more numerous. 'I am still most
unfortunate,' he writes in one of these appeals. 'Always hovering
between hope and anxiety.' Repeated attempts were made at reform.
Mozart even commenced to keep strict accounts of their expenditure,
but they came to nothing, for the want of management was always
apparent in every detail of his domestic life. Yet, despite all, the
merry side of Mozart's nature refused to succumb to the stress of
adversity; amidst his difficulties he retained the sunshine of his
boyish days, being as merry-hearted, and full of jokes, and as open as
a child. One winter day an old friend found him and his wife dancing
madly about the room; knowing Mozart's fondness for this pastime--his
favourite of all forms of amusement--the friend expressed his pleasure
at finding them so light-hearted, when Mozart, pointing to the empty
stove, explained that they were dancing in order to keep themselves
warm, as they had no money to purchase fuel. Horror-struck, the caller
darted from the house, and returned in a few minutes with his arms
laden with logs.
To some extent a natural leaning to extravagance may be held
accountable for Mozart's embarrassments, for he was extremely fond of
dress, and had a great weakness for lace and watch-chains. But if he
indulged his tastes overmuch in this particular, he was no less lavish
in regard to giving where he thought help was needed. He could never
turn a deaf ear to the appeal of a beggar, and his kindness was
frequently imposed upon; even when monetary help was not forthcoming
to meet the request of a brother-musician, he would contrive to find
time amidst the pressure of his own work to compose a concerto for the
latter's benefit. To the animal world, also, his affectionate nature
went forth in no small degree, and he became deeply attached to a
starling, which had learnt to pipe the subject of the Rondo of his
'Pianoforte Concerto in G Major.'
And if his distresses failed to diminish his joy in the very fact of
living, even less did they affect his powers of work. His father had
declared that 'procrastination was his besetting sin,' and Mozart was
certainly given to putting off the evil day as far as possible; but no
one knew better than Leopold Mozart himself how tireless was Mozart's
industry, or how boundless his powers of coping with a gigantic task
which he had set his mind to accomplish. When, in September, 1787, he
was at Prague, writing the score of 'Don Giovanni,' his favourite
resort was the vineyard belonging to his friend Duschek, situated
close to the city; here he would be seated at his work[13] whilst
conversation or skittle-playing went on around him, often quitting his
task to join in one or the other. The time was short, for the opera
was to be produced on October 29, and when the evening of the 28th
arrived it found the overture still unwritten. Nothing daunted,
however, Mozart bade his wife brew him some punch, and bring her book
of fairy-stories, and then, for hour after hour, he wrote on, whilst
Constanze read aloud to keep him awake. When sleep could no longer be
resisted he lay down for an hour or two, but when the copyist came for
the score at seven o'clock in the morning it was ready for him. His
musical memory was so marvellous that the merest scraps of notes,
jotted down whilst driving, conversing, or soothing his wife in her
pain, were sufficient to recall to mind without the slightest effort
the exact ideas which he desired to reproduce. An entire work would
thus be completed in his brain before he began to write a single note
on paper, and it was no unusual thing for him to be thinking out a
second part whilst writing down the first. 'He never composed at the
clavier,' says his wife, in speaking of his manner of work, 'but wrote
music like letters, and never tried a movement until it was finished.'
The limits of our story forbid even a mention of the compositions
which made up the life-work of Mozart; the few to which we have found
space to refer are those connected with the chief episodes of his
career. Much less can we convey an idea of his powers of
improvisation. Hours snatched from sleep would be spent at the piano,
and into the silence of the night drifted many a divine melody which
no ear but his own was destined to hear. One who lived to be eighty,
speaking of those wonderful improvisations, says: 'I still, in my old
age, seem to hear the echo of those heavenly harmonies, and I go to my
grave with the full conviction that there can never be another
Mozart.'
It was at such times that the inspiration of true genius shone forth
in his expression. Ordinarily there was nothing distinguished about
his appearance; the head, with its profusion of fine hair, was
somewhat too large for the body, which was short and slim; the face
was pale, and the nose a rather too prominent feature; the eyes were
large, well-shaped, and shaded by long lashes and bushy eyebrows, but
the expression was absent and restless. When seated at the piano,
however, the whole countenance changed; the eye became calm and fixed,
and every movement of his muscles spoke the emotion which his playing
expressed.
Even the success of 'Don Giovanni'--at the performance of which the
Prague audience greeted Mozart's appearance in the orchestra with
thunders of applause and a triple flourish of trumpets--failed to
remedy the desperate condition into which his affairs had fallen; and
when his pupil and patron, Prince Karl Lichnowsky, proposed that he
should accompany him to Berlin, Mozart gladly accepted the invitation.
The visit, however, was productive of much honour, but very little
money, and at its conclusion he wrote to his wife: 'On my return you
must be glad to have _me_, and not think about money.' The King of
Prussia received Mozart with every mark of kindness and respect, and
being himself very musical, and desirous of having the best musicians
about him, he sought Mozart's advice regarding the proficiency of his
band. 'It contains some great players,' replied Mozart; 'but if the
gentlemen would _play together_ they would make a better effect.' The
King was evidently much impressed by this remark, for before Mozart
left he offered him the post of Capellmeister, with a salary of three
thousand thalers (equal to about six hundred pounds sterling). Mozart
was deeply affected by the munificent offer, and for the moment he
hardly knew how to reply; then, reflecting how much he owed to the
Emperor Joseph for the latter's friendship and interest, he said: 'How
could I abandon my good Emperor?'
Though his loyalty had thus withstood the temptation of an offer
which, if accepted, would have ensured his liberation from the 'net of
embarrassments' in which he was so hopelessly entangled, the feeling
of resistance weakened later on, when his return to Vienna revealed no
improvement in the situation of affairs. Yielding therefore to the
advice of others, he told the Emperor of the King of Prussia's offer,
and at the same time tendered his resignation. Dismayed by this
unlooked-for resolution, the Emperor exclaimed: 'What, Mozart, do you
mean to forsake me?' The tone in which this remonstrance was uttered,
and the expression which accompanied it had their effect upon the
tender-hearted, grateful Mozart, and with emotion he answered: 'Your
Majesty, I throw myself upon your kindness--I remain.'
Thus perished the only chance which was destined to fall within
Mozart's grasp of freeing himself from his troubles, for soon
afterwards the Emperor fell ill and died, and no renewal of the Berlin
offer was forthcoming.
The coronation of the Emperor Joseph's successor, the Emperor Leopold,
took place at Frankfort, on October 9, 1790, and Mozart journeyed
thither for the occasion, having first pawned all his valuables in
order to raise the necessary funds. Whatever hopes Mozart may have
built upon the results of this tour were doomed to disappointment, for
though he visited and played at several towns on his return journey,
and was the recipient of numerous honours, his efforts produced no
permanent fruit, and the horizon remained as dark as ever. His arrival
in Vienna was timed with the departure of Haydn, whom Salomon, the
impressario, had come to carry off to London, and it was with a heart
heavy with gloomy forebodings that Mozart said good-bye to his truest
friend.
The month of July, 1791, found Mozart hard at work writing a magic
opera to help a friend who had taken a little theatre in the suburb of
Wieden. Whilst thus engaged he was visited by a stranger, 'a tall,
thin grave-looking man, dressed from head to foot in grey,' who
refused to divulge his name, but stated that his business was to
commission Mozart to compose a Requiem for a personage whose identity
must likewise remain concealed.[14] After a brief colloquy the terms
were arranged, and the mysterious stranger rose to take his leave. As
he did so he looked fixedly at Mozart, and said warningly: 'Make no
effort to discover the identity either of myself or your patron; it
will be in vain.'
Though somewhat disconcerted by the stranger's mysterious injunction,
Mozart felt all his love for Church music reawakened by the new
commission, and he set to work upon the Requiem without delay. His
labours on this composition, as well as on the magic opera, however,
were interrupted by a pressing request from the Estates of Bohemia
that he would compose an opera for the coronation of Leopold II. at
Prague. As the ceremony was fixed for September 6 no time was to be
lost, and, banishing every other thought from his mind, Mozart
prepared to set out at once for Prague. The travelling carriage was at
the door, and he was about to step into it when the mysterious
stranger suddenly appeared, and inquired after the Requiem. Startled
by the suddenness of the man's appearance, and at a loss to explain
his remissness, Mozart could only promise to fulfil the commission on
his return, and, hastily entering his carriage, he drove away.
The strain involved by his arduous labours at Prague was increased by
the indifference with which his opera, 'La Clemenza di Tito,' was
received, and Mozart returned to Vienna with spirits depressed, and
mind and body exhausted by overwork. Nevertheless, he braced himself
anew, and on September 30 the new opera, 'Die Zauberflöte' (the Magic
Flute) was produced. Though somewhat coldly received at first, the
work increased in popularity at each subsequent representation, until
its success was everything that could be desired. A friend who had a
place in the orchestra on the first performance relates that he was so
enchanted with the overture that he crept up to the chair in which
Mozart sat conducting, and, seizing the composer's hand, pressed it to
his lips. Mozart glanced kindly at him, and, extending his right hand,
gently stroked his cheek.
The Requiem was still far from finished, and to this work Mozart now
turned his attention. But it was too late; the strain and excitement
which he had undergone during the past few months had done their work,
a succession of fainting fits followed, and it was evident that the
marvellous powers which he had controlled in the past were no longer
under his command. With fast-fleeting strength came the oppressive
thought, haunting him from day to day, that he would not live to
complete the work. 'It is for myself that I am writing this Requiem,'
he said one day to Constanze, whilst his eyes filled with tears.
Vainly she endeavoured to comfort him; he declared that he felt his
end approaching, and, indeed, death--the 'best and truest
friend'--was very near him now, far nearer than they who gathered
about his bed, and sought to cheer him with the news that his freedom
from anxiety was at last to be assured by the combined action of the
nobility in securing to him an annuity--far nearer than they, or other
well-wishers, whose tardy recognition of his claims had come too late,
imagined. He who had 'always hovered between hope and anxiety' was now
hovering between life and death, soon to be released from all earthly
travail.
On the evening of December 4 they brought the score of the Requiem to
him at his request, and, propped up by pillows, he began to sing one
of the passages, in company with three of his friends. They had not
proceeded far, however, before Mozart laid the manuscript aside, and,
bursting into tears, declared that it would never be finished. A few
hours later, at one o'clock in the morning of December 5, 1791, he
passed away in sleep.
The body was removed from the house on the following day,[15] and
taken to St. Stephen's Church, where it received benediction. The
hearse, with the few mourners, then proceeded to St. Mark's
Churchyard, but before the burial-place was reached a terrific storm
of snow and rain burst overhead, and with one accord the followers
turned back, and left the hearse to proceed alone. And thus the master
of whom it was prophesied that he would cause all others to be
forgotten--he whose triumphs had caused him to be acclaimed by
thousands as 'grande Mozart'--was left to be buried by the hands of
strangers in a pauper's grave, without even a stone to mark the spot
where he was laid.
And to this day no one knows exactly which is the resting-place of
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] This manuscript book is preserved in the Mozart Museum at
Salzburg, and beneath several of the pieces may be seen the notes made
by the father at the time. For example, 'Wolfgang learnt this Minuet
and Trio in half an hour, when he was five.' or 'Wolfgang learnt this
Minuet when he was four.'
[12] 'Have mercy'--a psalm of supplication.
[13] The room and the stone table at which he worked are still shown to
visitors at the Villa Bertramka, Koschirz.
[14] It was ascertained after Mozart's death that this personage was a
certain Count Walsegg, who desired a Requiem to be performed in memory
of his wife. The messenger was his steward. The reason for secrecy was
that the Count intended to pass off the Requiem as his own composition,
and in this he actually succeeded.
[15] Mozart died of malignant typhus fever.
MOZART'S PRINCIPAL COMPOSITIONS
OPERAS, ETC.:
Bastien und Bastienne. 1768.
La finta Semplice. 1768.
Mitridate, Ré di Ponto. 1770.
Ascanio in Alba. 1771.
La finta Giardiniera. 1774.
Il Ré Pastore. 1775.
Zaida. 1780.
King Thamos. 1780.
[The three motets, 'Splendente Te Deus,' 'Ne pulvis et cinis,'
and 'Deus Tibi laus et honor,' are adaptations from this work.]
Idomeneo, Ré di Creta. 1781.
Die Entführung aus dem Serail. 1782.
Der Schauspieldirector. 1786.
Le Nozze di Figaro. 1786.
Il Don Giovanni. 1787.
Cosi fan tutte. 1790.
Die Zauberflöte. 1791.
La Clemenza di Tito. 1791.
15 Masses (1768-1783) and 1 Requiem (1791).
[The masses published by Novello as No. 7 (B-flat), No. 8 (C),
No. 9 (G), No. 12 (G), Nos. 13 and 16 (E-flat--one Mass), and
No. 17 (C), are not considered authentic. The same may be said
of the Requiem in D minor (No. 18). The celebrated Requiem
(also in D minor, Novello, No. 15) was completed by Süssmayer
after Mozart's death. The well-known Novello No. 1 (in C) and
No. 2 (also in C) were composed in 1779 and 1776.]
4 Litanies.
2 Vespers. 1779 and 1780.
[The 'Laudate Dominum' (in A) of the earlier setting is well
known.]
Te Deum in C. 1772.
Motet, Ave verum. 1791.
Cantata, Davidde Penitente. 1785.
41 Arias for different voices.
6 Vocal Trios and 1 Quartet.
41 Symphonies.
[The earliest symphony was in E-flat (1764). Mention may also be
made of three in the key of D--the Parisian (1778), the Haffner
(1782), and the Prague (1786)--and of his three last and
greatest--in E-flat, G minor, and C, the Jupiter--all composed
in 1788.]
31 Divertimenti, Serenades, etc.
Masonic Dirge in C minor. 1785.
8 Quintets for strings.
1 Quintet for clarinet and strings. 1789.
26 Quartets for strings. 1770-1790.
[The six quartets dedicated to Haydn were composed in 1782-85.]
6 Concertos for violin.
4 Concertos for horn.
1 Concerto for clarinet. 1791.
25 Concertos for pianoforte.
[We may mention the Concerto in D (1773), in D minor (1784), that
in G (1784), two in C (1784 and 1786), and one in C minor (1786).]
Concerto for two pianofortes in E-flat. 1780.
Concerto for three pianofortes in F. 1776.
2 Quartets for pianoforte and strings.
7 Trios for pianoforte and strings.
42 Sonatas for pianoforte and violin.
[The sonata in B-flat, dedicated to Mlle. Strinasacchi, was
composed in 1784.]
17 Sonatas for pianoforte solo.
5 Sonatas for pianoforte, four hands.
Rondo in A minor for pianoforte. 1787.
17 Sonatas for organ, with accompaniment.
BEETHOVEN
BEETHOVEN
It was a beautiful spring morning; the sun shone in a cloudless sky,
and the birds were singing blithely on the branches of the trees just
outside the window, as if inviting the child who stood within to come
out into the sunshine and be as free and happy as themselves. But he
could not respond to their call, for he was not yet half-way through
his long task. A pitiful little figure he made, mounted on a footstool
in front of the pianoforte, with his head resting wearily on his hand,
and his absent, dreamy gaze fixed upon the window. Scarcely five years
old, and yet condemned to practise endless finger-exercises until his
eyes grew dim with straining over the notes; kept a prisoner indoors,
apart from his playmates, when the sun was shining and the birds were
singing--and all because he happened to possess a great gift for
music, and because his father, realising this fact, had determined to
use the child's talents for the support of the family.
Suddenly the door of the sitting-room opened, and a stern face was
thrust inside.
'Ludwig!'--the tone was harsh and severe, and at the well-known sound
the boy awoke from his reverie--'Ludwig! what are you doing? Go on
with your exercise at once, and remember there will be no soup for you
until it is finished.'