1779-1781.
IDOMENEO.
New Disappointments--Opposition of the Abbe Vogler--Mozart and the
Poet Wieland--Wieland’s Impressions of Mozart--German Opera and
Joseph II.--The Weber Family--Aloysia Weber--Mozart’s Plans--His
Father Opposes them and his Attachment for Aloysia--Mozart’s Music
and Heart-trials--In Paris--Disappointments there--Contrast Between
Parisian and German Life at this Time--New Intrigues Against
Him--Invited Back to Salzburg--“Faithless” Aloysia--Meeting of
Father and Son--Reception in Salzburg--“King Thamos”--Character of
Mozart’s Music Composed at this Time--Invitation to Compose the
Idomeneo--Success of that Opera--Effect of the Idomeneo on the
Italian Opera.
Mozart’s way is henceforth through the tortuous paths of life.
Disappointment after disappointment meets him. He becomes familiar with
suffering and sorrow, but they point him to a higher goal than that of
mere immediate success. The severest trials of his affections broaden
his heart and make room in it for interests other than his own--an
effect which unveils the real worth of the artist.
It would be a great mistake to suppose that Mozart, at this time, was
completely entangled in the meshes of love. He did not forget his
high vocation, and even in this affair of the heart, his art had no
small influence. He writes to his father: “My dear miss Weber has done
herself and me credit beyond expression, by this aria. All said that
they were never moved by an aria as they were by that one. But then she
sang it as it should be sung.” And yet she “had learned the aria by
herself,” and sang it “in accordance with her own taste.” How well that
taste must have been already cultivated, and what a good teacher the
young composer must have been! But does not Platen sing:
“Mein Herz und deine Stimme
Verstehn sich gar zu gut!”[3]
Aloysia, in later years, contributed more than any other vocalist to
make the world acquainted with Mozart’s music and to teach people to
understand it. And this was necessary. For, even Mozart’s melodies,
which seem to us now so easily and so universally intelligible, found
it, in their own day, and this not unfrequently, no easy matter to
hold their own; and it was only very gradually that they were given the
preference over the incomparably more languid melodies of the time,
especially over the florid style of the Italians.
Even now, he had in this successful effort, the hoped-for opera in
Mannheim, mainly in view; which would thus and through his own efforts
have a _prima donna_ as well as a first tenor. But even here his hopes
were destined to disappointment. We cannot now enter into details, but
must refer the reader to Mozart’s letters to his father. They afford
us a true picture of the culture, musical and other, of a small German
court of that period, which had a very decisive influence on German art.
From these letters we learn, first of all, that the real object of his
visit was kept steadily in view. They tell us of his plans, and give
us detailed accounts of his industry in his art, with here and there
an outburst of the unknown feeling that animated him. Mozart, who was
so fond of doing nothing but “speculating and studying”: that is, who
loved to live only for art and in art, diligently endeavors to find
scholars to instruct and tasks in composition of every description,
even for the flute, for which he had so little liking. He has still
a firm faith in the intention of the elector to charge him with the
composition of at least one German opera. He had heard an opera of that
kind--“Guenther von Schwarzburg,” by Holzbauer--here in Mannheim, and
what would he not have been able himself to produce with artists like
Raaff, his own Weber, and the celebrated Mesdames Wendling, under the
leadership of a Cannabich! At all events he here learned what might
be expected of a good orchestra, just as he had previously learned in
Italy how to write for song.
When, now, Mozart’s prospects for an opera were becoming obscured--we
have no certain information as to the causes of this, but may safely
assume that the well-known abbe Vogler, _Capellmeister_, in Mannheim,
Mozart’s life-long opponent and even enemy, was not without influence
here--and there was little promise of the realization of his hopes,
it would have been very natural that he should think of pursuing his
journey further, especially as Paris was now not so far away. Some of
the musicians of the orchestra, Wendling, Ramm and Lang proposed to
him to go there with him in the Lenten season and give a concert with
him. They thought that their influence would help him to get orders
for all kinds of composition, and even for an opera. And, to keep him,
for the time being, in Mannheim, spite of his having himself written
to his father that the elector did nothing for him, they endeavored to
procure pupils and compositions for him. Added to this was an event
which strongly engaged him to stay, the rehearsal of another German
opera, “Rosamunde,” by Wieland; and it is of interest to learn what
Mozart, with that frankness which characterized him, had to say of
other celebrated men of that period. His description of Wieland can
scarcely be called flattering. He describes him a man, “with a rather
child-like voice, looking steadily through his glasses, with a certain
learned coarseness, and occasionally stupid condescension.” Yet he
excuses the poet because the people of Mannheim looked upon him as
upon an angel dropped down from heaven. Besides, Wieland did not yet
know the artist himself, and may, therefore, not have treated him in a
becoming manner. For, soon afterwards, we read in one of his letters:
“When Herr Wieland had heard me twice, he was charmed. The last time,
after paying me all possible kinds of compliments, he said: ‘It is a
real good fortune for one to have seen you!’--and he pressed my hand.”
Wieland had, by his appeal in the “Essay on the German opera,” in
the _Deutsche Merkur_ in 1775, become the principal representative
of those who were endeavoring to create a German national opera, and
thus Mozart’s meeting with him was of the utmost importance, and had a
great influence in promoting the end contemplated. The performance of
“Rosamunde” was, however, prevented by the sudden death of the elector,
Maximilian III. of Bavaria, as Karl Theodore had to go to Munich about
New Year’s. Still, the idea of a German opera continued a motive power
in Mozart’s soul. He even now writes about the intention of the Emperor
Joseph II. to establish such an opera in Vienna, and of his looking
seriously about for a young _Capellmeister_ with a knowledge of the
German language, one possessed of genius, and able to produce something
entirely new. The man who was one day to compose the “Elopement from
the Seraglio,” and the “Magic Flute,” exclaims: “I think that there is
there a task for me.”
At first, nothing came of this, much as Mozart, in his present
circumstances, might have desired such a position. But it had the
effect of changing his plans entirely, and this change of plans is
worthy of more than passing mention, since it was attended by a
powerful agitation and perturbation of his whole mind and heart.
Besides, it throws a new light on his relations to his “dear Weber.”
The father, who confidently believed that Wolfgang had gone to Paris,
and who had given him excellent advice on every point, telling him
among other things that he would do best to bring his mother back to
Augsburg, suddenly received the information that Wolfgang was not going
to Paris. The Wendlings’ way of living did not please him, he said;
they had “no religion;” besides, he added, he did not see what he was
going to do in Paris; he was not made to give lessons in music. “I am,”
he goes on, “a composer and born to be a _Capellmeister_. I must not
bury the talent with which God has so richly gifted me--I think I may
speak of myself in this way without pride--and I would be burying it by
taking so many scholars.”
What was it that he craved? Why does he lay so much stress on the
talent he possessed? He wanted to go to Italy with the Webers and write
operas there, in which the daughter was to act as prima donna.
He writes: “The thought of being able to help a poor family without
having to do any injustice to myself is a genuine pleasure,” and, in
these few words, he lays his whole soul open before us. Possessed by
this honest, benevolent feeling, he is only half conscious of the wish
to be able to remain with the charming girl and to make her his own at
last, by his ability and his profitable productions as a composer of
Italian operas. Some weeks previously, he had written to a friend in
Salzburg: “That is another mercenary marriage, a marriage for money. I
would not marry in that way. I want to make my wife happy, and not to
make a fortune by her.” At first they only intended to give concerts.
He tells his father: “When I travel with him [Weber] I feel just as
I used to when I traveled with you. And that is the reason I am so
fond of him; because, with the exception of his external appearance,
he is just like you. He has your character and your way of thinking.
I did not need to trouble myself about anything. Even the mending of
my clothes was seen to. In a word, I was served like a prince. I am so
fond of this distressed family, that I desire nothing so much as to be
able to make them happy, and perhaps I may be able to do it.”
It was in memory of his triumph in Italy that he himself counseled
going there, and advised his father that the sooner he renewed his
connections with it the better, so that he might get a commission for
an opera that season. He would pledge his life that her (Aloysia’s)
singing would be a credit to him. They would next visit his home, and
Nannerl would find a companion and friend in Aloysia; for she had in
Mannheim a reputation like that of Nannerl in Salzburg, her father
like his own, and the whole Weber family a reputation like the Mozart
family’s. “You know,” he concludes, “my greatest and most ardent desire
to write operas. I am jealous, to the extent of vexation, of every
person who writes one, and I could cry my eyes out whenever I hear or
see an aria. I have now written to you about everything just as I feel
in my heart. I kiss your hands a thousand times, and until death I
remain your most obedient son. W. A. Mozart.”
But the mother secretly added a post-script to this letter, saying
that Wolfgang would sacrifice everything for the Webers; that it was
true Aloysia sang incomparably well, and that the Wendlings had never
treated her exactly right, but that the moment he had become acquainted
with the Webers, he changed his mind about Paris.
Although the prudent father was “almost beside himself” when he heard
of Wolfgang’s plan of roving about the world with strangers, he begins
by laying before him as clearly and distinctly as possible, how almost
entirely useless his course had been since he started on his journey,
and by a thousand reasons endeavoring to make him see plainly the
impossibility of carrying out his design. His letter is throughout
replete with love for his child, with moderation and discretion, but
he nevertheless makes full use of his right as a father, and does not
even hesitate to employ the incisive irony of his nature. He begins
by telling him that he now recognizes his son only by his goodness
of heart and his easy credulity--one must read this beautiful, long
letter and bear in mind the time and place of its writing to appreciate
it, for it is a monument to the good sense that ruled in Mozart’s
family--that all else is changed, and that for him happy moments like
those he used to have were passed; that it lay with his son alone to
decide now whether he would gradually acquire the greatest renown ever
enjoyed by a musician--and he owed this to his talents--or whether,
ensnared by the beauty of a woman, he would die in a room full of
suffering and hungry children. He says: “The proposition to travel with
Mr. Weber and, mark well, with his two daughters made me almost run
mad.” Thus giddily to play with one’s own and his parents’ honor! And
how, he asks, could a young girl suddenly attain success in Italy where
all the greatest vocalists were to be found? Besides, just then, war
was impending--on account of the Bavarian succession. Moreover, such
plans were plans for small lights, for inferior composers, for daubers
in music. And, at last, he cries out to his son forcibly enough: “Get
thee to Paris. Have the great about thee. _Aut Cæsar, aut nihil!_ The
very thought of seeing Paris should have kept you from indulging in
such foolish whims.”
When Wolfgang received this letter he became ill, such was its effect
upon him. Not one of his most sacred feelings but was touched by
it--his love, his sense of duty, his honor, and his pride in his art.
On one point alone his father had said nothing: his love. To have
spoken of it would have been unavailing. And yet he reminded him of
all his changing inclinations, of his tears for the little Kaiser girl
in Munich, his little episode with “Baesle,” and his _andante_ for
sweet Rosa Cannabich. And so Wolfgang’s child-like feeling bent to his
father’s will, and his inexperience, to his father’s tried and tested
prudence. He had, he assured his parents, done all that he had done,
out of devotion to the family, and they might believe what they liked
about him, provided they did not believe anything bad of him, for he
was “a Mozart and a well-minded Mozart.” And at last, the full sun of
confiding love breaks out again: “After God, my papa! This was my motto
as a child, and I am true to it yet.”
Preparations were immediately made for his departure, and, after a
little, Mozart was in Paris. The sonata for the piano in A minor, which
bears the date “Paris, 1778,” tells us by its energetic rhythm and the
passionate lament of the finale, better than all else, what was going
on, at that time, in Mozart’s soul. It is the most direct language
of a heart bowed down with sorrow, and discloses to us, just as the
aria _Non so d’onde viene_ did, a short time before, a region newly
conquered to poetic expression, in tones. And, indeed, we find that
Mozart’s character had noticeably matured after these first struggles
with his beloved father. The sudden death of his mother in Paris
contributed largely to intensify and elevate this, his earnestness of
mind. Upon its heels followed the painful disappointment, that his love
for the beautiful Aloysia was a mortal one, and he had, at last, though
with great difficulty, to overcome himself and return to Salzburg,
which he so thoroughly hated. Such are the events and experiences which
lead us to the first real masterpiece of our artist, to his _Idomeneo_.
We shall meet again in his later years with the traces of the trials
of these days in Mannheim, and especially of the full recognition of
the worth of a father’s controlling love, as he then most decidedly
experienced it.
To continue our narrative. His father writes: “I have no, no not the
least want of confidence in you, my dear Wolfgang. On the contrary, I
have every confidence in your filial love. On you I base all my hopes.
From the bottom of my heart, I give you a father’s blessing, and remain
until death your faithful father and your surest friend.” Such was the
parting salutation he received from home, when starting on his journey
to a foreign land. And Wolfgang himself writes: “I must say that all
who knew me parted with me reluctantly and with regret.” Aloysia had,
“from goodness of heart,” knit a little memento for him. They all wept
when their “best friend and benefactor departed.” He says: “I must
ask your pardon, but the tears rush to my eyes when I think of it.”
Besides, there was now “neither rhyme nor reason” with him in anything.
He had, however, done his father’s will, and this was some consolation
to him. He soon learned that Raaff had come to Paris; and what pleased
him more, Raaff promised to take care of his dear Aloysia’s future.
In Paris, he met scarcely anything but discomfort and disappointment.
The style of Parisian music did not please him. The Italian arias were
distorted and the indigenous whining in singing grated on his musical
feelings which craved above all the charm of the beautiful. And yet
it was at this time, in Paris, that there was a decided controversy
between two schools of music; between the disciples of Gluck and
Piccini.
We saw above that, in the Italian opera, melody, the florid style
(_Coloratur_) and vocal virtuosity became predominant. But the French
had developed their opera independently. Action and a corresponding
musical recitation in keeping with the words, were considered by them
its chief features. The German Gluck at this point began his work in
France. He was guided here by his own good sense; and by theoretical
demonstrations he proved the weakness of the Italian style. He had
already turned his attention to the sublime tragedies of the Greeks,
and captivated Paris by his _Iphigenia in Aulis_. But as the great
mass always favors trifles and the fashion, this innovation was soon
confronted by a formidable opposition, which after all was only a
further development of the national French opera. Contrary to the
usual French custom, and misled by Rousseau’s influence, the Italian
opera was put above the nation’s own, and a foreigner, the Neapolitan
Piccini, called to Paris to retaliate on Gluck.
We know now who came off the victor in this struggle. Mozart’s feelings
ranged him, at first, on the Italian side--that is, on that side so
far as music alone was concerned. But his German nature told him that
the ultimate source of music lay in that earnestness of feeling and
of intellectual life which is the creator of poetry, and above all of
tragic poetry; and here the Italians were altogether too superficial
to satisfy him. And, then, he involuntarily favored the earnest
endeavors of the French opera, much as he disliked the French music
of the time. And, indeed, the whole mode of the really historic life
of Paris, contrasted with the political wretchedness of Germany and
Italy, must have made a forcible impression on his mind, spite of his
many disagreeable experiences there, and of the many inconveniences
and troubles he had to put up with. And, more than all else, the high
regard in which the stage, at that time, was held, in France, did not
escape his observation. It made a decided and lasting impression on
his mind. In his letters, he subsequently made particular mention of
the fact that the clown was banished even from the comic opera there.
It was not, indeed, until he was about to leave Paris, that he became
conscious of this greater, richer, more vigorous life,--of a life such
as was evidenced ten years later by the great Revolution. But the fact
remains that he did become conscious of it, and, as a consequence, his
artistic taste and aims acquired greater fixedness and value. This was
Mozart’s gain from his stay in Paris at this time. It was a gain of the
mind which richly compensated for his want of pecuniary success.
The detailed account of this sojourn in Paris is to be found in
Mozart’s own letters. It is a very vivid one, very clear, and the
language used is frequently very strong. The letters themselves
constitute a piece of the history of the art, and culture of the Paris
of the time. The death of his mother, the result of a way of living to
which she was not used and of great depression of spirits, had a very
sad effect on his mind. But when he saw that he had no need to worry,
at least about his father, he felt greatly encouraged, and the prospect
of writing an opera for Paris infused new life into the sluggish blood
of our young artist. A cheering evidence of this is to be found in the
so-called French symphony which he wrote just at this time; and we
can see what purely external cause it was that gave it its peculiarly
lively tone. It was the character of the French themselves, with their
peculiar love of life and of the external. All his hearers were carried
away by a lively passage of this kind in the very beginning, but in the
finale he took the liberty with his ingenuous musical audience to crack
a joke like that subsequently played by Haydn in London, by the beating
of the kettle-drum suddenly to attract the attention of the listeners.
Contrary to the custom usual in Paris, he had two violins to begin to
play _piano_, immediately followed by a _forte_. When they were playing
_piano_ a sound of sh-sh-sh--called for a dead silence; but “the moment
his audience heard the _forte_, they broke out into hand-clapping and
applause.” Thus adroitly and immediately did he employ in Paris the
manner of working up a climax which he had noticed in Mannheim.
But envy and intrigue still dogged him. He fairly dazzled the Italian
maestro, Cambini, the very first time he met him. Mozart played one of
Cambini’s quartets from memory, and executed it in such a manner, that
the latter exclaimed: “What a head that man has!” Cambini, after this,
took care that no more of Mozart’s compositions should be performed in
public, and hence he had to resort once more to the giving of lessons
in music, to make ends meet. This was exceedingly difficult in Paris,
and especially for an artist who, as he himself wrote at the time, was,
so to say, “sunk in music--one whose thoughts it always occupied, and
who liked to speculate, study and reflect the live-long day.”
A friend whom he had made during his previous stay in Paris, the
encyclopædist, Grimm, was not of much use to him this time either.
Wolfgang was not the man to see his way in such a city, or in
such society. And Grimm wrote to the father that his son was too
true-hearted, too inactive, too easily captivated, too little versed in
the arts which lead to success. This, indeed, was Mozart’s character.
He knew little of the ways of the world, and he remained ignorant of
them through life. As nothing came of his prospects to write an opera,
his father could not but wish that he might leave Paris entirely,
which, after his mother’s death, he considered a dangerous place for
him.
Wolfgang had turned his eyes towards Munich, where Karl Theodor was now
elector. But the war still kept everything in a state of stagnation
there. In the meantime, a vacancy occurred in Salzburg itself. A
_Capellmeister_ was needed in that city. Many a hint had been given the
father previously, on another occasion, when a vacancy was created by
death. Now he was appealed to again, at first in a round-about way and
then directly. And what was the bait he held out to his son? Aloysia!
The archbishop wanted a prima donna, also, and Wolfgang had already
urged his father to take an interest in her welfare. He did not, at
first, agree to the arrangement, but when it was certainly decided that
he could have the position and was sure of more becoming treatment than
he had formerly received there, and, when he heard that Miss Weber
was very ardently desired by the prince and by all, his hatred for
Salzburg and its hard and unjust archbishop abated. But without the
positive assurance that he would be granted leave of absence to travel,
an assurance which he received, he would not have been completely
satisfied; for, he writes: “A man of only ordinary talent, always
remains ordinary, whether he travel or not; a man of superior talent,
and it would be wicked in me to deny that I possess such talent,
deteriorates by remaining always in the same place.”
But, in the meantime, Aloysia found a place in Munich. Mozart learned
this fact before his departure, and all his aversion for Salzburg was
again suddenly awakened. Paris again stood out before him, a place in
which he would certainly have “earned honor, fame and money, and where
he would have been able to free his father from debt.” He now thought
of getting a place once more in Munich himself, for he had recently
learned again how much the girl loved him. Rumors of his death had been
put in circulation, and the poor child had gone to church every day
to pray for him. Writing of this incident, he says: “You will laugh,
I cannot; it touches me, and I can’t help it.” But this was a serious
matter with the father. His own place, as well as his daily bread, was
certainly at stake now, if Wolfgang retreated!
The journey was proceeded with this time slowly. And, indeed,
what cause was there for haste? He made a long stay in Strassburg
and Mannheim, and entered into some negotiations there about the
composition of a melodrama. “On receipt of this you shall take your
departure,” was the positive order sent him; and yet there was “a real
scramble” for him at Mannheim. His father consoles him by assuring him
that he is not at all opposed to his love for Aloysia, and this all the
less, since now she was able to make his fortune, not he hers! While
on his journey, Mozart had invited “Baesle” also to Munich, adding:
“You will, perhaps, get a great part to play.”
But, strange!--Aloysia does not seem, when he enters, to recognize the
very man for whom she once had wept. Mozart, therefore, seated himself
hastily at the piano, and sang aloud:
“Ich lass das Maedl gern, das mich nicht will!”[4]
This was told by Aloysia’s younger sister, Constance, who was
afterwards Mozart’s wife, to her second husband, and she gave as the
reason of it, the fact that Aloysia’s taste was offended because,
following the custom of the time, he wore black buttons, in mourning
for his mother, on his red coat. It may be, however, that the officers
and gentlemen of the court pleased the prima donna better than the
little man whose heart-tones had once entranced her. This time also, he
left the faithless one a gift, a composition of his own, not, however,
one which sprung from his heart, but one which showed his power as an
artist. The aria which he now wrote for her, _Popopoli di Tessaglia_,
discovers to us completely the full meaning of his _Non so d’onde
viene_, in his own life.
Aloysia was not happy. We shall have more to say of this hereafter.
Mozart did not, at this time, weep away his grief in tones. His pride
vanquished his love. But his letters depict the state of his mind all
the more truly, now that the hopes he had entertained of obtaining
a position in Munich turned to smoke. Still, his present sojourn in
Munich was destined to lead soon to a very important event in his life
as an artist. He regrets that he cannot write, because his heart is
attuned to weeping. A friend told the father that Wolfgang cried for
a whole hour, spite of all efforts to dry his tears. And, writing of
Mozart’s beautiful inner self, he says: “I never saw a child with more
tenderness and love for his father than your son. His heart is so pure,
so child-like to me, how much more pure and tender must it be for his
father! Only, one must hear him; and who is there that would not do him
justice as the best of characters, the most upright and most ardent of
men!” We think we hear the sounds of the well-spring from which the
tones of the _Idomeneo_ and the aria of the _Ilia_ were soon to flow.
The meeting of father and son could not fail to be a very touching
sight. To form an idea of their feelings on that occasion, one must
read the letter written by the father, after he received the news of
the mother’s illness. Wolfgang came home immediately, but he came
without her, the dearly beloved wife and mother. Every one received
him with open arms; but he had already written: “Upon my oath and upon
my honor, I say I cannot endure Salzburg or its people; their language
and their whole mode of life is unbearable to me;” and the chief cause
of his feeling thus lay in his art. He said later: “When I play in
Salzburg, or when one of my compositions is produced there, I feel as
if only chairs and tables were my listeners.” After this, it is easy to
understand why Salzburg was not to his taste. He says: “When one has
trifled away his young years in such a beggarly place, in inaction, it
is sad enough, and besides, a great loss.”
“Baesle’s” merriness helped him to while away the first week of his
second stay in his dull native city, in the beginning of 1779. But
her simple ways could not now make her what she was to him, when he
was less matured in mind and heart. His work was his most agreeable
pastime, and, spite of everything, productions of the most varied
nature written during his sojourn in Salzburg, afford very abundant
proof of this. The symphonies he now wrote were, indeed, greatly
excelled by others which he subsequently composed, and the masses
eclipsed by his great requiem. But the music to a tragedy, “King
Thamos,” has a sound so full and so appeals to the soul, that we feel
the presence in it of the greater life-trials he had experienced. And
hence it is that Mozart was subsequently able to adapt its choruses
to other words, and to introduce them to the world as “hymns.” Their
tone reminds us of the solemn, serious choruses of the “Magic Flute,”
the drift of which was followed also in the matter of the drama. The
composition of these works was due to Schikaneder, of whom we shall
have something more to say when speaking of the “Magic Flute.” He was,
at this time, director of the theater at Salzburg, and Mozart received
an order to write a comic opera for him. This was the “Zaide” and the
plot embraced a tale of abduction. Its composition was fast drawing
to a close when, at last--it was in the fall of 1780--he saw signs of
redemption from his captivity. He received an invitation to compose
an opera for Munich. It was the _Idomeneo_, and its success sealed
Mozart’s fate for all subsequent time. With the exception of a short
visit paid there, he never saw Salzburg again.
The subject of this work is the old story of Jephtha’s vow. The scene,
however, is transferred to Crete, whither its king Idomeneus, returns
after the destruction of Troy. In a frightful storm which occurred
during his journey, he vows to Neptune the first human being he shall
meet. The victim is his own son, Idamante. Idomeneus wishes to send
him away into a foreign country. But Neptune causes a still greater
storm to rage and the whole country to be devastated by a monster. The
people meet and hear of the vow that Idomeneus has made. When Idamante
himself who, in the meantime, had slain the monster, is informed of his
fate, he is ready to appease the anger of the god. Whereupon, Ilia,
who loves him, throws herself between him and his father, and asks that
she may suffer death in his place. But just as she casts herself on her
knees, “a great subterraneous noise is heard, Neptune’s statue trembles
on its base. The high priest is transported out of himself, all stand
motionless with fear, and a deep majestic voice proclaims the will of
the god:” that Idomeneus shall abdicate the throne, and that Idamante
and Ilia happily united shall ascend it.
It is easy to see that we have here great and grave situations in
the life of human creatures. Mozart knew how to do them justice. He
grasped their very kernel and allowed that which was only of secondary
importance to remain secondary. The whole, although taken from a French
libretto, had been, according to the custom of the Italian opera of
the time, broken up into a great many fragments for the purposes of
music, and among them we find, especially, a large number of arias; and
hence it did not satisfy true dramatic taste. But even these disjointed
pieces,--it mattered not whether they gave expression to sorrow,
terror, tenderness or joy, united to or mixed with one another--were
always full of what they were intended to express, and were, not
unfrequently, overflowing with musical beauty. It was only when he
conceded, too much to the incompetence or narrowness of singers, that
any sacrifice was made to the traditional form and sing-song of the
Italians. But there were in the plot, and they were its chief part,
some powerful scenes, susceptible of really dramatic presentation;
and here Mozart demonstrated that he was a great master of the stage,
and that he had adopted Gluck’s innovations not to allow the singers
and their florid style, but the music to govern, and the music as the
highest expression of the poetry, that is of the dramatic scene which
is performing. Mozart’s own letters give us many details of great
interest in this connection.
He again met his Mannheim artists, singers as well as the
orchestra--all but Aloysia, who had been called a short time
previously, to the national operatic theatre in Vienna--in Munich,
and he was therefore well prepared to go to work. And he was anxious
to do so, for it was a long time since he had an opportunity to show
his full powers on the stage. He felt happy, nay, delighted, since
his arrival. He lived in the _Burggasse_. A bronze tablet bearing his
portrait has since been placed on the house in which he lived. The
elector greeted him most graciously, and when Mozart gave expression
to the peculiar ardor he felt, he tapped him on the shoulder and said:
“I have no doubt whatever; everything will be well.” Every one was
delighted and astonished at the rehearsal of the first act. Much had
been expected of him, but the performance surpassed all expectation.
Frau Cannabich, who had been obliged to remain at home with her sick
daughter, Rose, embraced him, so overjoyed was she at his success; and
the musicians went home almost crazed with delight. The hautboyist
Ramm, with whom Beethoven played his quintet op. 16, in 1804, told him
on his word as a true son of the fatherland, that no music had ever
made such an impression on him--referring to the double choruses during
Idomeneus’s shipwreck--and what joy would it bring to his father when
he heard of it!
The latter cautioned him from home to take care of himself. He knew
his son. And, indeed, Wolfgang had a slight attack of illness at this
time. He writes ingenuously enough: “A man gets easily over-heated when
honor or fame is at stake.” But he was soon well again, and able to
write: “A person is indeed glad when he is at last done with so great
and so toilsome a piece of work; and I am almost done with it; for, all
that is wanting now is two arias, the final chorus, the overture, the
ballet--and _adieu partie_.” The father had reminded him not to forget
to make his music popular. It was the “popular” in music that tickled
the long-eared. Wolfgang replied that there was music in his opera
for all kinds of people, the long-eared excepted. And indeed the work
contained ballet-interludes, and besides the most popular of all kinds
of music, the dance. Mozart’s genius permitted him, as we have seen, to
make many a concession to the peculiarities of the singers, spite of
the gravity of the subject. But where this same gravity was paramount,
as in the quartet of the third act, he had trouble enough. The oftener
he put it on the stage, the greater was the effect it produced on
himself, and it was liked by all, even when only played on the piano.
Raaff alone found it too long, and not easy enough to sing.
Mozart replied to his objections: “If I only knew a single note that
could be changed! But I have not been as well satisfied with anything
in this opera as with the quartet;” and Raaff was himself afterwards,
as he said, “agreeably disappointed;” and just as delighted were the
four musicians: Wendling, Ramm, Ritter and Lang, who had an _obligato_
accompaniment to the aria of Ilia, in the first act, and who were thus
given an opportunity to appreciate Mozart’s skill; for it was the
profound rapture that comes from joy and love which was here to be
expressed in music. And as Mozart had once given expression to that
rapture in his _Non so d’onde viene_, he again gave it a voice in the
premature evening of his life in the aria:
_Dies Bildniss ist bezaubernd schoen._[5]
The aria of Ilia reminds us of both. But the quartet is the crowning
glory of Gluck’s endeavor to allow each singer to express himself,
at every moment, as far as possible, in accordance with his own
individuality. Even in Mozart’s works, we find little like it; and at
that time such musical wealth was entirely new and unheard of.
The elector said laughingly, after the thunder-storm in the second act:
“One would not think that that small head could carry so much.” And
then the choruses, when the people, during the storm, utter their cry
of horror! The members of the orchestra said that this chorus could
not but freeze the blood in one’s veins. And yet the third act was
incomparably richer. Mozart himself says: “There is scarcely a scene
which is not exceedingly interesting,” and that “his head and hands
were so full of it that it would be no wonder if he were to become
the third act himself.” He thinks, however, that it would prove as
good as the first two. He says: “but I believe infinitely better, and
that it may be said: _Finis coronat opus_ (the end crowns the work).”
For the address of the high priest on the sufferings of the people,
caused by the sea monster, the solemn march, and the oracle itself,
Gluck’s Alceste may have served as a model. The magnitude of these
tragic elements at least were well understood; and no one can, even
to-day, remain unmoved by these tones. But it became also a school of
the genuine dramatic style in music; and the orchestration was the best
that Mozart had produced. From it, all who followed him learned the
best they knew.
Of the presentation of the opera itself on the stage, in January, 1781,
we have no detailed information. But the impression made by it must
have been in keeping with that created by the rehearsals. That the
_Idomeneo_ lives now only in the concert hall, is due to the Italian
words, which interrupt the acting at almost every step. Mozart put
an end to the absolute rule of the Italian opera by his _Idomeneo_.
It henceforth had only a national character. Mozart compelled the
composers of opera, from this time forward, to take another course, and
to comply with Gluck’s demands, which have lifted the opera of our age
to the height of the genuine drama.
But the first and fully decisive steps in this direction, were the
_Figaro_ and _Don Giovanni_. We now turn to them. The _Idomeneo_,
as it was Mozart’s first masterpiece, monumental in its style,
constituted, together with the operas which followed it, the transition
to an entirely new epoch in his life, to the period of his complete
independence, both as an artist and as a man.