The Red Coat
Somewhere in Vienna, in the autumn of 1787, a small man in a gold-trimmed hat and a red coat with mother-of-pearl buttons is walking at a rapid pace through streets he cannot quite afford to live on. He has just finished writing an opera in which God and the Devil appear to be the same force — in which a seducer is dragged to Hell while the audience isn't entirely sure whether to cheer for the demons or mourn the loss of the only interesting person onstage — and the opera will, within a generation, make Goethe return to Faust, make Kierkegaard theorize about sensuous genius, make Wagner steal its intervals for the death of gods. But the small man doesn't know any of this. What he knows is that the Viennese public, fickle as a court weather vane, is drifting toward other idols; that his subscription concerts are thinning; that an expensive war with Turkey has drained the wallets of his patrons; that his father is four months dead and there was no reconciliation, not really, only a letter about Freemasonry and the friendship of death. He knows, with the unembarrassed confidence of a man who once told an archbishop to go to hell in writing, that he is the finest composer alive. He suspects — correctly — that the city does not care enough. He has perhaps ten piano concertos, three more operas, one Requiem, and 1,491 days left.
Wolfgang Amadè Mozart, as he usually spelled his name, was an urban creature who had almost nothing to say about the charms of nature, a product of the artisan classes — his ancestors were bookbinders, weavers, masons — who adopted aristocratic fashions and went around the imperial capital looking like a man who belonged to a social stratum he could imitate but never enter. He was physically restless, quick-witted, sociable, flirtatious, obscene. One of the more provocative items in his catalogue is a canon for six voices entitled "Leck mich im Arsch" (K. 231). He frittered away money on expensive apartments. He was, by his own admission, "as proud as a peacock." And he was, by virtually every measure that has survived two and a half centuries of mythmaking, demythologizing, and re-mythmaking, the most complete musician Western civilization has produced — not because he innovated (he rarely did) but because he mastered every form available to him and, in mastering them, revealed dimensions no one else could see.
The myths came quickly. The eternal child. The idle hooligan. The suffering outcast. Pushkin made him a holy fool; Peter Shaffer made him a giggling vessel for divine dictation; the 1984 film Amadeus made him a punk who happened to channel God. Present-day scholars have spent decades picking away at these encrusted images, and what they've found underneath is, if anything, more formidable than the myths: not a naïve prodigy but a hardworking, ambitious, strategically brilliant musician — "Mozart as a Working Stiff," as the musicologist Neal Zaslaw once titled an essay. A man who revised obsessively, who began pieces and set them aside for months or years, who kept stockpiles of material that the scholar Ulrich Konrad calls "departure points" — intellectual places to which he could return as necessary. The music in Mozart's mind, it turns out, was less like divine dictation and more like a huge map of half-explored territories. He was writing all his works all the time.
This is the paradox that makes Mozart not merely a historical subject but a permanent one: a man whose music embodies the golden mean — the coexistence of comedy and tragedy, the sensual and the sacred, beauty and its loss — while his life was governed by extremes. "Two opposing elements rule his nature," his father Leopold once observed. "There is either too much or too little, never the golden mean." The art achieved what the life could not. And the distance between the two — between the red coat and the music that emanated from inside it — is where everything interesting happens.
By the Numbers
The Mozart Catalogue
626+Works catalogued in the Köchel system
35Age at death (December 5, 1791)
22Operas and theatre works composed
27Piano concertos
~1,200Surviving letters in the Mozart family correspondence
9.77 GBStorage required for complete works on iPod (180 CDs)
1/3Estimated portion of his life spent traveling before age 25
The Miracle Factory
The story begins, as so many stories of impossible achievement do, with a father who understood something the world did not yet see. Leopold Mozart — violinist, composer, deputy Kapellmeister at the prince-archbishop's court in Salzburg, and author of a famous violin-playing manual published in the very year of his son's birth, 1756 — was not, as a generation of biographers tried to argue, merely an exploiter of his children's gifts. He was, more precisely, the man who made those gifts legible to Europe.
Leopold came from a family of good standing in Augsburg, from which he was estranged — architects and bookbinders in the lineage, a man who understood both craft and ambition. He married Anna Maria Pertl, born of a middle-class family active in local administration. Of their seven children, only two survived infancy: Maria Anna, called Nannerl, and Wolfgang. This arithmetic — five small graves — was not unusual in eighteenth-century Salzburg, but it concentrates the mind. Leopold looked at the two children who had lived and decided the boy, at least, was a message from God. "The miracle which God let be born in Salzburg" was his description. He was keenly conscious of his duty, as he saw it, to draw the miracle to the notice of the world. And incidentally to profit from doing so.
At three, the boy was picking out chords on the harpsichord. At four, playing short pieces. At five, composing. There are anecdotes about his precise memory of pitch, about his fear of the trumpet, about his gentleness and sensitivity — and about the blobs of ink he'd leave on manuscripts by dipping his pen too deep into the inkwell, the notes tending to be impossible to play with human hands. "He had at that time a firm conviction," one contemporary recalled, "that playing concertos and working miracles were the same thing."
Just before Wolfgang was six, Leopold took him and Nannerl to Munich to play at the Bavarian court. A few months later, Vienna and the imperial court. Then, in mid-1763, Leopold obtained a leave of absence, and the family set out on what can only be described as a three-year marketing campaign disguised as a concert tour. Munich, Augsburg, Stuttgart, Mannheim, Mainz, Frankfurt, Brussels, Paris — where they remained for the winter and Mozart's first music was published, sonatas for keyboard and violin dedicated to a royal princess — then London, where they spent fifteen months and the boy met Johann Christian Bach, the youngest son of Johann Sebastian, under whose influence Mozart composed his first symphonies. Through The Hague, Amsterdam, Paris again, Lyon, Switzerland, arriving back in Salzburg in November 1766. The boy was ten. He had performed before monarchs and princes across the continent. He had absorbed the musical dialects of half a dozen national traditions. He had become, in the most literal sense, a European.
Ruth Halliwell, in her remarkably illuminating 1998 book The Mozart Family, made the case that Leopold didn't so much exploit the son as make him possible. Those long tours gave Mozart an incomparable education — not just in music but in the mechanics of patronage, the psychology of audiences, the politics of courts. Leopold tutored him in the practical aspects of art and life, in which the father was rather better versed than the son would ever become. His letters contain wisdom that is bland but useful, the kind of advice a bright child resists and a struggling adult wishes he'd absorbed: "Where money is plentiful, everything is dear, and where living is cheap, money will be scarce." Or: "The best way to make people feel ashamed of themselves is to be extremely friendly and polite to those who are your enemies."
The letters between father and son take on a more vibrant tone when music is the subject. On musical matters, the Mozarts are essentially of one mind; Leopold never seems to be reining in his son's imagination. When Mozart was in Munich preparing his first operatic masterpiece, Idomeneo, in late 1780, Leopold was in Salzburg supervising the librettist. For a pivotal scene in Act III — the voice of Neptune's oracle rising from the depths — Leopold requested "moving, terrifying, and altogether unusual" music, and suggested a series of sudden crescendos and decrescendos in the brass and winds, bracketing the vocal phrases. Exactly this effect appears in the finished score. The father understood the son's language well enough to speak it back to him.
The Empire of the Golden Mean
Leopold Mozart's most enduring gift to his son may have been a phrase: the golden mean. Wolfgang took it up in a letter from 1782, weaving around it a pragmatic philosophy that is more relevant now than it was in the eighteenth century:
These concertos are a happy medium between what is too easy and too difficult; they are very brilliant, pleasing to the ear, and natural, without being vapid. There are passages here and there from which the connoisseurs alone can derive satisfaction; but these passages are written in such a way that the less learned cannot fail to be pleased, though without knowing why.
This is not a vague aesthetic aspiration. It is a business strategy. Mozart understood — with a clarity that eludes most artists and most entrepreneurs — that the highest art occupies a space between accessibility and complexity, that the amateur and the expert must be served simultaneously, that the surface must be beautiful enough to seduce while the depths reward the closest possible scrutiny. "The golden mean of truth in all things is no longer either known or appreciated," he continued. "In order to win applause one must write stuff which is so inane that a coachman could sing it, or so unintelligible that it pleases precisely because no sensible man can understand it."
Nicholas Kenyon, in his Faber Pocket Guide to Mozart, captured the result: "Other great composers have expressed the extremes of life: affirmation, despair, sensual pleasure, bleak emptiness, but only in Mozart can all these emotions co-exist in the space of a short phrase." This is the musical expression of the golden mean — not a compromise between extremes but a third state in which extremes are simultaneously present. Comedy and tragedy. The sensual and the sacred. Beauty surging in and ebbing away. Everything contingent and nothing pure.
The scholar Scott Burnham described it as "the sound of the loss of innocence, the ever renewable loss of innocence." Consider the Andante of the Sinfonia Concertante for Violin and Viola (K. 364), from 1779–80: a beguiling four-bar melody appears twice, first in E-flat major in the middle of the movement and then in C minor at the end. The first time, major is briefly shadowed by a turn into the relative minor. The second time, minor is flecked by major, creating the effect of a light in the night. The two passages are more or less the same, but the space between them could contain a novel.
Or consider what the New Yorker essayist discovered while listening, for months, to the complete Mozart on an iPod — 180 CDs, 9.77 gigabytes. In La Finta Semplice, the merry opera buffa Mozart wrote at twelve, there is a passage marked "un poco Adagio" in which two characters ask forgiveness for an elaborate ruse: "Perdono," they sing. Not just the words but the music prefigures the tremendous final scene of The Marriage of Figaro, written eighteen years later, in which the wayward Count asks the Countess's forgiveness — "Contessa, perdono!" — and she grants it, in a half-hopeful, half-heartbroken phrase. The two passages waver between the same chords (G major and E minor) and pivot on the same rising bass line (B-C-D-E). Mozart at twelve and Mozart at thirty were drawing from the same well. The idea of forgiveness apparently triggered certain sounds in his mind.
A Servant Who Would Not Serve
The decisive break came on June 9, 1781, at a stormy meeting with Count Karl Arco, the court steward of Archbishop Hieronymus Colloredo of Salzburg. Mozart, fresh from triumphs in Munich and placed at table in the archbishop's entourage below the valets — though above the cooks — had requested his discharge. The archbishop, according to Mozart, had used "unecclesiastical language." Count Arco, by one account, accelerated the departure with a kick to the seat of the composer's pants.
The relationship had been deteriorating for years. Mozart had entered the Salzburg court at fifteen, when the relatively tolerant Archbishop Schrattenbach died and was replaced by the reformist Colloredo. The new archbishop required more music but tolerated less independence. He set severe time limits on mass settings, which Mozart objected to but observed. He refused leaves of absence. He treated his musicians as servants — which, technically, they were. "I hate Salzburg," Mozart wrote. "There isn't a penny's worth of stimulation." And: "Salzburg is no place for my talent." And: "I don't want to have anything to do with Salzburg anymore."
The letter Mozart had written to the archbishop on August 1, 1777, requesting permission to travel, is one of the great documents of dignified self-assertion — a young man's case for meritocracy in an age of patronage:
Parents endeavour to place their children in a position to earn their own bread; and in this they follow alike their own interest and that of the State. The greater the talents which children have received from God, the more are they bound to use them for the improvement of their own and their parents' circumstances.
The archbishop's response was to refuse. Mozart's response was to leave anyway — eventually, permanently, setting himself up in Vienna as a freelance musician, an act of defiance that Leopold correctly understood as both courageous and reckless. "Your whole intent is to ruin me so you can build your castles in the air," Leopold wrote in 1778, not long after his wife Maria Anna had died while accompanying Wolfgang to Paris. "I hope that, after your mother had to die in Paris, you will not also burden your conscience by expediting the death of your father." World-class manipulation. But also a father's terror at watching his son leap into the void.
Mozart went to live with his old friends the Webers in Vienna — Aloysia Weber, the soprano he had loved in Mannheim, was now married to a court actor — and set about inventing the career of the modern freelance artist. He took pupils. He gave concerts. He published compositions. He composed on commission and on speculation. Within months he was denying rumors, in a letter to his father, that he intended to marry Constanze Weber, the third Weber daughter: "I have never thought less of getting married… besides, I am not in love with her." By December he was asking for Leopold's blessing on exactly this marriage. Because Constanze later destroyed Leopold's letters — for reasons that are easy to imagine — only one side of the correspondence survives.
The Storm of Style
What followed the break with Salzburg, between 1781 and 1786, was a creative detonation without parallel in Western music. Not because the works are individually perfect — though many are — but because of the sheer range and density of the output, the sense of a mind operating simultaneously on every front.
The six string quartets dedicated to Haydn — an older composer Mozart genuinely revered — were written between 1782 and the first days of 1785. Fifteen concertos for piano and orchestra. The "Haffner" and "Linz" and "Prague" Symphonies. The Mass in C Minor. The Abduction from the Seraglio and The Marriage of Figaro. And a dozen other pieces without which classical programming would, as one critic observed, grind to a halt.
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The Central Viennese Period: Output in Five Years
Major works composed between 1781 and 1786
| Genre | Notable Works | Innovation |
|---|
| Piano Concertos | Nos. 11–25 (K. 413–503) | Symphonic scope; wind dialogue; virtuoso element woven into formal texture |
| String Quartets | "Haydn" Quartets (K. 387–465) | Contrapuntal complexity via Bach study; dissonance as structural cable |
| Operas | Abduction from the Seraglio; Figaro | Psychological realism; social commentary through musical form |
| Symphonies | Haffner (K. 385); Linz (K. 425); Prague (K. 504) | Architecturally imposing first movements; slow movements as inner worlds |
| Sacred Music | Mass in C Minor (K. 427) | Baroque and Rococo fused; Bach and Handel integrated into Viennese idiom |
The piano concertos, in particular, redefined the form. In a single spell of little more than five weeks in early 1784, Mozart appeared at twenty-two concerts, mainly at the Esterházy and Galitzin houses. In February of that year, he began to keep a catalogue of his own music — a gesture suggesting a new awareness of posterity and his place in it. The concertos written for these performances are at once symphonic, melodically rich, and orchestrally ingenious, blending the virtuoso element into the musical texture with a sophistication that no predecessor had approached. After the relatively homogeneous 1784 group, all beginning with themes stated first by the orchestra and later taken up by the piano, Mozart moved in the concertos of 1785 to make the piano's entry a reinterpretation of the opening theme — a subtle but revolutionary shift in the relationship between soloist and ensemble.
The D Minor Concerto (K. 466), performed during Leopold's visit to Vienna in 1785, is marked by a particularly willful piano part that resists conformity more insistently than in any other Mozart concerto. Small wonder that he would return to D minor to set his most intransigent operatic hero — Don Giovanni — and that this concerto would become Beethoven's favorite among Mozart's works. During that same visit, Haydn — Joseph Haydn, the most celebrated living composer in Europe, a man of enormous generosity but also of clear-eyed judgment — said to Leopold: "Your son is the greatest composer known to me in person or by name; he has taste, and what is more the greatest knowledge of composition."
The futuristic broadening of scope in these works was made possible, paradoxically, by a study of the past. Mozart immersed himself in the art of Bach, prompted by a fashion for old music in aristocratic circles. (The Emperor liked fugues.) Counterpoint was used to elaborate and intensify the thematic argument of sonata form. Dissonance was deployed in slow movements to offset the surplus of beauty. The famous Andante of Piano Concerto No. 21 contains, as Scott Burnham has noted, a quietly shuddering five-note collection that is not so much a chord as a cluster. Counterpoint and dissonance were the cables on which Mozart's bridges to paradise hung.
The Theatre of the Real
Mozart's operas, meanwhile, abandoned artifice in favor of something unprecedented: moment-to-moment psychological realism rendered in music. In The Abduction from the Seraglio, Belmonte ventures into the Ottoman Empire in search of his kidnapped love, Constanze. (The coincidence of names — Mozart was composing the opera while falling in love with his own Constanze — is too neat to ignore and too uncertain to make much of.) Having learned that she is nearby, Belmonte sings of the anxious beating of his heart: "O wie ängstlich, o wie feurig." The heartbeat is indicated in a soft but insistent pattern of falling thirds. "You see the trembling, the faltering," Mozart wrote proudly to his father. A fluttering, innocent-sounding kind of worry is suggested by rapid runs of flute and muted violins. Toward the end of the aria, the throbbing figure returns in the minor mode, reinforced by winds in unison — obsessive, fearful. A lover's paranoia creeping in.
This insistent deepening of ostensibly comic situations became Mozart's signature over the next several years. The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovanni, and Così Fan Tutte — the three operas created in tandem with his ideal librettist, the Italian Jewish polymath Lorenzo Da Ponte — sprawl across the boundary between comic and tragic, defining life as what happens in between.
Da Ponte deserves his compressed biography. Born Emanuele Conegliano in 1749 in the Venetian Republic, the son of a Jewish tanner who converted to Catholicism and renamed the family after the bishop who baptized them, Da Ponte was a priest, an adventurer, a seducer, a sometime friend of Casanova's, and a man who would eventually emigrate to New York and end his days as a grocer and the first professor of Italian at Columbia University. He had an extraordinary ear for dramatic rhythm and an instinct for the places where language needed to dissolve into music. Mozart recognized this instantly. The collaboration produced three works that, between them, contain the full range of human behavior.
Figaro reached the stage on May 1, 1786, and was warmly received — though modestly compared with certain operas by Martin y Soler and Giovanni Paisiello. Its central achievement lies in its ensembles: the Act 3 Letter Duet, with its realistic representation of dictation followed by reading-back as a condensed musical recapitulation; the act finales, broad and symphonically organized, each section worked out as a unit, the tension of the Count's examination of Figaro paralleled in the tonal scheme, with its return to the tonic only when the final question is resolved.
But it was Don Giovanni, premiered in Prague on October 29, 1787, that became the fulcrum on which the Enlightenment tipped into Romanticism.
The Descent
If Don Giovanni were played in bus stations, it would spread fear. It would probably cause perversion in infants. No matter how many times you hear the punitive D-minor chord with which the opera begins, or the glowering diminished seventh that heralds the arrival of the stone statue of the Commendatore — "Don Giovanni, you invited me to dinner, and I have come" — it generates a certain mental panic.
The opera's impact on Western culture was immense. Goethe set to work in earnest on Faust after seeing a performance in 1797. Kierkegaard was excited by the "sensuous genius" of Mozart's music. Wagner was deeply under its spell: when the tragic god Wotan sings the words "Das Ende!" in the Ring, he traverses the same intervals with which the Commendatore intones Don Giovanni's name.
When the Don goes down to Hell, the scene is structured around a staggered sequence of upward-creeping chromatic lines, sometimes in the bass, sometimes in the treble. Twice, the strings embroider that pattern with furious up-and-down scales, each a half-step higher than the previous one, giving the impression of music obliterating everything in its path — like a death machine in a medieval etching. A thumping four-note figure recalls the Commendatore knocking at the door but ends up sounding like the stomping of feet. Tellingly, that four-note stomp reappears in the finale of Schubert's Ninth Symphony, connoting a young artist asserting his power. At the same time, the scene has an archaic, religious aspect, echoing Renaissance and Baroque sacred music. The unsettling device of an upward chromatic bass line — the downward, "lamenting" bass is more common — appears several times in Mozart's early Mass settings to underpin the word "Crucifixus."
The Don's almost existential fate — his crucifixion without resurrection — is singular in Mozart's world. Most of his operas end in reconciliation: in
Figaro, the Countess pardons the Count; in
Idomeneo, Neptune's oracle proclaims the power of love; in
The Abduction, Pasha Selim forgives his enemy's son; in
The Magic Flute, Sarastro rises above vengeance. In
Don Giovanni, as Jessica Waldoff points out in
Recognition in Mozart's Operas, the moment of recognition is withheld. The Don remains "unflinching, unreflecting." That is why the Romantics revered him: he does not stray from the extreme path he has chosen. He is more Faustian than Goethe's Faust, who does, in the end, repent.
And then: a final twist. In a cosmically laughing epilogue, the remaining principals gather to proclaim, in bouncy, up-tempo music, that evildoers always meet the same bad end. The Romantics routinely cut this seeming anticlimax. Richard Strauss was one of the first to recognize its ironic intelligence and restore it. Having marched us to the brink of Heaven and Hell, Mozart abruptly pulls us back, implying that all is show, a pageant melting into air. "I'm just the composer, I don't have any answers," he seems to say. "Life goes on."
The Improvising Perfectionist
Scholars have demolished the old idea that Mozart was an idiot savant, transcribing the music that played in his brain. The image of God's stenographer — divine melody flowing directly from heaven through the composer's pen to paper — is seductive but wrong. Examination of Mozart's surviving sketches and drafts (Constanze threw many away) reveals a far more interesting process: he sometimes began a piece, set it aside, and resumed it months or years later; rewrote troubling sections several times in a row; started movements from scratch when a first attempt failed to satisfy; waited to finish an aria until a singer had tried out the opening.
According to Constanze, when something relatively simple was being composed — opera recitatives, ballroom dances — conception and notation occurred simultaneously. "He composed music as if he were writing a letter." But when a grand conception was working in his brain, "he was purely abstracted, walking about the apartment, and knew not what was going on around him."
In a letter to his father from 1780, while finishing Idomeneo, Mozart wrote: "Well, I must close, for I must now write at breakneck speed. Everything has been composed, but not yet written down." His musical memory was so developed that he could retain entire works, note for note, in his head. During Holy Week in Rome in 1770, the fourteen-year-old Mozart heard the Sistine Choir perform Gregorio Allegri's Miserere — a work considered the choir's exclusive preserve, its score closely guarded — and copied it out from memory afterward.
The new scholarly image of Mozart as a kind of improvising perfectionist is more formidable than the old one. As the New Yorker's Alex Ross observed: "Ambitious parents who are currently playing the 'Baby Mozart' video for their toddlers may be disappointed to learn that Mozart became Mozart by working furiously hard, and, if Constanze was right, by working himself to death."
When you are improvising, you can play with anarchy if you like, because different things can happen, unexpected things or rational things. When you compose, of course, you have time to reflect on these things. You can be sitting there with your quill dipped into the inkwell while you think about how things are going to go.
Money, Status, and the Fickle Viennese
Mozart's financial story is more nuanced than the myth of the impoverished genius suggests, and less comfortable than the revisionist "he actually did fine" counter-narrative allows. One may calculate his likely income during his last five years, 1786–91, as being far larger than that of most musicians — but much below that of the section of society with which he wanted to be associated. Leopold's early advice to be aloof with fellow musicians but friendly with the aristocracy had its price.
His sense of being as good a man as any privileged nobleman led him and Constanze into tastes that, for his actual station in life, were extravagant. He moved through eleven apartments in Vienna in a decade — each a step in an ongoing negotiation between aspiration and solvency. He saw a court appointment as possible salvation. In 1787, to prevent "so rare a genius" from going abroad, Emperor Joseph II gave Mozart a position as Kammermusicus that paid 800 florins a year and required little more than the writing of dances. Mozart's response was characteristically barbed: "Too much for what I do, too little for what I could do."
After 1786, the storm of style abated. Production of piano concertos tapered off — no subscribers — and there were no more symphonies after the colossal "Jupiter" of 1788, itself part of an almost unbelievable burst in which Mozart wrote his final three symphonies in six weeks that summer, with no cross-outs or revisions, simply setting down in ink what had already been composed in his mind. Instead came frequent groups of minuets, contredanses, and popular dances — the result of his new job. They are exasperating to listen to in large quantity but full of lively detail, and they serve as a reminder that eighteenth-century composers were expected to produce both "popular" and "serious" music, and that there was no categorical difference between the two. Popular dance styles are deployed to dramatic effect in the ballroom scene of Don Giovanni, where an aristocratic minuet, a popular contredanse, and a working-class Deutscher are played simultaneously in three different meters — a demonstration of Mozart's ability to move as a free agent through the social and cultural hierarchies of his time.
The paranoia was never far. "I think that something is going on behind the scenes, and that doubtless here too I have enemies," he had written from Paris in 1778. "Where, indeed, have I not had them?" He clung to the idea that Antonio Salieri, the Imperial Kapellmeister, was plotting against him — though John Rice's biography of the supposedly dastardly Salieri portrays him as a likable character and an imaginative composer, and Mozart himself was not above politicking. When he applied for the job of second Kapellmeister, he pointedly observed that "the very capable Kapellmeister Salieri has never devoted himself to church music."
The Garden of Forking Paths
The works of Mozart's last three years have long caused puzzlement. Less prolific than before, he seems to be groping toward a new style — more concise in form, more melodically compressed. The String Quintet in D (K. 593), from 1790, is a work of particular refinement and subtlety. Schubert knew that there was something potent in it: he copied passages almost note for note in his "Trout" Quintet and his own String Quintet. Charles Rosen, in
The Classical Style, isolates a riveting passage in the Quintet's Adagio: "four completely different kinds of rhythm superimposed in a contrapuntal texture at once complex and deeply touching" — one violin moving up by steps, another stepping haltingly down, the violas sighing on repeated seconds and thirds, the cello undermining the harmony with a jazzy pizzicato figure that plunges down an octave and a half. Right afterward comes a radiant little theme of rising-and-falling phrases, one of the oldest recurring motifs in Mozart's language — an archetype of love or longing. There is something elegiac in this gesture toward the past; Mozart, near the end, goes back to his beginnings.
Yet it is hazardous to connect the elusive emotions of the late works with the fact of the composer's approaching death. Julian Rushton wryly notes in
Mozart that critics used to detect "feelings of impending doom" in the Clarinet Concerto and the Piano Concerto No. 27, which appeared in Mozart's final year — until it turned out that the first movement of each was sketched several years earlier.
What 1791 produced was not a decline but a garden of forking paths. The Magic Flute — the ultimate synthesis of high and low, Enlightenment philosophy disguised as popular pantomime, an opera in which the Queen of the Night's coloratura rage coexists with Papageno's birdcatcher schmaltz. La Clemenza di Tito — a robust revival of the aging art of opera seria, written for the coronation of Leopold II in Prague, its spare scoring and restrained style long dismissed as a product of haste but now understood as Mozart's response to neoclassical thinking. The silken lyricism of the Clarinet Concerto. And the Requiem, K. 626 — commissioned anonymously by Count von Walsegg-Stuppach to pass off as his own, left unfinished, its sombre grandeur a hint of what might have been.
Mozart was still a young man, discovering what he could do. In the unimaginable alternate universe in which he lived to seventy, as Alex Ross imagined, "an anniversary-year essay might have contained a sentence such as this: 'Opera houses focus on the great works of Mozart's maturity — The Tempest, Hamlet, the two-part Faust — but it would be a good thing if we occasionally heard that flawed yet lively work of his youth, Don Giovanni.'"
Severe Miliary Fever
He had been ill during the weeks in Prague for the premiere of La Clemenza di Tito in September 1791. He told Constanze, dramatically, that he must have been poisoned — "Someone has given me Aqua Tofana and calculated the precise time of my death." He recovered enough to see The Magic Flute to its premiere on September 30, to write a Masonic cantata and direct its performance on November 18, to work steadily on the Requiem. But later in November he was confined to bed. Some apparent improvement on December 3 was not sustained.
On December 5, 1791, Wolfgang Amadè Mozart died. He was thirty-five years old. "Severe miliary fever" was the certified cause; later, "rheumatic inflammatory fever" was named. Modern medical scholarship has proposed Schönlein-Henoch syndrome, chronic glomerular nephritis, cerebral hemorrhage, bronchopneumonia — and has noted that venesection, the standard treatment of the era, may have hastened the end. There is no credible evidence of poisoning by Salieri or anyone else. He was buried in a multiple grave, standard at the time in Vienna for a person of his social and financial situation. A small group of friends attended the funeral.
Constanze, anxious to have the Requiem completed so a fee could be collected, handed the manuscript first to Joseph Eybler, who supplied some orchestration but was reluctant to do more, then to Mozart's pupil Franz Xaver Süssmayr, who produced a complete version — writing several movements himself, possibly basing them on Mozart's sketches or instructions. Subject to criticism for its technical weaknesses, Süssmayr's completion has nevertheless remained the standard version, if only because of its familiarity. The sombre grandeur of the work, its restrained instrumental coloring and noble choral writing, seems to point toward a future that was not granted — a future in which Mozart, appointed Kapellmeister of St. Stephen's Cathedral (a position he had applied for, with the elderly incumbent expected to die soon, though Hofmann would outlive him by two years), transformed sacred music as thoroughly as he had transformed the concerto, the symphony, and the opera.
Of the six children born to Wolfgang and Constanze, two survived to adulthood. Carl Thomas, born 1784, died 1858 — a modest career as a civil servant. Franz Xaver Wolfgang, born 1791, died 1844 — a composer and pianist, talented but overshadowed by an impossibility.
Constanze eventually remarried — Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, a Danish diplomat who wrote the first substantial biography of Mozart, published in 1828. She sold most of the surviving manuscripts to the firm of André in Offenbach, which issued editions throughout the nineteenth century. The first scholarly biography, by Otto Jahn, was issued on Mozart's centenary in 1856. The Köchel catalogue followed six years later. The first complete edition of his music began in 1877. Two firms had already embarked on collected editions before the end of the eighteenth century. The market for Mozart, it turned out, was considerably better after his death.
The Red Coat, Flapping
At the time of his death Mozart was widely regarded not only as the greatest composer of the time but also as a bold and difficult one. Don Giovanni especially was seen as complex and dissonant, his chamber music as calling for outstanding skill in its interpreters. The traditional image of the child prodigy turned refined drawing-room composer gave way, in the twentieth century, to something closer to the truth: a serious and painstaking creative artist with acute human insight, whose complex psychology demanded exploration.
The pianist Alfred Brendel, one of the great Mozart interpreters, recalled that his approach to Mozart in the 1960s was one of "Apollonian poise." It was only later, as he aged, that he discovered what he called "the dark side of Mozart's genius." Brendel points to Busoni's lovely observation — "there was no doubt that Mozart took singing as his starting point, and from this stems the uninterrupted melodiousness which shimmers through his compositions like the lovely forms of a woman through the folds of a flimsy dress" — but insists on the dimension Busoni missed: the demonic. Mozart's range, Brendel says, extends "from the most comic and absurd to the demonic — which is where I disagree with Busoni, who does not recognize Mozart's demonic side."
This tension — between the Apollonian and the demonic, between beauty and its opposite, between what the surface shows and what the depths contain — is why Mozart remains, two and a half centuries later, so vivid a presence. He is not a museum piece. He is not background music, though he is routinely subjected to that fate. He is not the chocolate-box Mozart, the car-radio Mozart, the Mozart-makes-you-smarter Mozart. He is the composer who wrote a canon called "Lick My Arse" and a scene in which a man is dragged to Hell while the audience cannot tell whether the music represents the legions of the damned celebrating their conquest or the armies of Heaven rather too enthusiastically enjoying their capacity for destruction.
He walked away at a rapid pace, his red coat flapping behind him.
