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.