CHAPTER XXXII. MOZART AS AN ARTIST.
OF those who realise the excitement and want of repose of Mozart's life in Vienna, and the variety of occupations and distractions which beset him, it must appear matter of wonder that he was able to produce so large a number of compositions, each bearing an individual character of maturity and finish. The wonder increases as the conviction grows that not only was he ready as each occasion arose to prove, as Goethe says every artist should, that his art came at his command, but that he had the power of bringing forth at will his deepest, best conceptions, so that the external impulse appeared only as the momentum given to an artistic inspiration. It must at the same time be remembered that Mozart was not fond of writing, and generally waited until the last moment to give shape to his ideas. He was occasionally, therefore, late with his compositions, as with the sonata for Strinasacchi (Vol. II., p. 337), or had only time to write the parts without scoring them (Vol. II., pp.318, 366), or scarcely allowed the copyist time to finish his work (Vol. II., p. 327); it is only necessary to look through his Thematic Catalogue to see that most of his compositions were written as short a time as possible before they were actually wanted. His DISTASTE TO WRITING. father, who, as a man of business, considered the proper disposition of time as a matter of vital importance, often called his son's attention to this failing. "If you will examine your conscience closely," he writes (December 11, 1777), "you will find that procrastination is your besetting sin and when Wolfgang was at work on "Idomeneo" in Munich, he warned him "not to procrastinate" (November 18, 1781). After his stay in Vienna, convinced that his son was in this respect unchanged for the better, he writes to Marianne, on hearing from Wolfgang that he was over head and ears at work on the "Nozze di Figaro" (November 11, 1785), "He has procrastinated and thrown away his time after his usual habit, until now he is forced to set to work in earnest, in compliance with Count Rosenberg's commands."
It cannot be denied that Leopold Mozart was right, and that a judicious and methodical distribution of time is as desirable in an artist or a genius as in any one else; it is true also that perseverance and care may enable even an artist to overcome his inclination to procrastination.
But a glance at the extraordinary fertility of Mozart's genius, at the burning zeal and intensity with which he worked, will suffice to show the injustice of accusing him of idleness, or of never working unless he was actually driven to it. He was perfectly justified in writing to his father from Vienna (May 26, 1781): "Believe me, I do not love idleness, but rather work." The father's injustice was the result of a want of comprehension of the peculiar creative process of his son's genius. He did not appreciate the activity and industry of his mind, because it made no show, and, indeed, often hid itself behind a careless demeanour; he failed to perceive that the disinclination to write generally arose from the feeling that the workings of the mind were not yet in a shape to be expressed by the pen.
A conception of Mozart's work, almost equally mistaken, is that which takes as a measure of his genius his wonderfully rapid production, which often made his grasp of an artistic idea coincident with his embodiment of it in music. The overture to "Don Giovanni" is most often quoted as an example of this extraordinary speed. Niemetschek says (p. 84):—
Mozart wrote "Don Juan" at Prague in 1787; it was finished, rehearsed, and announced for performance in two days' time, before the overture was begun to be written. The anxiety of his friends, increasing every hour, appeared to entertain him; the more apprehensive they became, the less he would consent to hurry himself. It was not until the night before the performance, after spending the merriest evening imaginable, that he went to his room at near midnight, began to write, and completed the admirable masterpiece in a few hours.
This very credible account is corroborated by Mozart's wife:[ 1 ]—
The evening before the performance of "Don Juan" at Prague, the dress rehearsal having already taken place, he said to his wife that he would write the overture at night, if she would sit with him and make him some punch to keep his spirits up. This she did, and told him tales about Aladdin's Lamp, Cinderella, &c., which made him laugh till the tears came. But the punch made him sleepy, so that he dozed when she left off, and only worked as long as she told tales. At last, the excitement, the sleepiness, and the frequent efforts not to doze off, were too much for him, and his wife persuaded him to go to sleep on the sofa, promising to wake him in an hour. But he slept so soundly that she could not find it in her heart to wake him until two hours had passed. It was then five o'clock; at seven o'clock the overture was finished and in the hands of the copyist.
This musical myth has received a stronger colouring in the account of the elder Genast, then a young actor at Prague. According to him, Mozart partook so freely of the hospitalities of a certain gentleman on the evening in question that Genast and a friend brought him home, laid him senseless on his bed, and themselves went to sleep on the sofa. On awakening, they heard Mozart lustily singing, as he composed his overture, and "listened in reverential silence as the immortal ideas developed themselves."[ 2 ] A good instance, this, of the way to manufacture an anecdote.
Niemetschek, who had previously remarked with justice that Mozart's work was always ready in his head before he sat down to his writing-table, was no doubt of the correct opinion that the overture was only written down in this haste, not composed. Whether the wife believed this or not CONSCIENTIOUS INDUSTRY. is doubtful, since she adds ingenuously: "Some will recognise the dozings and rousings in the music of the overture." An evident repetition of some one else's words, and a very ingenious idea. One can only say with Hoffman: "Some people are fools!"[ 3 ]
An unprejudiced examination soon disposes of the not only foolish but detrimental idea[ 4 ] that rapidity of workmanship is a sign of true genius; but it is not by any means so easy a task to gain a clear and comprehensive insight into the workings of an artist's nature.[ 5 ] Fortunately for our purpose, however, averse as Mozart was to talk much of himself or his compositions, he has left us characteristic traits and expressions sufficient to enable us to realise his individualities in this respect.[ 6 ]
It is a matter of universal experience that the great men of every art and science, who have left any enduring proofs of their genius, have worked the more zealously and the more earnestly in proportion as their genius surpassed that of other men. That this holds true of Mozart no one who has studied his life and works will wish to deny. In his youth, as long as he remained under the direct control of his father, his studies were regular and severe. And as a man and a fully developed artist he had no ambition to be considered one who threw off his compositions with the carelessness of genius, or who was ashamed of his honest efforts and labours. His dedication of his quartets to Haydn speaks of them as the fruit of long and painful labour, and in a conversation with the orchestral conductor Kucharz, at Prague, MOZART AS AN ARTIST. before the performance of "Don Giovanni," he expressed himself as follows: "I have spared neither labour nor pains to produce something worthy of the reputation of Prague. It would be a great mistake to imagine that my art is an easy matter to me. I assure you, my dear friend, no one has given more trouble to the study of composition than myself. It would not be easy to find a celebrated musician whose works I have not often and laboriously studied." And in point of fact, the narrator continues, even when he had attained to classical perfection, the works of great masters were always to be seen lying on his desk.[ 7 ] We have already seen how eagerly and with what good result he studied Bach and Handel, when once Van Swieten had given him the impetus. Rochlitz[ 8 ] declares that he was as familiar with the works of Handel as if he had been all his life director of the Ancient Concerts in London. He had arrived in Leipzig just after arranging "Acis and Galatea" and the "Messiah" for Van Swieten, and the impressions of these works were fresh upon him. "Handel," Rochlitz heard him say, "knows better than any of us what will make an effect; when he chooses he strikes like a thunderbolt."[ 9 ] He admired not only Handel's choruses, but many of his arie and solos, which were not thought much of at that time. "Although he is often prosy, after the fashion of his time," said he, "there is always something in his music."[ 10 ]
At Leipzig Mozart became acquainted with the vocal compositions of Sebastian Bach. Doles made the St. Thomas choir sing him the wonderful eight-part motett, "Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied." His surprise at the flow of melody, wave upon wave, passed all bounds; he listened with rapt attention, and exclaimed with delight: "That is indeed METHOD OF WORKING. something to take a lesson from!" When he heard that the St. Thomas school possessed several other motetts by Bach, he begged to see them, and no score being accessible he surrounded himself with the parts, and was buried in study until he had worked them all out; then he asked for copies of the motetts.[ 11 ] His interest in Benda's monodramas (Vol. II., p. 74) and his expressions on the importance of French opera, prove that he had profited by the study of living masters; all his works bear traces of the kind of influence which is exercised upon a genial and receptive nature by the great performances of others.
Of a different kind to these general preparatory studies, is that which may be properly be called the labour of production: such a technical skill and perfection as enables an artist to clothe his ideas in form. It is impossible in any art (and more especially so in music) to separate absolutely form and substance, and to treat each as a self-sufficing element, and equally impossible to divide at any given point the creative, inventive force of an artistic production from its formative, executive force. The process of production, whether physical or mental, is a mystery to mankind; whence and how the artist is inspired as by a lightning flash with an idea, he knows himself as little as he can trace in his completed work the actual momentum of its conception.
The characteristics of the gradual formation and perfection of artistic ideas vary greatly in different artists; even in great and highly organised natures the mental powers are variously endowed and developed. Statements as to the easy or painful, rapid or deliberate, methods of working of different artists, vague and unsatisfactory in themselves, are for the most part the result of superficial observation and knowledge. It is of little consequence whether an artist at his work is easily distracted by external impressions, or whether he pursues his train of thought undisturbed by what is going on around him. It is of little consequence whether an artist feels necessitated or has made it his habit, to regulate his intellectual labours, and to give a written MOZART AS AN ARTIST. form to every creative impulse, or whether he renounces external aids, and shapes, proves, elaborates and connects his ideas in his own mind only. That which is of consequence, that which no true artist is without, is the power to carry on a train of thought from its earliest germs to its full development, unhindered by interruptions and distractions; and the further power to realise the idea of the whole at every point, as the determining element of the details of conception and form. It is difficult to know whether to admire more the steady flow of invention and form as it proceeds from some minds, or the gradual evolution of a unique self-contained whole out of an apparent waste of disconnected ideas which is characteristic of others. Mozart displayed from every point of view an exceptionally happy organisation. His copious and easily excited productive power was supported by a delicate sense of form, which was developed to such perfection by thorough and varied study that he employed the technicalities of musical form as if by a natural instinct. In addition to this he possessed the gift of so detaching his mind from what was going on around him that he could work out his ideas even to the minutest detail; his wonderful memory enabling him to retain in its completeness whatever he had thus inwardly elaborated, and to reproduce it at any moment in a tangible form.
The impulse which drives an artist to production is seldom consciously felt by himself and is never capable of definition. In most cases this signifies but little, for external impulse usually furnishes only the occasion for a work of art, and even when the impulse happens to be a visible one our attention is concentrated on the creation which it has called forth. This is especially true of music, which draws its immediate inspiration neither from nature nor from the world of thought. It would be of the highest interest to follow the process by means of which impressions made on the artist's mind produce well-defined musical ideas. This, however, is impossible; the idea and its musical development are simultaneous efforts of the mind; the work of art thus called into being cannot be immediately referred to any impulse from without.
Nor is it by any means essential that it should. It is of far greater psychological interest to consider those characteristics of the artist which give a clearer insight into his disposition and ways of feeling, although it may not be possible to trace them in the details of his works. Thus we are told that the sight of beautiful nature stirred Mozart's productive powers to activity. Rochlitz writes on Con-stanze's authority:[ 12 ]—
When he was travelling with his wife through beautiful scenery, he used to gaze earnestly and in silence on the scene before him; his usually absent and thoughtful expression would brighten by degrees, and he would begin to sing, or rather to hum, finally breaking out with: "If I could only put the subject down on paper!" And, when I sometimes said that he could do so if he pleased, he went on: "Yes, of course, all in proper form! What a pity it is that one's work must all be hatched in one's own room!"
He always endeavoured to pass the summer in the country or where there was a garden; it is well known that it was chiefly in a garden that he wrote "Don Juan" in Prague and the "Zauberflöte" in Vienna; and in 1758, having taken a country residence for the summer, he wrote to Puchberg (June 27): "I have done more in the ten days that I have been here than I should have done in two months anywhere else." This love of nature is not surprising in a man of Mozart's healthy tone of mind, who had been brought up amid the beautiful surroundings of Salzburg. But he was by no means wedded to these, or to any other influences from without. Wherever he was he was incessantly occupied with musical thoughts and labours. "You know," he writes to his father (Vol. II., p. 43), "that I am, so to speak, steeped in music—that it is in my mind the whole day, and that I love to dream, to study, to reflect upon it." Those who knew him well could not fail to be aware of this. His sister-in-law Sophie describes him well:[ 13 ]—
He was always good-humoured, but thoughtful even in his best moods, looking one straight in the face, and always speaking with reflection, whether the talk was grave or gay; and yet he seemed always to be carrying on a deeper train of thought. Even when he was washing his MOZART AS AN ARTIST. hands in the morning, he never stood still, but walked up and down the room humming, and buried in thought. At table he would often twist up a corner of the table-cloth, and rub his upper lip with it, without appearing in the least to know what he was doing, and he sometimes made extraordinary grimaces with his mouth. His hands and feet were in continual motion, and he was always strumming on something—his hat, his watch-fob, the table, the chairs, as if they were the clavier.
Karajan tells me that his barber used to relate in after-years how difficult it was to dress his hair, since he never would sit still; every moment an idea would occur to him, and he would run to the clavier, the barber after him, hair-ribbon in hand. We have already observed that musical ideas occupied him during all bodily exercises, such as riding, bowls, and billiard-playing; his timidity in riding may have arisen from the frequent distraction of his attention from the management of his horse. General conversation, as Frau Haibl says, did not disturb his mental labours, and his brother-in-law Lange was particularly struck by the fact that when he was engaged on his most important works he took more than his usual share in any light or jesting talk that was going on; this resulted from an involuntary impulse to find a counterpoise for his intellectual activity. Even when music was going on, provided it did not particularly interest him, he had the power of carrying on his own musical thoughts, and of ignoring the music he heard, as completely as any other disturbance. His elder sister-in-law, Frau Hofer, told Neukomm that sometimes at the opera Mozart's friends could tell by the restless movements of his hands, by his look, and the way in which he moved his lips, as if singing or whistling, that he was entirely engrossed by his internal musical activity.
The abstraction and absorption of men of genius appears natural and comprehensible, and is respected even by those whose intellectual activity is not concentrated in the same way. But few are able to enter into the workings of a mind which is ever conceiving and shaping ideas in its hidden recesses, without severing its connection with what is going on around; such a mind has a sort of double existence, and appears able to follow two paths leading in different MENTAL LABOUR AND PREOCCUPATION. directions at the same time. If, as sometimes happens, the outer activity fails to keep pace with the inner, a superficial observer possesses himself of this fact, and makes it the basis of his judgments, leaving out of account the inner and true activity of which the outer is but a manifestation. Even Mozart's father failed to comprehend his peculiar organisation, and refused to recognise any results of his labour but those which were written down, and which had thus, after a long and uninterrupted chain of intellectual exertions, received the seal of their artistic completion. To Mozart himself, on the contrary, this part of his labour seemed unimportant and even burdensome, his productive powers having little share in it. He postponed it as long as possible, not only because he wished to retain his power over the work which occupied him, until it was fully matured in his own mind, but also because he took far more pleasure in creating than in transcribing. It cannot be denied that he sometimes postponed this least congenial part of his task too long. To the methodical man of business this appears all the more blamable, since Mozart was always able at need to execute commissions accurately and punctually; to speak of idleness, or of forced industry, shows complete ignorance of the man. It is true that Mozart laid himself open to the imputation by the speed at which he wrote when he actually set to work; those who observed this could not conceive why a man with such "gifts of Providence" did not "compose," as people say, from morning to night. His wife said truly:[ 14 ] "The greater industry of his later years was merely apparent, because he wrote down more. He was always working in his head, his mind was in constant motion, and one may say that he never ceased composing." Although his wife was constantly called on by his admirers to urge him to work, she considered it her duty far oftener to restrain and moderate his activity.
The wonderful harmony of different artistic qualities in Mozart, which Rossini expressed so finely by saying that Mozart was the only musician who had as much genius as MOZART AS AN ARTIST. knowledge and as much knowledge as genius, may be traced in many particulars. The more subordinate power of grasping the idea of a strange composition at a glance, and of executing it on the spot, he possessed as a matter of course. His playing at sight has already been noted many times (Vol. I., pp. 37, log, 363, 365), and his criticism of Sterkel and Vogler show his own view of the matter (Vol. I., p. 387). "It must be," Umlauf said, as Mozart writes to his father (October 6, 1782), "that Mozart has the devil in his head and his fingers—he played my opera, which is so badly written that even I cannot read it, as if he had composed it himself." To this power of seeing at a glance the details and whole conception of a musical work was added a marvellous memory, capable of retaining all that was so seen. As a boy he gave proof of this by his transcription of the Miserere (Vol. I., p. 119); in later years he used to play his concertos by heart when he was travelling; not merely one or another that he had practised, but any or all; he was known to play a concerto from memory that he had not seen for long, because he had forgotten to bring the principal part.[ 15 ] At Prague he wrote the trumpet and drum parts of the second finale in "Don Juan" without a score, brought them himself into the orchestra, and showed the performers a place where there would certainly be a mistake, only he could not say whether there would be four bars too much or too little; the mistake was found just as he had said.[ 16 ] But this proves only the power of remembering what was finished and impressed on the mind. A more remarkable instance of musical memory was his writing only the violin part of a sonata for piano and violin to perform with Strinasacchi (Vol. II., p. 337), and playing the piano part from his head without ever having heard the piece; or writing a composition at once in parts, without having scored it (Vol. II., p. 366). This displays the astonishing clearness and precision with which he grasped and retained compositions he MENTAL POWERS AND METHOD. had once thought out, even in their minutest details, and we can now account for the rapidity of his transcription from the fact of its being mere transcription. External distractions, so far from annoying him, served to divert his mind during the mechanical labour with his pen.[ 17 ] He made Constanze tell him stories, or played bowls; his wife tells us herself how she was confined of her first child while he was composing the second of his quartets, dedicated to Haydn (421 K.). This was in the summer of 1783, and he sat at work in the same room where she lay; indeed, he generally worked in her room during her frequent illnesses. When she complained of pain, he would come to her to cheer and console, resuming his writing as soon as she was calm. This is a striking proof how unshackled Mozart's musical activity was by external circumstances; it is not given to many to remain so completely master of their ideas and powers during an event which would naturally appeal to the ten-derest feelings of the heart. Still more striking is his expression to his sister when he sends her the prelude and fugue before mentioned (Vol. II., p. 321). He apologises for the prelude being placed improperly after the fugue: "The reason was," he says, "that I had already composed the fugue, and wrote it down while I was thinking out the prelude."
Such mental powers as these reduced the mere writing to an almost mechanical operation; nevertheless, he did not rely so completely as he might have done on his memory, but made occasional notes for his better convenience and certainty. Rochlitz tells us, no doubt on Constanze's authority:[ 18 ]—
Mozart, when in company with his wife or those who put no restraint on him, and especially during his frequent carriage journeys, used not only to exercise his fancy by the invention of new melodies, but occupied his intellect and feeling in arranging and elaborating such melodies, often humming or singing aloud, growing red in the face and suffering no interruption. The briefest indications in black and white sufficed to preserve these studies in his memory; his easily kindled imagination, his complete mastery of the resources of his art, and his extraordinary MOZART AS AN ARTIST. musical memory needed little aid; he used to keep scraps of music paper at hand (when travelling, in the side-pocket of the carriage) for such fragmentary notes and reminders;[ 19 ] these scraps,carefully preserved in a case, were a sort of journal of his travels to him, and the whole proceeding had a sort of sacredness to his mind which made him very averse to any interference with it.
These notes, having served their purpose, seem to have been thought unworthy of preservation; the few that remain are interesting and suggestive. The sketch which is given in facsimile of Denis's ode (Vol. II., p. 370) gives an outline of the whole work in writing so hasty as scarcely to be recognised for Mozart's. The voice part is written entire as well as the bass of the accompaniment, and the other parts have all their characteristics so clearly noted that there could be no doubt as to their further elaboration. It is evident that the composition was finished in Mozart's brain when the sketch was written, so that it does not appear as one attempt among several to give shape to his conception, but as an aid to the memory when it should be necessary to write down the whole in detail. Similar, but still slighter, is the sketch for one of the songs in "L' Oca del Cairo," which is given in facsimile in Jul. André's edition in pianoforte score. Here again the voice part is given from beginning to end, but the bass is not shown, and the accompaniment only here and there (once with the direction that the clarinets are to be used). The piece was simple enough to require very slight reminders for its elaboration. It would not be easy to decide whether such a sketch should be considered as the result of much previous reflection and study, or whether it was the immediate fruit of a moment of inspiration.
These two sketches never having been elaborated, so far as we are aware, we can make no comparison which will show how far such sketches were modified before the completion of the work. There is considerable difference between the first hasty sketch of the terzet (5) from the "Sposo Deluso" (430 K.), which Jul. André has given in the SKETCHES. preface to his pianoforte edition, and the later elaboration of it. Nothing remains but the first motif—[See Page Image]
but so differently applied that this sketch cannot have been taken as the point of departure for the working-out, but must be considered as an earlier and rejected conception. On the other hand, the sketches for a song from "Idomeneo" (Vol. II., p. 148) and for a tenor song (420 K.) are almost identical in the voice part with the score as it stands.
Peculiar interest attaches to Sketch I., given in facsimile. The three first lines are noted for a clavier composition; then follows the sketch of a terzet (434 K.) for two bass voices and a tenor, from an opera buffa, on which Mozart was apparently at work in 1783. A fair copy of the work is partially preserved, and gives an idea of the way in which Mozart arranged his scores. The sketch contains only the voice parts, with slight hints for the accompaniment, showing how in one place the first idea was rejected and then again resumed. It is evident from the way in which the space is employed that the notes were made very hastily.
The score, on the contrary, is a fair copy of the work accidentally left unfinished. It has the proper number of parts for the voices and orchestra, with the corresponding title before each. The ritornello is first given, which is long, because it serves as an introduction to the first scene of the opera. It is formed of motifs which recur later, and it is plain that this independent introduction was written after the completion of the terzet, in which the motifs have each their special signification. The principal parts (first violin and bass), are written in full, but only those parts of the wind instruments in which they have independent motifs; all that was intended to give colouring and shading to this simple outline is omitted. The voice parts are all inserted in proper order, and the bass is given in full; but there are few hints for the accompaniment. It is all written firmly and neatly, showing plainly enough that it was finished. The deviations from the sketch are unimportant MOZART AS AN ARTIST. in the bass voice, more striking in the tenor, where the primary design of the melody remains, but the elaboration is modified and the conclusion lengthened. Where the voices are together nothing has been altered, so far as we can discover. The first sketch breaks off a few bars sooner than the score, which itself is a comparatively small fragment of the whole terzet.
It is evident, therefore, that the true artistic work was done before the first sketch was made, and that the elaboration of the latter into the score was no mere mechanical adoption of the motif (which seems to have been rejected upon critical revision and, so to speak, bom again), but the final reduction to form of what was already complete in conception. This is still more the case in the elaboration of the accompaniment in detail; the well-defined outline which is given keeps it within certain limits without imposing on it any hampering restraint.
Further instances may be found in those works of which the plans of the scores, generally unelaborated, are preserved. Particularly instructive are the unelaborated movements of the Mass in C minor (427 K.) and of the "Requiem" (626 K.) in André's edition; also the pianoforte score of the duet (384 K.) from the "Entführung" and the unfinished opera "L' Oca del Cairo," edited by Jul. André, are examples of similar sketches. They possess peculiar interest to students, since they show those points which Mozart considered as containing the germ of the whole conception. The different stages of the elaboration can be traced in most of Mozart's autograph scores. The voices and bass are invariably written first, and enough of the accompaniment to show its characteristic points; this fact can be recognised, even in scores afterwards fully elaborated, by the differences in ink and handwriting, which is generally more hasty in the elaboration than in the earlier sketch. When once this was made, the elaboration was often long deferred; the whole of the first act of "L' Oca del Cairo" was thus projected, and, the design of the opera being abandoned, was never elaborated; so, too, all the movements of the "Requiem," from the Dies irse to the Quam olim were written entire for the voices with a figured bass, while the ALTERATIONS AND IMPROVEMENTS. instrumentation was only suggested. He waited for time and inclination to continue the work thus begun, and needed more urging to it than to any other, for once having fixed the outline of his design, it required a mere mechanical effort to reproduce it in his mind with details of form and colour. A striking example is that mentioned on p. 360 (Vol. II.), where, by the figuring of the bass, he supplied an aid to his memory of a peculiar harmonic succession which perhaps flashed across him at the moment of transcription in his compositions.
Important alterations were seldom made by Mozart, unless at the instance of the singer or the instrumentalist. He sent his father the score of the "Entführung" with the remark that there were many erasures, because the score had to be copied at once, and he had therefore given free play to his ideas, and then altered and curtailed them before giving the score to be written; it is evident from this that the alterations were almost all made with reference to external circumstances. The improvements made as the work proceeded were usually only trifling, such as modifications in pianoforte passages, or unimportant turns of expression in vocal parts. Thus, for instance, the close of the Count's song in "Figaro" was originally simpler—[See Page Image]
In the duet for the two girls in "Cosi fan Tutte" (4), Dorabella's part had the bars—[See Page Images]
The decided heroic style of the first version, which would be fitting enough for Fiordiligi, is thus toned down, and an expression of greater elegance given to the passage.
It is worth remarking that the characteristic motif of Donna Anna's song in "Don Giovanni"—
Or sai chi l' o-no- re ra - pi - re a me vol-se, chi fu il tra - di - to -re, was originally—
Or sai chi l'o-no-re ra - pi - re a me vol-se, chi fu il tra - di - to - re, and every one must feel how greatly it has gained by the alteration. In every case Mozart's self-criticism has been founded on true feeling and discrimination, even when it has not been called for on definite technical grounds. In the Countess's song in "Figaro" (19) the first division of the allegro, from bar eight, concluded originally thus:—[See Page Image]
The phrase as it is now known was written underneath and the bass scratched out. In the further course of the allegro the three bars— ALTERATIONS AND IMPROVEMENTS. were originally simply repeated after the interlude, and then went on:—[See Page Images]
Mozart appears to have felt when he surveyed the whole song that such an untroubled expression of a fresh joyous impulse was not altogether appropriate to the character of the Countess, and he therefore inserted seven bars on the repetition of the motif, which give the passage an altogether different colour:—
The strongly accented change to C minor expresses such a depth of sorrow and yearning pathos that the lively tone of the allegro seems to be covered with a veil, and the whole emphasis of the song falls upon this place. Certainly, none would have suspected this passage of being an interpolation. The concluding bars of the Andante of the C major symphony (551 K.) originally ran thus:—
How beautifully this passage is replaced by the eleven closing bars, which now lead back to the chief theme, and give emphasis and dignity to the close! In the terzet from "Tito" (14) the andantino originally closed with a simple passage for the strings:—
This is now replaced by a passage divided among all the instruments—[See Page Images]
which, with its agitated motion, is more sharply characteristic of the situation. All these are examples, not of improvements to a finished work, but of a free act of production giving a new disposition to the passages in their relation to the whole work. But Mozart sometimes hesitated at the moment of decision, and made repeated experiments before he was satisfied, as in the case of the conclusion of Susanna's charming song in "Figaro," which seems to belong so naturally to its position that one cannot imagine it other than it is; yet the sketches and alterations of the original show that many earlier experiments were made. Worthy of note also are the two bars in the overture to the "Zauberflote" (p. 10, André), in which the clarinet leads the repetition of the second subject—
and which Mozart, with just discrimination, has struck out of the finished work.
It is a curious fact that Mozart was sometimes uncertain as to his rhythm. The quartet in "Cosi fan Tutte" (21) was originally written:—
At the eighth bar Mozart saw that this was incorrect, and altered the first bars—
and continued it so. There is an exactly similar case in the duet in the "Zauberflote" (8) which Mozart wrote at first thus— ALTERATIONS AND IMPROVEMENTS. and did not find out his mistake until quite the end, when he carefully scratched out all the bar lines and put in the correct ones:—[See Page Images]
Again, in Sesto's air in "Tito" (19), the adagio originally began—
but the bar lines were afterwards erased and fresh ones supplied in red chalk, making the first bar full. Another very singular mistake in the duet in the "Zauberflöte" consists in the omission in the second and third bars of the two chords for clarinets and horns, which Mozart has evidently merely forgotten to transcribe. Now and then, but very rarely, important alterations are made in the instrumentation of his works. One instance occurs in the introduction to the "Zauberflöte," at the beginning of which the trumpets and drums were in C, and were so carried on to the entrance of the three ladies; then Mozart seems to have thought that trumpets and drums could be used with effect as accompaniment, and he has struck through all that he had previously written, and noted the trumpets and drums upon a loose sheet in E flat; he has then continued them for seven bars as an accompaniment to the opening trio. At the beginning of Leporello's great songs in "Don Giovanni" (1,4) trumpets and drums were indicated, but they were afterwards struck out when it came to be performed. In a long comic air, which was intended for "Cosi fan Tutte" (584 K.), he has struck out the horn part, after writing the whole of it. In Dorabella's air (28) the fundamental bass of those parts where only wind instruments are now employed was intrusted to the double-bass; Mozart afterwards struck this out, and expressly noted "senza basso." In the second finale MOZART AS AN ARTIST. of the "Zauberflöte" the piano chords which follow Pamina's words, "Ich muss ihn sehen" were first given by the strings, but flutes and clarinets were afterwards substituted. In the G minor symphony he at first intended to have four horns, but after a few bars he struck them out, and limited himself to two. In the terzet in the "Zauberflöte" (20), the first bar of the accompaniment was given to the violins, thus—[See Page Image]
which was afterwards erased, and a single crotchet used on the unaccented part of the bar, with great gain to the effect. But these are solitary instances. The individual tone-colouring of the instruments is an essential element of musical construction, which cannot be added afterwards, but is contemporaneous with the conception, and has its own share in the working-out of the musical idea. When, therefore, the composer develops his work in his own mind, he hears not only certain abstract sounds, but definite individual tones embodied in the voices and instruments; the whole image glows with vivid colouring in his mind, and only needs to receive its outward form. Besides, it must be remembered that Mozart himself created the orchestra as it was employed with increasing effect from "Idomeneo" onwards; the full use of wind instruments, their combination with each other and with the strings; the consequent radical change of colouring in the instrumentation as a whole, and the wealth of charming detail in the blending of the tone-colours, are all due to Mozart.[ 20 ] He had never heard the effects he strove to produce; they existed in the orchestra, it is true, as the statue exists in the marble; but just as the sculptor must have seen with his spiritual eye what he strives to reproduce in the stone, so Mozart can have heard only with his spiritual ear the sounds which he drew from his orchestra.[ 21 ]
The alterations which have been mentioned are not to be considered as selected from among many similar instances, they are the only ones of any consequence with which my researches have acquainted me. In forming our idea of Mozart's method of writing his score, we may remark further, that he did not content himself with such hasty outlines beforehand as might suggest the course of the whole by a few touches, but sketched out fully those parts where he thought well to give particular attention to the details. Canons, fugues, passages in counterpoint, with a complicated disposition of parts or some other difficulty, were worked out upon scraps of music paper or sheets which had been previously used but not quite filled, and then transferred to the score. An accurate sketch for the first finale in "Don Giovanni," for instance, where the three dance melodies occur together in different measures, was shown to me by Al. Fuchs, who had procured one such sketch from each of Mozart's great operas. There was another also of the three-part canon in the second finale of "Cosi fan Tutte," in which only the canon, not the voice part belonging to it, was noted. There exists also, in addition to the rough draft of the score of "L' Oca del Cairo," sketches of those parts of the quartet (6) and finale (7) which demand particular attention on account of the contrapuntal disposition of the parts. Unfortunately but few of these sketches have been preserved, but those few show Mozart's method very clearly, and leave no doubt that they were made in order that his conception might be fully developed and arranged in his own mind before its final reduction to writing. They testify, too, of the thoughtfulness and deliberation with which he worked, of the severe demands which he made upon himself, and the conscientiousness which prevented his trusting to the lucky inspiration of the moment or to his own well-tried readiness of resource. Our idea of Mozart as an artist is no longer that which has been so commonly received and admired, and which shows us a spendthrift of his artistic powers, who was only driven by dire necessity to collect the fruits which his genius cast unbidden into his lap. The prerogative of genius is not a dispensation from labour and painful exertion, but MOZART AS AN ARTIST. the power of attaining the highest aims of such labour, and of obliterating every trace of effort in the perfection of the work.
The external characteristics of Mozart's scores show also great care for order and clearness. His handwriting was small, but though often rapid, and sometimes hasty, always clear, decided, and individual.[ 22 ] The smaller details, in which copyist's errors might easily creep in, are specially cared for; all the instructions for delivery are carefully given in each part. In short, Mozart's scores leave an impression, not of pedantry, which magnifies what is unimportant and loses time in an exaggerated regard for method and uniformity, but of a well-considered order and careful arrangement of details in their due relation to the whole work.
Admirably illustrative of Mozart's method, as we have endeavoured to portray it, are the numerous unfinished compositions of which frequent mention has been made; many of these were found after his death,[ 23 ] and some are preserved in the Mozarteum at Salzburg. Among these rough draughts of scores are several beginnings of masses belonging to his Salzburg days, as also some songs and many unfinished instrumental compositions, but by far the greater part were written in Vienna. Among them we may note:—
6 fragments of string quintets.
2 quintets for clarinet and strings.
1 quartet for English horn and strings.
9 drafts of violin quartets.
9 drafts of pianoforte concertos.
1 pianoforte quartet.
2 drafts of pianoforte trios.
1 sonata for pianoforte and violoncello.
2 sonatas for pianoforte and violin.
4 movements for two pianofortes.
9 movements for the pianoforte.!!!
These are none of them roughly sketched drafts, but fair copies of unfinished scores, the completion of which was prevented by outward circumstances. Again we meet with UNFINISHED COMPOSITIONS. confirmation of the fact that Mozart never began to write until his composition was in all essential points completed in his own mind. When only a few bars are written they offer a perfected melody, a motif only requiring its further development. When the sketches are longer they form a well-rounded, continuous whole, that is evidently interrupted, not because the continuation is not ready to hand, but because some chance has prevented its further transcription. It may be plainly discerned also that not only are detached ideas put into shape, but the different characteristic traits of execution are indicated in the usual way, so that the chief effects and capabilities of the motifs may be clearly inferred.
It appears as if Mozart, when once interrupted in the transcription of a composition, was very loth to return to it again. That he might have done so cannot for a moment be doubted. His memory was infallible; but his interest was concentrated on the work with which he was concerned at the moment. He was easily impelled to write what he had already completed in his head, and this led him naturally to the next piece of work; to return to what he considered as over and done with was contrary to his nature and habit. There is no reason whatever to suppose that any of these sketches, preliminary notes, or unfinished compositions were ever subsequently made use of. This not only testifies of the wealth and ease of his productivity, which scorned to borrow even from himself, but it proves that his creations proceeded immediately from spontaneous impulses, each having independent birth, and owing its development to the singular fecundity of his artistic nature. The individual truth and fresh life of Mozart's works are founded in this natural spring of ever-welling spontaneity. Their artistic perfection rests on the skill with which the conception is developed; but in what consists the peculiar charm and beauty which is acknowledged and enjoyed by us all as inseparable from Mozart's music is, and will ever remain, an unsolved mystery.
However carefully Mozart, as a rule, prepared his compositions before writing them, we, who are acquainted with his nature and education, can scarcely doubt that he was MOZART AS AN ARTIST. able on occasion to compose as he wrote. Such a song as that which he wrote in the tavern for Frau von Keess cannot well have been ready in his head. When he was in Prague at the beginning of 1787 he promised Count Joh. Pachta to write a country dance for a public ball, but failed to produce it. At last the Count invited him to dinner an hour earlier than his usual time, and when Mozart appeared placed all the requisite materials before him, and entreated him to compose the dance on the spot, seeing that it was required for the following day. Mozart set to work, and before dinner had composed nine country dances, scored for full orchestra (510 K), which he certainly had not prepared beforehand.[ 24 ] These and similar instances refer to easy pieces in free form; but we have already seen (Vol. II., p. 366), that he could improvise canons and double canons of an unusual kind; and what further proof can be required than reference to his marvellous gift of executive improvisation?
In composing Mozart never had recourse to improvisation. "He never came to the clavier when he was writing." says Niemetschek (p. 82); "his imagination pictured the whole work when he had once conceived it." His wife also says naïvely, but graphically: "He never composed at the clavier, but wrote music like letters, and never tried a movement until it was finished."[ 25 ] When his compositions were completed he used to rehearse them, singing or playing, with his wife or any one else who happened to come in. Kelly narrates that Mozart greeted him one evening with, "I have just written a little duet for 'Figaro.' You shall hear it." He sat down at the pianoforte, and they sang it together; it was the duet (16) "Crudel perché finora"; and Kelly often remembered with keen delight how he had first heard and sung this charming composition.[ 26 ]
In one sense, it is true, Mozart felt the necessity for an external vent to his musical ideas; and for this he had frequent recourse to his own special instrument, the clavier or pianoforte. "Even in his later years," says Niemetschek (p. 83), "he often spent half the night at the piano'[ 27 ] these were the hours that witnessed the birth of his divinest melodies. In the silent calm of night, when there was nothing to distract the mind, his imagination was kindled into supernatural activity, and revealed the wealth of melodious sound which lay dormant in his nature. At such times Mozart was all emotion and music, and unearthly harmonies flowed from his fingers! Only those who heard him then could know the depth and extent of his musical genius; his spirit, freed from every impediment, spread its bold pinions, and soared into the regions of art." It could scarcely fail to be the case that in such hours as these the subject of his improvisation should often be the work of which his mind was full at the time; but it would be a mistake to consider the improvisation as an express preparation for a subsequent work, or as the actual source from which it sprang. The improvisation was the embodiment of the mood of the moment, its form and extent were limited by the conditions of the instrument on which it was played, and it could by no means serve as an immediate foundation to a work to be performed under entirely different conditions and with a definite object.
Mozart carefully separated his time for writing and his time for improvising. To the end of his life he kept to his early habit of writing in the morning (Vol. II., p. 208), and even when he had been out the evening before, or had played far into the night, he was accustomed to begin work at six or seven o'clock; in later days, however, he indulged himself by writing in bed. After ten he usually gave lessons, and never returned to the writing-table unless there were urgent occasion. Such occasion arose often enough, it is MOZART AS AN ARTIST. true. When he was composing "Figaro," his father tells Marianne (November 11, 1785) how he postponed all his pupils until the afternoon, so as to have the whole morning free for writing, and we have already seen that he sometimes wrote in the evening, and even at night. Mozart's marvellous improvisations were not confined to hours of solitude and calm, nor to the satisfaction of his inner cravings; he showed himself equally master of the art when the impulse came from without, as was frequently the case, for people loved to hear him improvise. There is a peculiar charm in this accomplishment which, while it at once identifies the artist with his creation, requires the highest concentration of artistic energy to satisfy the varied conditions on which the production of a work of art depends. The improvising musician and his audience act and react upon each other; the latter receive the direct impression of the artist's individuality and power, and feel themselves, as it were, let into the secret of his method of producing the works which delight them, while the former is inspired to fresh efforts of genius by his consciousness of possessing the sympathy of his hearers. Mozart was always ready to play when he thought he should give pleasure, but he improvised in his best vein only "when he spied out among the crowd surrounding him one or more of the privileged few who were capable of following the flights of his genius; oblivious of all others, he addressed the elect in the hieroglyphics of his art, and poured forth for them alone his richest streams of melody."[ 28 ] We have much contemporary testimony as to the impression made by Mozart's improvising. Ambros Rieder, who died in 1851 at eighty years of age in Perch-tolsdorf—an enthusiastic musician and a worthy man—writes in his "Recollections";[ 29 ]— IMPROVISATION. In my youth I had opportunities of hearing and admiring many distinguished virtuosi, both on the violin and the harpsichord; but I cannot describe my amazement and delight in hearing the great and immortal W. A. Mozart play variations and improvise on the pianoforte before a numerous and aristocratic audience. It was to me like the gift of new senses of sight and hearing. The bold flights of his imagination into the highest regions, and again down to the very depths of the abyss, caused the greatest masters of music to be lost in amazement and delight. I still, in my old age, seem to hear the echo of these heavenly harmonies, and I go to my grave with the full conviction that there can never be another Mozart.[ 30 ]
And Niemetschek, when an old man, said to Al. Fuchs: "If I dared to pray the Almighty to grant me one more earthly joy it would be that I might once again hear Mozart improvise; those who have not heard him can form no idea of his extraordinary performances."[ 31 ] Repeated mention has already been made of Mozart's readiness and skill in playing "out of his head," as he used to call it (Vol. I., pp. 385-386). He avoided the common error of improvising virtuosi in the introduction of long cadenzas, "making a hash in the cadenza of what had sounded well enough in the concerto," as Dittersdorf says (Selbstbiogr., p. 47). A new fashion came into vogue about this time; instead of a long cadenza, a simple theme was delivered, and then varied according to every rule of the art; but Mozart used also frequently to improvise a free fantasia in his concertos (Vol. II., p. 285). Rochlitz narrates[ 32 ] how at Leipzig the audience wished to hear him alone at the close of one of his concerts, and though he had already played two concertos and an obbligato scena, and accompanied for nearly two hours—
He sat down at once, and played to the delight of all. He began simply and seriously in C minor—but it is absurd to attempt to describe it. As he was playing with special reference to the connoisseurs who were present, he brought the flights of his fancy lower and lower, and closed with the published variations on "Je suis Lindor." (Vol. II., p. 174).
Stiepanek, writing of the concert which Mozart gave in Prague (February, 1787), says:—
At the close of the concert Mozart improvised on the pianoforte for a good half-hour, and raised the enthusiasm of the delighted Bohemians to its highest pitch, so that he was obliged to resume his place at the instrument in compliance with their storm of applause. His second stream of improvisation had a still more powerful effect, and the audience again tumultuously recalled him. Their enthusiasm seemed to inspire him, and he played as he had never played before, till all at once the deathlike silence of the listeners was broken by a voice from among them exclaiming, "Aus 'Figaro'!" whereupon Mozart dashed into the favourite air, "Non più andrai," and improvised a dozen of the most interesting and artistic variations upon it, ending his wonderful performance amid a deafening storm of applause.[ 33 ]
Niemetschek also speaks of this concert (p. 40):—
A sweet enchantment seized upon us in listening to Mozart's improvisation on the pianoforte, which he continued for more than half an hour, and we gave vent to our delight in a perfect storm of applause. His playing surpassed anything that could be imagined, uniting all the qualities of first-rate composition and perfect ease of execution.
Such moments of inspiration as this gave his countenance an expression which betrayed the artist within him.[ 34 ] At other times, his appearance was in no way striking or distinguished. His head was somewhat too large in proportion to his body; his face was pale, though not unpleasing, but in no way uncommon, and the Mozart family nose asserted itself very plainly as long as he continued to be thin. His eyes were tolerably large and well shaped, with good eyelashes and bushy brows, but they were not bright, and his look was absent and restless. He had a great dislike to hearing his appearance commented on as insignificant (Vol. I., p. 381), and was seriously angry once when the Prussian ambassador gave him a letter of introduction, in which he said that he hoped Mozart's insignificant personal appearance would cause no prejudice against him.[ 35 ] "This absent creature," says the notice in Schlichtegroll's "Nekrolog," "became another being as soon as he sat down to the piano. His spirit seemed to soar upwards, and his whole mind was absorbed in what seemed the proper object of his being, the harmony of sound." "His whole countenance would change," says Niemetschek, "his eye became calm and collected; emotion spoke from every movement of his muscles, and was communicated by a sort of intuitive sympathy to his audience."
