Meantime the day appointed for the first representation of ‘Don Giovanni,’ the third of November, was just at hand, and Mozart had never yet written the overture! Guardasoni urged—the master’s friends were anxious—Mozart only laughed, and said, “I will write it this afternoon.” But he did not write it; he went on an excursion of pleasure with his wife. Guardasoni was now really in despair.
“You see, it never will do!” he cried repeatedly, and sent messengers in every direction in vain; Mozart was no where to be found; and Strobach was obliged to promise that in case of extreme necessity he would adopt the overture to Idomeneo.
It was midnight when Mozart’s carriage stopped before his dwelling; and his friends, Guardasoni at their head, immediately surrounded him with complaints and reproaches. The master sprung out of his carriage, crying—
“Leave me to myself; now I will go to work in good earnest!” He went into the house, shut the door behind him, threw himself on his seat at the writing table, and began to write. In a few minutes, however, he started up, and cried laughing to his wife—“It will not come right yet! I will go to bed for an hour; wake me up at that time, and make me some punch!” And without undressing he flung himself on the bed. Constance prepared the punch, and in an hour’s time went to awaken her husband; but Mozart slept so sweetly, she could not find it in her heart to disturb him. She let him lie another hour; then, as time pressed, she awakened him.
Mozart rubbed his eyes, collected his thoughts, shook himself, and without further ado began his work. Constance sat by him, gave him the punch, and to keep him in good spirits, began to tell him all manner of funny and horrible stories—of the Prince-fish, of Blue Beard, of the Princess with swine’s snout, etc., etc. till Mozart, still writing, laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. At two o’clock in the morning he began his wonderful work; at six it lay on the desk finished. The master started up; he could hardly stand upright. “Done for this time!” he muttered; “but I shall not soon try it again!” And he laid himself down again to sleep.
At seven the copyist came for the notes, in the utmost hurry to write them out, which he could not accomplish before half-past seven in the evening; so that the performance, instead of commencing at seven was postponed to eight o’clock. Still wet, and covered with sand, the hastily copied parts were brought in and arranged in the orchestra.
The strange story of the composition of the overture soon spread among the audience. When Mozart came into the orchestra, he was greeted with thundering ‘Bravos!’ from an overflowing house. He bowed low, and turning to the performers in the orchestra, said—
“Gentlemen, we have not been able to have a rehearsal of the overture; but I know what I can venture with you. So, quick! to work!” He took up the time-staff, gave the signal, and like a thunder burst, with the clang of trumpets, sounded the first accord of the awful andante; which, as well as the succeeding allegro, was executed by the orchestra with admirable spirit. When the overture was at an end, the storm of applause seemed as if it would never cease.
“There were indeed a few notes dropped under the desk,” observed Mozart, smiling, to Strobach during the introduction; “but on the whole it went off splendidly! I am greatly indebted to these gentlemen.”
How during the remainder of the opera the applause rose from scene to scene—how from its first representation to the present day, on every occasion, the ‘Fin chan dal vino,’ called and still calls forth enthusiastic encores, is well known, not only to the brave people of Prague, but to the whole civilized world.