The 'beggarly dole,' indeed, brought small relief to the domestic anxieties which now more than ever oppressed Mozart and his wife. The latter's ill-health necessitated frequent change of air, and in this way tended to increase their embarrassments. Applications to friends for assistance became more and more numerous. 'I am still most unfortunate,' he writes in one of these appeals. 'Always hovering between hope and anxiety.' Repeated attempts were made at reform. Mozart even commenced to keep strict accounts of their expenditure, but they came to nothing, for the want of management was always apparent in every detail of his domestic life. Yet, despite all, the merry side of Mozart's nature refused to succumb to the stress of adversity; amidst his difficulties he retained the sunshine of his boyish days, being as merry-hearted, and full of jokes, and as open as a child. One winter day an old friend found him and his wife dancing madly about the room; knowing Mozart's fondness for this pastime—his favourite of all forms of amusement—the friend expressed his pleasure at finding them so light-hearted, when Mozart, pointing to the empty stove, explained that they were dancing in order to keep themselves warm, as they had no money to purchase fuel. Horror-struck, the caller darted from the house, and returned in a few minutes with his arms laden with logs.
To some extent a natural leaning to extravagance may be held accountable for Mozart's embarrassments, for he was extremely fond of dress, and had a great weakness for lace and watch-chains. But if he indulged his tastes overmuch in this particular, he was no less lavish in regard to giving where he thought help was needed. He could never turn a deaf ear to the appeal of a beggar, and his kindness was frequently imposed upon; even when monetary help was not forthcoming to meet the request of a brother-musician, he would contrive to find time amidst the pressure of his own work to compose a concerto for the latter's benefit. To the animal world, also, his affectionate nature went forth in no small degree, and he became deeply attached to a starling, which had learnt to pipe the subject of the Rondo of his 'Pianoforte Concerto in G Major.'
And if his distresses failed to diminish his joy in the very fact of living, even less did they affect his powers of work. His father had declared that 'procrastination was his besetting sin,' and Mozart was certainly given to putting off the evil day as far as possible; but no one knew better than Leopold Mozart himself how tireless was Mozart's industry, or how boundless his powers of coping with a gigantic task which he had set his mind to accomplish. When, in September, 1787, he was at Prague, writing the score of 'Don Giovanni,' his favourite resort was the vineyard belonging to his friend Duschek, situated close to the city; here he would be seated at his work[13] whilst conversation or skittle-playing went on around him, often quitting his task to join in one or the other. The time was short, for the opera was to be produced on October 29, and when the evening of the 28th arrived it found the overture still unwritten. Nothing daunted, however, Mozart bade his wife brew him some punch, and bring her book of fairy-stories, and then, for hour after hour, he wrote on, whilst Constanze read aloud to keep him awake. When sleep could no longer be resisted he lay down for an hour or two, but when the copyist came for the score at seven o'clock in the morning it was ready for him. His musical memory was so marvellous that the merest scraps of notes, jotted down whilst driving, conversing, or soothing his wife in her pain, were sufficient to recall to mind without the slightest effort the exact ideas which he desired to reproduce. An entire work would thus be completed in his brain before he began to write a single note on paper, and it was no unusual thing for him to be thinking out a second part whilst writing down the first. 'He never composed at the clavier,' says his wife, in speaking of his manner of work, 'but wrote music like letters, and never tried a movement until it was finished.'
The limits of our story forbid even a mention of the compositions which made up the life-work of Mozart; the few to which we have found space to refer are those connected with the chief episodes of his career. Much less can we convey an idea of his powers of improvisation. Hours snatched from sleep would be spent at the piano, and into the silence of the night drifted many a divine melody which no ear but his own was destined to hear. One who lived to be eighty, speaking of those wonderful improvisations, says: 'I still, in my old age, seem to hear the echo of those heavenly harmonies, and I go to my grave with the full conviction that there can never be another Mozart.'
It was at such times that the inspiration of true genius shone forth in his expression. Ordinarily there was nothing distinguished about his appearance; the head, with its profusion of fine hair, was somewhat too large for the body, which was short and slim; the face was pale, and the nose a rather too prominent feature; the eyes were large, well-shaped, and shaded by long lashes and bushy eyebrows, but the expression was absent and restless. When seated at the piano, however, the whole countenance changed; the eye became calm and fixed, and every movement of his muscles spoke the emotion which his playing expressed.
Even the success of 'Don Giovanni'—at the performance of which the Prague audience greeted Mozart's appearance in the orchestra with thunders of applause and a triple flourish of trumpets—failed to remedy the desperate condition into which his affairs had fallen; and when his pupil and patron, Prince Karl Lichnowsky, proposed that he should accompany him to Berlin, Mozart gladly accepted the invitation. The visit, however, was productive of much honour, but very little money, and at its conclusion he wrote to his wife: 'On my return you must be glad to have me, and not think about money.' The King of Prussia received Mozart with every mark of kindness and respect, and being himself very musical, and desirous of having the best musicians about him, he sought Mozart's advice regarding the proficiency of his band. 'It contains some great players,' replied Mozart; 'but if the gentlemen would play together they would make a better effect.' The King was evidently much impressed by this remark, for before Mozart left he offered him the post of Capellmeister, with a salary of three thousand thalers (equal to about six hundred pounds sterling). Mozart was deeply affected by the munificent offer, and for the moment he hardly knew how to reply; then, reflecting how much he owed to the Emperor Joseph for the latter's friendship and interest, he said: 'How could I abandon my good Emperor?'
Though his loyalty had thus withstood the temptation of an offer which, if accepted, would have ensured his liberation from the 'net of embarrassments' in which he was so hopelessly entangled, the feeling of resistance weakened later on, when his return to Vienna revealed no improvement in the situation of affairs. Yielding therefore to the advice of others, he told the Emperor of the King of Prussia's offer, and at the same time tendered his resignation. Dismayed by this unlooked-for resolution, the Emperor exclaimed: 'What, Mozart, do you mean to forsake me?' The tone in which this remonstrance was uttered, and the expression which accompanied it had their effect upon the tender-hearted, grateful Mozart, and with emotion he answered: 'Your Majesty, I throw myself upon your kindness—I remain.'
Thus perished the only chance which was destined to fall within Mozart's grasp of freeing himself from his troubles, for soon afterwards the Emperor fell ill and died, and no renewal of the Berlin offer was forthcoming.
The coronation of the Emperor Joseph's successor, the Emperor Leopold, took place at Frankfort, on October 9, 1790, and Mozart journeyed thither for the occasion, having first pawned all his valuables in order to raise the necessary funds. Whatever hopes Mozart may have built upon the results of this tour were doomed to disappointment, for though he visited and played at several towns on his return journey, and was the recipient of numerous honours, his efforts produced no permanent fruit, and the horizon remained as dark as ever. His arrival in Vienna was timed with the departure of Haydn, whom Salomon, the impressario, had come to carry off to London, and it was with a heart heavy with gloomy forebodings that Mozart said good-bye to his truest friend.
The month of July, 1791, found Mozart hard at work writing a magic opera to help a friend who had taken a little theatre in the suburb of Wieden. Whilst thus engaged he was visited by a stranger, 'a tall, thin grave-looking man, dressed from head to foot in grey,' who refused to divulge his name, but stated that his business was to commission Mozart to compose a Requiem for a personage whose identity must likewise remain concealed.[14] After a brief colloquy the terms were arranged, and the mysterious stranger rose to take his leave. As he did so he looked fixedly at Mozart, and said warningly: 'Make no effort to discover the identity either of myself or your patron; it will be in vain.'