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.”