Life of Mozart

by Ludwig Nohl

We shall now hear what an effect the actual performance of the opera which took place on the first of May, 1786, had on him. The following account, which has in it something of a Mozart-like amiability, is by the singer Kelley:

“Of all the performers of the opera at that time, there is only one still living—myself. [He sang the parts of Basilio and the stuttering judge.] It must be granted that no opera was ever better performed. I have seen it at different times and in all countries, and well performed; and yet the very first performance of it compared with all others is like light to darkness. All the original players had the advantage of being instructed by the composer himself, who endeavored to transfer his own way of looking at it, and his own enthusiasm to their minds. I shall never forget his little, vivacious face glowing with the fire of genius. It is just as impossible to describe it as to paint the sunbeam.

“One evening, when I visited him, he said to me: ‘I have just finished a little duet for my opera, and you must hear it.’ He seated himself at the piano and sang it. I was carried away, and the musical world will understand my transport—when I say that it was the duet of the countess, Ulmaviva with Susanna: So lang hab’ ich geschmachtet. Nothing more exquisite had ever before been written by human being. It has often been a source of pleasure to me to think that I was the first who heard it. I can still see Mozart in his red fur hat trimmed with gold, standing on the stage with the orchestra, at the first rehearsal, beating time for the music. Benucci sang Figaro’s Dort vergiss leises Fleh’n, suesses Wimmern, with the greatest enthusiasm and all the power of his voice. I stood beside Mozart, who repeatedly cried ‘bravo! bravo! Benucci!’ in subdued tones. When Benucci came to the beautiful passage: Bei dem Donner der Karthaner, he allowed his stentorian voice to resound with all his might. The players on the stage and in the orchestra were electrified. Intoxicated with pleasure, they cried again and again, and each time louder than the preceding one, ‘bravo! bravo! maestro! Long live the great Mozart!’ Those in the orchestra beat the music stands incessantly with the bows of their violins, thus expressing their enthusiasm. It seemed as if this storm of applause would never cease. The little man returned thanks for the homage paid him by bowing repeatedly. The finale at the end of the first act was received with similar delight. Had Mozart written nothing but this piece of music, it alone would, in my humble opinion, have stamped him the greatest master of his art. Never was there a greater triumph than that of Mozart and his Figaro.”

This is the only detailed account which we possess. The father had heard enough of the astonishingly powerful intrigues caused by his son’s great talent and the respect in which he was held. Now he was able to write to his daughter, that five and even seven parts of the opera had been repeated, and that one duet had to be sung three times. The Italians induced the emperor to forbid these repetitions. But when he spoke to the singers of “this favor he had done them,” the person playing the part of Susanna frankly replied: “Do not believe that, your Majesty. They all wish to hear dacapo cried. I at least can assert that of myself.” Whereupon the emperor laughed.

But we may ask, was Mozart’s fortune now made? He was, indeed, at this time, in such pinching circumstances that he had to apply to his publisher, Hofmeister, for such petty advances as a few ducats.

The house was always full to overflowing, and the public never tired of applauding Mozart and calling him out. But care was now taken that the performances should not follow one another too frequently or too rapidly, the effect of which would soon have been an improvement in the taste of the public. Moreover, the success of a new opera, Una Cosa rara—it serves in the Don Giovanni as table-music—by Martin, the Spaniard, was enough to throw the Figaro into the shade both with the emperor and with the people, and then to displace it entirely. The success of that opera was incredible, and such as might have been expected from a public whose noblest representative, the emperor Joseph himself, told Dittersdorf the composer of Doctor and Apotheker, that he liked Martin’s light, pleasant melodies better than Mozart’s style, who drowned the voice of the singers with the noise of the accompaniment. “Happy man,” said Mozart to the young composer Gyrowetz, who went to Italy in the fall of 1785, “if I could only travel with you, how glad I would be! I must give a lesson now in order to earn a pittance.” He thought again of going to England, but no inducement to go there offered.

And yet the Figaro was attended by very immediate success even to its composer. It gave occasion to the writing of the Don Giovanni; and this leads us to the conclusion of a chapter in Mozart’s life descriptive of a portion of that life as important as it was replete with action.

The love of the Bohemians for music and their skill in the art are well known. After Mozart had made his first appearance in Vienna, the people of Prague appropriated him just as they have Richard Wagner in our own day, and the Figaro which followed the Elopement from the Seraglio was received with an amount of applause which can be compared only with that subsequently accorded to the Magic Flute. It was given almost without interruption during the whole of the winter 1786-87. The enthusiasm of the audiences was unparalleled. They never tired of hearing it. Arrangements for the piano, for wind-instruments, quartets, dances, etc., were made from it. Figaro was re-echoed in the streets, in gardens, and even the harper had to play its Dort Vergiss if he wished to be heard.

It was the orchestra and a society of “great” connoisseurs and amateurs that invited him to Prague. Nothing could have been more agreeable to Mozart than to be able to show his enemies in Vienna that he was not yet without friends in the world. His wife accompanied him. It was in January, 1787. Count Thun, one of the first chevaliers and musical connoisseurs of Prague, was his host. He gave every day a musical entertainment at his own home. He found great delight in the intercourse of loving friends of his art, friends who recognized his genius. The very first evening, a ball was given by a well-known society in Prague—the “elite of the beauties of Prague.” Writing of it himself, Mozart says: “I was delighted to see all these people moving about so truly happy, to the music of the Figaro transformed into counter dances and waltzes. Nothing is talked of here but the Figaro. The people visit no opera but the Figaro. It is nothing but Figaro!”

He was to direct the work in person, to the infinite delight of all. He himself paid a high compliment to the execution of the orchestra. They always played with great spirit. Two concerts followed. An eye-witness writes: “The theatre was never seen so full of human beings. Never was delight more universal. We did not, indeed, know what most to admire, the extraordinary composition or the extraordinary playing. The two together produced an impression that was sweet enchantment. But when Mozart, towards the close, played a number of fantasias alone, this condition was resolved into one of overflowing expressions of approval.” Mozart appeared, his countenance radiant with genuine satisfaction. He began with an enthusiasm that kept increasing from the first, and had accomplished greater things than had ever before been heard, when a loud voice cried out: “From Figaro!” whereupon Mozart played the favorite aria, Dort vergiss, improvised a dozen of the most interesting and artistic variations and closed this remarkable production amid thunders of applause.