Mozart and Madame de Pompadour. From painting by V. de Paredes.
Little Wolfgang had played before Maria Theresa; now he performed before her ally, Madame de Pompadour, then within a few months of her end, for the all-powerful favourite of Louis XV. died in the following April. Leopold Mozart, writing home to Salzburg, speaks thus of the Pompadour; "She must have been very beautiful, for she is still comely. She is tall and stately; stout, but well proportioned, with some likeness to her Imperial Majesty about the eyes. She is proud, and has a remarkable mind." Mozart's sister remembered in after days how she placed little Wolfgang on the table before her, but pushed him aside when he bent forward to kiss her, on which he indignantly asked: "Who is this that does not want to kiss me? The empress kissed me." The king's daughters were much more friendly, and, contrary to all etiquette, kissed and played with the children, both in their own apartments and in the public corridors.
As before at Vienna and afterward in London, the little Mozarts made a great hit in Paris, and performed before the most distinguished audiences. Grimm relates in his correspondence "a truly astonishing instance of the boy's genius." Wolfgang accompanied a lady in an Italian air without seeing the music, supplying the harmony for the passage which was to follow from that which he had just heard. This could not be done without some mistakes, but when the song was ended he begged the lady to sing it again, played the accompaniment and the melody itself with perfect correctness, and repeated it ten times, altering the character of the accompaniment for each. On a melody being dictated to him, he supplied the bass and the parts without using the clavier at all; he showed himself in all ways so accomplished that his father was convinced he would obtain service at court on his return home. Leopold Mozart now thought the time was come for introducing the boy as a composer, and he printed four sonatas for the piano and violin, rejoicing at the idea of the noise which they would make in the world, appearing with the announcement on the title-page that they were the work of a child of seven years old. He thought well of these sonatas, independently of their childish authorship; one andante especially "shows remarkable taste." When it happened that, in the last trio of Opus 2, a mistake of the young master, which his father had corrected (consisting of three consecutive fifths for the violin), was printed, he consoled himself by reflecting that "they can serve as a proof that Wolfgangerlf wrote the sonatas himself, which, naturally, not everyone would believe."
Mozart at the Organ. From painting by Carl Herpfer.
Less than thirty years had passed since these triumphant days in the life of the child Mozart, when there came the end of that wonderful career. In the summer of Mozart's last year,—1791,—he was at work on the concluding portions of "The Magic Flute," when one day he received a visit from a stranger. This man, tall, gaunt, and solemn in manner, clad all in gray, handed the composer an anonymous letter, sealed in black, requesting him to write a "Requiem" as quickly as possible, and asking the price. Mozart agreed to do the work and received from the messenger fifty (some say a hundred) ducats, with a promise of more upon completion of the piece, he agreeing to make no effort to discover who his patron was. The unknown messenger then went away, saying, "I shall return when it is time."
It is known now that this mysterious go-between was Leutgeb, the steward of Count Franz von Walsegg of Stuppach, who often obtained musical compositions in this way, copied them, and had them performed as his own. The count desired the "Requiem" for his wife, who had died in the preceding February, and it was sung as his own production and under his direction on the 15th of December, 1793.
But Mozart knew nothing of patron or steward; his spirits were depressed by trouble, and he grew superstitious over the strange affair. Near the end of August, he was about to set out for Prague to attend the coronation of Leopold II., upon which occasion the composer's music to Metastasio's festival opera was to be performed. Just as he was stepping into the carriage the mysterious messenger appeared suddenly and inquired as to the "Requiem," to which Mozart answered by excuses. "When will it be ready?" "I will work on it without ceasing on my return." "Good," said the stranger, "I shall rely on your promise." True to his word, upon again reaching home, Mozart, though feeling melancholy and far from well, worked steadily upon the "Requiem." Always cheerful until now, his low spirits increased, and he imagined that he was writing his own death-mass. In November, his illness grew alarming, and a consultation of physicians was held. "Mozart's only consolation during his suffering was to hear of the repeated performances of 'Die Zauberflöte.' He would follow the representations in spirit, laying his watch beside him, and saying, 'Now the first act is over. Now they are come to the place, "The great Queen of Night,"' etc. Only the day before his death he expressed a wish that he might hear 'Die Zauberflöte' once more. He hummed to himself the song, 'Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja.' Capellmeister Roser, who happened to be with him, went to the harpsichord and played and sang the song, which appeared greatly to cheer Mozart. Nevertheless, the 'Requiem' occupied him continually. As soon as he had finished a piece, he had it rehearsed by the friends who happened to be present. At two o'clock in the afternoon of the day before his death, Schack, who was the first 'Tamino,' sang soprano, Mozart himself contralto, Hofer, his brother-in-law, tenor, and Geri, who was the first 'Sarastro,' bass. At the 'Lacrymosa' Mozart began to weep violently, and laid down the score. Toward evening, when his sister-in-law, Sophie Haibl, came in, Mozart begged her to remain and help Constance, as he felt death approaching. She went out again just to tell her mother and to fetch a priest. When she returned she found Mozart in lively conversation with Süssmayer. 'Did I not say that I was writing the "Requiem" for myself?' he said; and then, with a sure presentiment of approaching death, he charged his wife instantly to inform Albrechtsberger, on whom his post at St. Stephen's would devolve. Late in the evening he lost consciousness. But the 'Requiem' still seemed to occupy him, and he puffed out his cheeks as if he would imitate a wind instrument, the 'Tuba mirum spar gens sonum.' Toward midnight his eyes became fixed. Then he appeared to fall into slumber, and about one o'clock in the morning of the 5th of December he died."