by Glover, Jane
The Freihaus-Theater was located in a large self-contained complex of buildings, including apartments, gardens, shops and a chapel. The theatre itself, which Schikaneder restored most elegantly, was well equipped and seated a thousand people. Schikaneder settled his company in this ideal living and working environment, inheriting some actors and singers from his predecessor, including Constanze’s sister Josefa, and adding new ones, among them the latest teenage singing sensation, Anna Gottlieb (who had sung Barbarina in Figaro in 1786, at the age of twelve), the tenor and composer Benedikt Schack, the bass and composer Franz Xavier Gerl, and a young tenor, Jakob Haibl (who in due course would marry the youngest of the Weber sisters, Sophie). The company had had great success performing plays and singspiels to the Viennese public. And now, in the summer of 1791, Schikaneder and Wolfgang agreed to collaborate on a vast and fantastical spectacle, at once comic and serious, light-hearted and profound. This would be Die Zauberflöte, K620. Schikaneder himself would play the central role of Papageno, Schack would be Tamino and Gerl Sarastro. The Queen of the Night was to be sung by Wolfgang’s sister-in-law, Josefa Hofer.
As if this exciting new assignment was not enough, Wolfgang received two more enormous commissions in the summer of 1791. The new Emperor Leopold II was now to be crowned King of Bohemia, and for those ceremonies in Prague, the Bavarian Estates asked Wolfgang to write an opera. (Salieri had been approached first, but, because of pressure of other work, had turned down the offer.) If Wolfgang had hoped to work again with Lorenzo Da Ponte, for their collaborations had always been so well received in Prague, he was thwarted: Da Ponte was no longer in Vienna. So an old libretto was chosen, one appropriate to the notion of a forgiving and benevolent emperor, Metastasio’s La clemenza di Tito. Wolfgang would have to go to Prague in late August. Meanwhile he received his third commission, and this was the strangest of them all, for it was to remain a secret.
Count Franz Walsegg-Stuppach was a wealthy landowner with a sizeable estate on the edge of Semmering Forest, some 30 kilometres from Vienna. An unassuming eccentric, he was popular with his own tenants, and his acquaintance included members of the Imperial family, who would come annually to hunt and be entertained at Stuppach Castle. The Count was also a keen music-lover, and it was his custom to have string quartets and other chamber music played in his castle twice a week. His enthusiasms led him into deceitful action, however. He himself dabbled in composition, and loved the idea of having his own music performed. But when he found himself unequal to the task of actually producing it, he would purchase other composers’ works, have them recopied with no indication of authorship, and pass them off as his own. After a piece had been played through, the instrumentalists would be asked to guess its composer. Years later, this procedure was affectionately described by one of the participants, a local schoolteacher and violinist, Anton Herzog: ‘Usually our guess would be the Count himself, for he had composed some trifles now and then. He then would smile, pleased that he had tricked us, or so he thought. But we laughed that he would think us so naive. We were young then and thought that we were merely providing some harmless fun for the Count.’102
In February of 1791 the Count’s young wife Anna had died at the tragically early age of twenty, and he wished to have a Requiem Mass composed for her. And, as was by now his accustomed practice, he almost certainly wanted to have it believed that he had written it himself. He would have known of Mozart, for he had some of his chamber music in his possession at the castle. And he knew how to get hold of him: one of his tenants at his Vienna residence, in Hoher Markt, was none other than Michael Puchberg. So the Count sent a note to him, via the administrator of one of his other estates, Franz Anton Leitgeb. Wolfgang was asked if he would undertake to write a Mass for the Dead, and if so to state his fee. Wolfgang accepted the undertaking and named his fee, though when Leitgeb returned again he brought 50 ducats (225 florins) as a down payment and the ‘promise of a considerable additional sum, since Mozart’s quoted fee had been too low’.103 Leitgeb, who did not identify himself any more than he did his master, reiterated the specific instruction that Wolfgang should not attempt to identify his patron.
Wolfgang probably saw through all this weird subterfuge and went happily along with it, like the local musicians at Stuppach. He was never averse to hoaxes and practical jokes, and had been known in the past to compose for other people if necessary (he had once helped out an ailing Michael Haydn in Salzburg). He would have seen this new commission as another lucrative channel for putting the family finances on a more even keel, his only anxiety at this early stage being one of actually finding time to write his Requiem, given all his other heavy commitments.
With a little more money now in the coffers, Constanze went again to Baden at the beginning of June, there to prepare for her forthcoming confinement. She took their six-year-old son Carl with her, and a maid, and was also later joined by Wolfgang’s twenty-five- year-old pupil Franz Xavier Süssmayr. Working as some kind of amanuensis to Wolfgang (his handwriting was almost identical to that of his teacher), Süssmayr organized such sections of Die Zauberflöte as Wolfgang sent to him or left with him after his own visits, and also looked after the needs of Constanze and Carl. The local schoolteacher and choirmaster, Anton Stoll, was closely involved in the Mozart party that summer, too. He helped arrange suitable accommodation for Constanze (on the ground floor, as her injured foot was still troublesome), and was close also to Süssmayr, who later sent messages to a Baden girl through him. Wolfgang repaid his gratitude to Stoll that summer, on one of his visits, by writing him a motet for his church choir; and, on 23 June, the lucky Stoll directed the first performance of Ave verum corpus, K618.
Wolfgang’s regular letters to Constanze when he was not with her reveal renewed energy and spirit. Sometimes he wrote to her in French (which she spoke well). He was getting up at 4.30 in the morning to compose, he told her. He still missed her desperately, and as always longed for their reunions (‘I expect to find in your arms all the joy which only a man can feel who loves his wife as I do’104). But he was basically cheerful and lively, gently bossy about her regime (‘Take an electuary if you are constipated – not otherwise. Take care of yourself in the morning and in the evening, if it is chilly’105), and full of light-hearted gossip about their friends. He sent her money regularly, so that she could pay for her baths. (On 3 July he apologized for only being able to send 3 florins, though on the next day he sent her 25, and promised that when he arrived in Baden he would pay all her bills. He had probably just received his large down-payment for the Requiem Mass, from Count Walsegg.) He also reported occasionally and self-deprecatingly on his work composing Die Zauberflöte (‘From sheer boredom today I composed an aria for my opera’106), and, very rarely, even quoted from it (‘I kiss you 1,000 times and say with you in thought: “Death and despair were his reward”!’107). Constanze evidently wrote long letters back, which cheered Wolfgang immensely when he was missing her so much. And she was also keenly involved still in their business and financial arrangements: ‘Thank you,’ he wrote, ‘for your advice not to rely entirely on N.N.’108 (‘N.N.’, shorthand for ‘non nominato’, or unnamed, was often used in Wolfgang’s letters when he wished to be secretive about someone’s identity, and conceal it from potentially prying eyes. In its numerous manifestations in the Mozart correspondence, ‘N.N.’ therefore referred to several different people; and in this instance was probably the Viennese iron merchant Joseph Goldhahn, who was tangentially involved in the Mozarts’ financial affairs at the time.)
At last Constanze returned to Vienna, and their son Franz Xavier was born on 26 July. He was a healthy baby who would live into his fifties. But within a month she had to leave him in the care of Sophie and their mother, and also put Carl into a kindergarten in Perchtoldsdorf. She herself was to go with Wolfgang to Prague. As they were literally on the point of leaving, a stranger (to Constanze) appeared (‘a ghostly messenger’, as she described him to one of Wolfgang’s early bio
graphers). He touched her coat and asked, ‘What about the Requiem?’109 Wolfgang apologized, but explained that he had to go to Prague, and that he had been unable to inform his unknown commissioner about his Imperial duties there, as he did not know him; but that he would address himself to the Requiem as soon as he returned. This seemed to satisfy the messenger, and so the Mozarts went on their way. In his role still as Wolfgang’s assistant, Süssmayr went too: he copied much of the material for La clemenza di Tito, K621, and even wrote the recitatives. And their close friend Anton Stadler also travelled to Prague, as he was engaged to play in the new opera (so Wolfgang made sure he wrote some spectacular clarinet solos). Don Giovanni was revived for the Emperor on 2 September, and the new opera was premiered on the 6th, with another old friend in the title role, Antonio Baglioni, who had created the role of Don Ottavio in Don Giovanni.
As soon as La clemenza di Tito was up and running, Wolfgang and Constanze rushed back to Vienna, for Die Zauberflöte was to open just three weeks later on 30 September. Wolfgang conducted the premiere himself, and the opera became an overnight success. The Mozarts were now much more secure financially, and for all possible reasons could once again hold their heads high. The crisis was over. But there had been a price to pay for this turnaround. After such a summer, with two huge operas presented one after the other in different cities, with the birth of a new child and many long journeys, both Wolfgang and Constanze were exhausted. Constanze went back to Baden for another week in early October, taking little Franz Xavier with her, and also her sister Sophie, to continue to help with the baby. Süssmayr went to Baden too, and almost certainly stayed with Stoll. Wolfgang stayed in Vienna, to pay occasional visits to Die Zauberflöte at the Freihaus-Theater, to work on yet another new commission (Anton Stadler now wanted a concerto for his clarinet), and of course to continue writing his Requiem.
In that week in October when Constanze was in Baden – the last week in fact that she and Wolfgang were ever to be apart in his lifetime – he missed her horribly as always (‘I already feel lonely without you. I knew I would’110), but was otherwise in wonderful spirits. The huge success of Die Zauberflöte thrilled him (‘What always gives me the most pleasure is the silent approval! You can see how this opera is becoming more and more esteemed’), as did reports from Stadler in Prague of La clemenza di Tito’s equally triumphant performances there. Wolfgang spent most of his time composing furiously, but broke off to take his meals, sometimes with his Weber family relations. His very last letter111 to Constanze was radiant with contentment and confidence, and sweetly solicitous for his family and friends. He described how he and Franz Hofer had taken not only Salieri and Caterina Cavalieri to Die Zauberflöte, but also his son Carl, and his mother-in-law. Frau Weber, according to Sophie, had become ‘ever more fond’ of Wolfgang, and he of her. He clearly visited her many times when Constanze was away, and he never arrived empty-handed. By now she was possibly quite deaf: Hofer had given her a copy of the libretto to Die Zauberflöte to read, on the day before they were to take her to the theatre, in order that she could do a little preparation (‘she will see the opera but not hear it’). So perhaps she could not fully appreciate the extraordinary artistry of her eldest daughter Josefa, as, in her performance as the Queen of the Night, she threw off her coloratura roulades and her top Fs, in the best Weber tradition. Nor could she marvel at the wealth of invention of her son-in-law, whose genius had made of a popular singspiel one of the most profound creations in all opera. But she would have felt enormous pride and joy as she sat in Wolfgang’s box with both her sons-in-law and her grandson, gazing at her daughter on stage. They all had dinner together after the performance, and she would have witnessed the delight of young Carl (aged seven) at having been included in such a grown-up evening. And in Baden the following day, Constanze and Sophie read Wolfgang’s account of this happy family occasion, and of his concern for Carl’s schooling, expressed in some astute paternal observations. What may have given Constanze cause for worry was Wolfgang’s admission of his daily routine: he still seemed to start work at 4.30 in the morning, and never got to bed before midnight. He was burning every candle at both ends.
Sure enough, when Constanze returned from Baden at the end of the week, she found Wolfgang exhausted. He was increasingly enfeebled, and obsessively disturbed too by his current task, the writing of his Requiem Mass, K626. At one point, as they walked together in the Prater, he confessed to her that he believed he was writing his Requiem for himself. So she took it away from him, and called in a doctor. She persuaded him to work instead on a Masonic cantata, ‘Laut verkünde unsrer Freude’, K623, for the opening of a new temple at his Lodge on 18 November. But he returned again to his Requiem, even after his exhaustion turned to actual illness and gathering frailty made him take to his bed on 20 November. As she always had done when there was a crisis, Constanze called on Sophie to come and help her take care of him.
And perhaps Wolfgang did continue to fear that he was writing his own Requiem, for indeed, there is unquestionably something valedictory about it. Its very opening gesture, of throbbing syncopations in the strings accompanying mournful lines on basset horns and bassoons, is almost a quotation from the introduction to his own aria, ‘Ah, non sai qual pena sia’, K416, written for Aloysia in 1783. On that occasion the text was ‘Anima mia, io più non ti vedrò . . . Addio per sempre’ (My beloved, I will not see you again . . . Goodbye for ever). Was this some sort of subliminal message of farewell to his family? But, ill as he was, Wolfgang’s creative genius was not destitute: the dramatic impact of the Dies Irae and the sublime intensity of the Recordare give every indication that yet another veritable masterpiece was flowing from him. But he could not physically manage the transcription of his ideas on to the page. His body swelled; his hands could not hold a pen; vomiting and fever (‘hitziges Frieselfieber’) began to drain his strength and spirit. So Constanze organized help for him too. The faithful Süssmayr came to try to write down what Wolfgang dictated. Constanze herself and three of his closest friends (his brother-in-law Franz Hofer, his Tamino and Sarastro, Benedikt Schack and Franz Xavier Gerl) sat with him and sang through some of what he had already written. And Sophie came every day, to support Constanze and the children, and help to nurse Wolfgang.
A quarter of a century later, it was Sophie herself who supplied the most poignant account of Mozart’s last days. For Georg Nissen, his biographer (and Constanze’s second husband), Sophie wrote a long and vivid memoir which, for all the simplicity of her expression, is devastatingly powerful. At this most critical of times for Mozart’s ‘other’ family, Sophie encapsulates all the Weber spirit: their warmth, their practicality, their loving concern for the dying Wolfgang and also for one another. Her indignant memory of the behaviour of the professionals (the priests and the doctor, none of whom come out of this account at all well) is balanced by her own anxious capabilities (taking care of her mother as well as her sister), and by a heartrending portrayal of Constanze’s ordeal. And, throughout, the central figure of Wolfgang himself is imbued with dignity, generosity, gratitude and grace.
Sophie’s memoir112 began on Sunday, 4 December, the day after a visit when Wolfgang had almost seemed to be on the mend.
I was still young and, I admit it, vain – and I liked dressing up, but I never liked walking from our suburb into the town in my best clothes, and I had not the money for going by carriage; so I said to our good mother, ‘Dear Mama, I shan’t go in to Mozart today – he was so well yesterday, so today he’ll be better still, and one day more or less will make no difference.’ She said, ‘I tell you what, make me a cup of coffee, and then I’ll tell you what to do.’ She was rather concerned to keep me at home, for my sister [Constanze] knows how much she always wanted me to be with her. So I went into the kitchen. The fire had gone out; I had to light a taper and kindle the fire. But Mozart was still constantly on my mind. My coffee was ready, and my candle was still burning. I then saw how wasteful I had been to have burnt so m
uch of my candle. The candle was still burning brightly, and I stared at it and thought, ‘I wonder how Mozart is?’, and as I was thinking this, and looking at my candle, it went out, it went out as if it had never been alight. Not even a spark remained on the wick. There was no draught, to that I would swear. I shuddered and ran to our mother, and told her. She said, ‘All right, hurry up and take those clothes off and go in [to see him], but come back and tell me straight away how he is. Don’t be long.’ I hurried as fast as I could. My God! How frightened I was when my sister, half desperate yet trying to control herself, came to meet me and said, ‘Thank God you’ve come, dear Sophie; he was so bad last night that I thought he would not make it to the day. Stay with me today, for if he gets bad again, he will die in the night. Go in to him for a little and see how he is.’ I tried to control myself and went up to his bed, and he called to me at once, ‘Ah dear Sophie, it is good of you to come. You must stay here tonight. You must be here as I die.’ I tried to be strong and to dissuade him, but he answered to all my attempts, ‘I have the taste of death on my tongue already’ and ‘Who will look after my dearest Constanze if you don’t stay?’ – ‘Yes, dear Mozart, but I must first go and tell our mother that you would like me to be with you tonight, or she will think something dreadful has happened.’ – ‘Yes, do that, but come back soon.’ God, how awful I felt. My poor sister came after me and begged me for heaven’s sake to go to the priests at St Peter’s and ask one of them to come, as if on a chance visit. So I did that, though the inhuman priests hesitated a long time and I had great difficulty in persuading them to do it. Then I hurried to our mother, who was anxiously awaiting me; it was already dark. How frightened the poor darling was. I persuaded her to go and spend the night with her eldest daughter, [ Josefa] Hofer, who is now dead, and she did; and I ran back as fast as I could to my inconsolable sister. Süssmayr was there at Mozart’s bedside, and the well-known Requiem lay on the coverlet, and Mozart was explaining to him how he thought he should finish it after his death . . . There was a long search for Clossett, the doctor, who was found at the theatre: but he would not come until the play was over. Then he came and prescribed cold compresses on his burning head, and these gave him such a shock that he did not regain consciousness before he passed away. The last thing he did was to try and mouth the sound of the timpani in his Requiem. I can still hear that now.