In 1781 Mozart had to prepare on short notice for a concert in Vienna at which three of his new works would be premiered. One of them was a sonata for clavier and violin “which I composed between eleven and twelve [the night before the event]; but in order to be ready, wrote out only the violin part for Brunetti, and retained my own in my head…”
This is what genius looks like. Unfortunately for Mozart, he wasn’t paid for this concert. His patron, the prince-archbishop of Salzburg, was a stingy and jealous man. Traveling with the archbishop’s retinue in Vienna, Mozart was expected to eat with the cooks and valets. Yet his father Leopold had urged him to take the position in Salzburg since full time, regular, paying gigs were extremely hard to come by (even though his groundbreaking opera Idomeneo had just premiered to delighted raves). Leopold had written Mozart when he was nineteen urging him “not to throw yourself away” – not to expend effort on piddling things, not to give away his genius for nothing – “I am as little a friend to servility of conduct as yourself.”
Leopold Mozart has been portrayed as the ultimate “stage mother.” But this is hardly fair. The voluminous correspondence among the members of the Mozart family show them to be very loving and devoted to each other. Leopold’s letters are full of sage advice, not only on his son’s music (Leopold was a composer, violinist, violin teacher, and Kapellmeister) and career, but on all matters large and small. Writing to the 22 year old Wolfgang about the dangers of acquaintances who don’t have one’s best interests at heart, he admonishes, “Of the other sex I can hardly speak to you, for there the greatest reserve and prudence are necessary, Nature herself being our enemy; but whoever does not employ all his prudence and reserve in his intercourse, will with difficulty extricate himself from the labyrinth – a misfortune that usually ends in death.” [If only Schubert’s father had written him the same letter.] He adds later, “I am persuaded that you do not only consider me as your father, but as your truest and most faithful friend…” No detail was too small for Leopold – he instructs Wolfgang on how he notes down anything he wishes to write in his next letter, so he won’t forget it – “You might do the same. I strike my pen through such memoranda as are the subject of my letter…” and finishes with “and you, my dear wife, must put the lines closer together in writing; - you see how I do it.” It sounds micromanagey, but no one in the family seems to ever have taken offense when they gently upbraided each other.
If all of your Mozart knowledge is from the movie Amadeus, hrrmm. The portrayal of a giggling, incessantly exuberant idiot savant assclown does a horrible disservice to the man (and boy) revealed by the letters: highly intelligent, in love with language, punning, even-tempered, forgiving. Perhaps surprising to some, deeply devout (following in his father’s footsteps). He could occasionally be crude – at age 14 he wrote to his sister that he composed “as pigs pee” – but Christopher Hogwood, the book’s editor, notes that his mother was not above scatological references herself, and this was common in 18th century Salzburg. He also tells us that Amadeus is the one form of his name Mozart never used; “he always signed Amadé or Amadeo.”
Mozart was magnanimous to his friends. When Michael Haydn (the brother of Joseph) was sick and unable to complete some violin/viola duets he had been commissioned to write, and was going to lose salary because of it, Mozart wrote the duets for him and they were submitted as Haydn’s (they are now correctly attributed).
The difficulties facing a composer in Mozart’s day were almost overwhelming. If one didn’t have a well paid court appointment, not only did commissions have to be obtained and subscriptions for concerts procured, but there was no copyright protection. Unscrupulous copyists (those who copied the original score for the musicians and for the publisher) would sometimes claim a work as their own. If Mozart lent scores to his friends he would have to admonish them never to let the work out of their sight. For this reason, he often traveled with only a bare bones outline of his piano concertos – he knew all the missing notes, but no one else would. After a successful opera premiered, he would have to quickly score it for wind band (of the type that played outdoors in Vienna’s public parks), otherwise others would do it and reap the financial profits.
Sometimes Mozart did not even have time to play a just-composed piano concerto through – as with the great D minor concerto, K466. The day before he premiered it, the copyist was still working and Mozart didn’t have time to play the rondo once through because he had to check the copyist’s work. Having finished all of Don Giovanni except the overture, he partied the day and night before the dress rehearsal, getting drowsy on punch, and his wife Constanze had to keep him awake telling fairy tales and funny stories as he wrote it. But he dropped into a deep slumber, and she awoke him at 5 a.m. The music copyists were coming at 7 a.m. By the time they arrived, he was finished. The parts were then brought to the orchestra covered in sand, 45 minutes after the performance was supposed to start, and the orchestra sight-read the overture.
There are some errors of fact in Edward Holmes’ 1845 biography; for example, he opines that Mozart wrote the entire Requiem himself and says we know this because there exists a whole copy in his handwriting. But Hogwood says this has been disproven. Other errors (Holmes mistaking one person for another is fairly common) are noted in Hogwood’s footnotes.