Mozart's Journey to Prague and a Selection of Poems

by Eduard Morike

  The fact, however, that the present company were now to make the acquaintance for the first time of a work that has been fully familiar to us since our youth, gave them a standpoint and a relationship to it that were infinitely different from ours. And indeed, apart from the enviable good fortune of having it communicated to them by its author in person, they were far less favourably placed than we are; for a clear and perfect appreciation was not really possible to any of those who heard it, and in more than one respect would not even have been possible if the whole opera could have been given to them in unabbreviated form.

  Out of eighteen finished numbers the composer probably performed less than half (in the report on which our narrative is based the only one explicitly mentioned is the last piece in this series, the Sextet). It seems that he rendered most of them very freely, presenting extracts on the piano and singing occasional passages at random or when appropriate. Similarly, all we find on record about his wife is that she sang two arias. Since her voice is supposed to have been powerful as well as charming, we should like to think that these were Donna Anna’s first (‘Or sai chi l’onore’) and one of Zerlina’s two.

  Strictly speaking, so far as intellect, insight and taste were concerned, Eugenie and her fiancé were the only members of that audience entirely after the maestro’s own heart, and the former a great deal more than the latter. They both sat right at the back of the room, the young lady still as a statue and so absorbed in the music that even in the brief intervals during which the others discreetly applauded or involuntarily expressed their inner emotion in admiring murmurs, she was scarcely able to give any adequate response to her fiancé’s remarks.

  When Mozart had come to a conclusion with the glorious Sextet and conversation gradually revived, he seemed to take particular interest and pleasure in some of the Baron’s observations. Discussion had touched on the end of the opera, and on the performance provisionally arranged for the beginning of November, and when someone remarked that certain parts of the Finale still represented an enormous task, the maestro smiled rather mysteriously. But Constanze, leaning over and addressing the Countess though talking loudly enough for her husband to hear, said:

  ‘He still has something up his sleeve, and he’s keeping it secret even from me.’

  ‘My darling!’ he replied, ‘you are talking out of turn in mentioning that now. What if the mood were to take me to start composing again? And in fact I’m already itching to do so.’

  ‘Leporello!’ cried the Count, jumping merrily to his feet and beckoning to a servant. ‘Wine! Three bottles of Sillery!’26

  ‘Please, no! Enough is enough – my young gentleman still hasn’t finished his last glass.’

  ‘Good health to him, then – and let everyone have what he needs!’

  ‘Oh God, now what have I done!’ lamented Constanze, glancing at the clock. ‘It’s almost eleven and tomorrow morning we have to start first thing – whatever shall we do?’

  ‘Dear lady, you just can’t do it, you absolutely can’t.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ began Mozart, ‘things can happen in a strange way. What will my dear little wife say when she learns that the very piece of work she is about to hear was born into the world at this very hour of the night, and just before a proposed journey too?’

  ‘Is it possible? When? You must mean three weeks ago, when you were just about to leave for Eisenstadt.’

  ‘Exactly. And this was how it happened. I got home from dinner at Richter’s by ten, when you were already fast asleep, and indeed I meant to go to bed early as I had promised, in order to be able to get up and into the carriage in good time next morning. Meanwhile Veit, as usual, had lit the candles on my desk; I mechanically put on my dressing-gown, and it occurred to me to take another look at my last piece of work. But, alas! oh, the confounded, untimely meddlings of women! You had tidied everything away, and packed the score – for I had to take it with me, of course, the Prince wanted to hear the music. And so I searched and grumbled and cursed, all in vain! But as I did so my eyes fell on a sealed envelope: from the Abbé, to judge by the dreadful spiky writing of the address – yes, indeed! He had sent me the rest of his revised text, which I wasn’t expecting to see for another month. At once I sat down eagerly to read it, and was enchanted to find how well the strange fellow had understood my intentions. It was all much simpler, more concentrated and yet with more substance. Both the scene in the graveyard, and the Finale up to the death of the hero, had been much improved in every respect. (You excellent poet! I thought, now you have conjured up heaven and hell for me again, and you shall have your reward!) Now it is not normally my custom to write part of a composition in advance, however tempting it may be; this is a bad habit, and one often has to pay dearly for it. But exceptions can be made, and in short, that scene with the equestrian statue of the Commendatore, when the nocturnal prowler’s laughter is suddenly interrupted by a ghastly voice from the grave of the murdered man – that scene had already gripped me. I struck one chord, and felt that I had knocked at the right door, that behind it they were all lying ready, the whole legion of terrors that are to be unleashed in the Finale. At first an Adagio came: in D minor, only four bars, then a second phrase with five – I do believe that this will be remarkably effective on the stage, with the most powerful of the wind instruments accompanying the voice. Meanwhile let’s make what we can of it here: listen!’

  Without further ado he extinguished the candles in the two chandeliers on either side of him, and through the dead silence of the room the fearful chant rang out: Di rider finirai pria dell’ aurora!27 As from some remote stellar region, from silver trumps the notes dropped, ice-cold, piercing the marrow and shivering the soul, down through the dark blue night.

  ‘Chi va là?’ demands Don Giovanni, ‘chi va là?’ And then we hear it again, on a single repeated note as before, commanding the impious youth to leave the dead in peace.

  And when the last reverberation of those deep-resounding notes had died away, Mozart continued: ‘And now, as you may appreciate, it was impossible for me to stop. Once the ice has broken at even one point on the shore of a lake, we hear the whole surface splitting and cracking, right across to the furthest corner. Involuntarily I took up the same thread at a point further on, when Don Giovanni is sitting at supper, when Donna Elvira has just left and the ghost appears as invited. Listen to this!’

  And now followed that whole long, terrifying dialogue which snatches even the soberest of listeners away to the borderline of human understanding and beyond it: away to where our eyes and ears apprehend the supernatural, and we are helplessly tossed to and fro from one extreme to another within our own hearts.

  Estranged already from human utterance, the immortal tongue of the dead man deigns again to speak. Soon after his first dreadful greeting, as the half-transfigured visitant scorns the earthly food they offer him, how strange and uncanny is his voice as it moves with irregular strides up and down the rungs of a ladder woven from air! He demands swift resolve to repentance and penance: the time of grace for the spirit is short, long, long, long is the journey! And now as Don Giovanni in monstrous self-will defies the eternal ordinances, desperately struggling against the growing onslaught of the infernal powers, resisting and writhing and finally perishing, though still sublime in every gesture – whose heart is not moved, who would not be shaken to the innermost core with simultaneous ecstasy and terror? It is with a similar feeling of astonishment that we watch the magnificent spectacle of a violent natural force, the burning of some splendid ship. Involuntarily we feel a kind of sympathy with this blind greatness, and share its agony as it whirls towards its self-destruction.

  The composer had finished. For a while no one dared to be the first to break the general silence. Finally, still scarcely able to breathe, the Countess ventured: ‘Tell us, please tell us something about how you felt when you put down your pen that night!’

  As if waking from a private reverie, he looked at her with a smile, quic
kly collected his thoughts and said, half to the lady and half to his wife: ‘Well, I suppose my head did feel a bit dizzy. I had sat by the open window writing the whole of that desperate dibattimento, down to the chorus of demons at the end, in a single flush of inspiration; I had finished it, and after a brief rest I rose from my chair, meaning to go to your room and chatter with you for a moment until I calmed down. But suddenly an unwelcome thought stopped me where I stood.’ (Here he lowered his eyes for a moment or two, and when he continued there was a scarcely perceptible tremor of emotion in his voice.) ‘I said to myself: Suppose you were to sicken and die this very night, suppose you had to abandon your score at this point – would you rest at peace in your grave? I stared at the wick of the candle in my hand and at the mounds of wax that had dripped from it. The thought gave me a momentary pang of grief. Then I reflected again: Suppose another man later, sooner or later, perhaps even some sort of Italian, were commissioned to finish the opera? And suppose he found it, with the exception of one passage, all neatly put together from the Introduction to the seventeenth number, all healthy ripe fruit shaken down into the tall grass for him to pick up? And suppose he still felt rather daunted by this central part of the Finale – and were then unexpectedly to find that big stumbling-block more or less already removed: what a laugh he would secretly have then! Perhaps he would be tempted to cheat me of the honour due to me. But I think he’d burn his fingers over that; I’d still have a few good friends who know my handiwork and would honestly make sure I got the credit. So now I left my study, looking up to thank God with all my heart, and thanking your good genius as well, my dear little wife, for holding his hands gently above your brow for so long, making you sleep on and on like a little rat, unable to call out to me even once. But when I finally did get to you and you asked me what time it was, I brazenly swore a couple of hours off your age, for it was in fact nearly four o’clock. So now you understand why you couldn’t dig me out of bed at six, and why the coachman had to be sent home and told to come back next day.’

  ‘Of course!’ retorted Constanze, ‘but my clever husband need not imagine that I was so stupid as to notice nothing! That was certainly no good reason for not saying a word to me about the fine progress you had made!’

  ‘And that wasn’t the reason either.’

  ‘I know – you wanted to keep your treasure a secret for the time being.’

  ‘All I can say,’ exclaimed their good-humoured host, ‘is that I’m delighted we shan’t need to hurt the noble feelings of a Viennese coachman if Herr Mozart absolutely refuses to get out of bed tomorrow morning. Unharness the horses again, Hans – it’s always a very painful order to give.’

  This indirect request by the Count that the Mozarts should prolong their visit was one in which all the rest of those present most heartily joined, and the travellers were now obliged to expound very serious reasons for not doing so; but as a compromise it was gladly agreed that they would not leave too early, and that the company would have the pleasure of taking breakfast together.

  The party continued for a while with everyone moving around and talking in groups. Mozart was looking about him, evidently hoping for some further conversation with the young bride; but as she was momentarily absent, he artlessly addressed the question he had intended for her directly to Francesca who was standing near by: ‘So what, on the whole, is your opinion of our Don Giovanni? Can you prophesy some success for it?’

  ‘I will answer that,’ she replied laughingly, ‘in the name of my cousin, as well as I can: it is my humble opinion that if Don Giovanni does not turn the head of everyone who hears it, then the Lord God will simply shut up his music shop till further notice and announce to mankind –’ – ‘And give mankind’, her uncle corrected her, ‘a bagpipes to play with, and harden their hearts till they turn to worshipping idols!’

  ‘God forbid!’ laughed Mozart. ‘But indeed: in the next sixty or seventy years, long after I am gone, many a false prophet will arise.’28

  Eugenie reappeared with Max and the Baron, the conversation took a new turn and again became serious and significant, so that before the company dispersed the composer’s hopes had been pleasurably encouraged by many flattering and perceptive remarks.

  The party did not break up till long after midnight; no one noticed until then how tired they all were.

  At ten o’clock on the following morning (a day of equally fine weather) a handsome coach, packed with the luggage of the two Viennese guests, had appeared in the courtyard. The Count was standing by it with Mozart just before the horses were brought out, and asked him how he liked it.

  ‘Very much; it looks extremely comfortable.’

  ‘Well, then, do me the pleasure of keeping it as a souvenir from me.’

  ‘What, are you serious?’

  ‘But most certainly!’

  ‘Holy Sixtus and Calixtus! Constanze!’ he called up to the window at which she and the others stood looking out, ‘I’m to be given the coach! From now on you’ll be travelling in your own coach!’

  He embraced his chuckling benefactor, walked round his new property inspecting it from all sides, opened the door, jumped in and called out: ‘I feel as noble and rich as Chevalier Gluck!29 My, how they’ll stare at this in Vienna!’ – ‘I hope,’ said the Countess, ‘that on your way back from Prague we shall see your carriage again, with triumphal garlands hanging all over it!’

  Not long after this happy scene the much-lauded carriage did in fact set off with the departing pair, and headed for the highway at a brisk trot. The Count’s horses were to take them as far as Wittingau, where post-horses were to be hired.

  When our home has been temporarily enlivened by the presence of goodhearted and admirable visitors, and when like a breath of spiritual fresh air they have renewed and quickened our very being, so that we have enjoyed the giving of hospitality as never before, their departure always fills us with a certain malaise, at any rate for the rest of the day and if we are again thrown back entirely on our own company.

  This at least was not the case with our friends at the castle. To be sure, Francesca’s parents and her old aunt now also departed; but Francesca herself and Eugenie’s fiancé, and Max of course, stayed on. It is Eugenie that we here chiefly have in mind, for she had been moved more deeply than any of the others by so rare and wonderful an experience, and it might be thought that there was nothing she lacked, nothing to grieve or sadden her. Her pure happiness with the man she truly loved, a happiness which had been given its formal confirmation only today, must surely have eclipsed all other feelings; or rather, the noblest and finest emotions that could touch her heart must surely have mingled and united with that abundant joy. And this no doubt would have been true had she been able, yesterday and today, to live only for the present moment, and now only for its pure retrospective enjoyment. But that evening, as she had listened to Mozart’s wife telling her story, she had, despite all her delight in his charm, been secretly touched by a certain anxiety on his behalf. And all the time he was playing, despite all the indescribable beauty of the music and through all its mysterious terror, this apprehension lived on in the depths of her consciousness, till in the end she was startled and shocked to hear him mention his own similar forebodings. The conviction, the utter conviction grew upon her that here was a man rapidly and inexorably burning himself out in his own flame; that he could be only a fleeting phenomenon on this earth, because the overwhelming beauty that poured from him would be more than the earth could really endure.

  She had gone to bed on the previous evening with this and many other thoughts touching and stirring her heart, and with the music of Don Giovanni haunting her inner ear as a ceaseless throng of manifold sound. It had been almost daybreak when she wearily fell asleep.

  But now the three ladies were sitting in the garden with their needlework, the men were keeping them company, and since Mozart was naturally the first and sole topic of conversation, Eugenie made no secret of her apprehensions. None of
the others was in the least inclined to share them, although the Baron understood them perfectly. In a happy hour, in a mood of quite unmixed human gratitude, we usually find ourselves rejecting strongly any idea of misfortune or unhappiness that does not immediately concern us at the time. The most telling counter-arguments were laughingly advanced to her, especially by her uncle, and how gladly she drank them all in! They fell little short of truly convincing her that she was taking too gloomy a view.

  A few moments later, as she passed through the large room upstairs which had just been cleaned and set in order again and whose green damask curtains, now drawn, admitted only a soft twilight, she paused sorrowfully by the piano. Remembering who had sat there only a few hours ago, she felt certain she must be dreaming. She looked long and pensively at the keys which he had been the last to touch, then gently closed the lid and removed the key, jealously resolved that for some time to come no other hand should open it again. As she left, she casually put a few volumes of songs back in their place; an old sheet fell out of one of them, it was a copy of a little Bohemian folk-song, one that Francesca had once often sung, indeed she had no doubt sung it herself. She picked it up and looked at it with emotion. In such a mood as hers the most natural coincidence easily becomes an oracle. But however she understood it, its contents were such that, as she reread these simple verses, hot tears fell from her eyes.

  In the woods, who knows where,

  Stands a green fir-tree;

  A rosebush, who can tell,

  Blooms in what garden?

  Already they have been chosen –

  Oh soul, remember! –