The marvel of Mozart’s letters

It’s 1771, you’re in Milan, and your 14-year-old genius son has just premièred his new opera. How do you reward him? What would be a fun family excursion in an era before multiplexes or theme parks? Leopold Mozart knew just the ticket. ‘I saw four rascals hanged here on the Piazza del Duomo,’ wrote young Wolfgang back to his sister Maria Anna (‘Nannerl’), excitedly. ‘They hang them just as they do in Lyons.’ He was already something of a connoisseur of public executions. The Mozarts had spent four weeks in Lyons in 1766 and as the music historian Stanley Sadie points out, Leopold had clearly taken his son (ten) and daughter (15) along to a hanging ‘for a jolly treat one free afternoon’.

Mozart’s letters deliver many such jolts — reminders that, however directly we might feel that Mozart’s music speaks to us, he’s not a man of our time. But for every shock of difference, there’s a start of recognition. Composers’ letters can make frustrating reading. Beethoven’s are brusque, practical affairs; Brahms hides behind a humour as impenetrable as his beard. But with Mozart, you get the whole personality — candid, perceptive and irresistibly alive.

Reading Mozart’s correspondence is like being tugged by an enthusiastic, garrulous friend right into the green room of 18th-century European culture. The cast list extends from Empress Maria Theresa to the family dog Bimperl: Mozart is just as fascinated by both. One minute, he’s dressed as harlequin and dancing all night at the 1783 Vienna carnival. Next, he’s talking shop with Dad (Leopold was a respected composer in his own right), or bitching about a mediocre singer or arrogant patron. And now he’s arriving in Linz without a symphony in his luggage, and writing a new one overnight before getting back to the equally compelling business of lavatory humour.