Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: The Life Story Behind the Child Prodigy Composer
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Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart wrote music that sounds as if it were always there, waiting to be found. A tune from The Magic Flute, a movement from Eine kleine Nachtmusik, the opening of a piano sonata: these melodies feel natural, as if they could not have been written any other way, and yet they were written by a man who lived only thirty-five years, who was often in debt, and who died in poverty, leaving an unfinished Requiem on his desk. He was a child prodigy who played for kings at six, a teenager who wrote operas, and an adult who struggled to make a living in Vienna, and his life is one of the most brilliant and most sad stories in music.
He was born in Salzburg, in Austria, in 1756, the son of Leopold Mozart, a composer and violinist who taught his children music from an early age. Leopold took his son and daughter on long tours across Europe, showing them off to kings, queens, and princes, and the young Mozart played the harpsichord, the violin, and the organ, and he composed his first pieces before he was six. He was a wonder, and the whole of Europe talked about him, but the wonder came at a price. He spent his childhood in carriages, in courts, and in concert halls, not in a normal home, and he never really learned how to live an ordinary life.
As an adult, Mozart moved to Vienna, where he tried to make a living as a freelance composer, without a steady job at a court. He wrote operas, symphonies, concertos, and chamber music, and he was praised by other musicians, including Haydn, who called him the greatest composer he knew. But he was bad with money, he spent more than he earned, and he died in 1791, at thirty-five, leaving his wife Constanze with debts and two young sons. His music, which was not fully appreciated in his lifetime, has since become some of the most loved music in the world, played every day, in every country, by musicians of every age.
A Child Wonder in Salzburg
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born on 27 January 1756 in Salzburg, in Austria, the youngest of seven children, though only he and his elder sister Maria Anna, known as Nannerl, survived childhood. His father, Leopold Mozart, was a composer, violinist, and deputy Kapellmeister at the court of the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg, and he was a serious, hard-working man who believed in teaching his children well. Leopold taught Nannerl the keyboard when she was seven, and Wolfgang, who was three, watched and listened, and soon began to play himself. By the age of five he was composing small pieces, and by six he was playing the harpsichord in public.
Leopold saw his son’s talent, and he decided to show it to the world. In 1762, when Wolfgang was six, the family set out on a long tour of Europe, travelling to Munich, Vienna, Paris, London, and other cities, where the children played for kings, queens, and princes. In Vienna they played for the Empress Maria Theresa, in Paris they played for King Louis XV, and in London they played for King George III. The tours were a success, and the family earned money, but they were also hard, with long journeys in uncomfortable carriages, with illness, and with the pressure of performing for royalty. Wolfgang was a child, and he was expected to behave like a small adult, to play perfectly, to bow, and to smile, even when he was tired or ill.
He learned a great deal on those tours. He heard music in many styles, he met other composers, and he learned to speak several languages, including Italian, French, and English. He also began to compose in earnest, writing symphonies, sonatas, and other pieces, often with his father’s help, though the music was his own. By the time he was a teenager, he had written more music than most composers write in a lifetime, and he was known across Europe as a prodigy. But the prodigy was growing up, and the world that had loved a child wonder was less interested in a young adult, and Mozart would have to find a new way to make a living.
He returned to Salzburg as a teenager, and he worked for the Prince-Archbishop, first for Hieronymus von Colloredo, who was his employer for many years. The job was secure, but it was also restrictive. The Archbishop wanted music for church and for court, and he did not want Mozart to travel, or to write operas, or to do anything that did not serve the court. Mozart, who was ambitious and who wanted to write for the theatre, felt trapped, and he quarrelled with the Archbishop, who treated him as a servant, not as an artist. That quarrel would lead to a break, and to a new life in Vienna, where Mozart would try to be free.
The Long Tours and a Growing Talent
The tours of Mozart’s childhood were not only about showing off. They were also about learning, and Mozart learned fast. In London, he met Johann Christian Bach, the youngest son of Johann Sebastian Bach, who taught him about the galant style, a light, elegant style of music that was popular at the time. In Italy, where the family travelled in the early 1770s, he heard opera, he studied counterpoint, and he wrote his first operas, including Mitridate, re di Ponto, which was performed in Milan when he was fourteen. He was a teenager writing operas for Italian audiences, and he was succeeding, which is a remarkable fact, even today.
He also wrote symphonies, concertos, and chamber music during these years, and he developed a style that was clear, balanced, and full of melody. His music was not loud or dramatic in the way Beethoven’s later music would be. It was graceful, it was witty, and it was perfect in its proportions, like a well-made piece of furniture, or a well-built house. Other musicians recognised his talent, and Haydn, who was older, became his friend and admirer, saying that Mozart was the greatest composer he knew. That praise, from a man who was himself a great composer, meant a great deal to Mozart, and it is still quoted today.
But the tours also took a toll. Mozart was often ill, he was tired, and he spent his childhood away from home, in a world of adults, where he was expected to perform. His sister Nannerl, who was also talented, was not given the same opportunities as he was, because she was a girl, and because her father believed that a woman’s place was at home. She stopped touring as an adult, and she married and lived in Salzburg, while her brother went on to fame. That difference, between a talented brother and a talented sister, is a sad part of Mozart’s story, and it shows how the world treated women artists in the eighteenth century.
By the time he was in his early twenties, Mozart was ready to leave Salzburg. He had outgrown the court, he wanted to write operas, and he wanted to live in a city where music was free. He tried to find a job in Paris, in Munich, and in other cities, but he did not succeed, and he returned to Salzburg, unhappy, and feeling trapped. In 1781, after a quarrel with the Archbishop in Vienna, he was dismissed from his service, in a humiliating way, and he decided to stay in Vienna, to try his luck as a freelance composer, without a patron, without a steady job, and without a safety net. It was a brave decision, and it was a risky one, and it would define the last ten years of his life.
Breaking Free in Vienna
Vienna in 1781 was a city of music, and Mozart arrived there as a young man of twenty-five, determined to make a living by composing, teaching, and performing. He gave concerts, he taught piano to the daughters of wealthy families, and he wrote music on commission, for anyone who would pay. He was successful at first, and he earned good money, but he spent it as fast as he earned it, on clothes, on a piano, on a house, and on a lifestyle that was more expensive than his income. He married Constanze Weber in 1782, against his father’s wishes, and they had six children, of whom only two, Karl Thomas and Franz Xaver, survived to adulthood. The family lived in Vienna, in apartments that were often too expensive, and Mozart was often in debt, borrowing money from friends, including his fellow Mason Michael Puchberg, to pay his bills.
His operas in Vienna were his greatest successes. The Marriage of Figaro, first performed in 1786, is a comedy about servants who outwit their master, with music that is witty, tender, and perfect. Don Giovanni, first performed in Prague in 1787, is a darker opera about a seducer who is dragged to hell, with music that is dramatic and powerful. Così fan tutte, first performed in 1790, is a comedy about love and fidelity, with music that is beautiful and sad at the same time. These operas are still performed today, in opera houses around the world, and they are considered among the greatest operas ever written. Mozart wrote them quickly, often in a matter of weeks, and he wrote them with a skill that other composers envied.
He also wrote symphonies in Vienna, including the last three, the 39th, 40th, and 41st, known as the Jupiter, which he wrote in the summer of 1788, in a period of only a few weeks. The 40th Symphony, with its opening melody, is one of the most famous pieces in classical music, and it is played everywhere, from concert halls to films. He wrote piano concertos, string quartets, and chamber music, and he was praised by Haydn and by other musicians, who recognised that he was a genius, even if the public did not always understand his work. He was not rich, but he was respected, and he was productive, writing music at a speed that is hard to believe.
In 1791, the last year of his life, he wrote The Magic Flute, an opera in German, not Italian, for a popular theatre in Vienna, with music that is simple, beautiful, and full of magic. The opera was a success, and it is still one of the most performed operas in the world. He also began to write a Requiem, a mass for the dead, on commission from a mysterious patron, and he worked on it while he was ill, knowing that he might not finish it. He died before he finished it, and the Requiem was completed by his student Franz Xaver Süssmayr, using Mozart’s sketches. The story of the Requiem, and of Mozart’s death, has been told many times, often with exaggeration, but the music itself is real, and it is one of his most moving works.
Money Troubles and an Early Death
Mozart died on 5 December 1791 in Vienna, at the age of thirty-five, after a short illness. The exact cause of his death is not known, and many theories have been put forward, from rheumatic fever to poisoning, but none has been proven. He was ill for about two weeks, and he died in his apartment, with Constanze and his family around him. He was buried in a common grave in the St. Marx Cemetery in Vienna, in a simple ceremony, and the exact place of his burial is not known today. That fact, that one of the greatest composers in history was buried in an unmarked grave, has shocked people for centuries, and it has become a symbol of how the world treated genius in his lifetime.
His death left Constanze with debts, and with two young sons to raise. She worked hard to look after his music, organising concerts, publishing his works, and making sure that his name was not forgotten. She later married Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, who wrote a biography of Mozart, and she lived to old age, seeing her husband’s music become famous around the world. Her work, and the work of others who believed in Mozart, ensured that his music survived, even though he died poor and young.
Mozart’s life was short, but his output was huge. He wrote more than six hundred works, including operas, symphonies, concertos, sonatas, and chamber music, and he wrote them in a period of about thirty years, from childhood to his death at thirty-five. That is an extraordinary amount of music, and it is music of extraordinary quality, with melodies that are still hummed today, and with a clarity and a balance that few composers have matched. He is now seen as one of the greatest composers who ever lived, alongside Bach and Beethoven, and his music is played every day, in every country, by musicians of every age.
Nannerl, Constanze, and the Women Around Him
Mozart’s sister Nannerl was a talented musician, and she toured Europe with him as a child, playing the harpsichord to great praise. As an adult, she was not given the same chances as her brother, because she was a woman, and because their father believed that her place was at home. She married, she lived in Salzburg, and she taught music, but she did not have a career as a composer or a performer in the way her brother did. That is a sad fact, and it is one that modern writers have begun to talk about more openly. Nannerl’s talent was real, and the world lost music because it did not give her a chance. Mozart himself loved his sister, and he wrote to her often, but he could not change the world she lived in.
His wife Constanze was also a musician, a singer, and she supported him through his difficult years in Vienna, raising their children, managing the household, and helping him with his work. After his death, she worked tirelessly to publish his music and to secure his reputation, and without her, much of his music might have been lost. She is often shown as a minor figure in Mozart’s story, but she was central to it, both in his life and after his death. She kept his memory alive, and she made sure that the world would hear his music, even after he was gone.
Why Mozart Still Sounds Fresh
Mozart’s music is played today in concert halls, in films, in advertisements, and in homes, and it sounds fresh, even though it was written more than two hundred years ago. That freshness comes from his melodies, which are clear and memorable, and from his sense of balance, which makes his music feel natural, as if it could not have been written any other way. He wrote music that is both simple and deep, that a child can hum and an adult can study, and that double quality is rare. He is now seen as one of the greatest composers who ever lived, and his music is a part of the world’s heritage, played by musicians in every country, and loved by listeners of every age.
The Requiem, the Myth, and What We Know
The story of Mozart’s Requiem has been told many times, often with exaggeration, in books, in plays, and in the film Amadeus, which shows a rival composer, Salieri, poisoning Mozart, a story that is not true, and that has caused a great deal of misunderstanding. The real story is simpler, and sadder: Mozart was commissioned to write a Requiem by a man who wanted it for his wife’s memorial, he worked on it while he was ill, and he died before he finished it, leaving sketches that his student Süssmayr used to complete it. He did not know he was writing his own Requiem, and he was not poisoned, and Salieri did not kill him. Those myths, which are entertaining, have hidden the real story, which is about a man who was ill, who was in debt, and who was working hard, to the end, on a piece of music about death, while he was dying himself. That real story is moving enough, without any invention, and it deserves to be told plainly.
His music was not fully appreciated in his lifetime, and it was only after his death, when Constanze worked to publish it, and when other composers praised it, that his reputation grew, until he became seen as one of the greatest composers who ever lived. That growth, from a poor, young composer who died in debt, to a figure whose music is played every day, in every country, is a story of how art can outlive its maker, and how a reputation can grow after death, in a way that the artist never sees. Mozart did not live to see his fame, and that is sad, but his music did, and it is still here, and it will be here long after we are gone.
Prague, the Operas, and a City That Loved Him
Mozart loved Prague, and Prague loved him, in a way that Vienna never quite did. His opera Don Giovanni was first performed in Prague in 1787, to great success, and the people of Prague welcomed him, and praised his music, when Vienna was often indifferent. He visited Prague several times, he conducted his symphonies there, and he wrote La clemenza di Tito for the coronation of Leopold II in Prague in 1791, in the last year of his life. The city became a second home for him, and he said that the people of Prague understood his music, in a way that the Viennese did not. That love, from a city that was not his own, is a moving part of his story, because it shows that an artist can find a home in a place that is not his birthplace, and that an audience, in a foreign city, can recognise genius, even when the artist’s own city does not. Prague still celebrates Mozart today, with festivals, with concerts, and with a museum in the villa where he stayed, and his music is still played there, every day, as if he had never left. He also wrote a great deal of chamber music, for string quartets, for piano trios, and for other small groups, and that music, which is played in homes and in small halls, shows a different side of Mozart, as a composer who could write for a few friends, in a room, as well as for a large orchestra, in a theatre. His string quartets, dedicated to Haydn, are among the finest in all music, and they show his respect for his older friend, and his ability to write music that is both learned and beautiful, for players who were also his friends. That chamber music is still played today, by quartets around the world, and it is a reminder that Mozart’s genius was not only for the stage, but also for the quiet room, where a few musicians play together, for the love of music itself.
My Take:
I think Mozart is the composer who makes me feel most aware of how short life can be, and how much a person can do in a short time. He lived thirty-five years, and he wrote more than six hundred works, and he did it while travelling, while being ill, while being in debt, and while raising a family. I look at my own life, and I think about how much time I waste, and Mozart’s story makes me want to waste less. He did not have time to waste, and he did not waste it. He wrote, he played, and he composed, every day, from childhood to his death. That is an inspiring story, and it is also a sad one, because he died so young, and we will never know what he would have written if he had lived to fifty, or sixty, like Haydn or Beethoven.
What I admire most is his ear for melody. A Mozart tune is not like other tunes. It sounds as if it were always there, waiting to be found, and once you hear it, you cannot forget it. I have heard Eine kleine Nachtmusik many times, and each time it sounds fresh, as if I am hearing it for the first time. That is a rare gift, and it is one that few composers have. Mozart had it from childhood, and he kept it for his whole life, even when he was writing complex operas and symphonies. He never lost the ability to write a simple, beautiful tune, and that ability is the foundation of his fame.
I also think about his childhood, and about how hard it must have been to be a child prodigy. He was six years old, playing for kings and queens, travelling in uncomfortable carriages, and being expected to behave like a small adult. That is not a normal childhood, and it is not a happy one, even if it looks glamorous from the outside. I think about the pressure he must have felt, to play perfectly, to smile, to bow, and to do it all again the next day, in another city, for another king. He survived it, and he became a great composer, but I wonder what it cost him. I think it cost him a normal life, and it cost him the ability to manage money, to live quietly, and to be happy in an ordinary way. He was never ordinary, and he never learned how to be.
His father Leopold is a complicated figure in his story, and I have mixed feelings about him. On the one hand, Leopold taught his son music, he took him on tours, and he gave him the chance to become famous. On the other hand, Leopold was strict, he was controlling, and he wanted his son to be a prodigy, not a child. I think Leopold loved his son, but he also used him, and that is a hard truth to face. Mozart broke free from his father when he moved to Vienna, and that break was necessary, but it was also painful, and it left a wound that never fully healed. I think many talented children have fathers like Leopold, who see talent as a resource to be used, and I think we should be careful about that. A child is not a resource. A child is a person, and Mozart was a person before he was a prodigy.
His marriage to Constanze is another part of his story that I think about, because it shows a man who wanted love, and who found it, even though his father disapproved. He married Constanze against his father’s wishes, and he loved her, and she loved him, and they had children, and they lived a life that was often hard, with debts and illness, but with love. I respect that choice, because it was a choice for love over approval, and for a life of his own over a life dictated by his father. Constanze stood by him, and after his death she worked to save his music, and without her, we might not have his music today. That is a debt we owe her, and it is one that is often forgotten.
I do not think Mozart was perfect with money, and I do not think we should excuse that. He earned good money in Vienna, and he spent it as fast as he earned it, on clothes, on a piano, on a house, and on a lifestyle that was too expensive. He borrowed money, he was in debt, and he died poor, leaving his wife with debts. That is a sad fact, and it is a lesson for anyone who earns money from art: talent does not teach you how to manage money, and fame does not pay the bills. Mozart needed help with money, and he did not get it, or he did not listen when he got it. I say that not to criticise him, but to be honest, and to remind the reader that even a genius can be bad at practical things.
The Requiem is the piece I think about most when I think about his death, because he was writing a mass for the dead while he was dying himself. That is a strange and moving fact, and it has been told many times, often with exaggeration, but the core of it is true: he was ill, he was working on a Requiem, and he did not finish it. I listen to the Requiem and I hear a man who knows he is dying, and who is writing music about death, and about hope, and about the life to come. It is a beautiful piece, and it is a sad piece, and it is a fitting end to a life that was both brilliant and short. I hope that when people listen to it, they think about Mozart, not only as a composer, but as a man who was facing death, and who wrote music anyway.
His operas are the works I love most, especially The Marriage of Figaro, because they are about real people, about servants and masters, about love and jealousy, and about the comedy of human life. Mozart understood people, and he put that understanding into his operas, with music that shows what a character is feeling, even when the words do not say it. Figaro is clever, Susanna is smart, the Count is foolish, and the music tells you all of that, without a word of explanation. That is a gift, and it is one that few opera composers have matched. I think Mozart’s operas are his greatest achievement, even more than his symphonies, because they show his understanding of human nature, and his ability to make music that is both funny and sad at the same time.
I also think about Nannerl, and about how the world wasted her talent. She was a gifted musician, she toured with her brother, and she was praised, but as an adult she was not given a career, because she was a woman. That is a loss, not only for her, but for music, because we will never know what she could have written, or played, if she had been given the chance. I think we should remember Nannerl when we talk about Mozart, not only as his sister, but as a musician in her own right, whose talent was real, and whose life was limited by the world she lived in. That is a sad story, and it is one that is still relevant today, when women artists are still fighting for the same chances as men.
What I take from Mozart’s life, in the end, is a lesson about time and about melody. He had thirty-five years, and he used them to write music that will last for centuries. He did not wait for the perfect moment, he did not wait to be rich, and he did not wait to be understood. He wrote, every day, from childhood to his death, and he wrote melodies that sound as if they were always there. I think that is a good way to live: to do the work, every day, even when you are tired, even when you are in debt, even when you are ill, because the work is what lasts. Mozart’s life was short, but his music is long, and it will outlast all of us.
If I could ask Mozart one question, I would ask him what he heard when he was composing, whether the music came to him whole, or whether he had to work at it, note by note. I think he would say that it came easily, and that he heard it in his head, and that writing it down was the easy part. That is a beautiful answer, and it is one I want to believe, because it suggests that music is not only work, but also a gift, and that Mozart was given that gift in a way that few people are. I hope the reader listens to his music again, not as background, but as a gift, and hears the melody that was always there, waiting to be found by a boy from Salzburg who played for kings at six, and who died at thirty-five, leaving us with more music than we can ever listen to in a lifetime.
In the end, I think Mozart teaches me that a short life can be a full life, if it is lived with passion, and that a person who dies young can still leave a legacy that lasts for centuries. He was a child prodigy, a husband, a father, a debtor, and a genius, and he was all of those things at once, in a life that was too short, and too full, and too brilliant to be forgotten. I am glad we have his music, and I am glad that Constanze saved it, and I hope that the next time I hear a Mozart tune, I will remember the boy who wrote it, and the man who died too young, and the music that is still alive.
I also think about the film Amadeus, and about how it has shaped the way people see Mozart, as a giggling, childish genius, and Salieri as a jealous murderer. That film is entertaining, and it is beautifully made, but it is not true, and it has done a great deal of harm to Mozart’s reputation, by making him seem like a fool, and Salieri seem like a villain. The real Mozart was not a fool. He was a hard-working composer, a husband, a father, and a man who was bad with money, but who was serious about his art, and who wrote music with great care. The real Salieri was not a murderer. He was a respected composer, and a teacher, who admired Mozart, and who was saddened by his death. I think we should enjoy Amadeus as a film, but we should not confuse it with history, and we should remember the real Mozart, who was a person, not a character in a play.
There is a lesson in Constanze’s work after Mozart’s death that I want to keep, about how a widow can save a reputation. She organised concerts, she published his works, and she made sure that his name was not forgotten, and without her, much of his music might have been lost. That work, done by a woman who was grieving, and who had two young sons to raise, is a generous act, and it is one that is often forgotten, because history remembers the composer, and forgets the person who saved his music. I want to remember Constanze, and to thank her, in this small way, for what she did, because we would not have Mozart’s music without her, and that is a debt we all owe her.
I think about the number six hundred, and about how Mozart wrote more than six hundred works in thirty years, and I wonder how he did it, and whether he ever rested. He wrote operas, symphonies, concertos, and chamber music, often in a matter of weeks, and he did it while travelling, while being ill, and while raising a family. That is an extraordinary output, and it is one that few composers have matched, and it makes me think about my own work, and about how much time I waste, and how much I could do, if I worked with Mozart’s urgency. He did not have time to waste, and he did not waste it, and his music is the proof. I hope I can work with a little of his urgency, and I hope the reader can too.
Finally, I want to say something about his melodies, and about how they sound as if they were always there. A Mozart tune does not sound like it was invented. It sounds like it was discovered, like a stone in a river, or a star in the sky, that was always there, waiting for someone to find it. That is a beautiful idea, and it is one I want to keep, because it suggests that music is not only made, but also found, and that a composer is a person who listens carefully, and who hears what is already there. Mozart listened, and he heard melodies that no one else had heard, and he wrote them down, and now we can hear them too. That is a gift, and it is one I am grateful for, every time I hear a Mozart tune, and recognise it, as if I have known it all my life.
Frequently Asked Questions
When was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart born?
Mozart was born on 27 January 1756 in Salzburg, Austria. He was the son of Leopold Mozart, a composer and violinist, and he began playing and composing as a small child.
How old was Mozart when he started composing?
Mozart began composing small pieces at the age of five, and he was playing the harpsichord in public by six. He toured Europe with his family as a child prodigy, playing for kings and queens.
What are Mozart’s most famous operas?
His best-known operas are The Marriage of Figaro from 1786, Don Giovanni from 1787, Così fan tutte from 1790, and The Magic Flute from 1791. They are still performed in opera houses around the world.
Did Mozart finish his Requiem?
No, Mozart died before finishing his Requiem, a mass for the dead that he was writing in 1791. It was completed after his death by his student Franz Xaver Süssmayr, using Mozart’s sketches.
How did Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart die?
Mozart died on 5 December 1791 in Vienna, at the age of thirty-five, after a short illness. The exact cause is not known, and many theories have been suggested, but none has been proven.
Who was Nannerl Mozart?
Nannerl, whose full name was Maria Anna Mozart, was Mozart’s elder sister and a talented musician who toured Europe with him as a child. As an adult she did not have a public career, because women were not given the same chances as men at that time.
