The Orchestral Concert as Tournament: From Concerto Grosso to Sinfonia Concertante (Book: Mozart, His Character, His…

We are now entirely in the realm of concert music when to the competition of two or more instruments the orchestra is added and also becomes a participant in the brilliant contest—a participant that usually opens the tournament, but immediately yields the fighters the foreground. It modestly watches the development of their actions, accompanying and sometimes commenting, but speaks again with full voice only when they grow tired and would not mind a little rest.

The predecessor of these eighteenth-century orchestral concert works was the old concerto grosso of Corelli and his imitators, which singled out from the “tutti,” that is, the participants of the “great contest” (concerto grosso), a group of soloists—the “concertino.” In Corelli the soloists were always two violins and cello; in other masters their make-up varied. Mozart sharply distinguishes such works from the symphony, where he rarely—far more rarely than Haydn—permits one or another instrument to solo. We do not find in Mozart, for example, such a violin solo as in the Andante of Haydn’s “Drumroll” Symphony (No. 103); such a mixing of traits seemed to Mozart incompatible with symphonic style. In contrast to Haydn, who as late as 1792 performed in London his sinfonia concertante for violin (flute), oboe, cello, bassoon, and orchestra (though he composed it, of course, before London), Mozart as time went on turned less and less to this genre. Having moved away from the sinfonia concertante, he separates its ingredients: in the orchestral symphony he emphasizes ever more clearly the symphonic principle, and in the solo concerto—above all the piano concerto—the concertante.

Mozart began with the concertone (early May 1773): a splendid, ceremonial concert piece in C major for two solo violins (violini principali), solo oboe, and cello. In the first movement the cello hardly appears, but in the slow movement (Andantino grazioso) and the finale (a quickened Tempo di Menuetto) it enlarges the concertino group, turning it into a quartet. Yet the whole work, like the orchestra with its doubled violas, gleams with purely concertante zest, animated figurations, a lively galant imitation that one certainly cannot confuse with true polyphonic style. We marvel at the technical deftness of the young composer (Mozart had barely turned seventeen) that enabled him to manage such a work, and at his professional ambition, here fully satisfied.

Father and son long valued this work highly: “...Could the Haffner music, your concertone, or something from the Nachtmusik for the Lodrons not have been performed in Mannheim?” Leopold asks (1 December 1777), emphasizing the kinship of the concertone with Mozart’s other two works in the “light” galant genre. Mozart himself writes three days later: “...I played my concertone on the harpsichord to Mr. Wendling; he said it would do for Paris. If I tell this to Baron Bach [Bagge], he will lose his head.” (Baron Charles Ernest de Bagge, one of the famous music lovers, “musical fools” of that time, was himself an amateur composer.) Indeed Paris and London, with their large orchestras made up of real virtuosi, were well suited to such works. Johann Christian Bach wrote a whole series of such concerti; as obligati or principali there appear now violin and cello, now oboe and cello, now flute and violin, now bassoon, now oboe, and once even harpsichord. I have published one of these sinfonie concertanti, a copy of which belonged precisely to Baron Bagge.

Thus, five years after the concertone, in Paris, Mozart creates a work of the same type—a sinfonia concertante for flute, oboe, horn, and bassoon (K. App. 9). On 5 April 1778 he informs his father of his plan: “...I shall write a sinfonia concertante for flute—Wendling, oboe—Ramm, Punto—horn, and Ritter—bassoon...” All those named are Mannheim musicians except Punto, who was a touring virtuoso. The work was intended for the “Concerts Spirituels,” but was never performed. The autograph, with the performers’ names, disappeared. Thus we know it only in the version in which flute and oboe are replaced by oboe and clarinet. Still, the arranger clearly did not dare to introduce deeper changes that might have touched the very substance of the work. Fundamentally it is a “Mannheim” offspring. We know a number of Mannheim symphonies by Cannabich, Toeschi, Eichner, differing from Viennese and Italian ones by greater splendor and scale—linked not only to the “Mannheim crescendo,” but also to the display of effects intended for soloists. Virtuosi of the “first orchestra of Europe” demanded consideration. Yet Mozart’s sinfonia concertante is neither a symphony with solos nor quite a concerto for four wind instruments with orchestra. It occupies a middle position between these genres, looking back to the Salzburg concertone (1773) and forward to the Viennese wind piano quintet (1784).

This work demands brilliance, breadth, sweep, and fully satisfies—especially in the first movement—the contemporary love of “lengths.” In all movements, and especially in the last, the artistry of the four wind virtuosi is displayed: they perform no fewer than ten interlinked variations—each alone and all together, in the most varied combinations. Particularly fine is the slow movement (strangely written not in B-flat minor, A-flat minor, or C minor, but in the principal key E-flat), where the tutti is more subordinate to the solo quartet than in the outer movements. We are justified in expecting something exceptional whenever, after the orchestra’s unison, Mozart has the strings enter with the “motto” that accompanied him throughout his life.

One might take it as a creative joke that immediately after a work conceived for finished artists, Mozart wrote another sinfonia concertante for highborn amateurs: the concerto for flute and harp, written in the “lightest” key C major for the Duke de Guînes and his daughter. The Duke, Mozart reports to his father on 14 May 1778, plays the flute “incomparably,” and the little duchess plays “splendidly” on the harp. Yet Mozart sought here to place the most moderate demands on the performers.

Mozart did not like the flute, and the harp seemed to him a plucked instrument severely limited in its possibilities. One must know this dislike and limitation in order to appreciate how he solved his task. He created refined French salon music, in the Rondo (Tempo di Gavotta) even emphatically French: a small orchestra, yet with oboes and horns; charming play between the two aristocratic instruments, together and with the orchestra; an Andantino like François Boucher in sound—decorative, sensual, yet not without depth of feeling. The cadenzas of the noble soloists were undoubtedly written down—Mozart himself described with tragicomic vividness the harpist’s incapacity for composition—but these cadenzas have been lost.

Returning from Paris to Salzburg, in November 1778, Mozart stopped in Mannheim and began writing yet another work of the same kind, for violin, keyboard, and orchestra (12 November): “...Here too they organize an ‘Academy of amateurs,’ as in Paris, and Herr Fränzl is the leading violin—so I am just now writing a concerto for harpsichord and violin.”

A sinfonia concertante for Fränzl, whom Mozart valued so highly as a violinist, and for himself! What a gift for contemporaries and posterity! One can judge by the surviving fragment of the first movement (K. App. 56): large orchestra with flutes, oboes, trumpets, and timpani; broad and generous use of ritornellos; a majestic Alla marcia—something like a coronation concerto, anticipating the second of the two Coronation piano concertos. But alas, nothing came of the projected “Academy,” for a few weeks after November 1778 the Mannheim orchestra dissolved. Why did Mozart not finish the work in Munich? Because, I think, Ignaz Fränzl probably preferred to remain in Mannheim, and when Mozart conceived the work he evidently imagined it only with Fränzl—and no one else. Thus, because of the smallpox of the Bavarian Elector Max Joseph, we are poorer by one masterpiece.

Mozart’s last word in the realm of the sinfonia concertante is the Salzburg work for violin and viola in E-flat major (K. 364); it resonates with the earlier piece in the same key for two keyboards (K. 365), to which we shall return later. I repeat: his last word—since the sinfonia concertante in A major for three string instruments—violin, viola, and cello (K. App. 104)—begun at about the same time (autumn 1779), remained, like the Mannheim work, only a magnificent fragment. In the E-flat major sinfonia concertante Mozart, as it were, summarized everything he had achieved in the concertante movements of serenades, but these achievements are now enriched by his concept of monumentality and grandeur formed in Mannheim and Paris. And—most importantly—everywhere one feels the maturity of the composer as man and artist.

The first movement is no longer Allegro or Allegro spirituoso, but Allegro maestoso; instead of buffa or merely galant motives, symphonic or cantabile motives prevail, and among the cantabile—an unforgettable second theme: responses of the oboes set against the deepest seriousness of the strings’ replies and seem to illuminate them. Later horns and oboes enter into dialogue with the strings’ pizzicato. Then follows a powerful orchestral crescendo, quite Mannheim-like (rare in Mozart’s symphonies), and Mozart-like in that each detail is enlivened, organized, organic in unity, in each of the symphony’s three movements.

Remarkable is the activity of the orchestra, in which each instrument speaks in its own language—oboes, horns, and the entire string group, which, thanks to divided violas, now sounds richer and warmer. The lyrical alternation of the two soloists’ replies in the Andante becomes a truly living conversation. An Andante in C minor—here is further proof that there is no question of galanterie. The most intimate feeling is unveiled at the moment when the viola, responding to the violin’s suppressed lament, leads us into the softest E-flat major. The finale’s special cheerfulness (Tempo di contraddanza) is given by surprises: they repeatedly break into its structure, into the filo of musical thoughts, and only then does the expected follow; even the entrance of the soloists sometimes proves a surprise. The viola is notated in D, that is, must be tuned a semitone higher—its strings therefore differently tensioned—so that it should sound brighter and more joyful, and stand out among the violas in the tutti. This time cadenzas are written out; they are astonishingly plastic, brief, and beautiful—a model and a warning for later times.

The double concerto for violin and viola crowns Mozart’s achievements also in the realm of the violin concerto. In Vienna Mozart no longer wrote them. Here he composed only two separate movements to replace slow movements, one for his own, one for another’s work. In essence, with the exception of the magnificent concerto for basset horn or clarinet, all concertos Mozart later wrote in Vienna that are not for keyboard are of secondary significance. But of course this in no way applies to the five violin concertos written in Salzburg from April to December 1775: B-flat major (K. 207), D major (K. 211), G major (K. 216), D major (K. 218), and A major (K. 219). The so-called “Adelaide Concerto,” supposedly written in 1776 in Versailles, is, to put it mildly, a mystification in the manner of Fritz Kreisler.

From 27 November 1770, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart held the post of concertmaster in the chapel of the Prince-Archbishop, and he had to do work for his official instrument. These concertos were written with all the ambition that was natural to him. They are less galant than those concertante movements that Mozart inserted into his serenades, or than the openly virtuosic pieces that one sometimes finds in his divertimenti. In his father’s house Mozart had certainly studied deeply the concertos of Tartini, Geminiani, and Locatelli; and during the Italian journeys he became acquainted with the works of the younger, less strict and more sensuous generation—Nardini, Pugnani, Ferrari, Boccherini, and Borodin.

In the first violin concerto in B-flat major, one clearly hears echoes of the older, stricter concerto ideal (which is further evidence of Mozart’s traditionalism, his desire to remain within certain limits): the absence of buffa traits; the solo instrument’s figurations, which would suit the style of Corelli and Vivaldi; the liveliness of every bar; the abundance—indeed, superabundance—of thematic material; and at the same time, or rather precisely because of that, there are no “surprises,” no witty play, nothing personal, nothing specifically Mozartian. A year later, in 1776, Mozart replaced the rather banal finale in sonata form with another—much freer, yet in no way more virtuosic—Rondo (K. 269). For, strangely enough, all five concertos lay very little claim to what is commonly called virtuosity, and in this respect they yield even to Mozart’s own divertimenti. A Paganini, of course, would have smiled at them.

In the second concerto, in D major, written in June 1775, there is also a Rondo—more precisely, a French Rondo—already by form very close to Mozart’s later concert rondos: the soloist begins, then the orchestra enters repeating the theme; there are “energetic” and minor episodes; and the theme itself (here one of the most charming, menuet-like themes) does not lose its freshness when it returns. But the first movement, with its Haydn-like fragmentation of thematic work (conceived rather in two than in four), and the Andante— a pastoral arioso that clearly imitates the aria of some sentimental Sandrina or Celidora from opera buffa—all this is perhaps even more primitive than in the first concerto. The alternation of soli and tutti is almost schematic; the accompaniment is the simplest possible—the soloist is often supported only by the upper string parts, which again recalls older models, for example Vivaldi.

One encounters similarly modest accompaniment at times in the subsequent three concertos of the same year, but in them there is nothing archaic. Here a new, individual spirit breathes: the spirit of Mozart. Lovers and virtuosi of our time are little acquainted with the first two violin concertos, whereas the last three are well known. They are often performed, and this is wholly understandable.

So what happened in the three months that separate the appearance of the third concerto (G major) from the second? No one knows. But suddenly everything becomes much deeper and richer: instead of the customary Andante—an Adagio as if descended from heaven, with flutes instead of oboes, and D major sounds here entirely new; in all three movements there are those surprises of which we spoke earlier, and surprises of different kinds. For example: at the close of the Adagio the solo voice sounds again, wistful and passionate; the last word in the Rondo belongs to the wind instruments; in that same Rondo there appear two or three humorous, harmless quotations of clearly French provenance; and the recapitulation of the magnificent first movement is preceded by a vivid, expressive recitative. Unexpectedly, the entire orchestra “begins to speak,” entering into new and more intimate relations with the soloist. No—if there is a miracle in Mozart’s творчество, it is the creation of such a concerto. And an even greater miracle is that the two following concertos, written in October (D major) and in December (A major), proved to be on the same height.

The concerto in D major differs profoundly from its predecessor in G major. It sounds far more sensuous, and not only because of the more “effective” key: a model stands behind it that Mozart undoubtedly follows here. I mean Boccherini’s violin concerto, composed some ten years earlier. It is written in the same key and built almost the same way, and the melodic connections between both works lie, as one says, on the surface. But “Facile inventis addere” matters here as little as in many other cases. Into the sensuous principle characteristic of Boccherini, Mozart introduced liveliness of spirit and wit. The Andante cantabile truly becomes unbroken violin song, a confession of love. And the Rondo unites Italian influence with French—while here, as in the third concerto, there appear playful episodes well known to listeners: a gavotte and a musette that Mozart in his letters called “Strasbourg.” And this concerto too ends in a fading pianissimo—it is рассчитан on spiritual perception, not on effect.

Most of what has been said applies to the fifth and last of these concertos, in A major. Mozart rises from concerto to concerto not only outwardly, ascending from G major to D major and A major (in the slow movements as well, since all of them are in the dominant): in brilliance, inwardness, and wit, the fifth concerto remains unsurpassed. Even the new slow movement (K. 261) that Mozart composed at the end of 1776 specifically for the violinist Brunetti, because the first “seemed to him too learned” (Leopold Mozart, 9 October 1777)—even this movement, for all its sincerity and magically shimmering sonority, does not reach the simplicity and “innocence” of the original Adagio. In the outer movements surprises are everywhere: in the first, the semi-improvisatory “self-introduction” of the violin, which Mozart could have “borrowed” from Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach in his keyboard concerto published in 1772; the alternation of gracefulness (in march tempo), zest, and slyness; and in the last movement, instead of the quotations typical of the two previous rondos, a humorous explosion of frenzy in the “Turkish” style. The noisy a-minor tutti in this “Turkish” intermezzo Mozart borrowed from himself—from the ballet Jealousy in the Seraglio, which he wrote in 1773 in Milan for the opera Lucio Silla. Cast in duple meter, it both contrasts with, and with rare naturalness is joined to, the irresistible charm of the Tempo di menuetto of the main portion.

This creation of the twenty-year-old Mozart is the last violin concerto that has come down to us in an authentic form that admits no doubt. True, we know two later violin concertos: one in D major (K. 271a), supposedly composed in July 1777, and another in E-flat major (K. 268), whose conception might have arisen in Salzburg or Munich at the end of 1780. But the first has unquestionably not reached us in the form in which Mozart wrote it—if indeed Mozart wrote down more than a hasty sketch. As for the second, it is unlikely that the young Munich violinist Johann Friedrich Eck, who “completed” the work, possessed any materials beyond a sketch of the first movement and perhaps a few opening bars of the Rondo. The entire slow movement is undoubtedly a crude fabrication. So there is no need for us to concern ourselves with these two works. Our book is not a philological investigation.

The first of the two separate concert movements for violin and orchestra that Mozart wrote in Vienna arose in those early turbulent Viennese days when Mozart was still in service at the Salzburg court. This is the Rondo in G major (K. 373), written for a concert by the violinist Brunetti (8 April 1781), who was to appear before the father of the Prince-Archbishop, Mozart’s hated master. I do not know whether the Rondo was conceived as an independent composition (that is possible) or as a finale to someone else’s concerto. In any case, we possess a charming piece. Even when Mozart is forced to do day-labor, his creations rise above everydayness.

The second of these movements, an Andante in A major, has unfortunately been lost, except for four bars (K. 470) that Mozart entered on 1 April 1785 into his thematic catalogue with the note: “Violin Andante to a concerto.” To which concerto? We now know: to Viotti’s E-minor concerto No. 16. In Vienna it was probably to be performed by one of Mozart’s friends—perhaps Anton Janisch, a violinist from Wallerstein’s household chapel. Viotti’s own slow movement is in E major. But Mozart not only wrote a new Andante beginning with canonic imitation—he also brightened the orchestration of both outer movements by adding trumpets and timpani to the orchestra. What matters for us here is that Mozart knew and valued Viotti’s works—otherwise he would not have occupied himself with them. Traces of this acquaintance appear also in Mozart’s piano concertos, above all in the C-major concerto (K. 467), which arose at the same time.