A Man of Note

A MAN OF NOTE

The Rev. Dr. Mark A. Ehman

January 27, 2002

“I can not write poetically; I am no poet. I can not divide and subdivide my phrases so as to produce light and shade; I am no painter. I can not even give expression to my sentiments and thoughts by gestures and pantomime; I am no dancer. But I can do it with tones; I am a musician.” So wrote a young man to his father in the fall of 1777. Indeed, the young man could say with accuracy and confidence that he was a musician for he had written 14 masses, 19 shorter sacred works, an oratorio, a cantata, 4 operas, 30 symphonies and symphonic movements, 5 piano sonatas and an array of marches, dances and divertimentos—and all by the time he was 21. And not only did he compose; he performed. By age 10 he had played for the Elector of Bavaria, the Empress of Austria, Maria Theresia and the young Marie Antoinette (to whom he proposed marriage), Louis XV of France and George III of England. All of Europe was abuzz and agog. The reports were uniform in their praise. This was a child without peer, a master of the violin and harpsichord, an eager student of the piano, a boy with perfect pitch and a phenomenal grasp of form, style and musical technique. This was a musician. This was Mozart.

Christened in the Salzburg Cathedral on the day following his birth, he was named Joannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart. As one wag observed, with such an imposing name, it would be difficult to cultivate friendships. The first two names—Joannes Chrysostomus—were an acknowledgement of St. John Chrysostom, the golden-tongued preacher of Antioch (and later bishop of Constantinople), on whose feast day Mozart was born. Wolfgangus (or Wolfgang) was the name of his grandfather and Theophilus the name of his godfather. With respect to the latter, Mozart preferred the German rendition, Gottlieb, or the simpler Latin form Amadeus—god-lover or loved by God. Young Mozart was the last of seven children to be born to Leopold and Maria Anna (Pertl) Mozart. However, only he and his sister, Nannerl, survived into adulthood.

The Mozarts were not aristocratic; nor were they wealthy. Nevertheless, they had enough money to put food on the table, to own their own carriage and to travel widely in Europe. And now, with two young children who were demonstrating uncanny musical abilities, the Mozarts became their own traveling circus, showing off the kids to any and all who would pay admission.

But why Mozart? Why should a religious community concern itself with the creations of an 18^th century showman? The obvious answer might be: because he wrote exquisite church music—e.g., Exsultate, jubilate and Ave verum corpus. However, as these titles might suggest, Mozart was Roman Catholic, and that hardly commends itself to a group of Unitarians. We might say, in answer to our question, that Mozart has become a part of our musical culture, that he represents the finest and best of the neo-classical tradition, that he manifests an artistic talent that transforms the ordinary and mundane into creations of unspeakable beauty. He touches our aesthetic soul. All of this is certainly true; however, there are two other reasons why we should pay attention to this diminutive Austrian. First of all, today, January 27, 2002, is the 246^th anniversary of Mozart’s birth. I think we at least owe him a hearty “Happy Birthday, Wolfgang!” But second, and more pertinent to Unitarian Universalist interests, we are indebted to him for revealing to us dimensions of the human being that are overlooked by a majority of the philosophers and theologians of the Enlightenment. Only Voltaire comes close. But Mozart, in his joyful passages, in his playful passages, in his exuberant passages, in passages that call forth happiness, or yearning, or reverence, in his allegros, in his adagios,--Mozart tells us who we are and what we are capable of.

In Peter Schaeffer’s stage play/movie, Amadeus, there is a scene in which Mozart is being asked by Emperor Joseph II to write an opera for the Austrian National Theater. Mozart gratefully accepts the commission and then confesses that he has already found a story, full of “proper German virtues,” that will serve as the basis for his effort. When asked what a “proper German virtue” is, he responds: “Love!” The Italians in the audience almost laugh him out of court. After all, they (and the Spanish) are known as the world’s great lovers. But Mozart persists . . . and demonstrates (through the writing of his opera) that love is a German virtue . . . indeed, that love is a human virtue. And so, in all of his mature operas he sets himself to the task of exploring the range of human love and of composing music to express that range.

Don Giovanni is regarded by the historians as Mozart’s most serious opera. But despite the seriousness, there is an abundance of humor. The story is based on the exploits of Don Giovanni (Don Juan), the legendary lover of Seville. Early in the action Don Giovanni’s servant, Leporello, recounts the many conquests his master has made:

In Italy, six hundred and forty,

In Germany, two hundred and thirty-one,

One hundred in France, ninety-one in Turkey

But . . . but in Spain (and here Mozart’s music and tempo are specifically designed to fit the words and underscore the point), but in Spain there are already a thousand and three.

The Don’s lust knows no bounds. He pursues women of every station and age—high-born, low-born, short, tall, blondes, brunettes. “In winter he wants plumpness, in summer he wants leanness. . . . He makes conquests . . . for the pleasure of adding them to the list.” This is love; but it is perverted love—as Mozart knew well.

When we translate this scenario into our own time, we think of “sexual predator,” or “seducer,” or perhaps “stalker” or “abuser.” This is the description of one who seeks nothing more than his/her own physical, sensual and psychological self-gratification, but who does not care about the physical, sensual and psychological well-being of the “other.” Love, under these conditions, is merely a contest in which one person wins and the other person loses. It is characterized by domination, oppression and manipulation. It dominates the life of the beloved and reduces her/him to little more than a mute participant in the art and acts of loving. It oppresses the beloved and shatters any vestige of dignity and meaning she/he might have. It manipulates the “other” and drives her/him into a corner so that she/he must accede to the demands of the lover. These characterizations are no more evident than in the attempts at love relationships in the 21^st century. In my role as religious representative on the Family Resource Council of Lee County I witness many instances of love gone awry. Couples come to the counseling and resolution sessions still trying to “win the game,” still trying to gain the advantage over the other person. They are trapped in a love that is, on the one hand, superficial, and on the other, demonic and deadly.

Mozart shapes his music to fit these aspects of perverted love. When he wishes to portray Don Giovanni’s lust, he has the violins rushing up and down the scale in reckless abandon, communicating the wildness and unbridled perversity of the Don’s character. When he wishes to impose a moral judgment on Giovanni’s action, he employs the horns and timpani to foreshadow the ominous fate which comes to one who chooses to love without the rules. (At the conclusion of the opera Don Giovanni is consigned to the flames of hell; so there is a reckoning for those who refuse to live by the rules.)

However, sometimes love even when directed by rules can be destructive. Of course, we need rules by which to live—both in our personal lives and in our communal lives. Rules are developed in order to bring discipline to an otherwise chaotic state of affairs. Rules are designed in order to give guidance—to our work life, to our social interactions, to our spiritual pilgrimage. But love cannot be contained by rules. Love cannot be commanded. It is not a duty which we owe one another and from which we can expect “payment on demand,” nor a right which we can enforce at the expense of another. Mozart’s opera The Abduction from the Seraglio tells the story of a young woman who has been kidnapped by pirates and sold to the Pasha of Turkey. The Pasha, recognizing the beauty of the young woman, proposed to make her his wife, rather than merely a member of his harem. The young woman says: “No!!!”—because she loves another. The Pasha, frustrated and furious, reminds the young woman that, according to the rules of the day, she is his property—and he can do anything he chooses, including force her to marry him. In a brilliant aria “Martern aller arten” the young woman sings: If this is what love is, then I choose torture and death (paraphrased).

I scorn torment and pain.

Nothing shall shake my resolve;

I would tremble only

If I were untrue to him (my beloved).

Then she addresses the Pasha:

But if no plea moves you,

You shall see that, steadfast,

I will suffer grievous pain.

Then order, command,

Bluster, roar and rage;

In the end, death will set me free.

In a spectacular tour de force Mozart conveys to us the contrasting emotions of the woman—on the one hand, solicitous and begging for her freedom (and for this Mozart employs the light, longing tones of his woodwinds), and, on the other hand, exhibiting firm resolve never to submit to the will of the Pasha (and here, for emphasis, Mozart employs his full orchestra—especially his strings and the timpani). And on several occasions in the aria, as if to say that love soars beyond all human efforts to manipulate it, the young woman underscores her refusal by ascending to and singing a high C.

So, if love is perverted when there are no rules, and if its expression cannot be governed by rules—especially rules that are devised by cultures and religions—are we of all people most miserable? Is there no way that we can participate in this most mysterious and most mystical of human experiences without corrupting it . . . and destroying ourselves? Is it only in death (as the later composer, Wagner, implied) that we will really come to love? Fortunately, Mozart did not think so. In a letter to his fiancée, Constanze Weber, after he had scolded her for an impropriety, he states: “Consider well what you said to me to-day. Despite my entreaties you gave me the mitten three times and told me to my face that you would have nothing further to do with me. I, to whom it is not such a matter of indifference as it is to you to lose a sweetheart, am not so hot tempered, inconsiderate or unwise as to accept that mitten. I love you too dearly for that.” Here, we see a different form of love emerging—a love that is not random, a love that does not seek revenge when it is unrequited or offended, but a love that persists despite all of the shortcomings and restrictions humans place upon it. There are at least two occasions in his compositions in which Mozart allows us to capture a glimpse of this kind of love. First, in The Marriage of Figaro. The Count, an aristocratic Spaniard, is a philanderer, a conniver and an outright liar. (Not a nice guy). The Countess, his wife, knows of her husband’s infidelities. Her honor has been compromised, and her yearning for intimacy has been denied. Finally, in a climactic scene near the end of the opera, the Countess forces her husband to face up to his indiscretions and exploitations. Shamed by his own actions, the Count begs forgiveness from his wife. And in one grand hymn-like passage, the music conveying the moment of truth, the moment of reversal in the plot and the moment of sacred awe, the Countess forgives him. Now I am sure that women’s liberation in the 21^st century might want to write a different ending to the story; nevertheless, Mozart saw possibilities in human relationships that often elude us. And he brings all of his musical genius to bear on communicating these possibilities to us. What he saw was that love is not random and casual, that love is not confined by our efforts to manipulate it; love is a dimension of life that rises beyond the rules. Love is forgiveness.

The second illustration comes from Mozart’s final opera (which was not really an opera at all, but a Singspiel—a musical play)—The Magic Flute. A young princess and a young prince have fallen in love. They approach the exalted priest, Sarastro, chief officiant of the gods Isis and Osiris, in order to declare their vows to one another. But Sarastro delays their request, informing them that love—real love—is consummated only after one has undergone trials and has recognized that love’s bonds are holy. Its price for participation is that one renounce hatred, that one cultivate friendship and that one practice forgiveness. What a liberating message—even for us in the 21^st century, even for us in our religious communities! The love that we hope to express—both in our spiritual life and in our political life--needs that corrective ingredient which flows forth from our hearts and our lips saying: Perhaps I was wrong. I’m sorry. The only way that we can sustain a relationship—whether in a marriage, or in a covenant with a significant other, or in a church community of free women and men—is to recognize and to put into practice this kind of embracing and corrective love.

Again, Mozart, in an effort to remind us of our capabilities for loving, rises to the occasion. Using his strings and his woodwinds he creates a setting and a mood which places us in the very realms of the sacred halls of the celestials. In this realm those who live through “forgiving love” dwell eternally and share in the delight of the gods. As the priest sings, we, the audience, are transported by the strains written by the little man from Salzburg into the holy vault of the Temple and into regions of the divine.

Within these holy portals,

Revenge remains unknown,

And to all erring mortals,

Their way by love is shown.

And guided forth by friendship’s hand,

They journey to a better land.