Debunking the Top 5 Myths About Mozart

 by Emily E. Hogstad  June 17th, 2026

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is one of the most famous composers in Western music history – and one of the most mythologised.

Over the past two centuries, popular culture has transformed Mozart’s legacy into a series of legends: the genius who never revised, the giggling fool, the composer of “easy” music, the enemy of Salieri, and the penniless prodigy whose body was tossed into a pauper’s grave.

Many of these stories are compelling, dramatic, and endlessly repeated – but they also don’t hold up under historical scrutiny.

Today, we’re looking at five of the most persistent myths about Mozart, separating romantic fiction from what historians, letters, manuscripts, and modern research actually tell us about his life and music.

Mozart at the piano

1. Myth: Mozart wrote music effortlessly, without revision.  

The concept of perfect music pouring out of Mozart without the need for revisions is a romantic myth.

It’s true that Mozart’s final scores often look clean, with few erasures, but that’s because he did much of his experimenting on scratch paper or in his mind before writing the final copy.

He liked having a keyboard at hand to try out new ideas, and occasionally set perplexing passages aside to revisit later.

He even described a set of six string quartets that he dedicated to Haydn as “the fruit of long and laborious effort.”

So why did this legend take hold? One reason was a letter that surfaced in 1815 in which the author described composing in his head without using an instrument. But in the 1850s, that letter was proven to be a forgery. Unfortunately, by that point, it had already contributed to the Mozart mythology.

It’s also important to note that Mozart’s wife, Constanze, burned many of his sketches after his death, leaving us a potentially misleading picture of his process.

In short, Mozart’s easy brilliance was also coupled with industriousness. His music was the product of astonishing inborn talent plus decades of hard work – not effortless magic.

Image created by ChatGPT

2. Myth: Mozart was a childish, giggling simpleton.  

The popular 1984 film Amadeus created the image of Mozart as a juvenile, shrieking, giggling buffoon – but historians say this caricature is misleading.

It is true that Mozart did have a bawdy sense of humour, and he made lots of scatological jokes in his letters, but this was not unique to him. Crude jokes of this kind were actually relatively common in 18th-century middle-class Vienna.

But far from being a buffoon, Mozart was highly intelligent and emotionally astute. By his teens, he had a deep understanding of human emotion, as his music attests. His psychological insight is especially evident in the sophisticated characters and emotions portrayed in his operas and Requiem.

He also handled complex business negotiations, taught students, joined the Freemasons, and wrote letters about finances and family matters – hardly the behaviour of a clueless simpleton.

In sum, Mozart was a multifaceted genius: playful and jovial at times, yes, but also serious, diligent, and, contrary to the mythology, emotionally perceptive.

3. Myth: Mozart’s music is “easy.”  

Mozart’s music has a reputation for sounding graceful and effortless, which leads some to think it’s simple or easy to perform.

But ask any trained musician, and they’ll quickly dispel that notion. The simplicity of Mozart’s melodies and textures is deceptive; in reality, his compositions demand flawless technique and deep musicality.

A famous quote often attributed to pianist Artur Schnabel sums it up: “Mozart’s music is too easy for children, and too difficult for adults.”

In other words, while a beginner might manage to pick out the notes of a Mozart piece, playing it well is extraordinarily challenging.

And as composer Gabriel Fauré observed, in Mozart’s music “the slightest mistake stands out like a black spot on white.” There’s no room to hide sloppy playing behind thick chords or pedal effects.

It’s true that a few of Mozart’s early works and simple tunes are accessible to students. But his masterworks – the late symphonies, concertos, operas, string quartets – are intricate and demanding.

In short, the graceful simplicity of Mozart’s music is an illusion. Underneath it lies a complexity and difficulty that challenge even the best performers.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Antonio Salieri © slavicwritings.com

4. Myth: Mozart hated Salieri  

The idea that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Antonio Salieri were bitter enemies – to the point of Mozart “hating” Salieri or vice versa – is mostly a creation of gossip and later dramatisations. (We’re looking at you, Amadeus.)

The kernel of the myth originated in the 1780s, when Wolfgang and his father, Leopold, grumbled to each other in letters that Italian composers were being given better commissions and jobs at the Viennese court than Austrian composers were.

Eventually, however, the two composers enjoyed a more cordial relationship.

They even collaborated on a piece in 1785: a short cantata called “Per la ricuperata salute di Ofelia” for a singer they both admired.

One of Mozart’s last surviving letters from October 1791 describes how he brought Salieri to a performance of The Magic Flute, and how Salieri applauded enthusiastically and shouted “Bravo!” after every aria he liked.

After Mozart’s death, his widow even hired Salieri to teach their son composition.

There is no evidence that Salieri sabotaged Mozart’s career in a significant way, or that he ever harmed Mozart physically. The famous murder plot – Salieri poisoning Mozart out of envy – is pure fiction, made famous by an Alexander Pushkin play and, later, the movie Amadeus.

Tragically, in his old age, Salieri suffered from mental health issues and reportedly believed he had poisoned Mozart. But historians universally agree these thoughts were likely dementia-related delusions, not facts.

In sum, Mozart and Salieri were competitors who respected each other and worked together. The dramatic tale of hatred and poisoning may be an entertaining story, but the historical record reveals a much more mundane – albeit rather heartwarming – truth.

Austria, Vienna, St. Marx Cemetery, The gravestone of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

5. Myth: Mozart died poor and was buried in a pauper’s grave.  

The image of Mozart dying in squalor and being dumped into a pauper’s mass grave is an exaggeration that became popular in the 19th century.

It is true that Mozart wasn’t particularly wealthy when he died. He had incurred debts, and his income dipped in the late 1780s due to a number of factors, including fewer concerts during the Austro-Turkish War.

But earlier in the 1780s, he’d actually made a very comfortable living. Modern research shows that during those years, he earned substantial sums – possibly in the top 5% of Viennese incomes for some years – thanks to concerts, teaching, and the support of royal patrons. His problem was cash flow and spending, not lack of money outright.

Consequently, when Mozart died in 1791, he was buried in a standard common grave in Vienna’s St. Marx Cemetery.

His wife, Constanze, and patron, Baron van Swieten, actually paid for his coffin and funeral, so we know he wasn’t buried at state expense or in a charity grave. His body was sewn into a linen shroud (not the cheap sack customarily used for paupers) and placed in a coffin for the funeral.

After the temporary marker disappeared, the grave was unmarked, but this was a customary practice for everyone who wasn’t royalty or a member of the aristocracy – not a reflection of a lack of respect.

So, although it’s tragic that we don’t know exactly where Mozart’s remains ended up, this wasn’t a particularly unique tragedy; it was simply the fate of most citizens who died in Vienna at the time.

Thanks to her savvy promotion and publication of her late husband’s works, Constanze actually was able to pay off his debts within a few years, adding weight to the idea that Mozart was better off than we tend to think of him.

The enduring image of a penniless genius buried in a pauper’s grave may be a popular narrative, but the truth is much less dramatic: he was a prolific working composer who had intermittent cash flow issues, extravagant spending habits, and a totally ordinary burial for his time.

Conclusion

Mozart’s enduring popularity may owe a lot to the powerful myths that surround him, but those same myths often obscure the more interesting truths.

Far from being an effortless savant, Mozart was a hard worker, revising carefully and thinking deeply about his craft. He was playful but perceptive, witty but emotionally intelligent. His music may sound graceful, but it demands extraordinary precision and insight to perform well. His relationship with Salieri was competitive yet respectful, not murderous. And while he struggled financially at times, he did not die abandoned or buried as a pauper.

These myths of effortless genius, childishness, simplicity, rivalry, and poverty may all collapse under scrutiny – but what remains is far more compelling. The real story of Mozart’s life paints a richer, more credible portrait of one of history’s greatest musical minds, and helps us to appreciate the human triumph that is his music better than ever.

10 Classical Music Facts That Sound Fake But Are True

 by Emily E. Hogstad  June 13th, 2026

Classical music history is often seen as dignified and serious – all powdered wigs, solemn portraits, and stuffy concert halls.

But scratch the surface, and the past turns out to be far stranger.

Behind some of the most revered composers in Western music are stories that sound like modern internet myths: fan hysteria bordering on mass delusion, obscene jokes set to immaculate counterpoint, creative breakdowns cured by hypnosis, murder plots abandoned at the last minute, and lifelong obsessions with things like trains and numerology.

Remarkably, these stories aren’t apocryphal. In many cases, they’re documented in letters, memoirs, contemporary reports, and firsthand accounts.

Here are ten classical composer facts that sound fake – but are completely true.

1. Franz Liszt caused celebrity hysteria.   

During the 1840s, Franz Liszt inspired a phenomenon that writer Heinrich Heine famously dubbed Lisztomania, which can be compared to the Beatlemania of the twentieth century.

Audiences screamed, fainted, and picked up his cigar stumps in the street.

Liszt concert cartoon

Lisztomania even had an impact on fashion: women wore cameos with his portrait, made his piano strings into bracelets, and collected his discarded gloves and handkerchiefs.

Thanks to his virtuosity, Liszt became an international celebrity decades before visual mass media, creating a template for the fame of musical superstars of the future.

2. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart wrote a canon whose text is literally “lick me in the arse.”   

Mozart‘s scatological humour is well documented, and one of his canons bears the unforgettable title Leck mich im Arsch (K. 231) (“Lick me in the Arse”).

Barbara Krafft: W. A. Mozart, 1819 (Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde)

Historians have surmised that it was a party piece for a group of friends to sing together.

The canon is harmonically correct, neatly constructed – and unapologetically vulgar.

After Mozart’s death, when his remaining work was being catalogued and published, the publisher changed the lyrics to “Let Us Be Glad!” The original text was rediscovered in 1991.

3. A full performance of Erik Satie’s Vexations can last 18 to 24 hours.  

Satie‘s Vexations consists of a short, eerie piano phrase with the instruction that it be repeated 840 times.

When taken at a slow, meditative tempo – as Satie may have intended – a complete performance can last nearly an entire day.

Erik Satie

The first full performance took place in 1963 and was organised by composer John Cage. It involved multiple pianists rotating in shifts, with audience members coming and going throughout the night.

That performance lasted for eighteen hours. One audience member heard the entire thing.

4. Johann Sebastian Bach once walked 250 miles just to hear an organist.

Bach – Passacaglia in C minor BWV 582 – Smits | Netherlands Bach Society   

In 1705, the 20-year-old Johann Sebastian Bach walked roughly 250 miles from the town of Arnstadt to the town of Lübeck to hear the legendary organist Dieterich Buxtehude.

Depiction of Dieterich Buxtehude in the painting “The Musical Party” 1674 by Johannes Voorhout

That year, Buxtehude was scheduled to lead weekly performances of his music during the Advent season. At least one performance included a 25-member violin section, a brass section, and multiple choirs, so it’s easy to see why Bach would be so interested in hearing it.

Bach was granted a short leave from his job to experience this event, but he overstayed it by several months, studying Buxtehude’s playing and compositional style.

The journey would have permanently shaped Bach’s approach to music, expanding his idea of what was possible.

5. Hector Berlioz, composer of the Symphonie fantastique, once planned a triple murder.   

After composing his famous Symphonie fantastique, based on his fixation with actress Harriet Smithson, Hector Berlioz turned around and fell in love with a virtuoso pianist named Camille Marie Moke, and the two became engaged.

Marie Pleyel

Around the same time, Berlioz won the prestigious Prix de Rome and, as part of his prize, travelled to Rome to live and compose.

One day, he got a letter letting him know that Moke had married a wealthy piano manufacturer instead of him.

Blinded by rage, he devised a detailed plan to murder Moke, her mother, and her husband before killing himself. He even acquired poison and a disguise (a maid’s costume).

Fortunately, the plan collapsed before it could be carried out. He wrote in his memoir that he didn’t follow through because he didn’t want to deprive the world of his music.

It’s one of the more disturbing pieces of trivia in the history of classical music.

6. Sergei Prokofiev died the same day as Stalin.

Prokofiev: Symphony No. 7 / Gergiev · London Symphony Orchestra  

Prokofiev died of a cerebral haemorrhage on March 5, 1953 – the exact same day as Joseph Stalin.

Grave of Sergei Prokofiev

The dictator’s death dominated Soviet media, leaving Prokofiev’s passing largely unnoticed. (In fact, one Soviet music periodical didn’t include a notice of his death until page 116; all preceding pages were devoted to Stalin.)

Prokofiev’s funeral only drew thirty mourners, including his sometimes-rival Dmitri Shostakovich.

Prokofiev’s ex-wife Lina – who was living in a Siberian gulag at the time – only heard about her husband’s death months later, via the radio.

7. Arnold Schoenberg was terrified of the number 13.

Arnold Schoenberg: Verklärte Nacht  

Schoenberg suffered from severe triskaidekaphobia (i.e., a fear of the number thirteen).

Throughout his life, he did things like avoiding hotels with 13 floors and altering the title of his opera from Moses und Aaron to Moses und Aron to avoid writing an opera with 13 letters.

His anxiety became worse as he aged. He was especially despondent when he turned 76, because seven plus six equals thirteen.

Arnold Schoenberg

That said, maybe his fear was justified. He died on 13 July 1951 – just 13 minutes before midnight – having reportedly spent the entire day in terror. He was 76.

8. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart could memorise and recreate entire works after one hearing.

Miserere mei, Deus – Allegri – Tenebrae conducted by Nigel Short  

At age 14, Mozart attended a performance of priest and composer Gregorio Allegri’s Miserere in the Sistine Chapel: a piece whose score was closely guarded and forbidden to copy.

After hearing it once, Mozart wrote the entire work down from memory. He later returned to correct minor details.

The Vatican ultimately praised the feat rather than punishing him.

9. After the disastrous premiere of his first symphony, Sergei Rachmaninoff needed hypnosis to write again.  

The premiere of Rachmaninoff‘s First Symphony in 1897 was a catastrophe, partly due to a poorly rehearsed and inebriated conductor.

Kubey-Rembrandt Studios: Sergei Rachmaninoff, 1921

The failure plunged the composer into a deep depression and creative paralysis that lasted several years.

Rachmaninoff eventually underwent hypnotherapy, which helped restore his confidence, leading directly to the composition of his wildly successful Piano Concerto No. 2. Today, that concerto is one of the most popular ever written.

He even dedicated the score to his therapist in gratitude for the help.

10. Antonín Dvořák had a hyperfixation with trains.  

Antonín Dvořák was intensely fascinated by trains.

Antonín Dvořák, 1904

He memorised timetables, kept a journal of his train travels, spent hours at stations watching engines arrive and depart, and could identify individual trains by sight and sound.

He even once famously remarked that he would have given up all of his symphonies to have invented the locomotive.

Conclusion

Taken together, these stories reveal something essential about classical music history: it is far messier, funnier, darker, and more human than the myths suggest.

The same figures who wrote sacred masses, symphonies, and operatic tragedies were also capable of crude jokes, obsessive fixations, emotional collapses, and spectacular lapses in judgment.

History doesn’t need embellishment to be fascinating. Sometimes, the truth is already stranger than fiction.

Maria Yudina: The Fearless Soviet Pianist Who Defied Stalin

 by Emily E. Hogstad  April 19th, 2026

Few pianists in history have embodied artistic courage quite like Maria Yudina.

A deeply religious musician living in the Soviet Union during the twentieth century, Yudina was both revered – and feared – for her uncompromising moral and musical vision.

Maria Yudina

Born in the provincial town of Nevel, she rose from humble beginnings to become one of the Soviet Union’s most formidable pianists and teachers.

She also became a celebrated interpreter of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven…as well as modern composers like Stravinsky, Hindemith, and Bartók.

Today, we’re looking at the extraordinary life and times of pianist Maria Yudina.

Maria Yudina’s Childhood

Maria Yudina

Maria Yudina was born on 9 September 1899 in the Russian town of Nevel, 500 kilometers south of St. Petersburg, on the present-day border between Russia and Belarus.

She was the fourth of five children of physician and physiologist Veniamin Yudin and his wife Raisa Yudina.

Her father had come from grinding poverty and had worked his way up to becoming a well-trained doctor. He suffered no fools when it came to securing resources for his impoverished community. In the words of Maria’s half-sister, “Family legend has it that Father shouted at the Governor and threw some visiting dignitary down the stairs. That was in his style.” Maria would inherit his pluck.

Her mother was a kind woman who came from a musical family. Her cousin Ilya Slatin founded the Kharkov Symphony Orchestra.

The Yudins were secular, culturally Jewish, and big believers in education. All of the children went on to have impressive careers in medicine, science, and filmmaking.

Maria Yudina’s Early Piano Studies

Maria began playing piano at the age of seven.

Her first important teacher was Frieda Teitelbaum-Levinson, a former winner of the gold medal at the St. Petersburg Conservatory.

Sensing her daughter’s talent, Maria’s devoted mother took her on the hundred-kilometer-long journey to take piano lessons a few times a month.

At 13, she went to St. Petersburg to study with Anna Yesipova, a teacher who taught some of the greatest pianists in Russia at the time, including Sergei Prokofiev, Leo Ornstein, and Isabelle Vengerova.

After Yesipova’s sudden death in 1914, a year after Maria began working with her, she was transferred to the class of Vladimir Drozdov.

She also – likely on the sly – took supplementary lessons with Felix Blumenfeld, who was Vladimir Horowitz’s teacher.

Importantly, she also began training as a preschool teacher. She cared deeply about the piano, but was not preparing for the life of a globetrotting virtuoso.

Maria Yudina’s Revolutionary Days

Maria Yudina

When the Russian Revolution began in 1917, she was swept up in it. When firearms were distributed to the throng of citizens, Maria took a rifle.

Things didn’t go as planned. “But the wretched thing went off by itself!” she later wrote. “The bullet went through the ceilings of four storeys, and I was very lucky that I didn’t wound anybody on the fifth!”

Despite her flirtation with revolutionary activity and politics, she returned to the Conservatory in 1917.

That summer, she moved back closer to home and taught local children. She also continued her study of philosophy that she had begun in St. Petersburg. By her late teens, philosophy and theology had become a kind of obsession with her.

In 1918, she found herself torn when she fell in love with her friend, literary critic and philosopher Lev Pumpyansky.

However, she wasn’t ready to marry, and she decided to distract herself by studying conducting…an unusual pursuit for a woman in 1918.

“I have one aim in front of me. Conducting! This will cure me, and help me find my way back to reality,” she wrote in her diary.

Her Conversion and Return to Petrograd

In 1919, she moved back to Petrograd, where she resumed her music studies at the Conservatory and also took formative courses in philology and philosophy at Petrograd University.

In May of that year, although they were no longer an item, she followed the example of Pumpyansky and joined the Russian Orthodox faith.

Her atheist father struggled deeply with his daughter’s conversion, but she never wavered, even after he physically abused her for believing.

Her religion would serve as a foundation for her artistic and moral convictions over the years to come.

A Rocky Start to a Celebrated Career

Yudina graduated from the conservatory in the early 1920s and was asked to join the faculty there.

She taught at the Petrograd Conservatory (later the Leningrad Conservatory) between 1921 and 1930.

Even after she secured the job, she refused to hide her faith, conspicuously wearing a large cross around her neck even when she was on stage.

Not surprisingly, her beliefs repeatedly put her at odds with authorities.

Once, the director of the Leningrad Conservatory led a surprise “raid” on Yudina’s class, demanding to know if she believed in God. Yudina answered yes, citing her constitutional right to do so. Days later, a state newspaper denounced her with a mocking cartoon of “the preacher at the Conservatory.”

In 1930, she was dismissed from her job for her religious beliefs. This led to a period of transience during which she was unemployed and homeless.

Moving to Moscow

Thankfully, in the mid-1930s, pianist Heinrich Neuhaus vouched for her, and she was hired at the Moscow Conservatory. She taught there between 1936 and 1951.

In 1944, in the middle of her Moscow Conservatory tenure, she also joined the Gnessin Institute, the second-most prestigious music school in town after the Moscow Conservatory. She taught ensemble and vocal classes there until 1960.

Once again, she was fired there because of her religion, as well as her embrace of challenging, intellectual modern music abhorred by Soviet authorities.

Maria Yudina, the Performing Pianist

Maria Yudina

In addition to her teaching career, Yudina also worked as a pianist and kept up an ambitious performing schedule across the Soviet Union.

She boasted a striking stage presence. She was a large woman; she didn’t follow fashion trends and always wore a long black dress, looking somewhat like a nun. (Her colleague Dmitri Shostakovich once joked that she wore the same dress her entire life.) She was also known to give concerts barefoot.

She became especially popular in the Soviet Union during World War II. She played on the radio, played for soldiers at the front, played for patients in hospitals, and played in Leningrad during the siege of that city.

She cheerfully programmed all kinds of composers, from Bach to Beethoven to cutting-edge avant-garde modern-day masters like Stravinsky, Hindemith, and Bartók.

In fact, she was one of the only virtuosos of her generation in the Soviet Union to approach programming in such an adventurous way.  

Unfortunately, because of Soviet travel restrictions, she was allowed to travel abroad only twice (once to Poland and once to East Germany).

So, despite her genius, she was never appreciated by audiences in the West until after the fall of the Iron Curtain, which only happened after her death.

Running Into Trouble With the Authorities – And Always Escaping

All that said, she was even occasionally banned from public performances within the Soviet Union.

In the early 1960s, she read her friend Boris Pasternak’s censored poetry onstage as an encore. That act of defiance led to a five-year ban from Soviet concert halls.

She also thumbed her nose at authority by visiting various prisons and gulags, where she would exchange messages with arrested compatriots who were artists, writers, clergymen, and the like.

Despite this constant rebellion, she was never arrested or imprisoned.

In the end, it seems she slipped through the cracks because she was viewed as relatively harmless. She was a woman; she was unmarried; she gave away her money and lived a life of poverty, even eschewing owning her own piano. She could, in short, be dismissed as an eccentric. (She had also likely earned a certain amount of goodwill for her devotion to performance and uplifting national morale during World War II.)

Shostakovich once said of her, “I accused her of behaving like a yurodivy (holy fool)…but I can say this – she never lied.”  

Maria Yudina’s Recordings

Yudina’s artistry was preserved in a number of notable recordings and remembered in a few memorable legends.

She was especially celebrated for her interpretations of the core classical repertoire.

Her Bach playing had an especially rousing rigor to it (later commentators noted she anticipated some of Glenn Gould’s approach to the composer).

Her transcendent performances of Mozart and Beethoven were revered for their spiritual depth and intensity.

Yudina, Stalin, and the Legendary Mozart Piano Concerto Recording

One of Yudina’s most famous recordings is of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 in A-major, made in 1948 with conductor Alexander Gauk.

This recording is tied to the most famous legend of her life.  

According to a story found in the controversial book Testimony, supposedly originating from Shostakovich’s recollections, Joseph Stalin heard Yudina play this Mozart concerto on a live radio broadcast around 1944, and was so moved that he demanded a copy of the performance.

Afraid to tell the dictator that no copies existed, officials scrambled to summon Yudina and an orchestra in the middle of the night to record the piece. A single acetate record was pressed and delivered to Stalin by morning.

In gratitude, Stalin sent Yudina 20,000 rubles as a reward. She wrote him a reply thanking him for the money, and informing him that she’d donated it to the church to help atone for his sins.

There’s no documentary evidence that this wild story actually occurred. But it certainly captures the emotional truth about her lifelong bravery, indifference to authority, and devotion to her art and her church.

The story was dramatized in the 2017 film The Death of Stalin, introducing her to wider modern audiences who may never have heard of her.

The Legacy of Maria Yudina

Maria Yudina died in Moscow in 1970. She was 71 years old.

Although she was never able to pursue a truly international career, she worked as hard as she could to bolster music inside the Soviet Union, even during its darkest days.

She also made her mark on music in a way that impacted and influenced generations to come.

In the exasperated but adoring words of pianist Sviatoslav Richter:

She was immensely talented and a keen advocate of the music of her own time: she played Stravinsky, whom she adored, Hindemith, Krenek and Bartók at a time when these composers were not only unknown in the Soviet Union but effectively banned. And when she played Romantic music, it was impressive—except that she didn’t play what was written. Liszt‘s Weinen und Klagen was phenomenal, but Schubert‘s B-flat major Sonata, while arresting as an interpretation, was the exact opposite of what it should have been, and I remember a performance of the Second Chopin Nocturne that was so heroic that it no longer sounded like a piano but a trumpet. It was no longer Schubert or Chopin, but Yudina.

The Most Passionate Composer Love Letters of All Time, Part 1

 by Emily E. Hogstad  February 5th, 2026

Artists and composers are famous for their wild love lives. Turns out, their love letters are just as fascinating as you’d expect.

Today, we’re looking at love letters from ten composers, including Mozart being very saucy on a business trip, Brahms pining over Clara Schumann, and Haydn making a shocking confession to his mistress.

Joseph Haydn, 1791

Joseph Haydn

In these two love letters to his mistress, singer Luigia Polzelli, Haydn writes about her husband’s fatal illness…and longs for “four eyes [to] be closed”, a reference to his hope that his own wife will die, too!

London, 14th March 1791

Most esteemed Polzelli,

I am very sorry for you in your present circumstances, and I hope that your poor husband will die at any moment; you did well to put him in the hospital, to keep him alive…

London, 4th August 1791

Dear Polzelli!

…As far as your husband is concerned, I tell you that Providence has done well to liberate you from this heavy yoke, and for him, too, it is better to be in another world than to remain useless in this one. The poor man has suffered enough. Dear Polzelli, perhaps, perhaps the time will come, when we both so often dreamt of, when four eyes shall be closed. Two are closed, but the other two – enough of all this, it shall be as God wills.

Learn more about why Haydn hated his wife so much.

Ludwig van Beethoven, 1812

Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, finished in 1812   

In 1812, Beethoven wrote an impassioned love letter to an unknown woman. This letter has come to be known as the letter to the Immortal Beloved.

Beethoven in 1803

Though still in bed, my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us – I can live only wholly with you or not at all – Yes, I am resolved to wander so long away from you until I can fly to your arms and say that I am really at home with you, and can send my soul enwrapped in you into the land of spirits – Yes, unhappily it must be so – You will be the more contained since you know my fidelity to you. No one else can ever possess my heart – never – never – Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves. And yet my life in V is now a wretched life – Your love makes me at once the happiest and the unhappiest of men – At my age I need a steady, quiet life – can that be so in our connection? My angel, I have just been told that the mail coach goes every day – therefore I must close at once so that you may receive the letter at once – Be calm, only by a calm consideration of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together – Be calm – love me – today – yesterday – what tearful longings for you – you – you – my life – my all – farewell. Oh continue to love me – never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved. ever thine, ever mine, ever ours…

Read more about Who was the Immortal Beloved?

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, 1783

Mozart’s Die Entführung aus dem Serail overture   

Here’s a suggestive love letter from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to his wife Constanze, written in 1783 when he was about to return home to Vienna after overseeing a production of his opera Die Entführung aus dem Serail in Prague.

On June 1st I’ll sleep in Prague, and on the 4th – the 4th? – I’ll be sleeping with my dear little wife; – Spruce up your sweet little nest because my little rascal here really deserves it, he has been very well behaved, but now he’s itching to possess your sweet [word erased by some unknown hand]. Just imagine that little sneak, while I am writing, he has secretly crept up on the table and now looks at me questioningly; but I, without much ado, give him a little slap – but now he is even more [word erased by some unknown hand]; well, he is almost out of control, the scoundrel.

Find out what life was like with the Mozarts in the 1780s.

Hector Berlioz, 1832

Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique   

Berlioz wrote this letter to actress Harriet Smithson, a woman whom he had been obsessed over and stalking for years, for whom he had composed the Symphonie fantastique and Lélio. He was begging her to return his letter:

Harriet Smithson in Romeo and Juliet

If you do not desire my death, in the name of pity (I dare not say of love) let me know when I can see you. I cry mercy, pardon on my knees, between my sobs!!! Oh, wretch that I am, I did not think I deserved all that I suffer, but I bless the blows that come from your hand, await your reply like the sentence of my judge.

Learn more about the insane love story between Hector and Harriet.

Franz Liszt, 1834

Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3  

In 1834, Franz Liszt wrote this to his new mistress, Countess Marie d’Agoult:

Marie d’Agoult in 1861

My heart overflows with emotion and joy! I do not know what heavenly languor, what infinite pleasure, permeates it and burns me up. It is as if I had never loved!!! Tell me whence these uncanny disturbances spring, these inexpressible foretastes of delight, these divine tremors of love. Oh! All this can only spring from you, sister, angel, woman, Marie! All this can only be, is surely nothing less than a gentle ray streaming from your fiery soul, or else some secret poignant teardrop which you have long since left in my breast.

Learn more about the passionate nature of Liszt and Marie d’Agoult’s early relationship.

Robert Schumann, 1837

Robert Schumann

In December 1837, composer Robert Schumann was in love with virtuoso pianist Clara Wieck. They’d gotten engaged a few months earlier and were doing their best to navigate their relationship, given that Clara’s father didn’t approve of their romance.

New Year’s Eve, 1837, after 11 p.m.

I have been sitting here for a whole hour. Indeed, I meant to spend the whole evening writing to you, but no words would come. Sit down beside me now, slip your arm round me, and let us gaze peacefully, blissfully, into each other’s eyes…

How happy we are, Clara! Let us kneel together, Clara, my Clara, so close that I can touch you, in this solemn hour.

On the morning of the 1st, 1838.

What a heavenly morning! All the bells are ringing; the sky is so golden and blue and clear – and before me lies your letter. I send you my first kiss, beloved.

Learn more about the brutal court case between Robert, Clara, and her father.

Johannes Brahms, 1858

Brahms’s Piano Concerto No. 1, Movement 2 (he once told Clara this was a portrait of her)    

Brahms had complicated feelings for his mentor and dear friend Clara Wieck Schumann.

In 1858, her husband Robert had died two years earlier, and Clara was on tour in the Netherlands to make money to support her family. Brahms came to her home in Düsseldorf, in part to help watch her children. He wrote to her during her tour:

My beloved friend,

Night has come on again, and it is already late, but I can do nothing but think of you and am constantly looking at your dear letter and portrait. What have you done to me? Can’t you remove the spell you have cast over me? …

How are you? I did not want to ask you to write, but do so long for letters from you. Besides, I know only too well how you are – you are holding your head up. So just write me a word or two occasionally, and I shall be happy – just a friendly greeting to say that you are keeping well and that you will be back in 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 days!…

Do cheer me with writing me a few lines. I want them so badly, but above all, I want you.

Brahms and the Schumanns

Learn more about the friendship and love triangle between Robert, Clara, and Johannes.

Richard Wagner, 1863

Richard Wagner and Cosima Wagner

Richard Wagner and Cosima Wagner’s marriage became one of the most influential in music history. However, the relationship had an inauspicious start. Richard wrote this letter to his mistress Maria Volkl shortly after first declaring his love to Cosima (!):

Now, my darling, prepare the house for my return, so that I can relax there in comfort, as I very much long to do… And plenty of perfume: buy the best bottles, so that it smells really sweet. Heavens! How I’m looking forward to relaxing with you again at last. (I hope the pink drawers are ready, too???) – Yes, indeed! Just be nice and gentle, I deserve to be well looked after for a change.

Gustav Mahler

During their engagement, Gustav Mahler wrote this letter to his fiancée Alma, to let her know she must decide between becoming his wife or pursuing her passion for composing music.

Almschi, I beg you, read this letter carefully. Our relationship must not degenerate into a mere flirt. Before we speak again, we must have clarified everything, you must know what I demand and expect of you, and what I can give in return – what you must be for me. You must “renounce” (your word) everything superficial and conventional, all vanity and outward show (concerning your individuality and your work) – you must surrender yourself to me unconditionally… in return you must wish for nothing except my love! And what that is, Alma, I cannot tell you – I have already spoken too much about it. But let me tell you just this: for someone I love the way I would love you if you were to become my wife, I can forfeit all my life and all my happiness.

Learn more about the beautiful Alma Schindler’s background, her marriage to Gustav, and why he wrote this letter.

Jean Sibelius, 1891   

Sibelius wrote this letter to his fiancée Aino in early January 1891:

My own Aino darling,

Thank you for your letter and your Christmas cards. Your relatives have all been very kind to me. Please give them my respects and thank them most warmly, won’t you. But it is you who loves me more than anyone else has done, and I want you to be sure that I love you and belong to you with all my heart. Every time you write to me, I discover some new aspect of your personality. It makes me feel as if you are a store of treasures to which only I have the key, and you can imagine how proud I am to own it. You are so natural and sincere, which I like. When in the future we have a home of our own and are together alone, we must never be anything other than wholly ourselves, natural, tender towards each other, and devoted. I think and hope that you will be content with me in this respect. It is perhaps unmanly to say so, but you know, Aino, that I have always wanted to be caressed and have always missed its absence. At home, I was the only one who was demonstrative, and this in spite of the fact that I was basically very shy. But up to now, only you have caressed me, and perhaps you have thought it tiresome of me to ask you often to do this, my darling. This could well have remained unwritten, but as I am writing as quickly as I am thinking (hence my superb handwriting!), and this came into my head, it can just as well go into the letter. I sometimes cannot believe that a person like you loves me, for you are a wonderful woman.

Aino and Jean Sibelius