After the success of Idomeneo in Munich, I felt ready to ride the wave of glory. I was also keenly aware that returning to Archbishop Colloredo’s Salzburg carried a certain risk: my music might fossilize there. Fortunately – or perhaps inevitably – fate and my employer intervened.
Colloredo summoned me to Vienna as part of his entourage for the celebrations surrounding the emperor’s visit. Vienna! The vibrant heart of Europe’s musical life, alive with talent, ambition, and opportunity. It was the sort of city where one expected music to matter.
I arrived dutifully, only to be reminded almost immediately that my life still belonged to Salzburg and the Church. Colloredo treated his musicians much as one might treat luggage: necessary, portable, and best kept under strict supervision. We were expected to obey orders, observe curfews, and serve without complaint.
My first task was to perform at a private concert for the Archbishop, followed by dinner. At the table, I found my assigned place – among the servants. Worse still, I was seated below the valets, who occupied the head of the table. Only the cooks were ranked beneath me, a detail I noted with quiet precision.
It was then that I understood something had to change.
I confronted Colloredo and insisted that I was no man’s servant. He responded by calling me an ungrateful boy. What followed was a period of quarrel that escalated steadily, like a poorly managed crescendo[i].
The final blow was delivered not by the Archbishop himself, but by his chamberlain, Count Arco, a man of limited charms and unlimited arrogance. He communicated my dismissal with remarkable lack of ceremony, administering a kick, quite literally, to my backside.
The incident would later become family legend. At the time, it marked something far more immediate. I was free – gloriously, pennilessly, and terrifyingly free.
[i] A crescendo is a gradual increase in volume or intensity, which can be applied to a musical passage.