Wherever Wolfgang Mozart went he seemed to create controversy. It seemed people either loved him or hated him. Most tended to fall into the latter category. As he began to take over the territory previously owned by the ‘older, established composers’ the tumult became even worse. He could not possibly have composed an opera as a teen-ager, they said. Surely, Leopold must have composed it for him. They seemed to forget that in all his days Leopold had never composed an opera attributed to himself.
The minute Wolf would arrive in a town, the word went out. Whispers began. What would he do? What would he say? What outrageous piece would he compose today? How would he, by inference, humiliate his peers who struggled to compose and edit while he tossed off pieces he seemed to pull out of his head?
And this is how the vortex began. The whispers of the venticelli turned into a general agreement that something must be done. This obnoxious overlord had to be stopped. And so they banded together in agreement over his demise. They treated him as though he were already dead. Then they waited for something to happen. Every time he moved, every time he stumbled, they rejoiced. And they lay in wait. The vortex of slander grew larger as Wolf became more vulnerable. He succumbed to the vortex of the evil eye, and they rejoiced. They stole his music to parade like a banner — they had defeated the great one, the one who could not be imitated because of a unique gift of shalom which caused them to gnash their teeth. They could perform Wolf’s music using their energy and remain unscathed from its effects. Or so they believed…
Le Chant du Rossignol...(song of the nightingale) 