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“Und… Was ist das?...” (“And… What’s this?”), asked Constanze.
“Ein Cellokonzert - Ich verspürte das tiefe Bedürfnis eines zu schreiben…” (“A cello concerto – I felt the necessity of writing one, and…”), replied a sick Mozart, lying in the bed, surrounded by his still unfinished pieces.
“Nun verstehe ich warum du mit diesem Requiem so verspätet bist!” (“Now I understand why are you late with that Requiem!”), Constanze shouted – “Wolfgang, höre mir zu: wir brauchen das Geld so viel dringender als du ein Cellokonzert schreiben musst. So stelle es vorerst zur Seite und widme dich dem Schreiben des Requiems. Verstehst du?” (“Wolfgang, hear me: we need that money so much more than you need writing a cello concerto, so put it apart for the moment, and dedicate yourself to writing the Requiem. Understood?”)
“Verstanden, verstanden, ich habe verstanden, … Aber, wer klopft da an der Tür? Constanze, bitte, geh und schau nach…” (“Understood, undertstood, I have understood… But, who’s knocking at the door? Konstanze, please, go to see…”)
When Mozart died, and his widow Constanze, forced by her difficult position, sold many of their belongings, and some written music also inhevitably ended up in some bundle, whose whereabouts were soon, if not immediately, lost track of.
Said music might have been completely lost, or might now lurk in some overlooked library, waiting to be rediscovered: we might never know, or we might find some surprises; as strange as it might seem, more than two centuries later, he might still have new pieces of music to be given their first performance.