A stranger is announced who asks to speak to him: he enters. Mozart sees a man of a certain age, very well dressed, very noble of ways, even imposing: 'Sir, I was instructed by a very influential man to pay you a visit." "Who is it?" interrupts Mozart. "He does not want to reveal his identity." "Well, and what would he want?" "[...] he asks you to compose a Requiem [...] Employ all of your genius in the composition: you work for a connoisseur of music." "So much the better." "How long will it take?" " Four weeks." "Well, I will return in four weeks. What is the fee for your work?" "One hundred ducats." The stranger counts the money on the table and disappears. Mozart remains absorbed for a few moments in deep thought; then, abruptly, he asks for pen, ink and paper, and despite the protests of his wife, he begins to write. This creative enthusiasm lasts several days and nights, and with a constantly increasing fervor; but his body, already weak, cannot resist that enthusiasm: one morning he fell unconscious, and was forced to suspend work. Two or three days later, while his wife was trying to distract him from the gloomy thoughts that occupied him, he snapped: "It is for sure: I'm composing this Requiem for myself; it will serve for my funeral." Nothing could dissuade him from this idea.
Stendhal, The Life of Mozart
