Books: The Letters of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, V.1.

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My last letters must have shown you HOW THINGS ARE, and WHAT I
REALLY MEANT. I do entreat of you never to allow the thought to
cross your mind that I can ever forget you, for I cannot bear
such an idea. My chief aim is, and always will be, to endeavor
that we may meet soon and happily, but we must have patience. You
know even better than I do that things often take a perverse
turn, but they will one day go straight--only patience! Let us
place our trust in God, who will never forsake us. I shall not be
found wanting; how can you possibly doubt me? Surely it concerns
me also to work with all my strength, that I may have the
pleasure and the happiness (the sooner the better, too) of
embracing from my heart my dearest and kindest father. But, lo
and behold! nothing in this world is wholly free from interested
motives. If war should break out in Bavaria, I do hope you will
come and join me at once. I place faith in three friends--and
they are powerful and invincible ones--namely, God, and your head
and mine. Our heads are, indeed, very different, but each in its
own way is good, serviceable, and useful; and in time I hope mine
may by degrees equal yours in that class of knowledge in which
you at present surpass me. Farewell! Be merry and of good cheer!
Remember that you have a son who never intentionally failed in
his filial duty towards you, and who will strive to become daily
more worthy of so good a father.

After these frank confessions, which would, he knew, restore the
previous good understanding between him and his father, Mozart's
genuine good heart was so relieved and lightened, that the
natural balance of his mind, which had for some weeks past been
entirely destroyed, was speedily restored, and his usual lively
humor soon began to revive. Indeed, his old delight in doggerel
rhymes and all kinds of silly puns seems to return. He indulges
fully in these in a letter to his Basle (cousin), which is
undoubtedly written just after the previous one.

97.

Mannheim, Feb. 28, 1778.

MADEMOISELLE, MA TRES-CHERE COUSINE,--

You perhaps think or believe that I must be dead? Not at all! I
beg you will not think so, for how could I write so beautifully
if I were dead? Could such a thing be possible? I do not attempt
to make any excuses for my long silence, for you would not
believe me if I did. But truth is truth; I have had so much to do
that though I have had time to think of my cousin, I have had no
time to write to her, so I was obliged to let it alone. But at
last I have the honor to inquire how you are, and how you fare?
If we soon shall have a talk? If you write with a lump of chalk?
If I am sometimes in your mind? If to hang yourself you're
inclined? If you're angry with me, poor fool? If your wrath
begins to cool?--Oh! you are laughing! VICTORIA! I knew you could
not long resist me, and in your favor would enlist me. Yes! yes!
I know well how this is, though I'm in ten days off to Paris. If
you write to me from pity, do so soon from Augsburg city, so that
I may get your letter, which to me would be far better.

Now let us talk of other things. Were you very merry during the
Carnival? They are much gayer at Augsburg at that time than here.
I only wish I had been there that I might have frolicked about
with you. Mamma and I send our love to your father and mother,
and to our cousin, and hope they are well and happy; better so,
so better! A propos, how goes on your French? May I soon write
you a French letter? from Paris, I suppose?

Now, before I conclude, which I must soon do because I am in
haste, (having just at this moment nothing to do,) and also have
no more room, as you see my paper is done, and I am very tired,
and my fingers tingling from writing so much, and lastly, even if
I had room, I don't know what I could say, except, indeed, a
story which I have a great mind to tell you. So listen! It is not
long since it happened, and in this very country too, where it
made a great sensation, for really it seemed almost incredible,
and, indeed, between ourselves, no one yet knows the result of
the affair. So, to be brief, about four miles from here--I can't
remember the name of the place, but it was either a village or a
hamlet, or something of that kind. Well, after all, it don't much
signify whether it was called Triebetrill or Burmsquick; there is
no doubt that it was some place or other. There a shepherd or
herdsman lived, who was pretty well advanced in years, but still
looked strong and robust; he was unmarried and well-to-do, and
lived happily. But before telling you the story, I must not
forget to say that this man had a most astounding voice when he
spoke; he terrified people when he spoke! Well! to make my tale
as short as possible, you must know that he had a dog called
Bellot, a very handsome large dog, white with black spots. Well!
this shepherd was going along with his sheep, for he had a flock
of eleven thousand under his care, and he had a staff in his
hand, with a pretty rose-colored topknot of ribbons, for he never
went out without his staff; such was his invariable custom. Now
to proceed; being tired, after having gone a couple of miles, he
sat down on a bank beside a river to rest. At last he fell
asleep, when he dreamt that he had lost all his sheep, and this
fear awoke him, but to his great joy he saw his flock close
beside him. At length he got up again and went on, but not for
long; indeed, half an hour could scarcely have elapsed, when he
came to a bridge which was very long, but with a parapet on both
sides to prevent any one falling into the river. Well; he looked
at his flock, and as he was obliged to cross the bridge, he began
to drive over his eleven thousand sheep. Now be so obliging as to
wait till the eleven thousand sheep are all safely across, and
then I will finish the story. I already told you that the result
is not yet known; I hope, however, that by the time I next write
to you, all the sheep will have crossed the bridge; but if not,
why should I care? So far as I am concerned, they might all have
stayed on this side. In the meantime you must accept the story so
far as it goes; what I really know to be true I have written, and
it is better to stop now than to tell you what is false, for in
that case you would probably have discredited the whole, whereas
now you will only disbelieve one half.

I must conclude, but don't think me rude; he who begins must
cease, or the world would have no peace. My compliments to every
friend, welcome to kiss me without end, forever and a day, till
good sense comes my way; and a fine kissing that will be, which
frightens you as well as me. Adieu, ma chere cousine! I am, I
was, I have been, oh! that I were, would to heavens I were! I
will or shall be, would, could, or should be--what?--A blockhead!
W. A. M.

98.

Mannheim, March 7, 1778.

I have received your letter on the 26th February, and am much
obliged to you for all the trouble you have taken about the
arias, which are quite accurate in every respect. "Next to God
comes papa" was my axiom when a child, and I still think the
same. You are right when you say that "knowledge is power";
besides, except your trouble and fatigue, you will have no cause
for regret, as Madlle. Weber certainly deserves your kindness. I
only wish that you could hear her sing my new aria which I lately
mentioned to you,--I say, hear her sing it, because it seems made
expressly for her; a man like you who really understands what
portamento in singing means, would certainly feel the most
intense pleasure in hearing her. When I am happily settled in
Paris, and our circumstances, please God, improved, and we are
all more cheerful and in better humor, I will write you my
thoughts more fully, and ask you to do me a great kindness. I
must now tell you I was so shocked that tears came to my eyes, on
reading in your last letter that you are obliged to go about so
shabbily dressed. My very dearest papa, this is certainly not my
fault; you know it is not. We economize in every possible way
here; food and lodging, wood and light, cost us nothing, which is
all we could hope for. As for dress, you are well aware that, in
places where you are not known, it is out of the question to be
badly dressed, for appearances must be kept up.

My whole hopes are now centred in Paris, for German princes are
all niggards. I mean to work with all my strength, that I may
soon have the happiness of extricating you from your present
distressing circumstances.

99.

Mannheim, March. 11, 1778.

I HAVE duly received your letter of the 26th February, and learn
from it with great joy that our best and kindest of all friends,
Baron Grimm [the well-known Encyclopedist, with whom Mozart had
become acquainted during his last visit to France], is now in
Paris. The vetturino has offered to convey us to Paris by Metz
(which, as you probably know, is the shortest route) for eleven
louis-d'or. If to-morrow he agrees to do it for ten, I shall
certainly engage him, and perhaps at eleven, for even then it
will be the cheapest way for us, which is the main point, and
more convenient too, for he will take our carriage--that is, he
will place the body on wheels of his own. The convenience is
great, as we have so many small packages that we can stow away
quite comfortably in our own carriage, which we cannot do in the
DILIGENCE, and besides we shall be alone and able to talk as we
like. But I do assure you that if, after all, we go in the
DILIGENCE, my sole annoyance is the bore of not being able to say
what we choose and wish, though, as it is very necessary that we
should take the cheapest conveyance, I am still rather disposed
to do so.

THIRD PART
PARIS.
MARCH 1778 TO JANUARY 1779.

PART III.

100.

Paris, March 24, 1778.

YESTERDAY (Monday, the 23d), at four o'clock in the afternoon, we
arrived here, thank God! safely, having been nine days and a half
on our journey. We thought we really could not have gone through
with it; in my life I never was so wearied. You may easily
imagine what it was to leave Mannheim and so many dear kind
friends, and then to travel for ten days, not only without these
friends, but without any human being--without a single soul whom
we could associate with or even speak to. Now, thank Heaven! we
are at our destination, and I trust that, with the help of God,
all will go well. To-day we are to take a fiacre and go in quest
of Grimm and Wendling. Early to-morrow I intend to call on the
Minister of the Palatinate, Herr von Sickingen, (a great
connoisseur and passionate lover of music, and for whom I have
two letters from Herr von Gemmingen and M. Cannabich.) Before
leaving Mannheim I had the quartet transcribed that I wrote at
Lodi one evening in the inn there, and also the quintet and the
Fischer variations for Herr von Gemmingen [author of the
"Deutsche Hausvater"], on which he wrote me a most polite note,
expressing his pleasure at the souvenir I had left him, and
sending me a letter to his intimate friend Herr von Sickingen,
adding, "I feel sure that you will be a greater recommendation to
the letter than the letter can possibly be to you;" and, to repay
the expense of writing out the music, he sent me three louis-
d'or; he also assured me of his friendship, and requested mine in
return. I must say that all those who knew me, Hofrathe,
Kammerrathe, and other high-class people, as well as all the
court musicians, were very grieved and reluctant to see me go;
and really and truly so.

We left on Saturday, the 14th, and on the previous Thursday there
was an afternoon concert at Cannabich's, where my concerto for
three pianos was given. Madlle. Rose Cannabich played the first,
Madlle. Weber the second, and Madlle. Pierron Serrarius (our
"house-nymph") the third. We had three rehearsals of the
concerto, and it went off well. Madlle. Weber sang three arias of
mine, the "Aer tranquillo" from the "Re Pastore," [Footnote: A
festal opera that Mozart had composed in 1775, in honor of the
visit of the Archduke Maximilian Francis to Salzburg.] and the
new "Non so d' onde viene." With this last air my dear Madlle.
Weber gained very great honor both for herself and for me. All
present said that no aria had ever affected them like this one;
and, indeed, she sang it as it ought to be sung. The moment it
was finished, Cannabich exclaimed, "Bravo! bravissimo maestro!
veramente scritta da maestro!" It was given for the first time on
this occasion with instruments. I should like you to have heard
it also, exactly as it was executed and sung there, with such
precision in time and taste, and in the pianos and fortes. Who
knows? you may perhaps still hear her. I earnestly hope so. The
members of the orchestra never ceased praising the aria and
talking about it.

I have many kind friends at Mannheim (both highly esteemed and
rich) who wished very much to keep me there. Well! where I am
properly paid, I am content to be. Who can tell? it may still
come to pass. I wish it may; and thus it ever is with me--I live
always in hope. Herr Cannabich is an honorable, worthy man, and a
kind friend of mine. He has only one fault, which is, that
although no longer very young, he is rather careless and absent,
--if you are not constantly before his eyes, he is very apt to
forget all about you. But where the interests of a real friend
are in question, he works like a horse, and takes the deepest
interest in the matter; and this is of great use, for he has
influence. I cannot, however, say much in favor of his courtesy
or gratitude; the Webers (for whom I have not done half so much),
in spite of their poverty and obscurity, have shown themselves
far more grateful. Madame Cannabich and her daughter never
thanked me by one single word, much less thought of offering me
some little remembrance, however trifling, merely as a proof of
kindly feeling; but nothing of the sort, not even thanks, though
I lost so much time in teaching the daughter, and took such pains
with her. She can now perfectly well perform before any one; as a
girl only fourteen, and an amateur, she plays remarkably well,
and for this they have to thank me, which indeed is very well
known to all in Mannheim. She has now neatness, time, and good
fingering, as well as even shakes, which she had not formerly.
They will find that they miss me much three months hence, for I
fear she will again be spoiled, and spoil herself; unless she has
a master constantly beside her, and one who thoroughly
understands what he is about, she will do no good, for she is
still too childish and giddy to practise steadily and carefully
alone. [Footnote: Rosa Cannabich became, indeed, a remarkable
virtuoso. C L. Junker mentions her, even in his musical almanac
of 1783, among the most eminent living artists.]

Madlle. Weber paid me the compliment kindly to knit two pairs of
mits for me, as a remembrance and slight acknowledgment. M. Weber
wrote out whatever I required gratis, gave me the music-paper,
and also made me a present of Moliere's Comedies (as he knew that
I had never read them), with this inscription:--"Ricevi, amico,
le opere di Moliere, in segno di gratitudine, e qualche volta
ricordati di me." [Footnote: "Accept, my dear friend, Moliere's
works as a token of my gratitude; and sometimes think of me."]
And when alone with mamma he said, "Our best friend, our
benefactor, is about to leave us. There can be no doubt that your
son has done a great deal for my daughter, and interested himself
much about her, and she cannot be too thankful to him."
[Footnote: Aloysia Weber became afterwards Madame Lange. She had
great fame as a singer. We shall hear more of her in the Vienna
letters.] The day before I set off, they would insist on my
supping with them, but I managed to give them two hours before
supper instead. They never ceased thanking me, and saying they
only wished they were in a position to testify their gratitude,
and when I went away they all wept. Pray forgive me, but really
tears come to my eyes when I think of it. Weber came down-stairs
with me, and remained standing at the door till I turned the
corner and called out Adieu!

In Paris he at once plunged into work, so that his love-affair
was for a time driven into the background. Compositions for the
Concert Spirituel, for the theatre, and for dilettanti, as well
as teaching and visits to great people, occupied him. His mother
writes: "I cannot describe to you how much Wolfgang is beloved
and praised here. Herr Wendling had said much in his favor before
he came, and has presented him to all his friends. He can dine
daily, if he chooses, with Noverre [the famed ballet-master], and
also with Madame d'Epinay" [Grimm's celebrated friend]. The
mother herself scarcely saw him all day, for on account of their
small close apartment, he was obliged to compose at Director Le
Gros's house. She had (womanlike) written to the father about the
composition of a Miserere. Wolfgang continues the letter, more
fully explaining the matter.

101.

Paris, April 5, 1778.

I MUST now explain more, clearly what mamma alludes to, as she
has written rather obscurely. Capellmeister Holzbauer has sent a
Miserere here, but as the choruses at Mannheim are weak and poor,
whereas here they are strong and good, his choruses would make no
effect. M. Le Gros (Director of the Concert Spirituel) requested
me therefore to compose others; Holzbauer's introductory chorus
being retained. "Quoniam iniquitatem meam," an allegro, is the
first air by me. The second an adagio, "Ecce enim in
iniquitatibus." Then an allegro, "Ecce enim veritatem dilexisti"
to the "ossa humiliata." Then an andante for soprano, tenor, and
bass Soli; "Cor mundum," and "Redde mihi," allegro to "ad se
convertentur." I also composed a recitative for a bass air,
"Libera me de sanguinibus," because a bass air of Holzbauer's
follows. The "sacrificium Deo spiritus" being an aria andante for
Raaff, with a hautboy and a bassoon solo obligato. I have added a
short recitative with hautboy and bassoon, for here recitative is
much liked. "Benigne fac" to "muri Jerusalem" andante moderate.
Chorus. Then "Tunc acceptabis" to "super altare," allegro and
tenor solo (Le Gros) and chorus. Finis. [None of this music is
known.]

I must say that I am right glad to have done with this task, for
it is really detestable not to be able to write at home, and to
be hurried into the bargain; but now, God be praised! it is
finished, and I hope it will make some effect. M. Gussec, whom
you no doubt know, when he saw my first chorus, said to Le Gros
(I was not present) that it was charming, and could not fail to
be successful, that the words were so well arranged, and, above
all, admirably set to music. He is a kind friend of mine, but
very reserved. I am not merely to write an act for an opera, but
an entire one in two acts. The poet has already completed the
first act. Noverre [ballet-master], with whom I dine as often as
I please, managed this, and indeed suggested the idea. I think it
is to be called "Alexander and Roxana." Madame Jenome is also
here. I am about to compose a sinfonie concertante,--flute,
Wendling; oboe, Ramm; French horn, Punto; and bassoon, Ritter.
Punto plays splendidly. I have this moment returned from the
Concert Spirituel. Baron Grimm and I often give vent to our wrath
at the music here; N.B.--when tete-a-tete, for in public we call
out "Bravo! bravissimo!" and clap our hands till our fingers
tingle.

102.

Paris, May 1, 1778.

THE little violoncellist Zygmatofsky and his unprincipled father
are here. Perhaps I may already have written you this; I only
mention it cursorily, because I just remember that I met him at a
house which I must now tell you about. I mean that of the
Duchesse de Chabot. M. Grimm gave me a letter to her, so I drove
there, the purport of the letter being chiefly to recommend me to
the Duchesse de Bourbon, who when I was last here [during
Mozart's first visit to Paris] was in a convent, and to introduce
me afresh to her and recall me to her memory. A week elapsed
without the slightest notice of my visit, but as eight days
previously she had appointed me to call on her, I kept my
engagement and went. I waited half an hour in a large room
without any fire, and as cold as ice. At last the Duchess came
in, and was very polite, begging me to make allowances for her
piano, as none of her instruments were in good order, but I might
at least try it. I said that I would most gladly play something,
but at this moment it was impossible, as my fingers were quite
benumbed from the cold, so I asked her at all events to take me
to a room where there was a fire. "Oh! oui, Monsieur, vous avez
raison"--was her answer. She then seated herself, and drew for a
whole hour in company with several gentlemen, all sitting in a
circle round a large table, and during this time I had the honor
to wait. The windows and doors were open, so that not only my
hands, but my body and my feet were cold, and my head also began
to ache. Moreover, there was altum silentium, and I really did
not know what to do from cold, headache, and weariness. I again
and again thought to myself, that if it were not on M. Grimm's
account I would leave the house at once. At last, to cut matters
short, I played on the wretched, miserable piano. What however
vexed me most of all was, that the Duchess and all the gentlemen
did not cease drawing for a single moment, but coolly continued
their occupation; so I was left to play to the chairs and tables,
and the walls. My patience gave way under such unpropitious
circumstances. I therefore began the Fischer variations, and
after playing one half of them I rose. Then came eulogiums
without end. I, however, said all that could be said--which was,
that I could do myself no justice on such a piano, but I should
be very glad to fix some other day to play, when a better
instrument might be found. But the Duchess would not hear of my
going away; so I was obliged to wait till her husband came in,
who placed himself beside me and listened to me with great
attention, while, as for me, I became unconscious of all cold and
all headache, and, in spite of the wretched piano, played as I
CAN play when I am in the right mood. Give me the best piano in
Europe, and listeners who understand nothing, or don't wish to
understand, and who do not sympathize with me in what I am
playing, I no longer feel any pleasure. I afterwards told all
this to M. Grimm.

You write to me that I ought to pay a good many visits in order
to make new acquaintances, and to renew former ones. This is,
however, impossible, from the distances being so great, and it is
too muddy to go on foot, for really the mud in Paris is beyond
all description. To go in a carriage entails spending four or
five livres a day, and all for nothing; it is true the people say
all kinds of civil things, but there it ends, as they appoint me
to come on such and such a day, when I play, and hear them
exclaim, "Oh! c'est un prodige, c'est inconcevable, c'est
etonnant!" and then, Adieu! At first I spent money enough in
driving about, and to no purpose, from not finding the people at
home. Unless you lived here, you could not believe what an
annoyance this is. Besides, Paris is much changed; the French are
far from being as polite as they were fifteen years ago; their
manner now borders on rudeness, and they are odiously self-
sufficient.

I must proceed to give you an account of the Concert Spirituel.
By the by, I must first briefly tell you that my chorus-labors
were in a manner useless, for Holzbauer's Miserere was too long
in itself, and did not please, so they gave only two of my
choruses instead of four, and chose to leave out the best; but
this was of no great consequence, for many there were not aware
that any of the music was by me, and many knew nothing at all
about me. Still, at the rehearsal great approbation was
expressed, and I myself (for I place no great reliance on
Parisian praise) was very much satisfied with my choruses. With
regard to the sinfonie concertante there appears to be a hitch,
and I believe that some unseen mischief is at work. It seems that
I have enemies here also; where have I not had them? But this is
a good sign. I was obliged to write the symphony very hurriedly,
and worked very hard at it. The four performers were and are
perfectly enchanted with the piece. Le Gros had it for the last
four days to be copied, but I invariably saw it lying in the same
place. Two days ago I could not find it, though I searched
carefully among the music; and at last I discovered it hidden
away. I took no notice, but said to Le Gros, "A propos, have you
given my sinfonie to be copied?" "No; I forgot all about it." As,
of course, I have no power to compel him to have it transcribed
and performed, I said nothing; but I went to the concert on the
two days when the sinfonie was to have been performed, when Ramm
and Punto came to me in the greatest rage to ask me why my
sinfonie concertante was not to be given. "I don't know. This is
the first I hear of it. I cannot tell." Ramm was frantic, and
abused Le Gros in the music-room in French, saying how very
unhandsome it was on his part, etc. I alone was to be kept in
the dark! If he had even made an excuse--that the time was too
short, or something of the kind!--but he never said a syllable. I
believe the real cause to be Cambini, an Italian maestro; for at
our first meeting at Le Gros's, I unwittingly took the wind out
of his sails. He composes quintets, one of which I heard at
Mannheim; it was very pretty, so I praised it, and played the
beginning to him. Ritter, Ramm, and Punto were all present, and
gave me no peace till I agreed to continue, and to supply from my
own head what I could not remember. I therefore did so, and
Cambini was quite excited, and could not help saying, "Questa e
una gran testa!" Well, I suppose after all he did not quite
relish this, [The symphony in question has also entirely
disappeared.]

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