Mozart: A Life in Letters: A Life in Letters
Page 47
I can’t help it if people want comic music in an opera seria; – but here people make a proper distinction between them.
I find that the Viennese buffoon8 hasn’t yet been eradicated from music; and in this case the French are right. –
I hope that my clothes arrive safely with the next mail coach. I don’t know when the coach leaves, but I think you’ll receive this letter first, so I would ask you to keep my stick for me. – People carry sticks here, but what’s the point? If you want one only for walking, then any stick will do; so you may as well use the stick instead of me, and always take it with you if you can – who knows whether it may avenge its former master on Arco. – I mean, of course, accidentaliter or by chance; – that greedy ass will certainly get a taste of it, even if we have to wait twenty years. – For me to see him and give him a kick up the arse will undoubtedly be one and the same, unless I have the misfortune to meet him first on hallowed ground. – Well, adieu; farewell; I kiss your hands 1000 times and embrace my sister with all my heart. I am ever your most obedient son
W. A. Mzt
Best wishes to everyone.
115. Mozart to his father, 4 July 1781, Vienna
Mon très cher Père,
I haven’t written to Count Arco and shan’t be doing so, as you ask me not to for the sake of your own peace of mind; – it’s just as I thought; you’re too afraid; and yet there’s nothing to be afraid of, as you yourself have been insulted as much as I have. – I’m not asking you to cause a scene or to make even the slightest complaint! – But the archbishop and the rest of his rabble must be afraid of discussing the matter with you as you, my father, need have no fear at all of saying quite openly – if you are put to it – that you’d be ashamed to have brought up a son who allowed himself to be called names by as infamous a scoundrel as Arco – and you can assure them all that if I had the good fortune to meet him today, he’d get his just deserts and would certainly remember me as long as he lived; – all I ask for, and nothing more, is that everyone can see that you’re not afraid. – Remain silent, but speak if necessary – and speak in such a way that you actually say something; the archbishop has secretly offered Koželuch1 1000 florins – – but the latter has declined, adding that he’s better off where he is and that unless he could improve his position, he’ll never leave. But to his friends he said: it’s the affair with Mozart that puts me off most of all – if he lets a man like that leave, what might he not do to me? – So you see how well he knows me and values my talents! – The chest with the clothes has arrived safely.
If Monsieur Marchal or the syndic of the chapter comes to Vienna, you’d be doing me a great favour if you could send me my favourite watch; I’ll return yours if you’ll send me the small one, too; that would be very kind of you. – I wrote to you recently about the masses.2 – I need the 3 cassations as a matter of urgency – it would be enough for the present for me to have the ones in F and B flat – the one in D3 you might arrange to have copied and sent on to me later, as copying costs a lot here; and their work is appalling.
I must say a few words about Marchand,4 at least as far as I can; – when his father corrected the younger boy at table, he took up a knife and said: look here, papa; if you say another word, I’ll cut off my finger at the root and I’ll then be a cripple and you’ll have to feed me. – Both of them have often spoken ill of their father to others. You’ll no doubt remember Mlle Boudet,5 who lives in their house. – Well, the old man is very fond of her. – And the 2 lads have been making the most infamous comments about them. – When Hennerle6 was 8 he said to a certain girl – I’d far rather sleep in your arms than wake up with a pillow. – He even made her a formal declaration of love and an offer of marriage, adding: I can’t marry you now, of course, but when my father’s dead, I’ll come into some money as he’s by no means destitute, and we can then live together very comfortably. In the meantime we can be lovers and enjoy our love to the full; what you allow me to do now you won’t be able to allow me to do later. – I also know that in Mannheim no one ever allowed their boys to go near Marchand’s – they were caught – – – indulging in a spot of mutual relief. It’s a great shame about the boy – but I’m sure that you, my father, will bring about a complete transformation in him. As his father and mother are actors, they hear nothing all day but tales of love, despair, murder and death, and that’s all they ever read; also, their father is rather feeble for his age – so they’re not being set a good example.
I must close now, otherwise Peisser7 won’t get my letter in time. Farewell, I kiss your hands 1000 times and am ever your most obedient son
Wolfgang Amadè Mozart
P.S.: Best wishes to all our good friends. Do let me know the story about my sister’s mob cap. You mentioned it once in one of your letters. Adieu.
116. Mozart to his father, 25 July 1781, Vienna
Mon très cher Père,
May I say once again that I’ve long been thinking of finding some other rooms – and all because people have been gossiping; – I’m only sorry that I’m forced to do this on account of some stupid tittle-tattle, not one word of which is true. I’d just like to know what sort of pleasure certain people can take in spreading entirely groundless rumours. – Because I’m living with them, it’s said that I’m marrying the daughter;1 there was never any talk of our being in love, they’ve omitted that stage; no, I’m in lodgings in the house and so I’m getting married. – If there was ever a time in my life when I’ve thought less of marriage, it’s now! – for – although the last thing I want is a wealthy wife – even if I could now make my fortune by getting married, I couldn’t possibly go courting, as I’ve other things on my mind. – God hasn’t given me my talent simply for me to get hitched to a wife and fritter away my young life in inactivity. – I’m only now beginning to live, and people expect me to ruin it all? – I’ve nothing against marriage, of course, but at present it would be a disaster for me. – Well, there’s nothing else for it; even though it’s untrue, I must avoid giving the appearance that it is – and even though this appearance rests solely on the fact that I’m living here – unless people come to the house, they can’t even say whether I have as much contact with her as with all God’s other creatures; for the children rarely go out – they never go anywhere except to the theatre, but I never go with them as I’m generally not at home at curtain-up. – We went to the Prater2 a couple of times, but her mother came too; and as I was in the house at the time, I could hardly refuse to go with them. – And at that time I’d not yet heard any of these foolish remarks. I should add that I was allowed to pay only for myself. – And when her mother heard these remarks herself and also heard about them from me, I have to say that from then on she wouldn’t countenance the idea of our going anywhere together and advised me to move in order to avoid any further unpleasantness; she says that she wouldn’t like to be responsible for my misfortune through no fault of her own. – This, then, is the only reason why I have for some time – since people started to gossip – been thinking of moving – the truth of the matter is that I’ve no reason to move, but these rumours are reason enough. – If it weren’t for these remarks, I’d certainly not move because, although I could easily get a more attractive room, I wouldn’t find such comfort or such friendly and obliging people; – I don’t mean that, living in the same house as the mademoiselle to whom I’ve already been married off, I’m sullen and don’t speak to her – but nor am I in love with her; – I fool around and joke with her when I have time – which is only in the evening when I dine at home – during the morning I write in my room and during the afternoon I’m rarely at home – and that’s all; if I had to marry everyone with whom I’ve shared a joke, I’d have at least 200 wives. – But now for the money.
My pupil3 was out of town for 3 weeks – as a result I had no income, although my outgoings continued as before. – This meant that I couldn’t send you 30 ducats, but only 20 – but as I was hopeful about the subscriptions,4 I wa
nted to wait until I could send you the sum I’d promised. – But Countess Thun has now told me that a subscription is out of the question before the autumn – because everyone who has any money is out of town – so far she has found only 10 people and my pupil only seven – meanwhile I’m having 6 sonatas engraved, Artaria,5 the music engraver, has already discussed the matter with me; as soon as they are sold and I get some money, I’ll send it to you.
I must ask my dear sister to forgive me for not having written to congratulate her on her name day.6 – The letter that I began is still lying in my drawer. – I’d just started it last Saturday when Countess Rumbeke’s servant called and said that they were all going off to the country and would I like to go too – because I don’t like to say no to Cobenzl,7 I left the letter where it was, threw my things together and went with them. – I thought my sister wouldn’t take it amiss. – So, in the octave of her name day, I now wish her all the best and all that an honest brother who loves his sister with his whole heart could ever wish for her; and I kiss her most tenderly.
I returned with the count today and am driving out with him again tomorrow. – Farewell now, dearest, most beloved father! – Believe your son and trust in him, for he thinks only the best of all decent people; – and why shouldn’t he also cherish such feelings towards his dear father and sister? – – Believe in him and trust him more than you do certain people who have nothing better to do than to slander honest people – adieu now – I kiss your hands 1000 times and am ever you most obedient son
Wolfgang Amadè Mozart
On 30 July Mozart received from Stephanie the libretto of the Turkishthemed singspiel Die Entführung aus dem Serail (‘The Abduction from the Seraglio’), the plot of which revolves around the attempts of the hero, Belmonte (assisted by his servant Pedrillo), to rescue his beloved, Konstanze (and her maidservant, Blonde, Pedrillo’s beloved), from the Bassa Selim.
117. Mozart to his father, 8 August 1781, Vienna
Mon très cher Père,
I must be brief as I’ve just this minute finished the Janissary chorus1 and it’s already turned 12, and at 2 o’clock on the dot I’ve promised to drive out with the Auernhammers and Mlle Cavalieri2 to Münchendorf near Laxenburg, where the camp now is. –
Adamberger,3 Cavalieri and Fischer4 are extremely pleased with their arias. – I had lunch yesterday with Countess Thun, and tomorrow I’ll be having lunch with her again. – I played her some of what I’ve written. – At the end she told me that she’d venture her life that people are bound to like what I’ve written so far. – On this point I pay no heed to anyone’s praise or censure at least until people have seen and heard the work as a whole; I simply follow my own feelings – but you can see from this how pleased she must have been to have said something like this. –
As I’ve nothing of any importance to tell you, I’ll pass on a terrible story that I heard – you may already know it; it’s known here as the Tyrolean tale. – I’m all the more interested in it as I know the unfortunate person concerned. I got to know him in Munich, where he even called on us every day. – His name is Herr von Wibmer and he’s a nobleman. I don’t know whether it was from misfortune or because of a natural propensity for the theatre, but some months ago he formed a troupe that he took with him to Innsbruck. –
One Sunday lunchtime, at 12 o’clock, this good man was walking quietly along the street, when some courtiers started to follow him; one of them – Baron Bulla by name – kept saying rude things about him: the fool should teach his dancer to walk before he put her on the stage – and he called him all manner of names – Herr von Wibmer listened for a while, then naturally turned round. Bulla asks him why he’s looking at him. – The latter replies very good-naturedly. – Well, you’re looking at me; it’s a free country, a person can look round if he wants to. – And he goes on his way. – But Baron Bulla continues to call him names; finally it gets too much for the good man and he asks him who he’s referring to. – You, you cur, was the answer, accompanied by a regular cuff round the ear; Herr von Wibmer immediately gave as good as he got. – Neither man was wearing a sword, otherwise he’d most certainly not have replied in kind. – He returned home, very calmly, in order to tidy his hair – Baron Bulla had also seized him by the hair – and fully intending to put the case before the governor, Count Wolkenstein.5 – But his house was already full of soldiers, and he was taken off to the main guardhouse; – no matter what he said, it made no difference and he was sentenced to 25 lashes on his backside. Finally he said: I’m a nobleman, I refuse to be beaten when I’m innocent, I’d rather become a soldier in order to have my revenge. – In Innsbruck there must be some stupid Tyrolean custom that no one can strike a gentleman, however much he may be in the right. – At this, he was taken to the local prison, where he was given not 25 but 50 lashes. – Before he lay on the bench, he said publicly: I’m innocent. And I appeal publicly to the emperor. But the corporal answered contemptuously: The gentleman can first have his 50 lashes, and then he can appeal. It was all over in 2 hours – by 2 o’clock. By the 5th lash, his breeches were already torn. – I’m surprised he was able to bear it. – In fact he was taken away unconscious. – He was laid up for 3 weeks. As soon as he’d recovered, he came straight to Vienna, where he’s anxiously awaiting the arrival of the emperor, who has already been informed about the whole affair, not only by people here but by his sister, the Archduchess Elisabeth,6 who is in Innsbruck. – Wibmer himself has a letter from her to the emperor. – The day before this happened, the president had received orders to punish no one, whoever it may be, without first informing people here. This makes the matter even worse. – The president really must be a very stupid and malicious oaf. – But – how can this man ever obtain adequate restitution? – The lashes will remain with him – if I were Wibmer, I’d demand the following restitution from the emperor. – He7 must receive 50 lashes in the same place and in my presence – and he’d also have to give me 6000 ducats. – And if I couldn’t obtain this, I’d ask for no other but would run my sword through his heart at the first opportunity. I should add that he’s already been offered 3000 ducats not to go to Vienna and to hush up the affair. – The people of Innsbruck call Herr von Wibmer the man who was scourged for us and who will also redeem us. – Not a soul can stand him.8 – The president’s house has been under guard all this time. – There’s a regular gospel about him here. – People are talking about nothing else. – I’m very sorry for the poor man, for he’s never really well. He’s always got a headache and a bad chest complaint.
Farewell now, I kiss your hands 1000 times and embrace my dear sister with all my heart. I am ever your most obedient son
W. A. Mzt
Best wishes to the Duscheks, whom I hope to see here. Adieu.
118. Mozart to his father, 22 August 1781, Vienna
Mon très cher Père,
I still can’t give you the address of my new apartment, as I haven’t got one yet; but I’m arguing over the price of two, one of which I shall certainly take as I can no longer stay here next month and must, therefore, move out. – It seems that Herr von Auernhammer has written to you – and told you that I’ve already found an apartment!1 – I did indeed have one; but what a place! – It was fit for rats and mice, but not for human beings. – Even at midday you needed a lantern to find the stairs. And the room could best be described as a small closet and could be reached only through the kitchen. There was a little window in the door of my room, and although they assured me that they’d put up a curtain in front of it, they also asked me to draw it back as soon as I was dressed, as otherwise they wouldn’t be able to see anything either in the kitchen or in the adjacent rooms. – The lady of the house called it a rats’ nest; in a word, it was terrible. – It would have been a splendid place to receive the various distinguished people who come to see me. – The good man was thinking only of himself and his daughter, who’s the biggest seccatrice2 I know. As your last letter included a eulogy of this household wo
rthy of Count Daun, I must tell you a little more about them; I would have passed over in silence all that you’re about to read and regarded it as a matter of indifference and as only a private and personal seccatura,3 but as I discover from your letter that you have some confidence in this household, I see myself obliged to tell you quite candidly about their good and bad points. – He is the finest man you could ever hope to meet – too much so, in fact, for his wife, the stupidest and silliest gossip in the world, wears the trousers, so that whenever she speaks, he does not dare to say a word; whenever we’ve gone out walking together, he has asked me not to say anything in his wife’s presence to indicate that we’d taken a cab or drunk a glass of beer. – Well, I really can’t trust a man like that; he’s too insignificant in the eyes of his own family. – He’s a decent enough person and a good friend of mine; I’ve often been able to have lunch with him, but I’m not in the habit of allowing people to pay for my favours, not that a lunchtime bowl of soup would be adequate payment, of course, – but people like that think that it is. – It is not for my own benefit that I set foot in their house but for theirs. Indeed, I see no profit whatsoever for myself; – and I’ve yet to meet a single person there whose name would be worth setting down on this sheet of paper. – They’re good people, but nothing more – people sensible enough to realize how useful to them is my acquaintance with their daughter, who, as everyone says who heard her play before, has changed completely since I’ve been seeing her. – I won’t attempt to describe her mother. Suffice it to say that at table it’s all one can do not to burst out laughing; basta; you know Frau Adlgasser; well, this meuble is even worse, as she’s also médisante,4 in other words, stupid and malicious. On to the daughter, then: if a painter wanted to paint the devil to the life, he’d have to have recourse to her face. – She’s as fat as a farmgirl, sweats so much it makes you want to puke and goes around so scantily dressed that she might as well be carrying a sign: Please look here. True, there’s enough to see or, rather, enough to make you wish you were blind – you’re punished for the whole of the rest of the day if you’re unfortunate enough to look in her direction – you then need some tartar! – so disgusting, filthy and horrible! – Ugh! Well, I’ve already told you how she plays the piano and told you why she asked me to help her. – I’m more than happy to do favours for people, but not if they annoy me. – She’s not content for me to spend 2 hours a day with her; I’m expected to sit there all day long. – And she tries to give herself airs! – But, even worse, she’s sérieusement in love with me – I thought it was a joke, but now I know it for certain; – when I noticed it – because she was taking liberties with me – for example – she reproached me affectionately when I arrived later than usual or couldn’t stay any longer and other such things – and so I saw myself obliged, in order not to make her look foolish, to tell her the truth as politely as I could. – But it made no difference. She became even more infatuated; in the end I was always very polite to her except when she got up to her tricks and then I was rude – but she then took me by the hand and said: dear Mozart; don’t be so cross – no matter what you say, I really do like you. – Throughout the whole town people are saying that we’re getting married and they’re only surprised that I can choose someone with a face like that. She told me that whenever people said anything like that to her, she always laughed at it; but I know from a certain person that she confirmed that it was true, adding that we’d then travel together. – That infuriated me. – So the other day I told her what I thought of her and that she shouldn’t abuse my kindness. – I’m no longer seeing her every day, but only every other day, and shall gradually stop seeing her altogether. She’s nothing but an infatuated fool; – before she got to know me, she heard me in the theatre and said: He’s coming to see me tomorrow and I’ll play him his variations in the same style. – For that very reason I didn’t go as it was a conceited thing to say and also because it was a lie. I’d never said a word about calling on her the next day. – Adieu for now, there’s no paper left. The first act of the opera is finished. I kiss your hands 1000 times and embrace my dear sister with all my heart. I am ever your ob. son