Miennham, eht ht5 rebotoc, 7771.
73.
Mannheim, Nov. 8, 1777.
This forenoon, at Herr Cannabich's, I wrote the Rondo of the sonata for
his daughter; so they would not let me leave them all day. The Elector
and the Electress, and the whole court, are very much pleased with me.
Both times I played at the concert, the Elector and she stood close
beside me at the piano. After the music was at an end, Cannabich managed
that I should be noticed by the court. I kissed the Elector's hand, who
said, "I think it is now fifteen years since you were here?" "Yes,
your Highness, it is fifteen years since I had that honor." "You play
inimitably." The Princess, when I kissed her hand, said, "Monsieur, je
vous assure, on ne peut pas jouer mieux."
Yesterday I went with Cannabich to pay the visit mamma already wrote to
you about [to Duke Carl Theodor's children], and there I conversed with
the Elector as if he had been some kind friend. He is a most gracious
and good Prince. He said to me, "I hear you wrote an opera at Munich"
["La finta Giardiniera"]? "Yes, your Highness, and, with your gracious
permission, my most anxious wish is to write an opera here; I entreat
you will not quite forget me. I could also write a German one, God be
praised!" said I, smiling. "That may easily be arranged." He has one
son and three daughters, the eldest of whom and the young Count play the
piano. The Elector questioned me confidentially about his children.
I spoke quite honestly, but without detracting from their master.
Cannabich was entirely of my opinion. The Elector, on going away, took
leave of me with much courtesy.
After dinner to-day I went, at two o'clock, with Cannabich to
Wendling's, the flute-player, where they were all complaisance. The
daughter, who was formerly the Elector's favorite, plays the piano very
prettily; afterwards I played. I cannot describe to you the happy mood I
was in. I played extempore, and then three duets with the violin, which
I had never in my life seen, nor do I now know the name of the author.
They were all so delighted that I--was desired to embrace the ladies. No
hard task with the daughter, for she is very pretty.
We then went again to the Elector's children; I played three times, and
from my heart too,--the Elector himself each time asking me to play. He
seated himself each time close to me and never stirred. I also asked a
certain Professor there to give me a theme for a fugue, and worked it
out.
Now for my congratulations!
My very dearest papa,--I cannot write poetically, for I am no poet. I
cannot make fine artistic phrases that cast light and shadow, for I am
no painter; I can neither by signs nor by pantomime express my thoughts
and feelings, for I am no dancer; but I can by tones, for I am
a musician. So to-morrow, at Cannabich's, I intend to play my
congratulations both for your name-day and birthday. Mon tres-cher pere,
I can only on this day wish for you, what from my whole heart I wish for
you every day and every night--health, long life, and a cheerful spirit.
I would fain hope, too, that you have now less annoyance than when I was
in Salzburg; for I must admit that I was the chief cause of this. They
treated me badly, which I did not deserve, and you naturally took my
part, only too lovingly. I can tell you this was indeed one of the
principal and most urgent reasons for my leaving Salzburg in such haste.
I hope, therefore, that my wish is fulfilled. I must now close by a
musical congratulation. I wish that you may live as many years as must
elapse before no more new music can be composed. Farewell! I earnestly
beg you to go on loving me a little, and, in the mean time, to excuse
these very poor congratulations till I open new shelves in my small and
confined knowledge-box, where I can stow away the good sense which I
have every intention to acquire.
74.
Mannheim, Nov. 13, 1777.
We received your last two letters, and now I must answer them in
detail. Your letter desiring me to inquire about Becke's parents [in
Wallerstein, No. 68] I did not get till I had gone to Mannheim, so too
late to comply with your wish; but it never would have occurred to me
to do so, for, in truth, I care very little about him. Would you like
to know how I was received by him? Well and civilly; that is, he asked
where I was going. I said, most probably to Paris. He then gave me a
vast deal of advice, saying he had recently been there, and adding, "You
will make a great deal by giving lessons, for the piano is highly prized
in Paris." He also arranged that I should dine at the officers'
table, and promised to put me in the way of speaking to the Prince.
He regretted very much having at that moment a sore throat, (which
was indeed quite true,) so that he could not go out with me himself to
procure me some amusement. He was also sorry that he could have no music
in honor of me, because most of the musical people had gone that very
day on some pedestrian excursion to--Heaven knows where! At his
request I tried his piano, which is very good. He often said Bravo! I
extemporized, and also played the sonatas in B and D. In short, he was
very polite, and I was also polite, but grave. We conversed on a variety
of topics--among others, about Vienna, and more particularly that the
Emperor [Joseph II.] was no great lover of music. He said, "It is true
he has some knowledge of composition, but of nothing else. I can still
recall (and he rubbed his forehead) that when I was to play before him
I had no idea what to play; so I began with some fugues and trifles of
that kind, which in my own mind I only laughed at." I could scarcely
resist saying, "I can quite fancy your laughing, but scarcely so loud
as I must have done had I heard you!" He further said (what is the fact)
that the music in the Emperor's private apartments is enough to frighten
the crows. I replied, that whenever I heard such music, if I did not
quickly leave the room it gave me a headache. "Oh! no; it has no such
effect on me; bad music does not affect my nerves, but fine music never
fails to give me a headache." I thought to myself again, such a shallow
head as yours is sure to suffer when listening to what is beyond its
comprehension.
Now for some of our news here. I was desired to go yesterday with
Cannabich to the Intendant, Count Savioli, to receive my present. It was
just what I had anticipated--a handsome gold watch. Ten Carolins would
have pleased me better just now, though the watch and chain, with its
appendages, are valued at twenty Carolins. Money is what is most needed
on a journey; and, by your leave, I have now five watches. Indeed, I
have serious thoughts of having a second watch-pocket made, and, when
I visit a grandee, to wear two watches, (which is indeed the fashion
here,) that no one may ever again think of giving me another. I see from
your letter that you have not yet read Vogler's book. [FOOTNOTE: Ton
Wissenschaft und Ton Kunst.] I have just finished it, having borrowed it
from Cannabich. His history is very short. He came here in a miserable
condition, performed on the piano, and composed a ballet. This excited
the Elector's compassion, who sent him to Italy. When the Elector was in
Bologna, he questioned Father Valoti about Vogler. "Oh! your Highness,
he is a great man," &c., &c. He then asked Father Martini the same
question. "Your Highness, he has talent; and by degrees, when he is
older and more solid, he will no doubt improve, though he must first
change considerably." When Vogler came back he entered the Church, was
immediately appointed Court Chaplain, and composed a Miserere which
all the world declares to be detestable, being full of false harmony.
Hearing; that it was not much commended, he went to the Elector and
complained that the orchestra played badly on purpose to vex and annoy
him; in short, he knew so well how to make his game (entering into so
many petty intrigues with women) that he became Vice-Capellmeister. He
is a fool, who fancies that no one can be better or more perfect than
himself. The whole orchestra, from the first to the last, detest him. He
has been the cause of much annoyance to Holzbauer. His book is more
fit to teach arithmetic than composition. He says that he can make a
composer in three weeks, and a singer in six months; but we have not yet
seen any proof of this. He despises the greatest masters. To myself he
spoke with contempt of Bach [Johann Christian, J. Sebastian's youngest
son, called the London Bach], who wrote two operas here, the first of
which pleased more than the second, Lucio Silla. As I had composed the
same opera in Milan, I was anxious to see it, and hearing from Holzbauer
that Vogler had it, I asked him to lend it to me. "With all my heart,"
said he; "I will send it to you to-morrow without fail, but you won't
find much talent in it." Some days after, when he saw me, he said with
a sneer, "Well, did you discover anything very fine--did you learn
anything from it? One air is rather good. What are the words?" asked he
of some person standing near. "What air do you mean?" "Why, that odious
air of Bach's, that vile--oh! yes, pupille amate. He must have written
it after a carouse of punch." I really thought I must have laid hold
of his pigtail; I affected, however, not to hear him, said nothing, and
went away. He has now served out his time with the Elector.
The sonata for Madlle. Rosa Cannabich is finished. Last Sunday I played
the organ in the chapel for my amusement. I came in while the Kyrie was
going on, played the last part, and when the priest intoned the Gloria I
made a cadence, so different, however, from what is usually heard here,
that every one looked round in surprise, and above all Holzbauer.
He said to me, "If I had known you were coming, I would have put out
another mass for you." "Oh!" said I, "to puzzle me, I suppose?" Old
Toeschi and Wendling stood all the time close beside me. I gave them
enough to laugh at. Every now and then came a pizzicato, when I rattled
the keys well; I was in my best humor. Instead of the Benedictus here,
there is always a voluntary, so I took the ideas of the Sanctus and
worked them out in a fugue. There they all stood making faces. At the
close, after Ita missa est, I played a fugue. Their pedal is different
from ours, which at first rather puzzled me, but I soon got used to
it. I must now conclude. Pray write to us still at Mannheim. I know all
about Misliweczeck's sonatas [see No. 64], and played them lately at
Munich; they are very easy and agreeable to listen to. My advice is that
my sister, to whom I humbly commend myself, should play them with much
expression, taste, and fire, and learn them by heart. For these are
sonatas which cannot fail to please every one, are not difficult to
commit to memory, and produce a good effect when played with precision.
75.
Mannheim, Nov. 13, 1777.
Potz Himmel! Croatians, demons, witches, hags, and cross batteries! Potz
Element! air, earth, fire, and water! Europe, Asia, Africa, and America!
Jesuits, Augustines, Benedictines, Capucins, Minorites, Franciscans,
Dominicans, Carthusians, and Knights of the Cross! privateers, canons
regular and irregular, sluggards, rascals, scoundrels, imps, and
villains all! donkeys, buffaloes, oxen, fools, blockheads, numskulls,
and foxes! What means this? Four soldiers and three shoulder-belts! Such
a thick packet and no portrait! [FOOTNOTE: The "Basle" (his cousin) had
promised him her portrait. She sent it subsequently to Salzburg, where
it still hangs in the Mozarteum.] I was so anxious about it--indeed, I
felt sure of getting it, having yourself written long ago to say that I
should have it soon, very soon. Perhaps you doubt my keeping my promise
[about the ornaments--see No. 71], but I cannot think this either. So
pray let me have the likeness as quickly as you can; and I trust it is
taken as I entreated--in French costume.
How do I like Mannheim? As well as I can any place where my cousin is
not. I hope, on the other hand, that you have at all events received my
two letters--one from Hohenaltheim, and one from Mannheim--this, such as
it is, being the third from here, but making the fourth in all. I must
conclude, for we are just going to dinner, and I am not yet dressed.
Love me as I love you, and then we shall never cease loving each other.
Adieu! J'espere que vous aurez deja pris quelque lection dans la langue
francaise, et je ne doute point que--ecoutez!--que vous aurez bientot le
francais mieux que moi; car il y a certainement deux ans que je n'ai pas
ecrit un mot de cette langue. Encore adieu! Je vous baise les mains.
76.
Mannheim, Nov. 14-16, 1777.
I, Johannes, Chrysostomus, Amadeus, Wolfgangus, Sigismundus, Mozart,
plead guilty to having both yesterday and the day before (and very often
besides) stayed away from home till twelve o'clock at night, from ten
o'clock till the aforesaid hour, I being in the presence and company of
M. Cannabich, his wife and daughter, the Herrn Schatzmeister, Ramm, and
Lang, making doggerel rhymes with the utmost facility, in thought and
word, but not in deed. I should not, however, have conducted myself
in so reckless a manner if our ringleader, namely, the so-called Lisel
(Elisabeth Cannabich), had not inveigled and instigated me to mischief,
and I am bound to admit that I took great pleasure in it myself. I
confess all these my sins and shortcomings from the depths of my heart;
and in the hope of often having similar ones to confess, I firmly
resolve to amend my present sinful life. I therefore beg for a
dispensation if it can be granted; but, if not, it is a matter of
indifference to me, for the game will go on all the same. Lusus enim
suum habet ambitum, says the pious singer Meissner, (chap. 9, p. 24,)
and also the pious Ascenditor, patron of singed coffee, musty lemonade,
milk of almonds with no almonds in it, and, above all, strawberry ice
full of lumps of ice, being himself a great connoisseur and artist in
these delicacies.
The sonata I composed for Madlle. Cannabich I intend to write out as
soon as possible on small paper, and to send it to my sister. I began
to teach it to Madlle. Rose three days ago, and she has learned the
allegro. The andante will give us most trouble, for it is full of
expression, and must be played with accuracy and taste, and the fortes
and pianos given just as they are marked. She is very clever, and learns
with facility. Her right hand is very good, but the left is unhappily
quite ruined. I must say that I do really feel very sorry for her, when
I see her laboring away till she is actually panting for breath; and
this not from natural awkwardness on her part, but because, being so
accustomed to this method, she cannot play in any other way, never
having been shown the right one. I said, both to her mother and herself,
that if I were her regular master I would lock up all her music, cover
the keys of the piano with a handkerchief, and make her exercise her
right and left hand, at first quite slowly in nothing but passages and
shakes, &c., until her hands were thoroughly trained; and after that
I should feel confident of making her a genuine pianiste. They both
acknowledged that I was right. It is a sad pity; for she has so much
genius, reads very tolerably, has great natural aptitude, and plays with
great feeling.
Now about the opera briefly. Holzbauer's music [for the first great
German operetta, "Gunther von Schwarzburg"] is very beautiful, but the
poetry is not worthy of such music. What surprises me most is, that so
old a man as Holzbauer should still have so much spirit, for the
opera is incredibly full of fire. The prima donna was Madame Elisabeth
Wendling, not the wife of the flute-player, but of the violinist. She
is in very delicate health; and, besides, this opera was not written for
her, but for a certain Madame Danzi, who is now in England; so it does
not suit her voice, and is too high for her. Herr Raaff, in four arias
of somewhere about 450 bars, sang in a manner which gave rise to the
remark that his want of voice was the principal cause of his singing
so badly. When he begins an air, unless at the same moment it recurs to
your mind that this is Raaff, the old but once so renowned tenor, I defy
any one not to burst out laughing. It is a fact, that in my own case I
thought, if I did not know that this is the celebrated Raaff, I
should be bent double from laughing, but as it is--I only take out my
handkerchief to hide a smile. They tell me here that he never was a good
actor; that people went to hear, but not to see him. He has by no means
a pleasing exterior. In this opera he was to die, singing in a long,
long, slow air; and he died laughing! and towards the end of the aria
his voice failed him so entirely that it was impossible to stand it!
I was in the orchestra next Wendling the flute-player, and as he had
previously criticized the song, saying it was unnatural to sing so long
before dying, adding, "I do think he will never die!" I said in return,
"Have a little patience; it will soon be all over with him, for I can
hear he is at the last gasp!" "And I too," said he, laughing. The second
singer, Madlle. Strasserin, sang very well, and is an admirable actress.
There is a national stage here, which is permanent like that at Munich;
German operettas are sometimes given, but the singers in them are
wretched. Yesterday I dined with the Baron and Baroness von Hagen,
Oberstjagermeister here. Three days ago I called on Herr Schmalz, a
banker, to whom Herr Herzog, or rather Nocker and Schidl, had given me
a letter. I expected to have found a very civil good sort of man. When
I gave him the letter, he read it through, made me a slight bow, and said
nothing. At last, after many apologies for not having sooner waited on
him, I told him that I had played before the Elector. "Really!" Altum
silentium. I said nothing, he said nothing. At last I began again: "I
will no longer intrude on you. I have the honor to"--Here he interrupted
me. "If I can be of any service to you, I beg"--"Before I leave this I
must take the liberty to ask you"--"Not for money?" "Yes, if you will
be so good as to"--"Oh! that I can't do; there is nothing in the letter
about money. I cannot give you any money, but anything else"--"There
is nothing else in which you can serve me--nothing whatever. I have the
honor to take my leave." I wrote the whole history yesterday to Herr
Herzog in Augsburg. We must now wait here for the answer, so you may
still write to us at Mannheim. I kiss your hand, and am your young
brother and father, as in your last letter you say "I am the old man and
son." To-day is the 16th when I finish this, or else you will not know
when it was sent off. "Is the letter ready?" "Yes, mamma, here it is!"
77.
Mannheim, Nov. 20, 1777.
The gala began again yesterday [in honor of the Elector's name-day].
I went to hear the mass, which was a spick-and-span new composition of
Vogler's. Two days ago I was present at the rehearsal in the afternoon,
but came away immediately after the Kyrie. I never in my life heard
anything like it; there is often false harmony, and he rambles into the
different keys as if he wished to drag you into them by the hair of
your head; but it neither repays the trouble, nor does it possess any
originality, but is only quite abrupt. I shall say nothing of the way in
which he carries out his ideas. I only say that no mass of Vogler's can
possibly please any composer (who deserves the name). For example, I
suddenly hear an idea which is NOT BAD. Well, instead of remaining NOT
BAD, no doubt it soon becomes good? Not at all! it becomes not only BAD,
but VERY BAD, and this in two or three different ways: namely, scarcely
has the thought arisen when something else interferes to destroy it; or
he does not finish it naturally, so that it may remain good; or it
is not introduced in the right place; or it is finally ruined by bad
instrumentation. Such is Vogler's music.
Cannabich composes far better than when we knew him in Paris, but what
both mamma and I remarked here at once in the symphonies is, that one
begins just like another, always slow and unisono. I must now, dear
papa, write you something about the Holy Cross in Augsburg, which I have
always forgotten to do. I met with a great many civilities there, and
the Prelate is the most good-natured man in the world--a kind, worthy
old simpleton, who may be carried off at any moment, for his breath
fails sadly. He recently--in fact, the very day we left--had an attack
of paralysis. He, and the Dean and Procurator, begged us when we came
back to Augsburg to drive straight to the Holy Cross. The Procurator
is as jolly as Father Leopold at Seeon. [FOOTNOTE: A cloister in Lower
Bavaria, that Wolfgang often visited with his father, as they had a dear
friend there, Father Johannes.] My cousin told me beforehand what kind
of man he was, so we soon became as well acquainted as if we had known
each other for twenty years. I lent him the mass in F, and the first of
the short masses in C, and the offertorium in counterpoint in D minor.
My fair cousin has undertaken to be custodian of these. I got back the
offertorium punctually, having desired that it should be returned first.
They all, and even the Prelate, plagued me to give them a litany, De
venerabili. I said I had not got it with me. I really was by no means
sure; so I searched, but did not find it. They gave me no peace,
evidently thinking that I only wished to evade their request; so I said,
"I really have not the litany with me; it is at Salzburg. Write to my
father; it is his affair. If he chooses to give it to you, well and
good; if not, I have nothing to do with it." A letter from the Deacon
to you will therefore probably soon make its appearance. Do just as you
please, but if you do send him one, let it be the last in E flat;
they have voices enough for anything, and a great many people will
be assembled at that time; they even write for them to come from a
distance, for it is their greatest festival. Adieu!
78.
Mannheim, Nov. 22, 1777.
THE first piece of information that I have to give you is, that my
truthful letter to Herr Herzog in Augsburg, puncto Schmalzii, has had a
capital effect. He wrote me a very polite letter in return, expressing
his annoyance that I should have been received so uncourteously by detto
Schmalz [melted butter]; so he herewith sent me a sealed letter to detto
Herr Milk, with a bill of exchange for 150 florins on detto Herr Cheese.
You must know that, though I only saw Herr Herzog once, I could not
resist asking him to send me a draft on Herr Schmalz, or to Herrn
Butter, Milk, and Cheese, or whom he would--a ca! This joke has
succeeded; it is no good making a poor mouth!
We received this forenoon (the 21st) your letter of the 17th. I was not
at home, but at Cannabich's, where Wendling was rehearsing a concerto
for which I have written the orchestral accompaniments. To-day at six
o'clock the gala concert took place. I had the pleasure of hearing Herr
Franzl (who married a sister of Madame Cannabich's) play a concerto on
the violin; he pleased me very much. You know that I am no lover of mere
difficulties. He plays difficult music, but it does not appear to be so;
indeed, it seems as if one could easily do the same, and this is
real talent. He has a very fine round tone, not a note wanting, and
everything distinct and well accentuated. He has also a beautiful
staccato in bowing, both up and down, and I never heard such a double
shake as his. In short, though in my opinion no WIZARD, he is a very
solid violin-player.--I do wish I could conquer my confounded habit of
writing crooked.
I am sorry I was not at Salzburg when that unhappy occurrence took place
about Madame Adlgasserin, so that I might have comforted her; and that
I would have done--particularly being so handsome a woman. [Footnote:
Adlgasser was the organist of the cathedral. His wife was thought very
stupid. See the letter of August 26, 1781.] I know already all that
you write to me about Mannheim, but I never wish to say anything
prematurely; all in good time. Perhaps in my next letter I may tell you
of something VERY GOOD in your eyes, but only GOOD in mine; or something
you will think VERY BAD, but I TOLERABLE; possibly, too, something only
TOLERABLE for you, but VERY GOOD, PRECIOUS, and DELIGHTFUL for me! This
sounds rather oracular, does it not? It is ambiguous, but still may be
divined.
My regards to Herr Bullinger; every time that I get a letter from you,
usually containing a few lines from him, I feel ashamed, as it reminds
me that I have never once written to my best and truest friend, from
whom I have received so much kindness and civility. But I cannot try to
excuse myself. I only beg of him to do so for me as far as possible,
and to believe that, as soon as I have a little leisure, I will write to
him--as yet I have had none; for from the moment I know that it is even
possible or probable that I may leave a place, I have no longer a single
hour I can call my own, and though I have now a glimmer of hope, still
I shall not be at rest till I know how things are. One of the oracle's
sayings must come to pass. I think it will be the middle one or the
last--I care not which, for at all events it will be something settled.
I no doubt wrote to you that Holzbauer's grand opera is in German. If
not, I write it now. The title is "Gunther von Schwarzburg," but not our
worshipful Herr Gunther, barber and councillor at Salzburg! "Rosamunde"
is to be given during the ensuing Carnival, the libretto being a recent
composition of Wieland's, and the music also a new composition of Herr
Schweitzer. Both are to come here. I have already seen some parts of the
opera and tried it over on the piano, but I say nothing about it as yet.
The target you have had painted for me, to be given in my name to the
shooting-match, is first-rate, and the verses inimitable. [Footnote: For
cross-bow practice, attended weekly by a circle of his Salzburg friends.
On the target was represented "the melancholy farewell of two persons
dissolved in tears, Wolfgang and the 'Basle.'"] I have now no more to
write, except that I wish you all a good night's rest, and that you may
all sleep soundly till this letter comes to wake you. Adieu! I embrace
from my heart--cart, my dear sister--blister, and am your dutiful and
attached son,