94.
Mannheim, Feb. 19, 1778.
I ALWAYS thought that you would disapprove of my journey with the
Webers, but I never had any such intention--I mean, UNDER PRESENT
CIRCUMSTANCES. I gave them my word of honor to write to you to that
effect. Herr Weber does not know how we stand, and I certainly shall
tell it to no one. I wish my position had been such that I had no cause
to consider any one else, and that we were all independent; but in the
intoxication of the moment I forgot the present impossibility of the
affair, and also to tell you what I had done. The reasons of my not
being now in Paris must be evident to you from my last two letters. If
my mother had not first begun on the subject, I certainly would have
gone with my friends; but when I saw that she did not like it, I began
to dislike it also. When people lose confidence in me, I am apt to lose
confidence in myself. The days when, standing on a stool, I sang Oragna
fiaguta fa, [Footnote: Words sounding like Italian, but devoid of
meaning, for which he had invented a melody. Nissen gives it in his
Life of Mozart, p. 35.] and at the end kissed the tip of your nose,
are indeed gone by; but still, have my reverence, love, and obedience
towards yourself ever failed on that account? I say no more. As for your
reproach about the little singer in Munich [see No. 62], I must confess
that I was an ass to write such a complete falsehood. She does not as
yet know even what singing means. It was true that, for a person who
had only learned music for three months, she sang surprisingly; and,
besides, she has a pleasing pure voice. The reason why I praised her so
much was probably my hearing people say, from morning to night, "There
is no better singer in all Europe; those who have not heard her have
heard nothing." I did not venture to disagree with them, partly because
I wished to acquire friends, and partly because I had come direct from
Salzburg, where we are not in the habit of contradicting any one; but
as soon as I was alone I never could help laughing. Why, then, did I not
laugh at her in my letter to you? I really cannot tell.
The bitter way in which you write about my merry and innocent
intercourse with your brother's daughter, makes me justly indignant;
but as it is not as you think, I require to give you no answer on the
subject. I don't know what to say about Wallerstein; I was very grave
and reserved with Becke, and at the officers' table also I had a very
serious demeanor, not saying one word to anybody. But let this all pass;
you only wrote it in a moment of irritation [see No. 74]. Your remarks
about Madlle. Weber are just; but at the time I wrote to you I knew
quite as well as you that she is still too young, and must be first
taught how to act, and must rehearse frequently on the stage. But with
some people one must proceed step by step. These good people are as
tired of being here as--you know WHO and WHERE, [meaning the Mozarts,
father and son, in Salzburg,] and they think everything feasible. I
promised them to write everything to my father; but when the letter was
sent off to Salzburg, I constantly told her that she must have a little
patience, for she was still rather too young, &c. They take in all I
say in good part, for they have a high opinion of me. By my advice,
Herr Weber has engaged Madlle. Toscani (an actress) to give his daughter
lessons in acting. All you write of Madlle. Weber is true, except, that
she sings like a Gabrielli, [see Nos. 10, 37,] for I should not at all
like her to sing in that style. Those who have heard Gabrielli say, and
must say, that she was only an adept in runs and roulades; but as she
adopted so uncommon a reading, she gained admiration, which, however,
did not last longer than hearing her four times. She could not please
in the long run, for roulades soon become very tiresome, and she had the
misfortune of not being able to sing. She was not capable of sustaining
a breve properly, and having no messa di voce, she could not dwell on
her notes; in short, she sang with skill, but devoid of intelligence.
Madlle. Weber's singing, on the contrary, goes to the heart, and she
prefers a cantabile. I have lately made her practise the passages in
the Grand Aria, because, if she goes to Italy, it is necessary that she
should sing bravuras. The cantabile she certainly will never forget,
being her natural bent. Raaff (who is no flatterer), when asked to give
his sincere opinion, said, "She does not sing like a scholar, but like a
professor."
So now you know everything. I do still recommend her to you with my
whole heart, and I beg you will not forget about the arias, cadenzas,
&c. I can scarcely write from actual hunger. My mother will display the
contents of our large money-box. I embrace my sister lovingly. She is
not to lament about every trifle, or I will never come back to her.
95.
Mannheim, Feb. 22, 1778.
I HAVE been now two days confined to the house, and taking
antispasmodics, black powders, and elderflower tea as a sudorific,
because I have had a catarrh, a cold in my head, sore throat, headache,
pains in my eyes, and earache; but, thank God, I am now better, and hope
to be able to go out tomorrow, being Sunday. I got your letter of the
16th and the two unsealed letters of introduction for Paris. I rejoice
that my French song pleases you [see No. 92]. You must forgive my not
writing much this time, but I really cannot--I am so afraid of bringing
back my headache, and, besides, I feel no inclination to write to-day.
It is impossible to write all we think--at least, I find it to be so.
I would rather say it than write it. My last letter told you the whole
thing just as it stands. Believe what you please of me, only nothing
bad. There are people who think no one can love a poor girl without
evil designs. But I am no Brunetti [a violinist in Salzburg], no
Misliweczeck. I am a Mozart; and, though young, still a high-principled
Mozart. Pardon me if, in my eagerness, I become somewhat excited--which
is, I suppose, the term, though I might rather say, if I write as I
feel. I might have said a great deal on this subject, but I cannot--I
feel it to be impossible. Among my many faults I have also that of
believing that those friends who know me, do so thoroughly. Then many
words are not necessary; and if they do not know me, oh! how could I
find words sufficient? It is painful enough to employ words and letters
for such a purpose. This, however, is not at all meant to apply to you,
dearest papa. No! You understand me too well, and you are too kind to
try to deprive any one of his good name. I only meant it for--you can
guess to whom I allude--to people who can believe such a thing.
I have resolved to stay in the house to-day, although Sunday, as it is
snowing heavily. To-morrow I must go out, for our "house-nymph," Madlle.
Pierron, my highly esteemed pupil, who has usually a French concert
every Monday, intends to scramble through my hochgrafliche Litzau
concerto. I also mean, for my sins, to let them give me something to
hack away at, and show that I can do something too prima fista; for I am
a regular greenhorn, and all I can do is to strum a little on the piano!
I must now conclude, being more disposed to-day to write music than
letters. Don't forget the cadenzas and the cantabile. Many thanks for
having had the arias written out so quickly, for it shows that you place
confidence in me when I beg a favor of you.
96.
Mannheim, Feb. 28, 1778.
I HOPE to receive the arias next Friday or Saturday, although in your
last letter you made no further mention of them, so I don't know whether
you sent them off on the 22d by the post-carriage. I hope so, for I
should like to play and sing them to Madlle. Weber. I was yesterday at
Raafl's to take him an aria that I lately wrote for him [Kochel, No.
295]. The words are--"Se al labbro mio non credi, nemica mia." I don't
think they are by Metastasio. The aria pleased him beyond all measure.
It is necessary to be very particular with a man of this kind. I chose
these words expressly, because he had already composed an aria for them,
so of course he can sing it with greater facility, and more agreeably
to himself. I told him to say honestly if it did not suit his voice or
please him, for I would alter it if he wished, or write another. "Heaven
forbid!" said he; "it must remain just as it is, for nothing can be more
beautiful. I only wish you to curtail it a little, for I am no longer
able to sustain my voice through so long a piece." "Most gladly," I
answered, "as much as ever you please; I made it purposely rather long,
for it is always easy to shorten, but not so easy to lengthen." After he
had sung the second part, he took off his spectacles, and, looking at
me deliberately, said, "Beautiful! beautiful! This second part is quite
charming;" and he sang it three times. When I went away he cordially
thanked me, while I assured him that I would so arrange the aria that he
would certainly like to sing it. I think an aria should fit a singer as
accurately as a well-made coat. I have also, for practice, arranged
the air "Non so d' onde viene" which has been so charmingly composed by
Bach. Just because I know that of Bach so well, and it pleases me and
haunts my ear, I wished to try if, in spite of all this, I could succeed
in writing an aria totally unlike the other. And, indeed, it does not in
the very least resemble it. I at first intended this aria for Raaff; but
the beginning seemed to me too high for Raaff's voice, but it pleased
me so much that I would not alter it; and from the orchestral
accompaniment, too, I thought it better suited to a soprano. I therefore
resolved to write it for Madlle. Weber. I laid it aside, and took the
words "Se al labbro" for Raaff. But all in vain, for I could write
nothing else, as the first air always came back into my head; so I
returned to it, with the intention of making it exactly in accordance
with Madlle. Weber's voice. It is andante sostenuto, (preceded by a
short recitative,) then follows the other part, Nel seno destarmi, and
after this the sostenuto again. When it was finished, I said to Madlle.
Weber, "Learn the air by yourself, sing it according to your own taste,
then let me hear it, and I will afterwards tell you candidly what
pleases and what displeases me."
In the course of a couple of days I went to see her, when she sang it
for me and accompanied herself, and I was obliged to confess that she
had sung it precisely as I could have wished, and as I would have taught
it to her myself. This is now the best aria that she has, and will
insure her success whereever she goes. [Footnote: This wonderfully
beautiful aria is appended to my Life of Mozart.--Stuttgart, Bruckmaun,
1863.] Yesterday at Wendling's I sketched the aria I promised his wife
[Madame Wendling was a fine singer], with a short recitative. The words
were chosen by himself from "Didone": "Ah non lasciarmi no." She and her
daughter quite rave about this air. I promised the daughter also some
French ariettes, one of which I began to-day. I think with delight
of the Concert Spirituel in Paris, for probably I shall be desired to
compose something for it. The orchestra is said to be good and numerous,
so my favorite style of composition can be well given there--I mean
choruses, and I am very glad to hear that the French place so much value
on this class of music. The only fault found with Piccini's [Gluck's
well-known rival] new opera "Roland" is that the choruses are too meagre
and weak, and the music also a little monotonous; otherwise it was
universally liked. In Paris they are accustomed to hear nothing but
Gluck's choruses. Only place confidence in me; I shall strive with all
my might to do honor to the name of Mozart. I have no fears at all on
the subject.
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.