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.