I am so glad when you often write to me, only not at night, and far less without spectacles.  You must, however, forgive me if I do not say much in return, for every minute is precious; besides, I am obliged chiefly to write at night, for the mornings are so very dark; then I have to dress, and the servant at the Weiser sometimes admits a troublesome visitor.  When Del Prato comes I must sing to him, for I have to teach him his whole part like a child; his method is not worth a farthing.  I will write more fully next time.  What of the family portraits?  My sister, if she has nothing better to do, might mark down the names of the best comedies that have been performed during my absence.  Has Schikaneder still good receipts?  My compliments to all my friends, and to Gilofsky’s Katherl.  Give a pinch of Spanish snuff from me to Pimperl [the dog], a good wine-sop, and three kisses.  Do you not miss me at all?  A thousand compliments to all—­all!  Adieu!  I embrace you both from my heart, and hope my sister will soon recover. [Nannerl, partly owing to her grief in consequence of an unfortunate love-affair, was suffering from pains in the chest, which threatened to turn to consumption.]

180.

Munich, Nov. 24, 1780.

I beg you will convey to Madlle.  Katharine Gilofsky de Urazowa my respectful homage.  Wish her in my name every possible happiness on her name-day; above all, I wish that this may be the last time I congratulate her as Mademoiselle.  What you write to me about Count Seinsheim is done long ago; they are all links of one chain.  I have already dined with, him once, and with Baumgarten twice, and once with Lerchenfeld, father of Madlle.  Baumgarten.  Not a single day passes without some of these people being at Cannabich’s.  Do not be uneasy, dearest father, about my opera; I do hope that all will go well.  No doubt it will be assailed by a petty cabal, which will in all probability be defeated with ridicule; for the most respected and influential families among the nobility are in my favor, and the first-class musicians are one and all for me.  I cannot tell you what a good friend Cannabich is—­so busy and active!  In a word, he is always on the watch to serve a friend.  I will tell you the whole story about Mara.  I did not write to you before on the subject, because I thought that, even if you knew nothing of it, you would be sure to hear the particulars here; but now it is high time to tell you the whole truth, for probably additions have been made to the story,—­at least, in this town, it has been told in all sorts of different ways.  No one can know about it better than I do, as I was present, so I heard and witnessed the whole affair.  When the first symphony was over, it was Madame Mara’s turn to sing.  I then saw her husband come sneaking in behind her with his violoncello in his hand; I thought she was going to sing an aria obligato with violoncello accompaniment.  Old Danzi, the first violoncello, also accompanies well.  All at once