P.S.—­Don’t forget about my black suit; I must have it, or I shall be laughed at, which is never agreeable.

133.

Munich, Dec. 13, 1780.

Your last letters seemed to me far too short, so I searched all the pockets in my black suit to see if I could not find something more.  In Vienna and all the Imperial dominions, the gayeties are to be resumed six weeks hence,—­a very sensible measure, for mourning too long is not productive of half as much good to the deceased as of injury to the living.  Is Herr Schikaneder to remain in Salzburg?  If so, he might still see and hear my opera.  Here people, very properly, cannot comprehend why the mourning should last for three months, while that for our late Elector was only six weeks.  The theatre, however, goes on as usual.  You do not write to me how Herr Esser accompanied my sonatas—­ill, or well?  The comedy, “Wie man sich die Sache deutet,” is charming, for I saw it—­no, not saw it, but read it, for it has not yet been performed; besides, I have been only once in the theatre, having no leisure to go, the evening being the time I like best to work.  If her Grace, the most sensible gracious Frau von Robinig, does not on this occasion change the period of her gracious journey to Munich, her Grace will be unable to hear one note of my opera.  My opinion, however, is, that her Grace in her supreme wisdom, in order to oblige your excellent son, will graciously condescend to stay a little longer.  I suppose your portrait is now begun, and my sister’s also, no doubt.  How is it likely to turn out?  Have you any answer yet from our plenipotentiary at Wetzlar?  I forget his name—­Fuchs, I think.  I mean, about the duets for two pianos.  It is always satisfactory to explain a thing distinctly, and the arias of Esopus are, I suppose, still lying on the table?  Send them to me by the diligence, that I may give them myself to Herr von Dummhoff, who will then remit them post-free.  To whom?  Why, to Heckmann—­a charming man, is he not? and a passionate lover of music.  My chief object comes to-day at the close of my letter, but this is always the case with me.  One day lately, after dining with Lisel Wendling, I drove with Le Grand to Cannabich’s (as it was snowing heavily).  Through the window they thought it was you, and that we had come together.  I could not understand why both Karl and the children ran down the steps to meet us, and when they saw Le Grand, did not say a word, but looked quite discomposed, till they explained it when we went up-stairs.  I shall write nothing more, because you write so seldom to me—­nothing, except that Herr Eck, who has just crept into the room to fetch his sword which he forgot the last time he was here, sends his best wishes to Thresel, Pimperl, Jungfer Mitzerl, Gilofsky, Katherl, my sister, and, last of all, to yourself.  Kiss Thresel for me; a thousand kisses to Pimperl.

134.

Munich, Dec. 16, 1780.