so I thus lost eight days.  I was absolument determined to go away, but was not allowed, so strong was the wish that I should give a concert.  I wished to be urged to do so, and I was urged.  I gave the concert; this accounts for the fourteen days.  Why did we go direct to Mannheim?  This I answered in my last letter.  Why are we still here?  How can you suppose that I would stay here without good cause?  But my father, at all events, should—­Well! you shall hear my reasons and the whole course of the affair; but I had quite resolved not to write to you on the subject until I could say something decided, (which even yet I cannot do,) on purpose to avoid causing you care and anxiety, which I always strive to do, for I knew that uncertain intelligence would only fret you.  But when you ascribe this to my negligence, thoughtlessness, and indolence, I can only regret your having such an opinion of me, and from my heart grieve that you so little know your son.  I am not careless, I am only prepared for the worst; so I can wait and bear everything patiently, so long as my honor and my good name of Mozart remain uninjured.  But if it must be so, so let it be.  I only beg that you will neither rejoice nor lament prematurely; for whatever may happen, all will be well if we only have health; for happiness exists—­merely in the imagination.

Last Thursday week I went in the forenoon to wait on Count Savioli, and asked him if it were possible to induce the Elector to keep me here this winter, as I was anxious to give lessons to his children.  His answer was, “I will suggest it to the Elector, and if it depends on me, the thing will certainly be done.”  In the afternoon I went to Cannabich’s, and as I had gone to Savioli by his advice, he immediately asked me if I had been there.  I told him everything, on which he said, “I should like you very much to spend the winter with us, but still more to see you in some permanent situation.”  I replied, “I could wish nothing better than to be settled near you, but I don’t see how it is possible.  You have already two Capellmeisters, so I don’t know what I could have, for I would not be subordinate to Vogler.”  “That you would never be,” said he.  “Here not one of the orchestra is under the Capellmeister, nor even under the Intendant.  The Elector might appoint you Chamber Court composer; only wait a little, and I will speak to Count Savioli on the subject.”  On the Thursday after there was a grand concert.  When the Count saw me, he apologized for not having yet spoken to the Elector, these being still gala days; but as soon as they were over (next Monday) he would certainly speak to his Royal Highness.  I let three days pass, and, still hearing nothing whatever, I went to him to make inquiries.  He said, “My good M. Mozart, (this was yesterday, Friday,) today there was a chasse, so it was impossible for me to ask the Elector, but to-morrow at this hour I will certainly give you an answer.”  I begged him not to forget it.  To tell you the