If I do stay here, I am going to Paris during Lent with Herr Wendling, Herr Ramm, the hautboy-player, who plays admirably, and Ballet-master Cauchery.  Wendling assures me I shall never regret it; he has been twice in Paris, and has only just returned from there.  He says, “It is, in fact, the only place where either real fame or money is to be acquired.  You are a man of genius; I will put you on the right path.  You must write an opera seria and comique, an oratorio, and every kind of thing.  Any one who composes a couple of operas in Paris receives a certain sum yearly.  There is also the Concert Spirituel and the Academie des Amateurs, where you get five louis-d’or for a symphony.  If you teach, the custom is three louis-d’or for twelve lessons; and then you get your sonatas, trios, and quartets published by subscription.  Cannabich and Toeschi send a great part of their music to Paris.”  Wendling is a man who understands travelling.  Write me your opinion of this scheme, I beg; it seems to me both wise and profitable.  I shall travel with a man who knows all the ins and outs of Paris (as it now is) by heart, for it is very much changed.  I should spend very little—­indeed, I believe not one half of what I do at present, for I should only have to pay for myself, as mamma would stay here, and probably with the Wendlings.

On the 12th of this month, Herr Ritter, who plays the bassoon beautifully, sets off for Paris.  If I had been alone, this would have been a famous opportunity for me; indeed, he spoke to me himself about it.  Ramm (hautboy-player) is a good, jolly, worthy man, about thirty-five, who has travelled a great deal, so has much experience.  The first and best musicians here like me very much, and respect me too.  They always call me Herr Capellmeister.  I cannot say how much I regret not having at least the copy of a mass with me, for I should certainly have had it performed, having lately heard one of Holzbauer’s, which is also in our style.  If I had only a copy of the Misericordias!  But so it is, and it can’t be helped now.  I would have had one transcribed here, but copying does cost so much.  Perhaps I should not have got as much for the mass itself as I must have paid for the copy.  People here are by no means so very liberal.

82.

Mannheim, Dec. 6, 1777.

I can tell you nothing certain yet.  I begin to be rather tired of this joke; I am only curious to know the result.  Count Savioli has spoken three times to the Elector, and the answer was invariably a shrug of the shoulders, and “I will give you an answer presently, but—­I have not yet made up my mind.”  My kind friends here quite agree with me in thinking that this hesitation and reserve are rather a favorable omen than the reverse.  For if the Elector was resolved not to engage me, he would have said so at once; so I attribute the delay to Denari siamo un poco scrocconi [we are a little stingy of our money].  Besides, I know