After these frank confessions, which would, he knew, restore the previous good understanding between him and his father, Mozart’s genuine good heart was so relieved and lightened, that the natural balance of his mind, which had for some weeks past been entirely destroyed, was speedily restored, and his usual lively humor soon began to revive.  Indeed, his old delight in doggerel rhymes and all kinds of silly puns seems to return.  He indulges fully in these in a letter to his Basle (cousin), which is undoubtedly written just after the previous one.

97.

Mannheim, Feb. 28, 1778.

Mademoiselle, ma tres-chere cousine,—­

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