102.

Paris, May 1, 1778.

The little violoncellist Zygmatofsky and his unprincipled father are here.  Perhaps I may already have written you this; I only mention it cursorily, because I just remember that I met him at a house which I must now tell you about.  I mean that of the Duchesse de Chabot.  M. Grimm gave me a letter to her, so I drove there, the purport of the letter being chiefly to recommend me to the Duchesse de Bourbon, who when I was last here [during Mozart’s first visit to Paris] was in a convent, and to introduce me afresh to her and recall me to her memory.  A week elapsed without the slightest notice of my visit, but as eight days previously she had appointed me to call on her, I kept my engagement and went.  I waited half an hour in a large room without any fire, and as cold as ice.  At last the Duchess came in, and was very polite, begging me to make allowances for her piano, as none of her instruments were in good order, but I might at least try it.  I said that I would most gladly play something, but at this moment it was impossible, as my fingers were quite benumbed from the cold, so I asked her at all events to take me to a room where there was a fire.  “Oh! oui, Monsieur, vous avez raison”—­was her answer.  She then seated herself, and drew for a whole hour in company with several gentlemen, all sitting in a circle round a large table, and during this time I had the honor to wait.  The windows and doors were open, so that not only my hands, but my body and my feet were cold, and my head also began to ache.  Moreover, there was altum silentium, and I really did not know what to do from cold, headache, and weariness.  I again and again thought to myself, that if it were not on M. Grimm’s account I would leave the house at once.  At last, to cut matters short, I played on the wretched, miserable piano.  What however vexed me most of all was, that the Duchess and all the gentlemen did not cease drawing for a single moment, but coolly continued their occupation; so I was left to play to the chairs and tables, and the walls.  My patience gave way under such unpropitious circumstances.  I therefore began the Fischer variations, and after playing one half of them I rose.  Then came eulogiums without end.  I, however, said all that could be said—­which was, that I could do myself no justice on such a piano, but I should be very glad to fix some other day to play, when a better instrument might be found.  But the Duchess would not hear of my going away; so I was obliged to wait till her husband came in, who placed himself beside me and listened to me with great attention, while, as for me, I became unconscious of all cold and all headache, and, in spite of the wretched piano, played as I can play when I am in the right mood.  Give me the best piano in Europe, and listeners who understand nothing, or don’t wish to understand, and who do not sympathize with me in what I am playing, I no longer feel any pleasure.  I afterwards told all this to M. Grimm.