first meeting at Le Gros’s, I unwittingly took the wind out of his sails.  He composes quintets, one of which I heard at Mannheim; it was very pretty, so I praised it, and played the beginning to him.  Ritter, Ramm, and Punto were all present, and gave me no peace till I agreed to continue, and to supply from my own head what I could not remember.  I therefore did so, and Cambini was quite excited, and could not help saying, “Questa e una gran testa!” Well, I suppose after all he did not quite relish this, [The symphony in question has also entirely disappeared.]

If this were a place where people had ears to hear or hearts to feel, and understood just a little of music, and had some degree of taste, these things would only make me laugh heartily, but as it is (so far as music is concerned) I am surrounded by mere brute beasts.  But how can it be otherwise? for in all their actions, inclinations, and passions, they are just the same.  There is no place in the world like Paris.  You must not think that I exaggerate when I speak in this way of the music here; refer to whom you will, except to a Frenchman born, and (if trustworthy) you will hear the same.  But I am now here, and must endure it for your sake.  I shall be grateful to Providence if I get away with my natural taste uninjured.  I pray to God every day to grant me grace to be firm and steadfast here, that I may do honor to the whole German nation, which will all redound to His greater honor and glory, and to enable me to prosper and make plenty of money, that I may extricate you from your present emergencies, and also to permit us to meet soon, and to live together happily and contentedly; but “His will be done in earth as it is in heaven.”  I entreat you, dearest father, in the meantime, to take measures that I may see Italy, in order to bring me to life again.  Bestow this great happiness upon me, I implore you!  I do hope you will keep up your spirits; I shall cut my way through here as I best can, and trust I shall get off safely.  Adieu!

103.

Paris, May 14, 1778.

I have already so much to do that I don’t know how I am to manage when winter comes.  I think I wrote to you in my last letter that the Duc de Guines, whose daughter is my pupil in composition, plays the flute inimitably, and she the harp magnificently; she has a great deal of talent and genius, and, above all, a wonderful memory, for she plays all her pieces, about 200 in number, by heart.  She, however, doubts much whether she has any genius for composition, especially as regards ideas or invention; but her father (who, entre nous, is rather too infatuated about her) declares that she certainly has ideas, and that she is only diffident and has too little self-reliance.  Well, we shall see.  If she acquires no thoughts or ideas, (for hitherto she really has none whatever,) it is all in vain, for God knows I can’t give her any!  It is not the father’s intention to make her a great composer.  He says, “I