Dear Baroness

By

The world’s greatest composer was feeling giddy when he wrote Baroness von Waldstadten with a special request on October 2, 1782:

I can say truthfully that I am a happy and an unhappy man–unhappy since the night when I saw your ladyship at the ball with your hair so beautifully coiffed–because–gone is my peace of mind! Nothing but sighs and groans! During the rest of the time I spent at the hall I did not dance–I skipped. Dinner was all ordered, but I did not eat, I scarfed. During the night, instead of sleeping gently and sweetly, I slept like a dormouse and snored like a bear and, without being too presumptuous, I might go so far as to wager that your ladyship had the same experience in proportion.

You smile, you blush! Ah, yes–I am indeed happy. My fortune is made!

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But alas, who is this tapping me on the shoulder? Who’s peeking into my letter? Alas! Alas! Alas! My wife! Well, for heaven’s sake, I’ve taken her and so I have to keep her! What can I do? I have to sing her praises–and pretend that what I say is true!

But now, all joking aside, if your ladyship could send me a jug [of beer] this evening, you would be doing me a big favor because my wife is–is–and has longings–but only for beer brewed in the English way!

Well done, little wife! Finally I see that you are good for something. My wife, who is an angel of a woman, and I, who am a model husband, both kiss your Ladyship’s hands a thousand times and are your faithful vassals–Mozart the Great, Small-Bodied and Constanze, most beautiful and prudent of all wives.

One can only hope that the desired beverage was delivered, and only imagine what transpired if it was.