I almost asked Daisy to draw some cartoons for this page, then thought better of it . After all, some things are best left to the imagination.
...Special Agent K.007
Mozart and Süssmayr were working out the recitatives for "La Clemenza di Tito", and Mozart was pretty disgusted with the whole project. Nothing was working out, and his littered desk proved it.
All at once, Süssmayr looked up and asked, "Mozart, is it true that you have perfect pitch?"
Mozart tossed away the latest ball of crumpled paper and growled, "Yeah -- especially when I hit the inside of the wastebasket."
Mozart's newest piano pupil had no particular talent, and even worse, no personality. They didn't get on very well, and it was an association doomed to failure.
"You're all thumbs!" Mozart groaned. "Why did you ever decide to take up the piano in the firstplace?"
"Because it was easier to put my beer down on a piano than on a violin," came the sarcastic reply.
Wolfgang and Constanze had recently acquired some long-lost Bach manuscripts, and were looking them over eagerly. He played one of them for her, and she listened with rapt attention, but it seemed clear that something more than music was on her mind.
"Wolfi," she asked at last, "is it true what I've heard? Did Bach really have twenty children?"
"He did," Wolfgang nodded. When I was a boy, I had the good fortune to befriend one of his sons."
"Twenty children!" She gasped. "What about poor Frau Bach? Why, she must have been miserable!"
"There were three Frau Bachs, actually. Two of them died early, probably worn out."
"I daresay! But what about the third?"
"Oh, she outlived him. By that time, Bach's organ was Baroque."
The rehearsal was going badly, and Mozart's dog was starting to howl. Someone in the string section made the mistake of laughing. Mozart looked straight in his direction.
"Hmmm. Do you know what the difference is between my dog and the string section?" Mozart asked with a straight face.
"No," someone foolishly replied.
"The dog knows when to stop scratching."
MUSICAL DEFINITIONS
ALLEGRO: The stuff Mozart bought on the Kohlmarkt that he'd heard would make him grow taller.
METROGNOME: What Salieri calls Mozart behind his back.
CLEF: Something to jump off when Salieri's music starts playing.
FIGARO: A fertilizer that was popular in Vienna.
Salieri was brought before the local magistrate on charges of disorderly conduct at Mozart's funeral.
"According to this," sneered the unsympathetic judge, "you were seen dancing in the rain puddles and warbling, 'Singin' in the rain', and other unseemly songs of joy. I won't even discuss the tasteless jokes you wre cracking in public. What have you to say for yourself?"
"Your Honor, it was a harmless joke," Salieri insisted. "I only said that Mozart's coffin was too small for the size of his head, and that they had better chop it off. How was I to know that a skull collector was standing beside me?"
"That's no excuse," the judge's face was turning red with anger. "I liked Mozart's music, and will not tolerate your defamations. I fine you one hundred florins for your outrageous behavior."
At those words, Salier turned pale and fell to his knees. "Oh please, Your Honor! It isn't the way it looked at all! And that story about me feeding him poison is just a crazy yarn--an urban legend in the making!"
"Hmmm. So you say. But you look unusually familiar to me. Haven't we met once before?"
"Oh, yes!" Salieri cried hopefully. "I gave your son piano lessons last summer."
The judge gave him a furious glare and gnashed his teeth. "Now I remember! "Twenty years without parole!" And he banged his gavel.
Mozart was in a bad mood because once again the string section was off, and the new symphony was starting to sound abyssmal.
During the rehearsal break, a sad-eyed trombonist walked up to him and whispered, "Maestro, a good friend of mine just died, and he didn't have two kreutzers to rub together. We're taking up a collection for his funeral expenses, so could you see your way to donating five gulden to help bury a poor violinist?"
Mozart reached into his pocket and slapped some money into the musician's hand. "Five gulden to bury a violinist? Take thirty! be my guest and bury six of them for me!"
Mozart, Attwood, the Storaces, and Kelly were sitting in a favorite tavern over beer and sausages, after a long day's rehearsal of "Figaro". It had been one of those grueling rehearsals where nothing had gone well and everyone's tempers had grown short.
"Faith, but that Mandini is a pain to work with, sure as 'tis I'm an Irishman!" Kelly sighed.
"Good thing he's a singer," Mozart broke a piece of pumpernickel, "because he'd never be a juggler."
"A jugger?" Nancy Storace frowned over her beer, "Why do you say that?"
"Simple," smiled her brother. "Because sooner or later, a juggler has to let go of his balls."
Two musicians were standing in front of the Stefansdom. One was Mozart, and the other didn't have any money, either.
Leopold and Wolfgang were performing the beautiful "Sinfonia Concertante" at a Salon given by the Archbishop and his court. Normally only mildly interested in the evening's music, the Archbishop was paying more attention that was usual. Observing this, Count Arco nudged him with an elbow and murmured, "Interesting fellows, the Mozarts."
"Hmmmf!" Grunted the Archbishop.
"But I was wondering," Arco frowned, not much of a musician, himself. "Why is it that violas are so much bigger tha violins?"
"They aren't, it's an optical illusion," the Archbishop observed as he glared at Wolfgang, "it's just that the heads are smaller."
Twelve year old Mozart was looking over the orchestra, listening to the rehearsals. It was his first opera, and like many other "firsts" in his life, he had to deal with an uncooperative orchestra. After a few minutes of listening, think, and jotting down margin notes, he asked the theater director if he could hire about ten more violinists.
The director was clearly annoyed, which was nothing new. "What a demaning young man you are!" He scowled. "Why do you need more violins?"
"Because someone in this town has to be able to play the right notes," Mozart piped up.
On his way home from Berlin, Mozart's coach stopped to change horses, and he and the other passengers got out to stretch their legs, etc. After a few moments of this, Mozart made his way around to where the driver was eating his lunch.
"It's been a long day," he smiled.
The coach driver nodded and kept on eating.
"I envy your job," Mozart went on.
This time, the driver stopped eating and spoke with his mouth full. "You -- envy me? But you're a famous musician! You must have a fairy tale life -- people know you wherever you go, you play gorgeous music, you write music, you conduct great orchestras..."
"Yes," Mozart agreed, "that's partly true. But unlike a conductor, a coachman only has to look down at four horse's asses instead of forty."
Sometime in 1792, the Masons in Vienna became suspected of subversive activities, up to and including the overthrow of the government! Many were fired from their jobs, some were thrown into prison, and two of them were sentenced to be executed for treason!
"Do you have any last requests before the firing squad comes in? The executioner asked them.
The first Mason sighed, "I think I'd like to hear Mozart's music one last time before I go."
"No good!" The executioner growled. "Mozart was one of your lot, and probably the only reason he's not here with you is because he's already dead."
"All right, then," said the first Mason, "then play something by Salieri."
"And you?" The executioner turned to the second Mason.
The second Mason turned sheet-white. "Please..." he begged, "Kill me first -- before you start playing Salieri!"
Anton Stadler lurched into a tavern, clearly having had one too many drinks already. The tavern waiter, who was a foreigner, stared at him in disbelief as he flung himself on a bench and tossed a small burlap sack on the table. It jangled unmercifully.
"Can I get you anything?" asked the waiter, in a thick American accent.
Stadler scowled up at him, the opened the bag. Out he pulled a beautiful little piano made of polished oak, with beautiful ivory and ebony keys. It was about eighteen inches long, and exquisitely made, complete with painted cherubs under the lid.
"Wow!" beamed the American waiter.
But that wasn't all! Stadler looked at him with disgust, then reached in and pulled out a small piano bench, perfectly in scale with the instrument itself. The waiter, fascinated, sat down on the opposite side of the table. "This is remarkable," he cried, "What else do you have?"
With a subdued snarl, he reached nside and pulled out -- Mozart! The waiter had heard that Mozart was a very small man, but not THIS small! In fact, he measured only about twelve inches in height! He was beautifully dressed, like an exquisite doll, but his attitude was far from doll-like. He was angry and shouting and shaking his tiny fist, his voice so small and squeaky that he sounded more like a mouse than man.
"Oh, shut up!" Stadler shot back at the miniaturized mozart.
"This would never have happened if you hadn't swiped my pawn tickets!" cried the tiny voice.
"Never mind that now --- waiter, can you get us a couple of beers?"
"Does he really play that piano?" The waiter was astonished.
"Does he really play...of course he does, you Yankee twit -- he's Mozart, remember?"
That being said, Mozart reluctantly sat down at the piano and played an improvization hat was proof enough of his identity. As he played, the waiter stared at Stadler in admiration. "How did you ever do this?"
Stadler reached into his sack one last time, and he drew out an old Aladdin's lamp, still with the pawnbroker's claim number attached to the handle. "Find out for yourself," he said, "and hurry up with those two beers."
The waiter was very curious now, and he took the lamp in both hands. "Is this for real?"
"I told you -- find out for yourself."
"Yeah," Mozart chimed in, "Find out!"
The waiter rubbed the lamp, and in a puff of purple smoke, a beautiful Genie appeared. Her luxurious hair was lavender, as were her shear coulats. Her jerkin was deep purple, and her arms, neck and ears dripped with gold and jewelled bangles. "What is your wish, O Master?" she smiled.
The waiter gasped in wonder, then cried out, "I wish for...for a million Continental American bucks!"
The Genie disappeaed back inside the lamp, and moments later, a fat white duck waddled into the tavern. It was soon followed by another, then another, and within minutes, the tavern was filled to bursting with flapping, quacking ducks.
The dismayed waitertossed aside two or three of them. "Your genie is hard of hearing," he complained. "I asked her for a million BUCKS. What am I going to do with a million DUCKS?"
Stadler smiled cynically. "Yeah...and do you really think I'd have wished for a twelve-inch pianist?"
Mozart stoppd by a tavern to grab a bite to eat, but the tavern-keeper refused to serve him.
"Why?" asked Mozart in dismay, "Do I owe anything here?"
"No, but you're dead, and you're liable to put my customers off their food!"
It was the Eternal City of Rome, in the spring of 1770. Wolfgang and his father were wandering through the ancient streets, taking in such sights as the Colosseum and the Forum and even the baths. Leopold, never missng an opportunity for home-schooling, took full advantage of this golden opportunity to give his son some valuable history lessons.
"All that you see before you is thousands of years old, Wolfgang," he waved his arms in the direction of all the splendid ruins. "Here is where the Roman Senate met, and where Julius Caesar was assassinated..."
Wolfgang nodded absently, his mind on a little Italian hurdy-gurdy man who was playing a lively tune, and it made him want to dance in the streets.
"...This is where Titus built his Triumphal Arch to commemorate the conquest of ancient Judea..."
( Titus? Oh yes--him! That was the Emperor who was supposed to have shown such great clemency to someone or other. Wolfgang had forgotten who, and didn't really care. Someone or other had written a lousy opera on the subject. )
"...and there is the Colosseum, where Christians were fed to the lions, and where gladiators fought to the death..."
( Now, that might have been an interesting sight, the boy thought. )
"...and there is the statue of Romulus and Remus, being nursed by a mother wolf. As you know, they were the founders of the City of Rome."
Sudenly Wolfgang spoke out. "Didn't Romulus kill Remus, or something like that?"
Leopold looked puzzled because he thought he'd already given that lesson. "Why do you ask, lad?"
"Well, I was just thinking," Wolfgang smiled. "If Remus had killed Romulus, instead of the other way around -- we'd be standing here talking about how all roads lead to Reem."
Once upon a time, during the 1991 Mozart Bicentennial, the Mozarteum decided to open its vaults and archives to the general public. It went without saying that a great number of tourists, scholars, music lovers and Mozart affectionados took all of the guided tours.
As one very young man and his parents were passing through the hallowed halls, the tour guide actually took them into an inner sanctum where teams of archaeologists and anthropologists were furiously busy constructing clay and plaster likenesses of the great WAM, with varying degrees of success.
"Those are pretty good!" The very young man exclaimed.
"Yes," the tour guide nodded proudly. "They are based on castings made from a skull believed to be mozart's. You an see the skull for yourself, under the glass case."
The battered, pitiful skull looked dolefully back at them from under a brass name plate, which had been firmly nailed into the cranium. What was even more curious was the even smaler skull beside it.
"Whose skull is that?" The very young man asked.
"Oh, that one is the skull of Mozart as a child."
It was a hot summer day in New York City. Two elderly Hasids were walking down the street together when one of them stopped and pointed a finger excitedly in the direction of a subway entrance.
"Moishe--look!" the first Hasid shouted. "That man going into the subway was Mozart!"
"What?" Moishe looked at his friend in surprise. "What are you talking about, Yankel ? Mozart the musician, you mean?"
"Is there another Mozart?" Yankel threw up his hands. "I saw him--red coat, powdered wig--the whole megilla! He's going to take the subway out to Staten Island."
Yankel's voice was very loud, and people were turning to stare at him. At this, Moishe slapped a hand over his eyes in dismay. "Oy gevalt, Yankel! Mozart, you say! Such embarassment -- and in front of all these people!"
Yankel looked sad. "You mean to say, it wasn't Mozart?"
Moishe folded his arms. "No, you nudnik -- you just yelled to half the world that Mozart was going to Staten Island, but any fool could see that he just took the subway to Brooklyn!"
Cartoon sent by WIM VINGERHOD
All text, original photos and original artwork by "Daisy Brambletoes"
are the property of
Cheryl W. Duval and Off-Note-Productions.
They are not to be used without permission.
Art & photos by others, have been credited whenever possible.
The character and likeness of Agent K.007 is protected by US copyright
and may not be used without written permission.
So There!
