| February 28, 1778 |
| Mademoiselle ma tres chere Cousine! Perhaps you think or are even convinced that I am dead? That I have pegged out? Or hopped a twig? Not at all. Don't believe it, I implore you. For believing and shitting are two very different things! Now how could I be writing such a beautiful hand if I were dead? How could that be possible? I shan't apologize for my very long silence, for you would never believe me. Yet what is true is true. I have had so many things to do that I had time to think of my little cousin, but not to write, you see. So I just had to let things be. But now I have the honour to inquire how you are and whether you perspire? Whether you stomach is still in good order? Whether indeed you have no disorder? Whether you still can like me at all? Whether with chalk you often scrawl? Whether now and then you have me in mind? Whether to hang yourself you sometimes feel inclined? Whether you have been wild? With this poor foolish child? Whether to make peace with me you'll be so kind? If not, I swear I'll let off one behind! Ah, you're laughing! Victoria! Our arses shall be the symbol of our peacemaking! I knew that you wouldn't be able to resist me mouch longer. Why, of course, I'm sure of success, even if today I should make a mess, though to Paris I go in a fortnight or less. So if you want to send a reply to me from that town of Augsburg yonder, you see, then write at once, the sooner the better, so that I may be sure to receive your letter, or else if I'm gone I'll have the bad luck, instead of a letter to get some muck. Muck!-Muck!-Ah, muck! Sweet word! Muck! chuck! That too is fine. Muck, chuck!-muck!-suck-o charmante! muck, suck! That's what I like! Muck, chuck and suck! Chuck muck and suck muck! Well, I must tell you something before I close, for I must really stop soon, as I am in a hurry, for just at the moment I have nothing whatsoever to do; and besides I am tired and my fingers are twitching from so much writing; and finally even if I had room, I really don't know what I could tell you, apart from this story which I am proposing to relate. Now listen, it happened not very long ago, it all took place here and it made a great sensation too, for it seemed almost unbelievable; and between ourselves, no one knows how the affair is going to turn out. Well, to make a long story short, about four hours from here-I have forgotten the name of the place-at some village or other-and indeed it is all one, whether the village was Tribsterill, where the muck runs into the sea, or Burmesquik, where the crooked arse-holes are manufactured- in short, it was a village. Now in that village there was a peasant or shepherd, who was well advanced in years, but was still hale and hearty. He was unmarried and very comfortably off and led a jolly life. But, before I finish my story, I must tell you that when he spoke he had a dreadful voice, so that whenever he said anything, people were always terrified of him. Well, to make a long story short, you must know that he had a dog named Bellot, a very fine large dog, white and black spots. Now one day the shepherd was walking along with his sheep, of which he had eleven thousand, and was carrying in his hand a stick with a beautiful rose colored ribbon. For he always carried a stick. It was his habit to do this. Well, let's go on. After he had walked for a good hour or so, he got tired and sat down near a river and fell asleep, and dreamt that he had lost his sheep. He awoke in terror, but to his great joy, found all his sheep beside him. So he got up and walked on, but not for very long; for he had hardly walked for half and hour before he came to a brige, which was very long but well protected on both sides in order to prevent people from falling into the river. Well, he looked at his flock and, as he was obligated to cross the river, he began to drive his eleven thousand sheep over the bridge. Now please be so kind as to wait until the eleven thousand sheep have reached the other side and then I shall finish my story. I have already told you that no one knows how the affair is going to turn out. But I hope that before I send you my next letter the sheep will have crossed the river. If not, I really don't care very much; as far as I am concerned, they could have remained on this side of the water. So you must just be content with this instalment. I have told you all I know; and it is much better to stop now than to make up the rest. If I did so, you would not believe any of the story; but as it is, you will surely believe- not even half of it. Well, I must close, though it makes me morose. Whoever begins must cease, or else he gives people no peace...Adieu, little cousin, I am, I was, I should be, I have been, I had been, I should have been, oh that I were, oh that I might be, would to God I were, I shall be, if I should be, oh that I should be, I shall have been, oh that I had been, would to God that I had been, what? - a duffer. Adieu, ma chere cousine, where have you been? I am your same old faithful cousin. Wolfgang Amade' Mozart |