own at his table near his thin-legged spinet, with the bird-cage above
and the half-emptied beer-glass at his side; and his pen is going
scratch, scratch, scratch as loud as possible.

"The only way in which you can possibly give us such a distantly
approximative copy of the page Cherubino as shown" ... (Scratch,
scratch, scratch goes the pen on the rough music paper), "as shown in
the words of Beaumarchais and of your librettist D'Aponte, is to compose
music of the degree of levity required to express the temper
_jackanapes_."

The Chapelmaster Mozart's pen gives an additional triumphant creak as
its point bends in the final flourish of the word _finis_; Chapelmaster
Mozart looks up--

"What was that you were saying about jackanapes? Oh, yes, to be sure,
you were saying that literary folks who try to prescribe to musicians
are jackanapes, weren't you? Now, do me the favour, when you go out,
just take this to the theatre copyist; they are waiting in a hurry
for Cherubino's song.... Yes, that was all very interesting about the
jackanapes and all the things music can express.... Who would have
thought that musical expression is all that? Lord, Lord, what a fine
thing it is to have a reasoning head and know all about the fundamental
moods of people's characters! My dear sir, why don't you print a
treatise on the musical interpretation of the jackanapes and send it to
the University of Vienna for a prize? that would be a treatise for you!
Only do be a good creature and take this song at once to the copyist....
I assure you I consider you the finest musical philosopher in
Christendom."

The blotted, still half-wet sheet of note paper is handed across by
Chapelmaster Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. It is the manuscript of "Voi che
sapete."

"But dearest Chapelmaster Mozart, the air which you have just written
appears to be not in the least degree light--it is even extremely
sentimental. How can you, with such phrases, express the Cherubino of
Beaumarchais?"

"And who, my dear Mr. Music Philosopher, who the deuce told you that I
wanted to express the Cherubino of Beaumarchais?"

Chapelmaster Mozart, rising from his table, walks up and down the room
with his hands crossed beneath his snuff-coloured coat-tails, humming to
himself--

Voi che sapete che cosa e amor,
Donne, vedete s'io l'ho nel cor,

and stops before the cage hanging in the window, and twitching the
chickweed through the wires, says--

"Twee! twee! isn'