Meanwhile Mozart had worked assiduously at his Don Giovanni; and on the fourth of October, 1787, showed it to the Impressario complete, except the Overture, and a few breaks in the instrumentation.
Guardasoni was greatly rejoiced—and immediately counted out to the master the stipulated ducats;—but when Mozart began to speak of the distribution of the parts, the poor Impressario confessed with grief, that he had for the last month anticipated trouble in this business; for that there was always a ferment among the singers, male and female—every she and every he laying claim to a principal part.
“My people, I thank fortune,” he concluded, “are none of the worst, and Bassi is good nature itself; but in certain points they can manage to give a poor Impressario enough to do; and in particular, the fair Saporitti and the little Bondini are possessed with a spirit of tormenting, when they are in their odd humors.”
“Take care only, not to let them perceive your apprehension,” said Mozart; “they are friendly to me, that I know, and you shall soon see how I will bring them all under my thumb.”
“Between you and me,” observed Guardasoni with a sly smile, “I expect the greatest condescension from Saporitti; for, proud as she is, she is not only friendly to you, but, I imagine, something more than friendly!”
“Eh! that may be!’ cried the master, rubbing his hands with delight; for much as he honored and loved his wife, he did not disdain a little flirtation now and then. Guardasoni continued innocently—
“As I tell you—for she said to me the other day—“I could fall in love with the Signor Amadeo, for he is a great man, and I should not mind his insignificant figure.”
“The master was crest-fallen! It was not a little mortifying to hear that the fair Saporitti had made mention of his small and insignificant figure, especially to such a tall man as Guardasoni. He colored, but merely said with nonchalance—
“Call them together for me, Signor Guardasoni, and I will read them the text they are to sing.”
Guardasoni went away, and the next day assembled all the singers in the green-room of the theatre. Mozart came in, dressed in rich sables, a martial hat adorned with gold lace on his head, the director’s staff in his hand. He ascended a platform, and began his address at first in a formal and earnest manner; but gradually sliding off into a good humored, sportive tone, for he never could belie his harmless character.