Mozart Defends his Friend Anton Stadler

[BobBradshaw]

Mozart Defends his Friend Anton Stadler


Great clarinetists
aren’t like cats mewing
at a fish market.

They’re like rajahs in Vienna,
due respect. Anton is not
a pickpocket on festival day.

I can write pieces for his playing
that others would perform the way
singers with closed mouths sing.

He is like me, or many
of Vienna’s finest musicians,
poor as a tick,

our most frequented spot
other than a tavern
the pawn shop.

Is it so wrong for him to ask me
for a few coins to throw
at his creditors, to slow

their pursuit? “We’re…as poor
as ticks,” you are quick to say.
How can I be so generous

to someone like him?
Everyone clutches their purses
when he enters a room.

Everyone these days knows
where to find him:
find Mozart they say

and you will find him,
his hands in the maestro’s pockets.

Constanze, you would rather leave a dog
alone all morning in a room,
a table filled with sweet meats,

than to leave him alone
with me for a minute.
Dear, dear Constanze,

the pummeling on our door
by creditors is alarming.
The furniture is vanishing,

stick by stick:
just don’t pawn my clavier
or writing desk.

I will be out late tonight
with Anton, rehearsing.
The concerto will put the creditors

farther behind us, like stray dogs
chasing a carriage,
falling farther and farther behind.

I assure you. Trust me, I won’t
come home from the performance
with pockets light as promises,

though Anton and I may drop off
at a tavern for a bit of ale.