[screenshots transcribed under the cut]
They had an old spinet in the theatre which was moved from the orchestra to the rehearsal room and back, as it was needed in rehearsal or at performance, and was so superannuated as not to remain in tune even for a single evening. The singers complained, too, that they could not hear the accompaniment, and Salieri found it alike useless to play in the higher or lower octaves. Here a string snapped, there one gave way; here some of the quills, which snapped the strings, were lacking; there they remained sticking above the strings. In short, the old thing, already nearly useless, grew worse each day, and the manager was too miserly to buy a new one.
One morning after a rehearsal at which Salieri’s martyrdom had been almost intolerable, he was obliged to wait for a copyist to make certain corrections in the parts, and found himself quite alone with his enemy. He threw the old instrument wide open, mounted a chair beside it and jumped bodily. What havoc with the internal organism this kind of performance would make, may be safely left to the imagination.
When the copyist came the spinet was, as usual, closed and locked, and Salieri was calmly busy in his corrections of the score, which the other was to transfer to the parts. All the directions were given as usual and the two left the room together. That evening was an opera, so the spinet was transferred from the hall to the orchestra, and an hour before the performance the tuner came to perform his daily task. He opened it; “Mercy on us!” and sank back into the chair. He called the men who had brought it down. They were as overcome by the sad sight as the tuner himself. They hurried off to call Gassmann and the manager, and while they were seeking for a clue to the criminal, another instrument for that evening was brought in. Next day another rehearsal, at which the spinet was thoroughly examined; nearly all the strings were gone, and the sounding board itself crushed—the career of that spinet was ended.
“The cover must have tumbled in,” said one.
“No, a music-stand,” said a second.
“Not so,” said the tuner, “all together would not have done so much damage; some devil or other must have jumped into it.”
“The good man has almost guessed it,” thought Salieri, who stood by, and not too much at his ease, though no one suspected—at least seemed to suspect—him, and who was not free from anxiety until he heard Gassmann say:
“Be it as it may! Thank Heaven, the manager will at length be compelled to get a new instrument made.” And so he was.
