When Johann departed for Eisenstadt two weeks ago, there was no consideration that war might come to stop his return. We had heard news that Napoléon had been defeated at Regensburg and did not learn the truth for several more days.

In February and March, Doctor Haydn, with my very limited assistance, brought new breath to a mass he wrote some years ago for Princess Maria Esterházy; one of the name-day masses he was in the habit of writing for her annually, for performance on 8th September, the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. For the past seven years, her husband, Prince Nikolaus, has paid Doctor Haydn a pension, for friendship and service already rendered, stipulating that the money is for comfort and not for the creation of new works. Doctor Haydn, though, feels a sense of obligation to present a gift in return. For several weeks, we toiled at his chosen mass, no matter that the winds in it are too prominent for my limited talents, which are better directed towards strings, if anywhere at all. I am not certain the mass is improved, nor even certain it is much different. Each day I worked on it intent to be responsible for as little damage to it as possible. As we progressed, Johann dutifully copied it and is in Eisenstadt to deliver it for performance in the Bergkirche.

Doctor Haydn is resting now, and there are birds in the garden, twittering and chittering, carefree neutral creatures in this war that they are. I would be one of those birds today, if I could, and spared for a time our human anguishing around the war, the French and hunger.

Amid the hubbub of my passage back to Kleine Steingasse through the streets this morning, I came upon an acquaintance who told me news I omitted to pass on to Doctor Haydn, but which I will convey to him when he awakes. The Kapellmeister was, I know, concerned for the welfare of his colleague Herr van Beethoven, in the bombardment. All is well, though, as Herr van Beethoven hid himself in the basement of his brother’s house in Rauhensteingasse, his head covered with pillows to protect his hearing, which is in decline. I might think it a comical image, had I not myself cowered from French fire at the time, and heard it clattering all about.