His friends at home urged him at least to lay the case before the emperor; for the king of Prussia had left his offer open a whole year. Mozart had an audience with his imperial majesty. The emperor said: “How, do you want to leave me?” To which Mozart replied: “I beg your majesty’s pardon; I shall remain.” And this was the only result of the audience. To a friend, who alluded to a possible increase of salary, he gave the characteristic reply: “Who on earth would think of that at such a time?” Mozart was an Austrian and idealized his emperor, especially at this time, when Joseph’s best intentions were misunderstood in his own country, and Turkey and Belgium caused him equal anxiety. Was he, who now felt himself forsaken by his own, to see himself separated from one of the very best of his subjects? That was more than Mozart’s feelings could stand. However, the emperor now ordered that _Figaro_ should be put on the stage again. Mozart had added to it the great aria of the countess in F major, and the renewed success of the work determined the emperor to charge him with the writing of a new opera, the words of which were suggested by the thoughtless bet of two officers. It was the _Cosi fan tutte_ (So They All Do, or The Lover’s School.) Two officers and a bachelor make a wager as to the fidelity of their intended wives, and actually succeed, with the assistance of the waiting-maid, and by desperately intimidating them, in rendering them faithless, each to the other, whereupon they take refuge in the sorry consolation: _Cosi fan tutte_--so they all do. It is hard to imagine a subject more frivolous. But, leaving out of consideration the tone of the time--a time when it was palpably evident that the _deluge_ was impending, and when people thoughtlessly enjoyed all that was to be enjoyed--Mozart did not treat it seriously. He rather illustrated by it the masquerade character of the _opera buffa_, made of it a species of magic-lantern performance, the excuse for, and the basis, so to speak, of his dream-like music. And, indeed, that music is wonderfully balmy, like a half-veiled sunny-cloudy morning, on which every object is still concealed, or only duskily seen shining through the air--such music as only a Mozart could write. But the words were so trifling and frivolous that it was soon all over with this opera, and all efforts to resuscitate it have proved vain. It was not until life, which had become a deceptive play to the profoundly thoughtful mind of our artist, arose before him like a picture of fairy-land, that he was able to infuse into that picture the full breath of the higher truth, which is not to be found in such a coarse, hollow-eyed and worm-eaten reality as the wager of those two officers. This brings us to the _Magic Flute_, and to the final perfection and full concentration of Mozart’s purposes and powers.