It was the height of summer. The Archbishop of Salzburg had ordered his chapel to the neighboring Château of Heilbronn to entertain a number of invited guests with table music, and had sent them on in advance without any instructions, in his usually provoking and imperious manner. Although the members of his chapel were distinguished artists, he had no more respect for them, and particularly for Vice Chapelmaster Mozart, than for the dust under his feet, and treated them no better, sometimes,—indeed even worse,—than the lowest of his lackeys. Upon this occasion he several times displayed his contempt for them in a manner so utterly devoid of decency that Father Mozart resented it, and in depressed spirits returned to Salzburg on foot. Naturally his artistic pride rebelled against such treatment; but when tempted, as he often was, to break the galling fetters of this servitude, consideration for his family forced him to be patient, and to endure it uncomplainingly. The trifling compensation which he annually received for his service as vice chapelmaster was not sufficient to relieve himself and family from anxiety; but even these few hundred guldens he could not spare, except at the risk of impoverishment, and as the small sums received from private instruction were not large enough to support the family, he was forced to submit to this indignity, and conceal his resentment as best he could, by the exercise of the strongest self-control. As he proceeded along the shaded avenue to Salzburg, absorbed in mournful contemplation, and vainly seeking to calm his disturbed spirit, a friend and patron unexpectedly met him. He had been attached to Mozart for a long time, because he knew his worth and thoroughly appreciated his faithfulness and industry. “Good day, my dear Mozart,” he cordially said. “Where are you going? And why are you so troubled? I did not suppose a good musician and a master of art like you could ever be out of humor.” “Oh, if you only knew, Count von Herbenstein,” replied Mozart, pleasantly surprised by his patron’s greeting. “The shoe often pinches us poor musicians in more than one place, and sometimes so hard that the best disposition cannot stand it. You were there this very day, Herr Count, when the Archbishop treated us so shabbily. Did he not insult us before all the guests by calling us a ‘dissolute rabble,’ ‘frivolous fellows,’ and ‘a good-for-nothing pack’? I could have sunk into the earth for shame. What must these distinguished strangers have thought of us when we were treated in such manner by our own master? Really, sometimes I would rather be a wood-chopper or a boot-black than the Archbishop’s vice chapelmaster.”