garcianacho/Scripts · Datasets at Hugging Face

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I can't wait.
Well, promise then.
What do you mean now?
Of course now. Right away, before I get any older.
Well, I don't know! I mean you're a delicious, delightful, delectable little bird, but don't you think you might be just a little tough?
Oh, I'm tender enough for you, my boy. I'm tender enough for you.
Bravo, Your Majesty!
Well done, Sire!
Well, actually, Sire, if you remember, we did finally incline to Italian.
Did we?
I know we banned this play, but frankly I can't remember why. Can you refresh my memory, Herr Director?
For the same reason, Herr Chamberlain, that it was banned in France.
Oh yes, yes. And that was?
Well, the play makes a hero out of a valet. He outwits his noble master and exposes him as a lecher. Do you see the implications? This would be, in a grander situation, as if a Chamberlain were to expose an Emperor.
Ah.
I've just learned something that might be of interest to you, Herr Director.
Yes?
Mozart is writing a new opera. An Italian opera.
Italian?
You mean that play?
Exactly.
He's setting that play to music?
Yes.
You must be mad.
Are you absolutely sure?
I've seen the manuscript.
Where?
Never mind.
Well, Mozart is already rehearsing.
Incredible.
The Emperor has given him permission.
What anger?
About the ballet.
Ballet? What ballet?
Excuse me didn't His Majesty specifically forbid ballet in his opera?
Yes, absolutely. Is there a ballet in Figaro?
Yes, in the third act.
What do you want?
I am Father Vogler. I am a Chaplain here. I thought you might like to talk to someone.
About what?
You tried to take your life. You do remember that, don't you?
So?
In the sight of God that is a sin.
What do you want?
Do you understand that you have sinned? Gravely.
Leave me alone.
I cannot leave alone a soul in pain.
Do you know who I am? You never heard of me, did you?
That makes no difference. All men are equal in God's eyes.
Are they?
Offer me your confession. I can offer you God's forgiveness.
I do not seek forgiveness.
My son, there is something dreadful on your soul. Unburden it to me. I'm here only for you. Please talk to me.
How well are you trained in music?
I know a little. I studied it in my youth.
Where?
Here in Vienna.
Then you must know this.
I can't say I do. What is it?
I'm surprised you don't know. It was a very popular tune in its day. I wrote it. How about this?
Well?
I regret it is not too familiar.
Can you recall no melody of mine? I was the most famous composer in Europe when you were still a boy. I wrote forty operas alone. What about this little thing?
Oh, I know that! That's charming! I didn't know you wrote that.
I didn't. That was Mozart. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. You know who that is?
Of course. The man you accuse yourself of killing.
Ah you've heard that?
All Vienna has heard that.
And do they believe it?
Is it true?
Do you believe it?
Should I?
Do you hear me?
He was murdered, Father! Mozart! Cruelly murdered.
It was incomprehensible. What was God up to? Here I was denying all my natural lust in order to deserve God's gift and there was Mozart indulging his in all directions even though engaged to be married! and no rebuke at all! Was it possible I was being tested? Was God expecting me to offer forgiveness in the face of every offense, no matter how painful? That was very possible. All the same, why him? Why use Mozart to teach me lessons in humility? My heart was filling up with such hatred for that little man. For the first time in my life I began to know really violent thoughts. I couldn't stop them.
Did you try?
Every day. Sometimes for hours I would pray!
Yes, Father. Yes! So much for my vow of chastity. What did it matter? Good, patient, hardworking, chaste what did it matter? Had goodness made me a good composer? I realized it absolutely then that moment: goodness is nothing in the furnace of art. And I was nothing to God.
You cannot say that!
No? Was Mozart a good man?
God's ways are not yours. And you are not here to question Him. Offer him the salt of penitence. He will give you back the bread of eternal life. He is all merciful. That is all you need to know.
All I ever wanted was to sing to Him. That's His doing, isn't it? He gave me that longing then made me mute. Why? Tell me that. If He didn't want me to serve Him with music, why implant the desire, like a lust in my body, then deny me the talent? Go on, tell me! Speak for Him!
My son, no one can speak for God.
Oh? I thought you did so every day. So speak now. Answer me!
I do not claim to unravel the mysteries. I treasure them. As you should.
Oh yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Always the same stale answers! There is no God of Mercy, Father. Just a God of torture.
What?
His funeral imagine it! The Cathedral, all Vienna sitting there. His coffin, Mozart's little coffin in the middle. And suddenly in that silence, music. A divine music bursts out over them all, a great Mass of Death: Requiem Mass for Wolfgang Mozart, composed by his devoted friend Antonio Salieri. What sublimity! What depth! What passion in the music! Salieri has been touched by God at last. And God, forced to listen. Powerless powerless to stop it. I at the end, for once, laughing at Him. Do you understand? Do you?
Yes.
The only thing that worried me was the actual killing. How does one do that? How does one kill a man? It's one thing to dream about it. It's very different when you have to do it, with your own hands.
Why? Why? Why? Why add to your misery by confessing to murder? You didn't kill him.
I did.
No, you didn't!
I poisoned his life.
But not his body.
What difference does that make?
My son, why should you want all Vienna to believe you a murderer? Is that your penance? Is it?
No, Father. From now on no one will be able to speak of Mozart without thinking of me. Whenever they say Mozart with love, they'll have to say Salieri with loathing. And that's my immortality at last! Our names will be tied together for eternity his in fame and mine in infamy. At least it's better than the total oblivion he'd planned for me, your merciful God!
Oh my son, my poor son!
Don't pity me. Pity yourself. You serve a wicked God. He killed Mozart, not I. Took him, snatched him away, without pity. He destroyed His beloved rather than let a mediocrity like me get the smallest share in his glory. He doesn't care. Understand that. God cares nothing for the man He denies and nothing either for the man He uses. He broke Mozart in half when He'd finished with him, and threw him away. Like an old, worn out flute.

I can't wait.

Well, promise then.

What do you mean now?

Of course now. Right away, before I get any older.

Well, I don't know! I mean you're a delicious, delightful, delectable little bird, but don't you think you might be just a little tough?

Oh, I'm tender enough for you, my boy. I'm tender enough for you.

Bravo, Your Majesty!

Well done, Sire!

Well, actually, Sire, if you remember, we did finally incline to Italian.

Did we?

I know we banned this play, but frankly I can't remember why. Can you refresh my memory, Herr Director?

For the same reason, Herr Chamberlain, that it was banned in France.

Oh yes, yes. And that was?

Well, the play makes a hero out of a valet. He outwits his noble master and exposes him as a lecher. Do you see the implications? This would be, in a grander situation, as if a Chamberlain were to expose an Emperor.

Ah.

I've just learned something that might be of interest to you, Herr Director.

Yes?

Mozart is writing a new opera. An Italian opera.

Italian?

You mean that play?

Exactly.

He's setting that play to music?

Yes.

You must be mad.

Are you absolutely sure?

I've seen the manuscript.

Where?

Never mind.

Well, Mozart is already rehearsing.

Incredible.

The Emperor has given him permission.

What anger?

About the ballet.

Ballet? What ballet?

Excuse me didn't His Majesty specifically forbid ballet in his opera?

Yes, absolutely. Is there a ballet in Figaro?

Yes, in the third act.

What do you want?

I am Father Vogler. I am a Chaplain here. I thought you might like to talk to someone.

About what?

You tried to take your life. You do remember that, don't you?

So?

In the sight of God that is a sin.

What do you want?

Do you understand that you have sinned? Gravely.

Leave me alone.

I cannot leave alone a soul in pain.

Do you know who I am? You never heard of me, did you?

That makes no difference. All men are equal in God's eyes.

Are they?

Offer me your confession. I can offer you God's forgiveness.

I do not seek forgiveness.

My son, there is something dreadful on your soul. Unburden it to me. I'm here only for you. Please talk to me.

How well are you trained in music?

I know a little. I studied it in my youth.

Where?

Here in Vienna.

Then you must know this.

I can't say I do. What is it?

I'm surprised you don't know. It was a very popular tune in its day. I wrote it. How about this?

Well?

I regret it is not too familiar.

Can you recall no melody of mine? I was the most famous composer in Europe when you were still a boy. I wrote forty operas alone. What about this little thing?

Oh, I know that! That's charming! I didn't know you wrote that.

I didn't. That was Mozart. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. You know who that is?

Of course. The man you accuse yourself of killing.

Ah you've heard that?

All Vienna has heard that.

And do they believe it?

Is it true?

Do you believe it?

Should I?

Do you hear me?

He was murdered, Father! Mozart! Cruelly murdered.

It was incomprehensible. What was God up to? Here I was denying all my natural lust in order to deserve God's gift and there was Mozart indulging his in all directions even though engaged to be married! and no rebuke at all! Was it possible I was being tested? Was God expecting me to offer forgiveness in the face of every offense, no matter how painful? That was very possible. All the same, why him? Why use Mozart to teach me lessons in humility? My heart was filling up with such hatred for that little man. For the first time in my life I began to know really violent thoughts. I couldn't stop them.

Did you try?

Every day. Sometimes for hours I would pray!

Yes, Father. Yes! So much for my vow of chastity. What did it matter? Good, patient, hardworking, chaste what did it matter? Had goodness made me a good composer? I realized it absolutely then that moment: goodness is nothing in the furnace of art. And I was nothing to God.

You cannot say that!

No? Was Mozart a good man?

God's ways are not yours. And you are not here to question Him. Offer him the salt of penitence. He will give you back the bread of eternal life. He is all merciful. That is all you need to know.

All I ever wanted was to sing to Him. That's His doing, isn't it? He gave me that longing then made me mute. Why? Tell me that. If He didn't want me to serve Him with music, why implant the desire, like a lust in my body, then deny me the talent? Go on, tell me! Speak for Him!

My son, no one can speak for God.

Oh? I thought you did so every day. So speak now. Answer me!

I do not claim to unravel the mysteries. I treasure them. As you should.

Oh yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Always the same stale answers! There is no God of Mercy, Father. Just a God of torture.

What?

His funeral imagine it! The Cathedral, all Vienna sitting there. His coffin, Mozart's little coffin in the middle. And suddenly in that silence, music. A divine music bursts out over them all, a great Mass of Death: Requiem Mass for Wolfgang Mozart, composed by his devoted friend Antonio Salieri. What sublimity! What depth! What passion in the music! Salieri has been touched by God at last. And God, forced to listen. Powerless powerless to stop it. I at the end, for once, laughing at Him. Do you understand? Do you?

Yes.

The only thing that worried me was the actual killing. How does one do that? How does one kill a man? It's one thing to dream about it. It's very different when you have to do it, with your own hands.

Why? Why? Why? Why add to your misery by confessing to murder? You didn't kill him.

I did.

No, you didn't!

I poisoned his life.

But not his body.

What difference does that make?

My son, why should you want all Vienna to believe you a murderer? Is that your penance? Is it?

No, Father. From now on no one will be able to speak of Mozart without thinking of me. Whenever they say Mozart with love, they'll have to say Salieri with loathing. And that's my immortality at last! Our names will be tied together for eternity his in fame and mine in infamy. At least it's better than the total oblivion he'd planned for me, your merciful God!

Oh my son, my poor son!

Don't pity me. Pity yourself. You serve a wicked God. He killed Mozart, not I. Took him, snatched him away, without pity. He destroyed His beloved rather than let a mediocrity like me get the smallest share in his glory. He doesn't care. Understand that. God cares nothing for the man He denies and nothing either for the man He uses. He broke Mozart in half when He'd finished with him, and threw him away. Like an old, worn out flute.