SCENE I. A ROOMSalieriThey say there is no justice on the earth.I know now there is none in Heaven. Plainas seven simple notes! I have loved the artfrom birth; when I was but a little childin our old church and the organ boomed sublimely,I listened and was lost — shedding deliciousinvoluntary tears. I turned awayfrom foolish pastimes early; found repellentall studies foreign to my music — ay,from all I turned with obstinate disdain,determined thence to dedicate myselfto music, music only. The start is hard,the first steps make dull going. I surmountedthe initial obstacles; I grounded firmlythat craft that makes the pedestal for art;a craftsman I became: I trained my fingersto dry obedient proficiency,brought sureness to my ear. Stunning the sounds,I cut up music like a corpse; I testedthe laws of harmony by mathematics.Then only, rich in learning, dared I yieldto blandishments of sweet creative fancy.I dared compose — but silently, in secret,nor could I venture yet to dream of glory.How often, in my solitary cell,having toiled for days, having sat unbroken hours,forgetting food and sleep, and having tastedthe rapture and the tears of inspiration,I'd burn my work and coldly watch the flameas my own melodies and meditationsflared up and smoked a little and were gone.Nay, even more: when the great Gluck appeared,when he unveiled to us new marvels, deepenchanting marvels — did I not forsakeall I had known, and loved so well and trusted?Did I not follow him with eager stride,obedient as one who'd lost his wayand met a passerby who knew the turning?By dint of stubborn steadfast perseveranceupon the endless mountainside of artI reached at last a lofty level. Famesmiled on me; and I found in others' heartsresponses to the sounds I had assembled.Came happy days: in quiet I enjoyedWork and success and fame — enjoying alsothe works and the successes of my friends,my comrades in that art divine we served.Oh, never did I envy know. Nay, never!Not even when Piccini found a wayto captivate the ears of savage Paris —not even when I heard for the first timethe plangent opening strains of «Iphigenia».Is there a man alive who'll say Salierihas ever stooped to envy — played the snakethat, trampled underfoot, still writhes and bitesthe gravel and the dust in helpless spite?Not one!.. Yet now — I needs must say it — nowI am an envious man. I envy — deeply,to agony, I envy. — Tell me, Heaven!where now is justice when the holiest gift,when genius and its immortality,come not as a reward for fervent love,for abnegation, prayer and dogged labor —but lights its radiance in the head of folly,of idle wantonness? …Oh, Mozart, Mozart!Mozart enters.MozartAha! you saw me! I was just preparingto take you by surprise — a little joke.SalieriYou here? — When did you come?Mozart