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the figaro murders
knew the correct title perfectly well. “The Good-Hearted Grump,” I said. “Ah, yes. A nice translation of the Goldoni play, but would you really call your work original?” I glanced at Rosenberg as I fought to bite back a retort. The theater director’s face was expressionless, but I saw a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “The public loved my libretto, signore. As you recall, that opera sold out every performance.” Casti fi xed his beady eyes on me. “You are right, it did. Martín is a very talented composer for one so young. His music was sublime.” “I believe—” Rosenberg coughed. “I trust you and Mozart are taking care with the text,” he said. “The emperor was reluctant to allow you to use that play.” “Yes, Figaro was a sensation in Paris,” Casti said. “I’ve read it. The emperor was wise to ban its performance here.” Mozart and I had written an opera based on the most notorious play on the Continent—Beaumarchais’s The Marriage of Figaro. In the play, a nobleman carries on affairs with his female servants while his wife fl irts with a teenage boy. A servant openly expresses his belief that he is the social equal of his master. The emperor had allowed the play to be printed in Vienna, but had banned its performance in any of the city’s theaters because of its vulgarity and impropriety. “I’ve cut all the objectionable parts out,” I said to the count. My voice grew tighter. “We are focusing on the human aspect of the material—the characters’ yearnings for love and
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