Amadeus (Unemployed)
July 18, 1779. Streets of France.
I went out undercover again. Staring endlessly at paperwork wouldn't stop people from treating cemeteries like dumps, so I decided to bide my time with a clear conscience.
Lately, these undercover jaunts had taught me that the 18th century had far fewer "givens" than I'd imagined. Places like Les Innocents Cemetery were just swept under the rug because I hadn't laid eyes on them myself.
Heading out aimlessly to check on the common folk and stumbling into work felt a bit foolish. But ignoring problems wouldn't make them vanish—I had to fix them. Above all, this was the true purpose of an incognito tour.
"Elise, why are those people watering the flowerbeds from so far away?"
"That's not water. It's excrement."
That very evening, dumping waste in France became illegal.
French citizens surprisingly accepted the waste-dumping ban without much fuss. To them, it had always seemed like an abnormal act anyway. At the time, dumping trash was akin to smoking in a modern no-smoking zone—like flicking your cigarette butt on the street.
As a result, when it was outlawed, opinions split not into opposition or support, but inconvenience versus convenience.
"I'm more shocked that anyone finds it inconvenient in the first place."
"Haven't you installed sewers in most cities? Wasn't that intentional?"
It wasn't entirely unintentional. But it was unexpected. I'd assumed medieval-minded folk despised hygiene.
Was this imperial arrogance?
"Mont Blanc's HUMINT assesses that Lavoisier's sodium hypochlorite played a major role. With sewers along the main roads preventing flooding and sodium hypochlorite for thorough cleaning, even the slums' poor started caring about sanitation."
Fair enough. If you're living in a trash heap, who notices one or two more pieces?
"Sodium hypochlorite... They call it bleach. Just the first syllables of chlorine and oxide—'lacks,' but bleach."
"Shouldn't it be 'Clorox' then?"
Sounds like something you could report anywhere without issue. Maybe not ideal.
"Bleach has a nice ring to it."
"Understood. I'll issue the directive."
I didn't mean it that literally. This was the peril of dictatorship—one offhand remark turns into an edict.
"Next issue. The Treasury is pushing to increase the royal budget."
"We dodged bankruptcy with loopholes, and now they want to blow money again?"
"Not on luxuries. Since your ascension, the royal budget was slashed, and funding for royal-sponsored artists dried up. The arts community is growing restless."
Ah. Right—arts and athletics were poverty gigs even in modern times. In the 18th century, without royal or noble patronage, most artists would starve.
Louis XV's deficits stemmed from such extravagance...
Hmm...
"Hmmm..."
Something about it rubbed me the wrong way. I'd busted my ass normalizing finances, and now that the state's stable, they come begging for handouts? Freeloading has limits.
"Plus, most royal artists got rounded up during the state of emergency. That seems to be fueling the backlash."
True. What business did artists have in the palace? Probably scheming for more funding. Modern artists lack that hungry spirit—hungry spirit.
Rice bugs pick at side dishes and call it art. Ugh, bad memories.
"If they want it that badly, hire them. Can't let the arts die out. Pick one per field, nothing excessive."
"Yes, sir. I'll handle it."
Squandering cash is bad, but cinching the belt too tight isn't living. Hopefully, we snag some practical artists. Commercial design didn't emerge until the late 19th century, I think. Once it develops, we'll overhaul everything from royal crests. What was it—white flag? White flag.
July 22, 1779. France. Champs-Élysées hotel.
A run-of-the-mill mid-to-upper-class hotel on the Champs-Élysées, converted from an old noble's villa like so many others. It teemed with job seekers from across Europe.
Skilled laborers checked in and bolted; scientists beelined for the Academy upon arrival. France's economic boom was so explosive that manpower shortages were acute. Chemists were tracked from departure to entry.
Yet one profession was utterly ignored in this market.
"Sigh... They call it the city of arts, but no jobs. No jobs at all."
A painter from Austria slammed his sketchbook down in the lobby, venting.
"If positions were just filled, fine—but none exist at all. Rococo style or whatever, there's simply no work."
"Blame the nobles getting wiped out. The world's gone mad. Other countries are broke; France had the cash, but lost its patrons. Art's being suppressed. Right?"
Painters, composers, writers, playwrights—all suffered patronage droughts regardless of specialty. Prolonged job hunts dulled their skills, which worsened their prospects. A vicious cycle.
They couldn't afford to go home—the sunk time hurt too much. Cash-strapped musicians busked on streets. Busking wasn't even a concept yet; passersby saw them as street clowns or beggars.
Clink.
Some self-farming yeomen, heading home after selling wheat, tossed coins as if to beggars.
"Don't block the road staring like idiots. Move it. Why sit in the middle?"
"Ahem. Uh,"
"I said move!"
"Yes, sir."
The painter tried on-the-spot commissions, but low social skills meant few takers. Nobles might indulge them, but this was a bourgeois avenue—street was street. Upstart accountants or plebeian officials cared nothing for artistic refinement.
But the worst off were composers.
No nobles to lend venues for public recitals. Church organists? Churches were barred from profit-making—unpaid labor only. Street performances? Physically impossible solo; pianos weren't portable, and fees outstripped begging earnings.
Hiring ensembles for chamber concerts? Skill roulette, mismatched ensembles just noise pollution.
So composers burned cash daily, waiting. Lucky ones might snag pretentious nouveaux riches. But Amadeus Mozart, the faded Austrian prodigy, was out of luck.
Early on, "prodigy" fame drew offers. He rejected them all—chasing big money, high prestige.
Now, old noble houses extinct, church assets frozen—no one paid premium for composers. New bourgeois, full of themselves, didn't beg twice after rejection.
To top it, his mother fell ill. Mozart fretted.
Luckily, a chance encounter with an Academy pathology professor saved her—but luck, not skill.
The boy wonder, expectations from childhood, arrived in the art city with grand ambitions. Now, saddled with debt, he prepped to slink home.
Mozart finished packing for Vienna and descended to the lobby. Jobless hopefuls from every corner still griped away the hours.
"Heard they're hiring ten court artists next week?"
"Yeah. But 'artists' is loose—sounds like one per field."
"In this era, landing court artist is life-changing. Europe's gonna limp for decades."
"True. But competition's brutal. Over twenty here alone; all Paris artists? What, tens to one?"
"That's why it's valuable."
Mozart perked up. Better than waiting for a phantom patron—go all-in on next week's court hires.
"Could you tell me more?"
He'd packed everything. Fail, head to Vienna; succeed, haul straight to palace vicinity.
Just in case, he'd written his father in Vienna: Planning to apply for Paris court composer. If it works, might not return.