Chapter X: Preface (10)

“No more,” said Johann; “no more of the man and his pitiful efforts! let us turn to nobler, more exalted objects! How much I regret that I could not be present at the representation of the ‘Paulus’ of Mendelsohn Bartholdy! I am assured by a connoisseur, that Felix has here followed the path by which Händel reached the crown of immortality; nor could he praise sufficiently the wise moderation with which the youthful master, spite of his enthusiasm, has shunned all exaggeration in his work. Mendelsohn Bartholdy,” concluded he, “is able and sound to the core; so that we have ground to hope that a true man shall arise in him, to show us the path by which we may return, through the ancient simplicity, to the ancient glory!”

“Heaven grant it!” cried Alexander, fervently; “it cannot well be worse with us! Yet a life-impulse, too fresh and glad, is stirring in Art, for us to fear her death. She will not die! and let it only happen that the young aftergrowth may find a model not too far removed from them; for youth ever joins himself most willingly to the nearest.

“Will Felix become this model? I know not; but I hope so, as I wish it; and wish, also, that no young artist may ever forget--‘_That he who would become a great artist, must first be a pure and true man._’”

Alexander shook his friend cordially by the hand, and they parted.

THREE LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A TRAVELER.

I.

MILAN, _4th May, 1811_.

Am I dreaming?--or do I still tread the earth? Scarce two days have passed, and yet I have lived through events that might occupy a year. On the second of May, at eight in the evening, I arrived at this place. My road brought me first to the cathedral. The slender sickle of the new moon hung in the violet expanse; the western sky was yet crimson with the last rays of the sun; a range of lamps just lighted, threw a red glare on the streets. The lofty obelisk of the Gothic temple, surmounted with its bronze statue, rose in the clear blue ether; a holy silence seemed to wrap its summit, that contrasted with the crowd and excitement below, of people hastening to the theatre. I stood long absorbed in mute admiration. Suddenly two figures stepped out from the shadow of a large pillar; they were, like myself, in traveling gear. As they were passing, I heard familiar voices, and sprang forward to greet Hermann and Adolph, two intimate friends, whom I had not seen for several years. How joyful this unexpected meeting!

We repaired to the nearest café and took seats at a table near the door, to enjoy the fresh breath of evening. While the lights flared in the breeze, and flasks of the Lombard champagne--the foaming wine of Asti--stood before us, each told what had befallen him since the current of time had carried us in different directions after our last separation. Necessity had sundered us, not only from each other, but from our fatherland. My friends were just from the Tyrol; they had visited the ever-memorable scene of that _holy_ strife which those true-hearted sons of the mountains, trusting in justice human and divine, maintained against the over-bearing power of France. Our conversation, more earnest than was altogether prudent, naturally turned to these events, so interesting to the heart of the patriot. “We visited, also,” said Adolph, “the dwelling of Hofer--that noble hero. Let me read you”--here he drew out his tablets, and turned to me--“a poem which I composed on this sacred spot.” Here he read me some verses on Andreas Hofer’s dwelling, a copy of which I took, and have placed in my journal.

We remained in conversation till midnight, when the people came back from the theatre; then separated with promises of seeing each other again. I had gone but a few hundred steps on the way to my lodgings, when I became aware that the heavy jingling tread of a French gend’arme was closely following me. To see if I was the object of his pursuit, I suddenly turned and crossed towards a side street. He followed. I glanced at him; he seized me by the arm. “_Monsieur, votre portefeuille_,” said he. I gave it up. “_Vous me suivrez._” I obeyed. I now understood all.

He led me to a lofty old building, which I had never before seen; a huge door, fastened with heavy bolts, was opened: within were French soldiers on guard. My conductor spoke a few words to the officer, apart. I was then led away by two soldiers, preceded by a turnkey with a lamp. We mounted some steps, then passed through a dark gallery. The turnkey stopped at a door strongly secured with iron bars, and I found myself in a narrow cell, ventilated only by a small grated window, through which glimmered a ray of starlight. The gend’arme entered after me, and I was subjected to a rigorous search. My papers were all taken away, but my watch and purse were courteously handed back. The jailer asked if I wanted anything; I laughed bitterly. “Well, to-morrow morning,” said he, and went out. I remained alone in the darkness.

For an hour or more I lay on the straw matting, and pictured to myself the horrors of my fate. Only twenty-one, and full of hope--ready to serve and save my country, to perform great deeds! What was now before me? Was I ever again to see my parents, my sisters, my beloved? A prisoner, perhaps to be led forth to-morrow to kneel on the ground and receive the bullets of the soldiers--for my love to my native land. Thoughts on these subjects filled my tortured brain. But suddenly my attention was arrested; the stillness of night was broken by a tone of melody so soft, so exquisite, so melancholy, that it pierced my inmost heart, and tears sprang to my eyes. Was it a song? No; there was no voice, but a melody such as was never heard before--such as Orpheus might have drawn forth! It was--yes, let the cold-hearted laugh--it was the sound of a violin!

How shall I describe that music? Sunk in despair as I was--the dungeon, the galleys, death before my eyes--it raised me to the height of rapture; it filled me with the joy of freedom, and yet, strangest of all, with feelings solemn and profound! On the silence of night it stole like magic; the light breeze wafted it through the bars of my window; clear, softly swelling like the sigh of the mourner’s breast--plaintive and imploring, like the accents of love--gently yielding, like the timid bride--that wondrous harmony took possession of my care-fraught soul. Then the player, as it seemed, improvised airs on his instrument; now glided the tones along; now he rose into energy and power, now melted in the most seducing melody; yet the notes were ever clear, as if they had been drops of pearl. After these rhapsodical strains, he passed, by a strange but charming transition, into a melody of wonderful pathos. Never can I forget the effect of this music, so sweet and exquisite, yet full of sadness; now swelling into silvery richness, now dying gently away. It was like the noble, melancholy plaint of an imprisoned king. The thought entered my bosom--how much have those who are better than we oft to suffer!--and in the midst of misfortune I felt a calmness and a trust which I could never have obtained through the pleadings of reason. The player continued his music, and I knew not whether to wonder most at his compositions or his execution. He seemed at length under the influence of inspiration; his music was full of fire; he passed into stranger combinations, into bolder and wilder flights, yet surpassing harmony was in all; and he appeared to create difficulties only to triumph over them. Friends who read my journal, you will say, perhaps, the imagination of the prisoner deceived him. No, I have myself played the violin, (I do it now no more,) and could never have conceived aught like what I heard. The music at last ceased, but it lingered unforgotten in my soul--ay, I longed more to hear it again than to recover freedom.

It was day; I heard the beating of a drum: I climbed to my window and looked out. A company of soldiers marched into the court; three prisoners stood in front of them. At a sign from the officer, they marched away. The jailer opened my door; I asked him about them. “In an hour,” he replied, “they are to die; they are suspected of treason--of having favored the insurrection among the Tyrolese.”

These words were my death-warrant. I heard them shuddering, but with composure. The jailer continued--“It is now the hour when the prisoners are allowed to take the air in the court. Will you go down?”

We went. I saw in the court a rough, vagabond crowd, ruffians whom the energy of the French government had collected out of all Lombardy, to shut them up here. Leaning against a pillar, his eyes fixed on the sun, which had just risen, I observed a young man about twenty-five, who seemed worn out with suffering. He was pale and emaciated; his eyes were sunken; a prominent, bent nose, a high forehead, black masses of hair, and a long beard, gave him a wild appearance. But the expression of deep sorrow in the sharp lines of his chiseled mouth, and his pale, attenuated cheeks, imparted a touching interest to his face. I looked long at this singular person; he seemed not to see any one, but continued to gaze upwards towards the sun.

All at once he perceived the jailer, and hastily went to him. “I entreat you,” he said, speaking earnestly, in Italian; “can I not move you?”

“No,” replied the old man, sternly, “you cannot; and if you are not quiet o’ nights, I will even cut your last string for you.”

This, then, is the player, thought I; and I was hastening to speak to him when I heard my name pronounced behind me. It was the gend’arme who had arrested me. “_Suivez moi, monsieur_,” he said, sternly. I was compelled to obey. Before the door stood a coach; we entered, drove off and stopped before a handsome house. My companion was silent as the grave. We alighted, and he led me up the steps and into the house. We waited some time in the hall. At last the door of a side room opened, and a voice cried, “_Entrez._” Joyful surprise! I stood before General K----, who, four years before, had been brought wounded to the house of my parents in Berlin; and although an enemy, had received generous attention and nursing.

“My young friend,” he cried, grasping my hand, “how imprudent you have been! Had I not, by mere chance, occupied this post, nothing could have saved you. You are free.”

“And my friends?”

“They are also at liberty.”

“A thousand thanks--”

“Silence; I am _yet_ in your debt. Be my guest to-day, with your friends. To-morrow you must depart, for I leave Milan with my troops, and your adventure here might still have serious consequences for you. Your passports to Germany are already made out.”

II.

PARIS, _13th April, 1814_.

I received from M. ---- the following note:--

“Your story of the musician in the dungeon, and your longing to hear him again, form a pretty romance; but, like other romances, it savors strongly of imagination. I told it to Lafont to-day; he laughed, and said, ‘I pledge myself to cure this feverish enthusiasm: I must give him a violin concert.’ I have taken him at his word. This evening his promise is to be fulfilled; and, to put you down completely, Baillot, Kreuzer and Rode are also invited! Can you desire more? I shall expect you this evening.”

I cannot describe what I felt at this invitation. For the last four years I had heard all the violin players in the different cities where I had been, yet nothing in the smallest degree approached what I remembered. Now I was to hear the four most famous masters the world knew. I trembled for my ideal.

With a beating heart, I found myself in the brilliantly lighted saloon. Ah, the splendor of the scene, the elegant dresses of the ladies, were displeasing to me; I thought of my dungeon in Milan, and the melody that seemed wafted from another sphere.

The concert began. Lafont played first. The most perfect polish, a tone of silvery clearness--in andante, as in allegro, grace itself--were his; but it was as a finely wrought miniature beside the nameless charm of that glorious picture before my mind’s vision.

Next I heard Kreuzer. Brilliant as a string of diamonds were his passages, full and clear were his tones, and of surpassing boldness and strength; but his was the brilliancy of pure metal, or of jewels--not the living beam that penetrates the soul.

Baillot now came forward. The full, energetic harmony he drew from the instrument, roused memory in my breast. A noble fire glowed in his work; he ruled like a monarch over the realm of sound. But my prisoner ruled like a god!

At last appeared Rode. His noble, expressive features, his air of graceful, manly dignity, influenced me in his favor. He began. I started involuntarily; he brought back to me powerfully the recollection of the player who had so deeply moved my heart. His representation appeared like the sculptured image that pictures forth the very form of a loved being. The same fervor breathed in his music, the same fire, restrained by kindred power. At the moment, I almost fancied he equaled the mysterious stranger; but as he proceeded, I felt that what seemed in him so wonderful, so finished an effort, would have been accomplished at once and with ease by my prisoner. _His_ chainless spirit would have soared upward and onward still, seeking more distant heights, more fathomless depths;--_him_ the bounds of earth could never have contained. He swept the empyrean towards the confines of other worlds, and the harmonies heard there he gave back to men in tones of unrivaled melody.

Thus I felt during the remainder of the concert. After it was over, M. ---- introduced me to the celebrated artists. Courtesy required that I should praise their performance--and who would not have praised it? Of my prisoner I was silent; but Lafont, to whom M. ---- had told the story, began himself to question me. I endeavored to avoid speaking on the subject, in vain; at last I related the occurrence. All except Rode smiled; and when I mentioned and described some peculiar difficulties which I had heard overcome in a wonderful manner, Lafont exclaimed, “Oh, you are joking with us!” In short, it was plain they did not believe me. I was vexed, and soon after took my leave. Hardly was I out of the door when I perceived some one following me hastily; it was Rode.

“Sir,” said he, “your narration has deeply affected me. Is it true--upon your honor?”

I assured him it was.

“Yes,” he answered, “I believe you; but I am convinced there lives only one man on earth who can be your mysterious prisoner. Fifteen years since, when I was a young man, I chanced to be in Genoa. Going home late one evening, I heard the sound of a violin. The playing filled me with astonishment. At first I could not perceive whence came this enchanting music; but I soon discovered the performer to be a youth hardly grown out of boyhood, who stood on a garden wall not very high, and, looking towards a dimly-lighted window, drew from his instrument those heavenly sounds. I stood rooted to the ground. At that time I was myself a performer; but never had I dreamed of such mysteries in music as were here revealed to me. Hidden in the shadow, I remained listening. The moon came from behind a cloud, and shone full on the figure of the youthful player. His features were like those you have described, but softened, probably, from his extreme youth.

“He ended his playing; the window opened, and a female figure appeared and threw something down. An instant after, a harsh voice cried, ‘_Traditore, pel diavolo!_’ At this outcry, the boy sprang down from the wall into the street, plunged into a side alley, and disappeared before I could recover from my surprise. At the same time I perceived a head peering over the wall, and oaths and menaces were poured forth without stint. The light in the window was extinguished. Evidently it was some love affair. After some minutes, I came out from my concealment, and as I passed along the wall, I trod upon something which proved a violin bow. The lad must have lost it as he leaped from the wall. I have this bow yet: it is marked with a P. I hoped by means of it to discover the young musician, but the troubled state of the times compelled me in a day or two to leave the city. Since then I have heard nothing of my unknown artist. But I owe him much. The impression his magical performance left with me was deeper than I could express; by it I have modeled and improved my own. Yes, I am indebted to this strange appearance--this revelation, I might call it--for perhaps the greatest part of my fame!”

I heard this relation of the great artist with astonishment. Then I owned to him that I had found in his playing some resemblance to that of the unfortunate stranger. It seemed as if Rode had apprehended and followed the _first_ flights of that wild spirit.

We parted. I have hope still so mighty a genius must one day sway the world. If tyrant fate have not already crushed him, that spirit must one day be crowned sovereign over all hearts!

III.

BERLIN, _30th March, 1829_.

After long residence in the north, I arrived here at half-past eight in the evening.

“What is there at the theatre to-night?” said I to the butler.

“Nothing of consequence. But you should go to the concert, _mein Herr_. A violin player--”

“I have had enough of violin players.”

“But this one is a wonder. The critic, Rellstab, writes his pen to the stump in praises of him. Look here, in the paper.”

“Very well. What is the name of the wonderful performer so praised by the critic?”

“His name? I will tell you in a moment. It has just escaped me. An Italian--”

“An Italian?”

“Yes. It begins with a P.”

“A P? I must go instantly to the concert. Where will I find a ticket?”

“Over the way. I do not think you can procure any now elsewhere.”

I hastened to get one.

The concert hall was so crowded that I could not get in, but was forced to remain outside with many others. The tutti of the last composition was ended; the solo--a pollacca--began.

“’Tis he, or none!” cried I. “I have heard those tones before; they are unforgotten, deep in my heart. But what a miracle! Do two play, or three? _That_ I have never heard. I will not trust my ear. If I might but see him--only one look! In vain: the crowd presses the door too closely. I will, at least, lose not one note.”

The performer ceased. A thunderburst of applause shook the building. I pressed forward and strove to get a sight of him; others, equally eager, pushed before me: I was again disappointed. What thoughts swelled in my heart! I waited with impatience to hear him begin once more. At last----. “Now he plays on the G string,” said some one near me. He began. Is it possible? That was the very melody I heard in prison! Those were the self-same tones that once--calming, elevating, faith-inspiring, as if sent down from heaven--shed light into my gloomy soul!

I forced my way forward through the multitude. I saw once more the pale, melancholy brow, the sunken eyes, the long dark hair, the same feeble aspect of the whole person. It was HE! The mystery of nineteen years was at length solved. The stranger who had filled my youthful breast with feelings wonderful, unutterable, who had ceaselessly accompanied me since, like a veiled apparition, familiar, yet from which I could not tear the covering, stood before me. I heard, I saw----PAGANINI!

THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN.

One morning in the summer of 1812, the busy manager of an Italian theatrical company returned to his lodgings in a hotel in one of the principal streets of Naples. His brow was contracted, and an air of disquietude spread over his whole countenance. He announced to the landlord that he was in an hour to leave the city with his company. Mine host divined that he would not depart in the sunniest of humors.

“So, you have not been successful in your search, Master Benevolo,” he asked.

“Mille diavoli! there never was such luck!” was the petulant reply. “Here I have stayed three days beyond my time, in the hope of finding what Naples, it seems, does not afford; and now I must begone to play at Salerno, without an actor of tragedy in my company!”

“And such a company!” echoed Boniface.

“Such a one, indeed! though I say it, it is the pride of Italy! a magnificent princess! Did not the Duke of Anhalt--swear she was as ravishing in beauty as exquisite in performance--with eyes like diamonds, and a figure superb as that of Juno herself!”

“Enough to make the fortune of a whole troop!” cried the landlord.

“Well--and then such an admirable comic actor; with a figure that is all one laugh, and a wit like Sancho Panza’s! A genius, too, for the pathetic; he will make you sigh an instant after a convulsion of mirth; and he weeps to enchantment. He is Heraclitus and Democritus in one.”

“He is an angel!” cried the landlord with enthusiasm.

“An unrivalled troop--a perfect coronet of gems--with but one wanting:--the tragic. Ah, me! what shall I do without a Geronimo, or a Falerio?” and the Impressario wrung his hands.

“Do not despair, maestro,” said the good-natured host; “you may find one yet to your mind.”

“And whence is he to come? from the clouds! He must fall directly; for in two hours I must be on my way to Salerno. Some of my friends are there already; and the performance has been twice postponed, waiting for me. I might have made such sums of money! Saint Antonio! how provoking to think of it!”

“You are disturbed, Signor Impressario,” said the fat hostess, who had stood in the door during the preceding conversation, and now waddled forward, her hands placed on her hips, with an air of importance,--“because you have not been able to find a tragedian for your excellent company?”

“Assuredly, buona mia donna.”

“And you have tired yourself out with running about the city in search of one; and now are going to leave us disappointed, in hopes that one will drop from the clouds for you on the way!”

“Ah! there is no hope of that.”

“No--for the heavens do not rain such good things at Salerno. But here--Signore--here is one already fallen for you; and a capital fellow he is.”

“Who!--what do you mean?” exclaimed both manager and landlord in a breath.

“Ah, there is a secret about it that I know, but shall tell no one!” cried the hostess, with looks of triumph. “You must not even know his name. But you shall have your tragedian.”

“My tragedian?”

“Yes. He is a young man of prodigious genius. He came to us last night. Oh, if you had but heard and seen him! All the maids were in tears. If he had only a robe and poignard, he would be absolutely terrific. Then he sang droll songs, and made us laugh till my sides ached. I should have brought him to you before, but you went out so early.”

“Whence did he come?--at what theatres has he appeared?”

“Oh, as to practice, he has had none of it; he has never been on the stage; but he has a genius and passion for it. He has left his home and friends to become an actor.”

“Hem”--mused the Impressario. “Let us see him. Perhaps--”

The landlady had already quitted the room. She returned in a few minutes, leading, or rather pulling forward a lad apparently sixteen or seventeen years of age. He was tall and stout for his years; but his beardless face and boyish features, together with a shuffling bashfulness in his gait, caused the hopes of the manager to fall to the ground more rapidly than they had risen.

“Him!” he exclaimed in utter astonishment; “him!--why, he is a child!”

“A child!” repeated the landlady;--“and must not everything have a beginning? He is a child that will make his own way in the world, I promise you.”

“But he is not fit for an actor,” said the director, surveying, with a look of disappointment, the youth who aspired to represent the Emperors of Rome and the Tribunes of the Italian republics.

“Have a little patience,” persisted the dame. “When you see his gestures--his action, you will sing another song. Come forward, Louis, my boy, and show the Signore what you can do.”

The overgrown lad cast his great eyes to the ground, and hung his head; but on further urging from his patroness, he advanced a pace or two, threw over his arms the somewhat frayed skirt of his great coat to serve as a drapery, and recited some tragic verses of Dante.

“That is not bad!”--cried the Impressario, drawing his breath. “What is your name, my lad?”

“Luigi,” was the reply, with a not ungraceful bow.

“What else?”

“He is called simply Luigi,” interposed the hostess, with an air of mystery; “he has reasons at present for concealing his family name; for you see--he has broken bounds--”

“Exactly, I comprehend; and the runaway would fare hardly, if he were caught again. But I should like to hear him in Otello.”

Thus encouraged, Luigi recited a brilliant tragic scene from Otello. The eyes of the director kindled; he followed with hands and head the motions of the youthful performer, as if carried away by sympathetic emotion, and applauded loudly when he had ended.

“Bravo--bravissimo!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands; “that is something like--it is just the thing! You will make a capital Moor, when you are set in shape a little. Come, my fine fellow, I will engage you at once, and you shall not find me a bad master. I will give you fifteen ducats a month, and here is the first month’s pay in advance, to furnish your outfit. You must appear like a gentleman, and your clothes are shabby. Go now, make your purchases, pack up, and let us be gone. I will have a mule ready for you.”

The hostess led off her _protégé_ in triumph, while the Impressario busied himself in preparations for immediate departure. Poor Luigi, being new to the city and its pleasures, had contracted sundry debts the day before, which honor bade him pay before he made other use of his money. By the time these demands were satisfied, a round bill paid to the hostess, and a new coat, with change of linen, provided for himself, not a fraction was remaining of his fifteen ducats. But it was no less with a light heart and smiling face that he joined his employer, and the whole troop was soon on the road out of Naples.

On their arrival at Salerno, the Impressario had advertisements struck off, announcing that a young tragic actor would appear in an extremely popular part. He presented him to the public as a _phenomenon_--as an example of the most wonderful genius, developed at a tender age.

The Impressario was walking briskly about giving directions, in the happiest mood imaginable, rubbing his hands, and congratulating himself on the possession of such a prize. Visions of wealth in prospect rose before his eyes, as he saw the treasurer counting out the piles of gold just received. But alas, for the deceptions of the world, his present joy and bright anticipations for the future! Fate breathed on his magic castle, and the fabric melted into thin air.

Luigi was behind the scenes, arrayed in an imperial costume of the middle ages, endeavoring, by the practice of action and gesture, to habituate himself to the feeling that he was sustaining the part of a sovereign. He was partly encouraged, partly abashed by the comments of one of the chorus, a young and lovely creature, whose expanding talents gave promise of future eminence. The name of Rosina, though not her own, will suit here as well as any other.

“That will not do, your majesty!” she cried, correcting an awkward movement Luigi had just made. “Only think of such an Emperor!” and she began to mimic his gestures with the prettiest air of mock dignity in the world--so saucy and provoking at the same time, that the lad vowed he would have his revenge in a kiss; and presently the little maid was chased around the scenes by Luigi, to the great disorder of his imperial robes and the discomfiture of his dignity.

Suddenly there was an unusual bustle, and the sound of steps and voices without. “The curtain is going to rise!” cried Luigi in consternation. “Give me my sword, quick!” But the noise came nearer, and was in the direction opposite to the audience. What was his astonishment and dismay when he saw advancing towards him the vice-rector, followed by six _sbirri_, with the manager giving expression to the utmost grief and despair. The young _débutant_ stood petrified, till the vice-rector advanced, and laying his hand on his shoulder, arrested him by virtue of an order from His Majesty the King of Naples. It was his business--so he proclaimed to the astonished bystanders--the whole company having rushed together at the news of this intrusion--to secure the person of the fugitive Luigi, and carry him back to the _Conservatorio della Pietá de’ Turchini_, where he would be remanded to his musical studies under the direction of the famous master, Marcello Perrino.

The disappointment was too much for the dignity of the Emperor _in petto_. Luigi burst into tears, and blubbered sadly; the pretty Rosina cried out of sympathy, and there was a general murmur of dissatisfaction.

“Signore,--Signore--” remonstrated the Impressario,--“such a genius--he must not be restrained; tragedy is his vocation!”

“His vocation just now is to go back to school,” returned the vice-rector, gruffly.

“But, Signore, you are robbing the public; you are robbing me!”

“Has not the worthless boy been robbing His Majesty, who was graciously pleased to send him to the Conservatorio after his father’s death? How has he repaid His Majesty’s protection?”

“He is engaged in my service. I have advanced him a month’s pay.”

“You should have thought twice before employing a raw youth, whom you knew to have run away from his guardians. Come, boy.”

The _sbirri_ laid hold of Luigi, and somewhat roughly disencumbered him of his imperial robes. The audience without the curtain at the same time manifested unequivocal symptoms of impatience. The manager was in absolute despair.

“Let him only remain, and play in this piece.”

“Not a moment,” said the vice-rector; “we have no time to lose.”

“Dear Master Benevolo,” entreated Luigi, who had dried his tears: “be not troubled about me; I will have my revenge yet. I will be a tragedian in spite of them.”

“But my losses?”

“I will make them up--I pledge you my word.”

“My fifteen ducats paid in advance?”

“You shall have them again.”

“If not in this world”--added the vice-rector, with a sullen laugh--“you may keep your account open for another.”

“Stay, Luigi;” cried little Rosina, as the men led him off, “here is your handkerchief,” and she put hers into his hands. The lad understood her, and pressed the keepsake to his lips.

“At least,” said the manager, recovering a little from his disappointment, “I have not lost everything. The vagabond has left his trunk behind,” and he went to make his peace with his impatient audience.

Next morning he ordered the trunk brought to him. It was very large, and so heavy that the servants who carried it imagined it to be filled with gold. The Impressario, having called together some of his friends to make an inventory of its contents, caused the lock to be broken. It was found filled with--sand. The young debutant, anxious to make a favorable impression, and not being in possession of a wardrobe, had had recourse to this piece of deception in order to command respect and attention at the inns where they stopped on the way from Naples.

Words cannot describe the rage of the manager. He vented it in execrations against Luigi, whom he denounced as a cheat, an impostor, and a thief. And his fifteen ducats--they had been thrown away! The only retaliation in his power was to write a letter full of violent abuse to the shameless offender, ending his invectives with the assurance that so base a fellow need never aspire to the honors of tragedy. Luigi said not a word when he read this missive. From that time he applied himself with so much diligence to his studies, that his masters had no reason to complain of him. He bade fair, they all said, to rival Bohrer on the violoncello, and Tulon on the flute. And for his encouragement and that of his comrades, a hall of representation was constructed in the interior of the Conservatorio, where those who desired might gratify a passion for the stage.

* * * * *

Late in the autumn of 1830, it was announced that a new artist, of great reputation in Italy, would appear at the _Théâtre Italien_ in Paris. Great expectation was excited; as his progress through the cities beyond the Alps had been a continued triumph. The immense audience was hushed in suspense. Even after the curtain had risen, the connoisseurs seemed resolved that their applause should not be bestowed till it was fairly earned. But when the debutant appeared, there was a hum of admiration at sight of his majestic, imposing figure and noble countenance, expressive not only of power, but of frank good humor; and the first tones of that magnificent voice, swelling above the orchestra in lordly music, “like thunder amid a tempest,” yet piercing to the very depths of pathos, called forth a burst of rapturous applause. At the close of the piece the spectators vied with each other in his praises, and voted him by acclamation the first _bassetaile_ of the age.

The tragic opera of Otello was announced for representation, amidst the shouts of admiring thousands.

“I will go to hear Otello, since you bid me, madonna,” said the ex-manager of an Italian opera company to the fair Rosina, now an admired singer, but in the midst of fortune and fame retaining the same excellent heart; “but I have no pleasure in listening to these French actors. They do not fill my idea of tragedy. Ah! the best days of the art are gone by!”

“But, Master Benevolo, you have not seen the new artist?”

“No, nor do I care to see him. I should not like what pleases these fantastical Parisians.”

“But you must hear him. He is an Italian. I have an invitation for you, written in his own hand.”

“Ah! that is courteous and attentive, seeing I am a stranger in Paris. How came he to send it to me?”

“He knew you to be a friend of mine,” answered the lady rather embarrassed.

“_Ebbene_, I will attend you, my lady.” And at the appointed time the ex-manager escorted the fair singer to the theatre.

“There is a figure for tragedy!” cried he in involuntary admiration, as the colossal form of the actor moved across the stage, and he bowed in dignified acknowledgement of the applause of the audience. “Ha! I should like him for the tyrant in Anna Bolena!” But when his powerful voice was heard in the part--when its superb tones, terrible yet exquisitely harmonious, carried the senses, as it were, captive, the Italian gave up his prejudices, and joined in the general enthusiasm. And at the point where the father of Desdemona curses his daughter, Benevolo uttered a cry, into which the very soul of emotion seemed to have passed.

“Wonderful! _stupendo! tragico!_” he exclaimed, wiping his eyes, when the curtain had fallen, and he rose to offer his arm to his fair companion.

“But you must see him,” persisted she, and led the ex-impressario behind the scenes.

The wonder of the Parisian connoisseurs advanced to meet them. Benevolo gazed in awe on the person whose performance had moved him so deeply, and thought he saw the impress of majesty in his features. Clasping his hands, he saluted him as the king of tragedy!

“Ah, my good Master Benevolo! I am rejoiced to see you at last! It has been my evil fortune that we have not met before! Now, tell me if you have been pleased. Think you I will ever make a tragic actor?”

“You are the first in the world!” cried the Italian. “I am proud of my countryman.”

“Ah, _mio fratello!_ but you had once not so good an opinion of me. Ha! you do not recognize your old acquaintance--the runaway Luigi!”

The ex-impressario stared, in silent astonishment.

“I have grown somewhat larger since the affair at Salerno;” said the artist, laughing and clapping his sides. “But I forgot; I was under a cloud when we parted. Ah! I see you have a _heavy_ recollection of that trunk of mine, and the fifteen ducats. I always meant to ransom that unlucky trunk; but only, you understand, with my pay as a tragedian, to make you unsay your prediction. Here is an order for twelve hundred francs.”

The ex-manager drew back. “I cannot receive so much,” he said.

“Nonsense, friend; you are too scrupulous. Bethink you; my fortune has grown apace with my _embonpoint_.”

Benevolo grasped his hand. “You are a noble fellow!” cried he; “and now, as a last favor, you must tell me your name. You act under an assumed one, I suppose?”

“Not at all; the same----LABLACHE.”

“Lablache! are you, then, a Frenchman?”

“My father was one; he fled from Marseilles at the time of the Revolution; but I was born in Naples. Does that satisfy you?”

“I always took you for a nobleman in disguise,” said Benevolo; “but now I know you for one of the nobility of artists.”

“That is better than the first,” said Lablache; “and now you must come home and sup with me, in the Rue Richelieu. I shall have a few friends there, and _la belle_ Rosina will honor us.”

FRANCIS LISZT.]

FRANCIS LISZT.

It is especially desirable that the materials for the biography of a man of genius--a great artist, poet or scholar, should be ample, embracing even the most trivial details. We often remain in ignorance of the real character of a celebrated person, because we cannot possess ourselves of any faithful history of those circumstances of his life, which always exert a vast influence, and have perhaps chiefly contributed to render him what he is.

The position now occupied by Liszt, makes a notice of his life particularly interesting. In the prime of manhood, he is already acknowledged to be the first pianist of the age. Europe, in all its length and breadth, is filled with his fame. He belongs to the whole world. Who takes so little interest in the progress of art, in our day, as to be inattentive to the note of triumph borne on the winds through Germany, France, and England? But it is not enough for the heedful listener that all is now light and enthusiasm; he would look back into years past, and catch the dull echo of the murmurings of envy and jealousy. He would admire and bless the artist’s firmness and constancy, the energy of soul that persevered against all discouragements--that bore with the toil of study--and struggled onward, though burdened and weary, till the goal at last was reached, and labor crowned by success. To all who sympathize with him, it will be interesting briefly to observe his progress.

* * * * *

Francis Liszt was born on the twenty-second of October, 1811, in Reiding, a village not far from Oedenburg, in Hungary. The year of his birth was remarkable for the appearance of a comet; a fact which did not fail to impress the mind of his father, Adam Liszt. He looked upon the phenomenon as a sign of his son’s future eminence. This superstition of a fond parent may meet with some indulgence, when it is recollected how Goëthe himself, who seemed in general most at home on earth, commenced his confessions of “Poetry and Truth.”

Adam Liszt was in the service of Prince Esterhazy; and was so excellent a musician, that he could rank high as a virtuoso among the connoisseurs. His instrument also was the piano: and with his splendid execution, had he come forward, he might have obtained no small reputation. But he preferred to remain unknown, having no desire to acquire celebrity for himself. All his ambition and his hopes centered in his son. Often, when he had been playing, while the boy listened, absorbed profoundly, to the melody he drew from the instrument, he would seize the happy moment to impress the young listener with his counsels. “My son,” he would say, “you are destined to realize the glorious ideal that has shone in vain before my youth. In you _that_ is to reach its fulfilment, which I have myself but faintly conceived. In you shall my genius grow up, and bear fruit; I shall renew my youth in you, even after I am laid in the grave.”

Such prophetic words call to recollection the poor woman in Genoa, who held her son upon her knees, and talked to him of heavenly visions. “Nicolo,” said she to the boy, “an angel came to me last night, and told me thou should’t be one of the greatest performers of thy time.” That boy was Paganini. How wonderfully has the prophecy been fulfilled--both in Paganini and Liszt!

Before it bursts forth in its full splendor, genius shows itself in gleams and at intervals, revealed often by a word or look. The observing father, the tender mother, are usually first to discern it while unrecognized by others; and to anticipate, from slight intimations, the future greatness of the child.

With more than a parent’s joy did Adam Liszt observe the first germ of his boy’s talent. He placed the small fingers on the keys; played simple tunes--which were readily imitated; he saw that all would be according to his wish! These exercises were commenced when the little Francis was six years old; at the age of nine he played for the first time in public at Oedenburg, Ries’ Concerto, in three flats; and at the conclusion extemporized a _fantaisie_. The boy improvised without difficulty the most striking _rhythmen_, the most surprising cadences. The spectators were struck with surprise and admiration, and tears of joy bedewed the happy father’s cheeks. All wondered at the genius of the young performer; his friends embraced and praised him; Prince Esterhazy put fifty ducats into his little hand, and gave him a warm recommendation to all the noble patrons of music in Hungary. This was the _first_ step in his career; but one so important that he could no more go back.

The high commendations he received, were far from encouraging idleness in the young artist. On the contrary, they caused him to look into himself, and to contemplate earnestly the steep height he had to climb, if he would justify all these large expectations. The youth of Francis, therefore, was laborious and full of trouble. That noble ambition, which fills every great soul, was often a torment to him. The struggles of the spirit weakened the body; and sickness interrupted his exertions. This state of things brought about in him that delicate, nervous sensibility which renders the artist susceptible to all impressions; so that his excitable fancy is wrought upon by every idea or object. Vague religious feelings, sometimes pleasing, sometimes melancholy, took possession of him; his soul was divided between study and prayer. As the boy Goëthe, in his naive devotion, kindled pastilles on his father’s desk, and watched the incense rise heavenward, the boy Liszt was absorbed in the mystical philosophy of a Jacob Böhme, and walked with his imagination among apocalyptical visions. He thought he grew thereby stronger for his art, and more susceptible to the impression and power of dreams. He wandered, uncertain in religion as in art, often starting back shudderingly as he hovered over the infinite abyss.

These boyish visions--he was then from ten to twelve years old--were not without influence upon his genius in after life. Let us trace in some measure the poetry of his progress, striving to throw the torch of fancy over his moments of romance. It is a task of importance, to analyze such a mind!

After the concert in Oedenburg, Adam Liszt proceeded with his son to Presburg. His success was the same, or even greater; for by means of the Counts Amaden and Zapary, the father obtained for six years a salary of six hundred florins, to enable him to give the boy suitable instruction and cultivation. A journey to Vienna, and a residence there for the purpose of study, were now in his power. This was soon accomplished. Both father and son went to Vienna; and Carl Czerny conducted the boy’s lessons on the piano. Nothing better could have been done to perfect him in the _technik_. Those who know what skilful pianists have come forth from that school, and that a Liszt was now the pupil, if they bear in mind the merits of the teacher and those of the scholar, will know how to estimate the result.

Here were added also his higher studies under Salieri; his diligent exercise in counterpoint; in the strict compositions of church music; of partition and reading. Eighteen months passed in such labors. Francis often knew not if it was night or day, so absorbed was he in his studies. He never shrank from the most tedious labors, nor from any task requiring the most intense application: ever anxious to win a smile of pleasure from his grave though gentle master, though he could not satisfy himself. It might indeed be said that he pursued music with a species of obstinacy. By way of recreation and encouragement amidst such exertions, his father arranged in Vienna a concert, in which the product, as it were, of eighteen toilsome months was to be exhibited.

At this concert, all the nobility and the musical _élite_, of Vienna were present; among them Beethoven. For that hour, Beethoven forgot his own sad lot, his own abiding sorrow, and in his earnest, laconic manner gave his encouragement and applause to the youthful artist. How happy would the great man have felt, with what delight would he have pressed that young artist to his wildly throbbing heart, could he have foreseen that Francis Liszt would be the most earnest worshipper of his lofty genius, the most admirable and judicious interpreter of his ideas!

In truth, the deep veneration Liszt now cherishes for Beethoven and his works, is the best and most certain evidence of his own spiritual depth. The history of all time has proved that a great mind can only be discerned and estimated at its full value by a kindred one. Liszt’s appreciation of Beethoven is an indication of his own superiority as an artist. It may truly be said, this admiration and love are without parallel. Where is to be found one like him, whose whole being, productive, creative, combining--forming--expansive--has so passed into that of his exemplar, and lives on, not in slavish imitation, but with free and kindred impulse--working with the same will?

But to return to Vienna. We see our young artist for the first time in this old imperial musical capital; we hear repeated and stunning applauses poured in his ears, and see him return modest and astonished to the quiet chamber where he pursues his studies. For him an important period had come; and he looked abroad on the new world that opened upon him, not in hope of gaining praise or gold, but amidst incitements to strive after the full development of his genius. At last he tore himself from the arms of his kind, parental friend, Salieri; closed in his loving heart a solemn, melancholy farewell look from Beethoven, and hastened to his father at Paris.

It was to be expected, the _Conservatoire_ would receive one so gifted with open arms; would rejoice to number him among its pupils. But Francis Liszt was a stranger: Cherubini therefore treated him with chilling neglect, though he himself had been received in a foreign land! While the _Conservatoire_ shut the door against the wonderful boy, all the saloons of Paris opened theirs to him with enthusiastic welcome. Everywhere he was fêted, caressed, applauded. All the world was mad about the fair blue-eyed lad, on whose high forehead already began to appear the impress of inspiration. He played in the Palais Royal before the Duke of Orleans, and became the rage! A dangerous rock was before the youthful adventurer; ask we if he sailed safely past it, in spite of the storms of court-favor, and the shoals of self-love? Scholars, artists, wealth, beauty, aristocracy, all did homage to him; no soirée was complete without him; the gifted, proud boy was the idol of the day. The world flattered; his father admonished; and Francis obeyed the warning parental voice. He pursued the path his own energy had opened, with unwearied zeal. After a year’s residence in Paris, he went over to London, where he was received with the same enthusiasm, expressed according to the national temperament of the English.

In the year 1824, both father and son returned to Paris, and the energies of Francis were particularly employed upon an opera--“Don Sancho, or the Palace of Love,” which was produced in 1825 in the Royal Academy of music, with great applause, and highly esteemed by the connoisseurs. Our artist was then fourteen years old. Adolph Nourrit led him upon the stage, at the call for his appearance, amid thunders of applause. Rudolph Kreutzer, then director of the orchestra, embraced him with transport.

After these exertions and excitements, a time came again when Francis gave himself up to religious enthusiasm. In order to divert his thoughts by new objects, his father resolved upon short excursions into the Departments, and even a longer one to England; but the lad’s indisposition gained the upper hand, and they were obliged to take refuge in Boulogne for the sea-bathing. Here Francis lost his father. This mournful event, which caused the affectionate boy such deep affliction, naturally had a depressing influence upon his genius. He indulged freely his melancholy visions and sad fancies, which now presented themselves under the solemn aspect of religion, now assumed the colors of romance. He longed continually for some remote solitude, in which without interruption he might nurse his fantastic musings.

Probably never poet or artist was called upon thus to suffer. But the vigor of his mind was shown in his gradual self-recovery even after such wanderings; only by much discipline could he be restored to repose and serenity. And by an acquaintance with literature, and the philosophical sciences of the day, his views in art were enlarged, no less than those of life and the world. New wants, new claims, new inquiries opened upon him. He sought as it were a back-ground, against which he could appoint the true place and dimensions of art.

While his mind thus improved, and his conceptions enlarged--while step by step he advanced--his spirit more and more cleared--purified--exalted--the worst that can happen to a man earnest to fulfil his duty befel him also; enemies rose up; he became the object of envy; and their hate began to work its purposes in secret. But of this we will be silent. The murmurs of enmity have long been hushed, and an artist, particularly, is born to endure such things. Let us turn rather to those other days which exercised a singular influence on his excitable mind.

When absorbed in his religious enthusiasm, Liszt composed only Masses; being unable, in the tumult of his feelings, to attain to anything like self-possession or a calm activity. From the dominion of this kind of madness he was delivered by another----love. He loved a lady of high rank--loved with the same ardor with which his soul embraced everything, and yielded himself wholly to the new passion. His love was unhappy; what suffering must it not have caused him! He became misanthropical. He shut himself up for weeks together, confiding his complaints and his pains only to the keys of his instrument. Those only who have thus suffered, can fully understand his condition at this time.