Chapter XI: Preface (11)

His personal history at this period is almost as obscure and involved as his genius itself; but it is said that he composed nothing except plans of Masses. Ere long, however, the elasticity of his temperament not only bore him out of his depression, but carried him to the opposite extreme; and he became for a time the votary of sense. St. Simonian sentiments took root and budded in his breast; to ripen all--came the Revolution. Liszt was carried away by the excitement of the people; by the visions of Freedom. He was animated by enthusiastic admiration of what he beheld; he felt an impulse _musico-political_, if so it might be called. He longed to produce in art all that he saw of stirring importance in the world; to fix the experience of those tumultuous days in the expression of music; to concentrate the feelings of many hearts, and give the people a Revolutionary Symphony, in the same manner as Beethoven had conceived and represented his battle of Vittoria. Does some narrow mind ask why he did not execute this grand thought? Those who know what were the circumstances--what repose, and abstraction from exciting scenes without, were necessary for the conception and creation of such a work, will wonder at the artist for having imagined it; will admire him for the thought, and not condemn him because it was not completed. Had the requisite rest and leisure been his, he would _then_ also, undoubtedly, have realized the lofty ideal at which he aimed.

After this, the writings of George Sand, or Madame Dudevant, took complete hold of his fancy. Not less wholly did he yield his soul to Paganini, by whom he was quite carried into enthusiasm. He used to say to Madame Sand, as to his other intimate friends, that he found in Paganini’s playing on the violin something indefinite, inexpressible, which he always sought to attain on the piano.

We must take occasion here to speak of Liszt’s relations to some modern pianists; and for this purpose avail ourselves of the criticism of the celebrated Fétis, in the “Revue Musicale Belge.” As an illustration of some remarks on the subject of art and artists, he mentions Clementi, the first who introduced an elegant and brilliant style on the piano, the model of a thoroughly cultivated _technik_,--of natural and spirited combination; of rounded periods. We see that he drew the attention of his contemporaries upon himself, that he exhibited himself to them as an exemplar, and prescribed the classic form of the bravour sonata, as Joseph Haydn had invented that of the harmonious sonata. If we view him in this splendor, when his fame spread everywhere without bounds, and the best pianists of his time were laid under the necessity of imitating him, we must regard him as the inventor; and yet he only perfected the ideas of others, and has displayed taste rather than genius. The proper inventor was Emanuel Bach, who presented Germany with sixty concertos. He gave to the sonata a harmonious as well as a brilliant side, which was particularly cultivated by Haydn and Clementi. Emanuel Bach appeared with this accomplishment before 1740; sixty years later it was exercised, not originated, by Dussek, Cramer, and Steibelt; and Clementi’s manner improved it while he added modifications of his own.

The art of those worthy men exercised itself in the circle of the softer feelings. Their only aim was to please the ear and move the heart. They sought not to paint the vehement emotions; the forms of art were to possess rather a soothing and restraining power.

These ideas took another direction, when Mozart gave to instrumental music a character of passionate, dramatic expression. The ultimate object of this new path was not understood at first, and it met the disapprobation of those accustomed to the old way, who saw in this mingling of changeful feelings more matter for blame than praise. Mozart’s composition for the piano, full of expression, energy, and harmony, had to struggle long in rivalship with the light and elegant style of Clementi; then came to his aid the passionate fiery imagination--owning no rule but that of genius--of Beethoven, and the adherents of the new school increased from day to day. This powerful imagination, for the first time, showed the untenableness of stereotype forms in the new path. Beethoven, full of deep admiration for the glorious creations of Mozart, at first followed in the steps of that great master; but he soon indulged himself in freer and bolder flights. He gave new turns to the accustomed passages, bestowing much care on the completeness of harmony; greatly increased the dissonances, and hesitated not to introduce unions of accords and transitions till then unheard of, yet which at this day appear to us so simple and natural.

The issue of these combinations was an entire change in the fingering, which was many times assailed by the scholars of Cramer and Clementi. Only the Viennese school adopted the alteration, and therefore took, in this respect, the first place in art. To this we owe the progress and the present elevation of piano music. Beethoven’s works were still regarded by the pianists as too grave for a large and mixed public, and were given up to professed connoisseurs. They--the players--attained their end more readily by pleasing compositions, in the execution of which Hummel gave them a new study. A _virtuoso_ of the first rank in that day, he stood also high as a composer; yet can he in no way be compared with Beethoven, either in boldness or originality; he was only a man of taste and of solid attainment. Under his hands a certain fine manner was cultivated, in which he knew how to introduce brilliant figures with singular effect.

We find it necessary to explain the history and progress of piano music as early as 1807, to enable us to determine the position and work of Liszt. Fifteen years had passed since Mozart’s death, and already we see his form and method three times changed. For ten years Hummel governed the manner of playing. In the course of this time, C. M. von Weber gave new movements of dramatic expression. In his piano music, he showed a glowing but wild and ill-regulated genius. Both artists and publishers were afraid to produce his compositions. Only his “Freischutz” snatched his name from the oblivion into which it had fallen.

In 1817, arose a new composer for the piano, of great merit, a _virtuoso_, who seemed born to give piano-playing a new direction. It was Moscheles. Bolder and more brilliant, more general and energetic in passages and figures than Hummel, he introduced new and tasteful embellishments; his variations on the “Alexander March” were examples in this kind for many skilful pianists. Afterwards he enlarged his style, and gave it more scope and elevation; for example, in his “Fantasies” upon Irish songs. Not less praise did he win in his graver compositions; his concertos showed a deep knowledge of harmony, as well as of dramatic feeling. These gradually rose to his “Concert Fantastique” and “Pathétique,” two works as remarkable for groundwork as for expression. The “Etudes” begun with Cramer, were enlarged with Moscheles. He gave them a higher and more refined form, and may therefore be regarded as having given in those “Etudes” the first impulse of importance. Moscheles was at this height of his fame, when, as has been mentioned, the boy Francis Liszt came to Paris, and was received with so much enthusiasm in all circles. He stood, indeed, remarks Fétis, beyond gainsaying, high in his technical cultivation; but he wanted that, which, besides his remarkable and interesting _personnel_, could be produced to the world as an abiding and decisive mark; in a word, his wild, fiery, eccentric genius wanted the peculiar school which exhibited itself and him as a definite epoch in the history of art. His early compositions were full of difficulties; from all the figures shone the fire that blazed around the productions of the youthful artist. Those who asked for schools and industry in this wildly luxuriant natural garden, were sure to be disappointed.

At this time suddenly appeared Thalberg in Paris, and produced such an impression as no pianist had before him. Not that in playing he could have surpassed, or even equalled Liszt; but he had the tact to seize upon a happy idea, which was at once understood. This related to the filling up of the keys in the space between the hands. (_See Revue, etc._)

This innovation was not altogether suffered to pass as such; it was asserted that Beethoven had already availed himself of these means in his sonatas; and blame was now cast upon the very exaggeration which gave a certain uniformity, perhaps more, to the structure and effect of his compositions. This view is only made prominent in order to obtain for Liszt the proper point of sight, from which to measure his reaction, and the gigantic height he gained.

Liszt had already left Paris, when Thalberg appeared there, but the rumor of his success and triumph reached his ears. It caused him sleepless nights. Let us imagine the feelings of an artist, conscious of his own power, knowing himself without a rival, yet seeing another suddenly elevated in popular opinion to an equality with him--perhaps generally judged to be his superior! Liszt felt that wrong had been done him, and hastened back to Paris. Thalberg was no longer there; but there was a division of opinion and judgment among the Parisians, as once there had been between the Gluckists and Piccinists. The talk was now of Lisztians and Thalbergians; strife ran high between the parties; and to observe it and hear their disputes was the most interesting amusement of the fashionable world. Liszt did not this time go before the public, to become acquainted, perhaps, only with his own enthusiastic partisans; but indulged his speculations in solitude. His clear spirit could discover the folly and worthlessness of popular idolatry, and scorn to win it by means he felt to be unworthy his genius.

Three years passed, in which the name of Liszt was but seldom, and at intervals, heard. The lives of gifted men seem to need such pauses to prepare for a full development of what is within them. The electric fluid must be gathered in secret, before the lightning of genius can break on the dazzled eyes of men, and its thunder amaze the world.

What he did during this interval, says Fétis, few know, notwithstanding the enthusiasm he everywhere excited. The charming “_Lucia fantaisie_,” and the wonderful combination of _fantasies_ upon “Robert the Devil”--give but incomplete evidence of his employment. Even those who heard him improvise at the concert at Liege an admirable capriccio on a thema to all appearance barren, given him by the audience; those who heard his performance, _prima vista_, of the most difficult passages in accumulated pieces from illegible manuscripts, which he executed with so much readiness as to astonish the authors themselves, and with infinite ease; those who know how many great compositions are impressed on his memory, so that he can execute any one of them at any moment; those who know him for the most complete musician of our time, and the most gifted in his way; even they have no idea of the thorough change which took place in his creative power during the three years spent by him in retirement.

Fétis goes on, in his philosophical manner, to explain how the doings of Thalberg, suggesting new combinations to the mind of our artist, already busy with improvements, wrought a change in him, and impelled him upon a path that was quite his own. The victory was accomplished; and triumphantly could the question now be answered--“Is Liszt also distinguished as a composer?”

Liszt has recorded his new views, and the forms invented by him, in an immense work, entitled “Three years of wandering.” The first part contains recollections of Switzerland, the second recollections of Italy, the third of Germany. Fétis says, “I was indulged by the artist with a hearing of some portions of it; and must do him the justice to say, that these displayed most uncommon attainments in art. Perhaps it will be said, when the work appears, that the composer has had the orchestra more in view than the piano--yet I know not if this objection is not praise rather than blame. However it may be, I will not forestall the judgment of competent critics by recording my simple impressions. I merely quote the ‘_Etudes d’execution transcendante_,’ which have particularly led me to this long exposition,” &c.

We have found it necessary to follow this writer so far, because his remarks help to develop the personal history of Liszt, and to place his individuality with regard to art in a strong light. Fétis is, besides, such a well known and universally respected authority in the higher musical studies, that he will be gladly listened to in his observations on a genius so remarkable.

Those who venture to deny Liszt a general talent for composition, will find they have measured him by false and inapplicable rules. The foundation of composition is Imagination, the living, powerful creative faculty. Let us take only those works which show most clearly Liszt’s art, and the subtlety of his spirit--the Transpositions[11] of Beethoven’s symphonies, and the songs of Schubert. It cannot be doubted that a power of imagination has here been displayed by him, such as would not be needed for another original work.

Liszt in these has not merely copied; he has emulated with creative power; and so successfully that there is a second birth. These transpositions, grand in the symphonies, tender in the songs--are the culminating point of musical plastic power. It is impossible to particularize the expression with more subtlety; to express the spirit more accurately and fully. Therein lies a brilliant conception of harmonious completeness, that fills the heart and soul alike, when those spiritual graces press upon them. In truth, one should only hear that genesis of pastoral symphony--those wonderful pictures, called into life by the powerful and magic touch of Liszt. Any other virtuoso, were he the most accomplished and excellent of players, would have given us, instead of divine poetry, only massive, or at best, tasteful prose!

* * * * *

In 1837, Liszt felt the earnest desire of poetical spirits, to visit the great world. The swan also spreads her silver wings, and sails southward, towards the land of beauty and song; of art and antiquity--towards Italy. That is peculiarly the land of song; it is well known how the heart there opens to, and welcomes all that bears the name of music. From Milan to Venice, from Florence to Naples, a dazzling flame of enthusiasm surrounded the artist. In all these places Liszt gave concerts, which were attended by crowded audiences. He abode some time in Rome, to the delight of the people; and the walls of the Engelsburgh resounded to the echo of his renown. External nature seemed to smile upon him: he himself says, he was wonderfully benefited by the pure air and the cloudless sky. He had not in a long time enjoyed such health and serenity. And his compositions have the same purity and clearness as the atmosphere. There originated those grand and marvellous transpositions, of which mention is made above; there were written his “_Nuits de Pausilippe_.” One may ask himself, if out of all these does not breathe a kind of classic repose--elevating the feelings and inspiring a calm delight, like the pure beauty of a moonlight heaven in that lovely land! Our artist confesses that he, at this period, passed beyond the time of wild exuberance in feeling--of stormy restlessness, of mystical fantasy; and that he owed the clearing up of his spirit to the country and nature around him. Thus composed, he went to Germany, Carlsruhe, Munich, Stuttgart; in short, all the principal cities of southern Germany heard his magical performance with astonishment. All the journals and papers held but one language respecting him--that of enthusiastic admiration. But in the midst of this appreciation and these honors, the longing to revisit home was awakened in his breast. One morning he sprang suddenly out of bed, and ordered his horse to be got ready. What to him was the applause, the homage of strangers! he longed to be again where he had been first seen and heard. “For Hungary!” This impatience was the pure desire of a grateful heart.

Liszt did not deceive himself. How he was received, how he was valued, all Hungary can witness. It is impossible to describe the joy with which he was welcomed by old and young, high and low; by artists and critics, even to the highest in the land. He was the loved theme of all tongues. Mothers told their children how the “little Francis” had become another Emperor Francis in the kingdom of art; how he had made himself so great and famous; and how he could play a whole book full of strange and beautiful stories on the piano. He gave concerts--first in Vienna, then in Pesth--not to promote his own interest, but for the benefit of the poor, who had met with severe losses by the inundation; and for young artists, to enable them to prosecute their studies.

The noble and generous philanthropy of this conduct made a proper impression upon his countrymen. Two cities, Pesth and Oedenburg, created him an honorary citizen; a patent of nobility was solicited for him by the Comitat of Oedenburg; and the “Sword of Honor,” according to Hungarian custom, was presented to him with due solemnities. This episode deserves particularly to be noticed. The following account is taken from an authentic journal:

“The national feeling of the _Magyars_ is well known; and proud are they of that star of the first magnitude, which arose out of their nation. Over the countries of Germany the fame of the Hungarian Liszt came to them, before they had as yet an opportunity of admiring him. The Danube was swelled by rains; Pesth was inundated; thousands were mourning the loss of friends and relations, or of all their property. During his absence in Milan, Liszt learned that many of his countrymen were suffering from want. His resolution was taken. The smiling heaven of Italy--the _dolce far niente_ of southern life--could not detain him. The following morning he had quitted Milan, and was on his way to Vienna. He performed for the benefit of those who had suffered by the inundation of Pesth. His art was the horn of plenty, from which streamed blessings for the unfortunate. Eighteen months afterwards he came to Pesth--not as the artist in search of pecuniary advantage--but as a Magyar. He played for the Hungarian National Theatre; for the Musical Society; for the poor of Pesth, and the poor in Oedenburg; always before crowded houses; and the proceeds, full 100,000 francs, were appropriated to those purposes and those institutions. Who can wonder that admiration and pride should rise to enthusiasm in the breasts of his grateful countrymen? The distinguished artist--the noble-hearted man--deserved it all! In the theatre, in the street--Liszt was everywhere greeted with acclamations and vivats. He was complimented by serenades; garlands were thrown to him; in short, the population of Pesth neglected nothing to manifest their respect, gratitude, and affection.

“But these honors, which might have been paid to any other artist of high distinction, did not satisfy them. They resolved to bind him forever to the Hungarian nation, from which he had sprung. He was therefore made an honorary citizen of Pesth and Oedenburg, and a deputation of persons of consideration informed him that a patent of nobility had been asked for him from the Emperor and King. A still closer bond, however, was desired. The token of manly honor in Hungary is the sword; every Magyar has the right to wear a sword, and avails himself of that right. It was determined that their celebrated countryman should be presented with the Hungarian sword of honor. The noblemen appeared at the theatre in the rich costume they usually wear before the Emperor, and presented Liszt, amid thunders of applause from the whole assembled people, with a costly sword of honor. In receiving this, he was expected to enter into a solemn engagement _to bind himself forever to the Hungarian people, and to reside in Hungary_.”

In the autumn of 1840, Liszt went from Paris, where he had been for some time, to the north of Germany, and particularly to Hamburg. Here also, where the people are colder and less impulsive, his reception was the same as it had been elsewhere, wherever his admirable performance had been heard. He saw even adversaries silenced and ashamed; and enemies converted into the warmest friends, who were loudest in his praise. To show Liszt’s power of memory and his intimate knowledge of the best pieces of music, it is only necessary to mention one instance among many. One evening in public he was requested to select and perform one of Beethoven’s sonatas. He announced his willingness to play, and desired that the piece might be chosen. “_Sonata quasi fantasia_,” cried some one. Liszt consented; did he go to fetch the work? No--he played it at once from memory!

From Hamburg Liszt went to London. Enthusiasm, applause, sympathy, met him everywhere; he was courted by all. In fourteen days he gave nine concerts. He spared no exertion to fulfil expectation and satisfy his friends. Here a misfortune overtook him; he lost, through the carelessness of an agent, the proceeds of three hundred concerts. Imagine the feelings of the artist, exhausted both in mind and body, at the receipt of this disastrous news! But he knew that his true riches lay in his art; and that it was his best support. With a cheerful spirit, notwithstanding his reverses, he left the British Islands, to return to the banks of the Seine. From Paris, where he played for the Beethoven monument, and won universal applause by his _Robert-fantaisies_, he went a second time to Hamburg, to shine the brightest star in the north German firmament. The deepest admiration, the silent throb of heartfelt enjoyment, greeted his appearance. Thence he went to Kiel; where, immediately on his arrival, and as it were on the wing, he gave a concert, proceeding to embark for Copenhagen. He played not less than seven times before the court: and here, as among the Parisians, commanded unbounded admiration. The citizens thronged to the concerts, impelled by curiosity, and returned home full of enthusiasm for the great performer. Once more he went back to Hamburg, and thence to the Rhine. What an agreeable entertainment was prepared for him, under the purple clusters of those vineyards, the reader may presently judge.

After Liszt, with his wonted kindness, had offered to give a concert in Cologne, the proceeds of which were to be appropriated to the completion of the Cathedral, the Rhenish “_Liedertafel_,”[12] resolved to bring him with due pomp from the island of Nonnenwerth, near Bonn, where he had been for some days. This was on the twenty-second of August, 1841. A steamboat was hired expressly for this purpose, and conveyed a numerous company to Nonnenwerth at eleven in the morning. The “Liedertafel” then greeted the artist, who stood on the shore, by singing a morning salute, accompanied by the firing of cannon, and loud huzzas. They then marched, with wind instruments in advance, to the now empty chapel of the cloister of Nonnenwerth, where again they sang; and thence to Rolandseck, where an elegant dinner was prepared for the company. All eyes were fixed upon Liszt; all hearts were turned to him. He proposed a toast in honor of his entertainers, and at the conclusion of his speech observed with justice that nowhere in the world could any club be found like the “Liedertafel” in Germany. When the banquet was over they returned to Nonnenwerth, where a crowd of people from the surrounding country was assembled. The universal wish to hear Liszt was so evident that he was induced to send for a piano, to be brought into the chapel: and to gratify the assembly--listening, and rapt with delight--by a display of his transcendan powers. The desolate halls of the chapel once more resounded with the stir and voices of life. Not even the nuns, we will venture to say, who in former times used here to send up prayers to heaven, were impressed with a deeper sense of the heavenly, than was this somewhat worldly assembly by the magnificent music of Liszt, that seemed indeed to disclose things beyond this earth. At seven o’clock, the “Liedertafel,” with Liszt at their head, marched on their return, and went on board the steamboat, which was decorated with colored flags, amid peals of cannon. It was nine, and quite dark, when they approached their landing. Rockets were sent up from the boat, and a continual stream of colored fireworks; so that as the city rose before them from the bosom of the Rhine, the boat seemed enveloped in a circle of brilliant flame, which threw its reflection far over the waters. Music and huzzas greeted our artist on shore; and all Cologne was assembled to give him the splendid welcome, which in other times only monarchs received. Slowly the procession of the “Liedertafel” moved through the multitude to the hotel, where again and again, shouts and cheers testified the joy of the people at the arrival of their distinguished guest.

With the above illustration of the enthusiasm with which Liszt is received among those who know how to appreciate him, we end this brief sketch of his life.

* * * * *

In the personal conversation of Liszt, there is nothing eccentric or bizarre, as is often found with celebrated artists. He is attentive, cordial, takes an interest in general subjects of conversation, and is affable to all. Only where his dignity as an artist is concerned, does he show that imposing manner, of earnestness bordering on severity or gloom, which has been noticed as belonging to him. He speaks with a measured propriety of his own performances; hears every opinion respecting it with careful attention, but will never depart from what tends to the development of his own ideas in art. He yields as much as justice requires to the critics, but will never permit them to mould him by their judgment. “As I have begun, and carried on thus far, I will complete,” said he once. The original artist must live out his own system.

Liszt commonly speaks quickly, rapidly, and abruptly; he often hesitates in his speech, from the want of words. His mind is so active, his perceptions so quick, that it is difficult to find ready expression; and while thus embarrassed, his countenance assumes a fixed, stern look, the brow contracted as if in anger. But when any one helps him out with a word, he smiles, and nodding his head, replies “yes--yes”--moving his head while listening, and waiting for what the other will say. In social intercourse he is thoroughly at his ease, and seems to forget that he is at all distinguished. He always shows himself ready to comply with the most timidly expressed wish that he should play for a dance; but it pleases him well when his wild, original _Galoppe chromatique_ cannot be danced by. “It will not do;” he will say. “It will not give up the place where it belongs.”

Liszt’s whole physiognomy is of the Hungarian character; his thick fair brown hair falls in masses on his neck, where it is cut off short; his features are all strongly marked; his eyes rather long than large, bright and deepset, shadowed by dark eyebrows. His look is penetrating, and has something in it of conscious superiority; yet though it may occasion uneasiness to the object, it has too much mildness to inspire fear. All the portraits represent him too strong and stout. Liszt is of a slight and thin figure; his shoulders are drawn up from constant playing, but his hands are delicate and well proportioned; seeing them, one can hardly understand how he can play such things as the Symphonies and the Robert-Fantaisies. In this respect, he has something that might be called _Paganinish_; unbounded energy of spirit, and indomitable strength of will--developed in the most delicate physical organization. In short, the whole appearance of Liszt betokens, to the most casual observer, the indwelling of that high and wonderful genius, before which the world has bowed in reverential acknowledgment. His entrance into the concert-room generally draws from the assembly--particularly from the ladies--the exclamation, “Ah! what an interesting man! What an interesting figure!”

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Uebertragungen.

[12] A musical club.

TAMBURINI.

It was rather late in the evening of a day in autumn, 182-, that two well dressed persons were seen standing before a small house in one of the principal streets of Milan. They leaned against the railing at the foot of the steps, and were listening with such apparent attention, that their attitude and employment might have excited observation, but that a certain high-bred air indicated them to be above suspicion, and the delicious music heard from the house fully justified them in pausing to listen.

The music was low, plaintive and touching, and accompanied by a clear and melodious male voice. Now and then it swelled into deeper pathos, the voice being evidently interrupted by sobs; and one of the listeners, deeply moved, turned aside to brush a tear from his eyes. After it had continued some time with these alternations of harmonious complaint, it was suddenly broken off, and a dead silence succeeded.

“Poor Antonio!” said one of the gentlemen, with a deep sigh; “this affliction will kill him.”

“Nay,” answered his companion, “I have no fear. He has youth, health, ambition, to sustain him; and though I know he feels----”

“But you know not Antonio as I do, Ronza,” rejoined the other. “It is the exquisite sensibility of his nature, the deep and passionate feeling hid under his graceful and composed exterior, that, even more than qualities merely professional, has contributed to his fame as the first of modern singers. And this exquisitely toned instrument, that yields such melody to the lightest touch, may be as easily shattered.”

“He loved his mother devotedly; but--_cielo_--did he expect to survive her?”

“Ah! she was more than mother to him; he owed her his intellectual, his spiritual being. She directed his pure soul to the enjoyments alone fitted for him; she led him to the shrine of Art. No, Ronza, do not blame his grief.”

“I do not blame it. I only say that the deepest wound, even in natures like his, may the sooner be healed! But let us go in.”

The two friends ascended the steps, and knocked. They were admitted, and as they anticipated, found the person they had come to seek, plunged in a grief that defied all consolation--the more to be dreaded, as his outward manner was cold and calm. It was the snow upon the mountain, whose breast was consuming in volcanic fires.

“And yet I am grateful for your coming,” he said, after every commonplace source of consolation had been exhausted in their kind efforts to divert his mind from the contemplation of the calamity that had crushed him. “I cannot now say how grateful, but you will forgive my lack of words. Will you pardon, also, Count Albert, my entreating you to take charge of these papers?”

And opening a drawer, he took out several letters and handed them to the count.

“How--you do not now think of leaving Milan?”

“No--but I retire from the world. To-morrow I enter the Convent di ----.”

Count Albert di Gaëta and the Marchese di Ronza exchanged looks of dismay.

“So sudden a project----.”

“It is not sudden. My resolution has been formed since the day of my mother’s death, and my application was forwarded immediately. I expect a reply to it every hour.”

“You have been imprudent, my friend,” said the Marchese. “You will regret the precipitation of this step.”

“And what have I now to live for?” asked the mourner, bitterly.

“For fame,” replied di Ronza.

“For art,” said Count Albert.

The bereaved artist shook his head.

“When, at eighteen years of age,” he said, “I met with my first triumph at Bologna; when the public far and near were pleased to applaud me, what, think you, was my joy in the enthusiasm I awakened? That _she_ rejoiced in my success; that _she_ encouraged me to persevering effort; that I was earning honor and competence for her enjoyment in old age. Now I have lost my only stimulus to exertion; I have lost my love of art; my faculties are paralyzed.”

“This is not natural,” observed the Marchese, gravely.

“But it is truth. The world is a desert to me; I leave it. The church offers me an asylum. I accept it as a refuge where I can bear with me her memory for whom alone I wished to live!”

“Your friends,” said di Ronza, somewhat haughtily, “may not thank you for your exclusion of them. You have many to whom your success is a part of their daily joy. And yet, gifted with health, beauty, genius, not yet twenty-five, you would hide yourself in the cowl and scapulary from the admiration of men--the love of woman----.”

The mourner gave an involuntary and impatient gesture. The Marchese saw that his brow was crimson, and a new light seemed to break on Ronza’s mind, for a meaning smile played for an instant on his lip. It was gone before either of his companions perceived it.

“Before we part,” asked he, “will you sing us this air from the Cenerentola?” and he took up a leaf of music.

“Nay,” interposed Count Albert, “it is wrong to ask this. How unsuitable this song to the gloom of his feelings!”

“The better, that the power of music may for an instant dispel his melancholy thoughts. Come, Antonio, I will join you.”

Antonio complied, and seated himself at the piano to sing. Ronza accompanied him, watching him closely all the while, and nodded his head with an expression of satisfaction when the air was concluded.

There was a knock at the door; Antonio arose from the instrument. The _portiere_ entered, and handed him a letter. He begged pardon of his friends, and broke the seal; glanced over the contents, and buried his face in his hands.

The friends sat in silent sympathy. At length, in obedience to a sign from the mourner, Count Albert took the letter up and read it. It was an answer from the superiors of the Convent di ----. His application was rejected; their doors were closed against “an actor.”

Courteously as the denial was expressed, it was evident that Antonio felt the implied insult to his profession; and indignation for the moment rose above his grief.

“The creed is indeed exclusive,” he said, bitterly, “that refuses an actor space for repentance and preparation for death.”

“They are right,” said the Marchese, somewhat abruptly. “What sort of a monk would you make, _Antonio mio_? Your sorrow is profound, but it must in time abate; your heart will rise from its depression; you will feel once again the impulse of genius and ambition.”

“Never!” interrupted the artist.

“I tell you, you will. I am old in the world, and therefore a true prophet. You will, and the time is not far distant. In the convent, your eyes would be opened, only that you might see the gloom surrounding you; your wings would expand, only that you might feel the weight that chained them to earth--forever! For I know you well enough to know that once fettered by the vows, you would die ere fling them off! They are right; they foresee the result. Be warned in time!”

“My resolution is unalterable,” said Antonio. “Milan is not the world. In four days I shall leave it, and seek elsewhere the asylum I cannot obtain here. I am heart-broken and wretched; I cannot live among the scenes and associations of my past life. Better for me the grave of the suicide!”

“This must be remedied, and speedily,” said Count Albert to his companion, after they had quitted their friend, whose sufferings seemed in no degree alleviated by their sympathy, “or nature will give way. That wild look of anguish; that fevered flush; the hurried and abrupt movement; the visible emaciation of his whole frame; all these make me shudder. An organization so susceptible, so delicate, cannot withstand so mighty a shock. Suffer this grief to prey upon him, and in three months he will fall its victim.”

“You are right,” replied di Ronza. “There is danger, and it must be averted. The world has no overplus of genius and worth, that we can afford to lose a Tamburini.”

“But the means----.”

“I have thought, and still think of them. Join me at my lodgings at ten. For the present I have an engagement. _A rivederci._”

And the friends separated.

* * * * *

The scene was a handsomely furnished drawing-room in the house of Madame Gioja. This lady--French by birth, celebrated for her many graces and accomplishments,--was the daughter of the Count Gaëtani, and wedded in early youth to the Marquis de Miriallia. His jealous love for the beautiful creature he had espoused prompted his last will, which made the forfeiture of his fortune the penalty of her second marriage. Surrounded by luxury and admiration, moving in the most exalted circles, the lovely widow cast her eyes upon a young artist, dependent on his profession for support. Love proved stronger than ambition, and she gave up splendor to share the lot of the poor man whom her heart had chosen. Her friends were indignant; she was deprived of her liberty; but being afterwards released from imprisonment, she left her native country to lead a wandering life, consoled for all her sacrifices by the love of her husband and children.

Madame Gioja was reading by a small table in the centre of the room. A young girl of exquisite beauty was playing at the piano, sometimes accompanying the music with her voice; and ever and anon the elder lady would look up from her book with a glance so full of tenderness and pride, that the spectator needed not to have observed the striking resemblance between the two to be certain of their relationship. The looks were such as only beam from a mother’s eyes upon a beloved and only daughter.

“The Marchese di Ronza,” said the portiere, throwing open the door.

Madame Gioja rose to receive her guest. The visit was unusual for one of rank so high; for the lady, be it remembered, had descended in marrying to the condition of her husband, and he was no associate of nobles. But she had in youth been familiar with courts and princes, and in grace and dignity she was not changed; so that though surprised at the visit, no princess could have received it with greater self-possession and composure.

The Marchese paid his respects to the lady, then turned to her daughter, who had risen from the piano, and fixed on her so prolonged a gaze, that the mother was startled and somewhat offended. She replied very gravely to some casual remark of her guest, and the young girl, who seemed aware that there was an embarrassment, blushed deeply. Ronza saw he had committed an error, and said with a serious air to Madame Gioja--

“May I crave the favor, madam, of a few moments’ conversation with you on business?”

“Certainly,” answered the lady; and turning to her daughter, “You may retire, my dear Marietta.”

The young lady left the room. The Marchese remained a few moments silent, as if considering how he should introduce what he had to say. At length he said, abruptly--

“My business concerns the Signorina, as well as yourself. It is for your permission for her to sing in part of a new piece by Mercadante, to be immediately produced.”

Madame Gioja hesitated.

“I have cultivated my daughter’s talent for music to the utmost,” said she, “and yet I tremble to decide on her choice of the art as a profession. She is so young, so sensitive, so ill able to sustain herself against the many trials of an artiste----”

“And is it you who talk thus?” asked the Marchese, surprised. “You, who sacrificed opulence, rank, friends, for the love of art--to share the fortunes of a votary of music!”

“I am the better able,” said the lady, smiling, “to judge of its consolations. Of its triumphs I say nothing; for I would not have Marietta influenced by the least whisper of vanity in her choice for life!”

“You are then undetermined as to your daughter’s embracing the profession of music?” cried Ronza, astonished. “You have perhaps, other views--other designs for her?”

“Signore?” said the mother, evidently not understanding the drift of the question.

“Nay,” said the Marchese, recovering himself, “it is not right to ask such questions, at least, without confiding our whole project to you, madam. And first, have no fears as to granting my request. It is only before a select audience that I wish your daughter to sing.”

“Then my permission is freely granted,” replied the lady.

“A word more. You are aware, madam, of the recent misfortune of our friend Tamburini?”

“The death of his mother? Ah! it was a terrible blow. I am told he bears it not with resignation.”

“Alas! madam, the blow may cost him his life. Driven by grief to despair, he has already applied for admission into the Convent ----.”

“This is dreadful!” exclaimed the lady; and Ronza saw that her cheek grew pale.

“His application,” he continued, “has been refused, as it ought to be, and he is now resolved on quitting Milan. You know Antonio; you know him to be one of those fiery spirits, impatient of suffering, ready to plunge into imprudence, and obstinate against opposition. The only hope of saving him is to re-awaken his ambition--his impulse for art.”

“And how can that be done?”

“By a master stroke, if at all; and in this I crave your aid. Your daughter--I have seen it--has much influence over our spoiled artist. I have seen his emotion when she sang, at your private concerts.”

“You overrate her powers,” said the mother, reservedly. “But her aid and mine shall be cheerfully given to any enterprise that promises to divert the grief of our valued friend. Your wish is----”

“Simply, that she will take a part in the _Posto Abbandonato_, in an act of which he will appear. A few select friends are to be the audience. I will have the piece sent to her immediately.”

“I promise for her.”

“I thank you, madam, and the world will thank you,” cried the Marchese, as he paid his parting salutations and hastened to his rendezvous with the count.

* * * * *

But the mother found opposition where she had not counted upon it--from the young lady herself. Marietta seemed the more averse to the proposition, the more she was reasoned with about it; and her own reasons for her reluctance were, as a petted young girl’s are sometimes apt to be, so frivolous, that they vexed Madame Gioja. Was it obstinacy or coquetry? thought she; but her daughter was ever wont to be complying, and above all artifice. She told Marietta there was no receding from her word pledged for her compliance; and then, though with not a little pouting, the young lady set about learning the part assigned to her.

* * * * *

The preparations of Tamburini for leaving Milan were complete. The amateurs of the city were in despair; but no entreaties could move his determination. Count Albert passed with him the afternoon of the last day, to be crowned, according to the earnest solicitation of numerous friends, by a private concert, in which the already famous singer was to gratify them for the last time. It was to be his adieu to them, to music and the world.

“You will have the goodness also, dear count, to have this package delivered after my departure. It is a selection of the best pieces of opera music in my collection, with the great works of Gluck. Ah! he was once my favorite master.”

“Have you lost your taste for his compositions?”

“No; but I can no longer do them justice. I am an ingrate, for if I ever had aught of energy, fire or force, I owe it to him. What strength, what soul there is in his creations! how they task the noblest faculties! Passion they have, but more than passion; it is the very mind, the genius of tragedy.”

The count read the direction on the package--it was addressed “To Mademoiselle Marietta Gioja.”

“There is another of my lost divinities,” said Antonio, with a melancholy smile. “I might”--and his face flushed deeply as he spoke--“had I risen to the summit I once hoped to attain, to an eminence that would have conferred distinction on those I loved, I might have dared to offer her the homage of my heart. Beautiful as she is, the perfections of her person are surpassed by her mental loveliness, and oh, what angelic goodness! But I must not speak of her; it makes me bitter to think in what a delusion I have indulged.”

“Believe it, believe it yet!” cried Albert, grasping his friend’s hand.

“No; I am now fully awakened. What a mockery to think of one elevated so far above me! Her aristocratic descent, the pride of her mother’s family,--the claims of these might have been satisfied, had I lived to realize my lofty visions! But they are dispelled, and I have resigned this sweetest hope of all; cherishing only the thought that she will not perhaps disdain my last gift; that these noble and glorious works may sometimes recall to her mind the memory of one who, had he proved worthy, would have dared to love her.”

“This is folly!” exclaimed the count. “You are depressed, and the world seems dark to you. With time, the soother of sorrow----”

“You mistake, my dear friend. It is not the pressure of grief alone that weighs me down, and has crushed my energies. I were not a man had I not within me a principle that could bear up against the heaviest calamity. But,” and he laid his hand impressively on Albert’s arm, “heard you never of the _death of enthusiasm_?”

His friend sighed deeply.

“It is thus with me. I have nothing now to offer at the shrine of art. Shall I present her with a cold and soulless votary, rifled of his treasure of youth, and faith, and hope? Shall I, whose spirit has flagged in the race, long ere the goal was won, pluck at inferior honors? Shall I cumber the arena to dishearten others, when I can obtain no prize? How am I to inspire the public with confidence when I have lost it in myself? How can I kindle passion in others, who am dead to its fires? No, Count Albert, I have become insensible to the deepest, the highest wonders of music. I will not insult her by a dragging, desperate mediocrity. I will not impede the advance of better spirits. I have fallen in the battle--the honors of victory are not for me.”

It was melancholy to see this paralysis, this prostration of a noble spirit! And yet, how to combat it? Argument was in vain, and the count rejoiced when this painful interview was at an end. It was already evening, and time to go to the concert; the carriage was at the door. He took his friend’s arm and led him down. Not a word was exchanged as they drove on, till they drew up and alighted at their place of destination.

It was at the house of a distinguished amateur that this final concert was to take place, and the saloon had been fitted up as a small theatre. A select number of auditors--many more, however, than the performers had expected--were seated at the upper end of the room. The stage was brilliantly lighted, and the scenery so well painted and so admirably arranged as almost to bewilder the senses with illusion. All that taste and poetry could devise, lent their enchantment to the scene.

Those who have observed the effect of sudden excitement on minds long and deeply depressed,--that is, in temperaments highly susceptible,--may conceive the conflict of emotion in the breast of Antonio, as he found himself thus unexpectedly surrounded by the external splendor and beauty of scenic art. He had anticipated meeting with a few friends, to sing with them a farewell song. What meant these flowery wreaths, this blaze of light, this luxury of painting? The orchestra struck up; their music seemed to penetrate his inmost soul; the revulsion of feeling kindled a wild energy within him. He felt, and at once, almost the inspiration of early youth. Though convinced it was but momentary, he yielded to the impulse and advanced upon the stage.

His symmetrical and noble figure, the grace and expression of his movements, the mind beaming from his features, would at any time have prepossessed an audience in his favor. Under the present affecting circumstances, appealing to every heart, the welcome was tumultuous and long. Tamburini, as he acknowledged it, recovered his melancholy composure. It was destined soon to be overthrown.

At a little distance from him stood the heroine of the piece; like him, bewildered at the novelty of her position and the splendor of her reception, and blushing in much confusion. Could Antonio believe his eyes? It was Marietta Gioja!

With an involuntary exclamation of surprise, he hastened towards her. He did not perceive either pride or coquetry in her evident avoidance of him. But there was no time for explanations. The music played on, and both performed their parts to the rapturous delight of all who listened.

At last the curtain fell. The young debutante was standing upon the stage; she turned to go, but at the instant her hand was clasped by Antonio and covered with burning kisses.

“Marietta, dear Marietta, how can I thank you for this?”

She struggled to withdraw her hand; she repelled him haughtily. He saw that her face was bathed in tears.

“For pity’s sake, Marietta, tell me how I have offended you!”

“Let me go, sir; it is all I ask!”

But love was stronger than reason or reserve. The torrent had burst its bounds, and it must overflow. In language impassioned as his own heart, irrepressible as the burning lava of a volcano, he poured forth the love so long nourished in secret. He told her of his hopes and fears--all, all swallowed up in earnest, ardent devotion! The tide of feeling had swept down at once both memory and resolution.

The hues of the rose and lily chased each other rapidly across the cheek of the beautiful girl. Suddenly, at a rustling in the silken folds that veiled them from a view of the audience, she snatched her hands from her lover and rushed off the stage.

Antonio was about to follow her, when Madame Gioja appeared. She led by the hand her trembling and blushing daughter.

“My daughter came hither in obedience to my commands,” said she. “And now, Marietta, that your bashful scruples are satisfied, and there is no danger that our friend can charge you with any unmaidenly project for storming his heart, you may as well tell him that you love him in sincerity, though in truth this scene is not the fittest for a real declaration. Since it must be, however, take my blessing, dear children!”

There was a continued clamor without, and frequent cries of “Tamburini.” Presently a corner of the curtain was raised, and the Marchese di Ronza appeared, his face radiant with benevolent joy.

“I have the happiness to announce to you, my friends, that our distinguished and well beloved Antonio has concluded to defer, indefinitely, his departure from Milan. You will dispense, therefore, with his farewell at present. I have reason to hope that he will ere long favor us with his performance through the whole piece of the _Posto Abbandonato_, and congratulate you, as well as myself, upon the certainty that he has no idea of _abandoning his post_!”

Loud, heartfelt and rapturous was the cheering that greeted this announcement. Tamburini heard, and wondered in his new born happiness how he could ever have yielded to despair.

Thus was a great artist rescued from self-despondency and restored to the world. The disappointment of his first project of turning recluse, was made to bring forth wholesome fruit. But the Marchese, whose plan of a surprise had so admirably succeeded, was never willing to give love all the credit it deserved. As to Madame Gioja, she knew the human heart, and wondered not at the result.

A short time after, the nuptials of Marietta and Antonio were celebrated. Though he cherished with veneration to the end of his life the memory of his mother, yet never again did he yield to that self-distrust and despair, which in the true artist is burying the talent committed to him.

* * * * *