Chapter VI: Preface (6)

“The Prague musicians’ band,
Wandering in every land,
A welcome still have they!
They wear no clothing rich,
Nor boast of courtly speech,
Yet fiddling,
And blowing,
Still welcome greets their way.

“How youth and maiden round,
When horn and fiddle sound,
Whirl in the dance so light!
To the old toper’s eyes
The sparkling goblet flies,
With fiddling,
And blowing,
In beauty doubly bright!

“And when the song is done,
And the dances through are run,
And quiet every guest--
Then sounds the thankful hymn
For joy filled to the brim,
Ascending,
Soft breathing
From every honest breast.

“Then let us onward ever,
Cheerful and gay for ever,
With us St. Nepomuck!
Till with full pockets, we,
And empty flasks--you see,
Still singing,
And blowing,
Stand on the Prager Bruck.”

Still playing, the musicians receded, the sound growing softer and fainter every moment; the moon rose above the mountains, the Moldau uttered its low mysterious murmur;--and deeply moved, Mozart rose, wished his friends a heart-felt good night, and betook himself to his chamber, where till near morning he continued playing on the piano.

THE DISTRIBUTION.

Mozart gave his concert, and reaped therefrom not only rich store of applause, but no contemptible gain. As Duscheck wished him happiness with the latter, and added--

“I know indeed, that you write more for the sake of fame than of gold--particularly in Vienna--”

“For what should I write?” muttered the master; “for fame? for gold? Certainly not! for generally I fail to get either. I write for love of _Art_--I would have you know!”

Meanwhile Mozart had worked assiduously at his Don Giovanni; and on the fourth of October, 1787, showed it to the Impressario complete, except the Overture, and a few breaks in the instrumentation.

Guardasoni was greatly rejoiced--and immediately counted out to the master the stipulated ducats;--but when Mozart began to speak of the distribution of the parts, the poor Impressario confessed with grief, that he had for the last month anticipated trouble in this business; for that there was always a ferment among the singers, male and female--every she and every he laying claim to a principal part.

“My people, I thank fortune,” he concluded, “are none of the worst, and Bassi is good nature itself; but in certain points they can manage to give a poor Impressario enough to do; and in particular, the fair Saporitti and the little Bondini are possessed with a spirit of tormenting, when they are in their odd humors.”

“Take care only, not to let them perceive your apprehension,” said Mozart; “they are friendly to me, that I know, and you shall soon see how I will bring them all under my thumb.”

“Between you and me,” observed Guardasoni with a sly smile, “I expect the greatest condescension from Saporitti; for, proud as she is, she is not only friendly to you, but, I imagine, something more than friendly!”

“Eh! that may be!’ cried the master, rubbing his hands with delight; for much as he honored and loved his wife, he did not disdain a little flirtation now and then. Guardasoni continued innocently--

“As I tell you--for she said to me the other day--“I could fall in love with the Signor Amadeo, for he is a great man, and I should not mind his insignificant figure.”

“The master was crest-fallen! It was not a little mortifying to hear that the fair Saporitti had made mention of his small and insignificant figure, especially to such a tall man as Guardasoni. He colored, but merely said with nonchalance--

“Call them together for me, Signor Guardasoni, and I will read them the text they are to sing.”

Guardasoni went away, and the next day assembled all the singers in the green-room of the theatre. Mozart came in, dressed in rich sables, a martial hat adorned with gold lace on his head, the director’s staff in his hand. He ascended a platform, and began his address at first in a formal and earnest manner; but gradually sliding off into a good humored, sportive tone, for he never could belie his harmless character.

MOZART’S SPEECH.

“Honored ladies and gentlemen--

“It is known to you that long ago I received from your Impressario, Signor Guardasoni, the flattering commission, to compose an opera for _his_ company. I undertook it the more gladly, as I have the pleasure of knowing you all, and therefore the certainty of laboring for true artists.

“My work is finished; ‘DON GIOVANNI, _ossia il dissoluto punito_.’ I can assure you, I have honestly endeavored to study carefully the peculiar character of each of the honored members of Guardasoni’s present company, and have had particular regard to this in every part in my opera.

“I have thus succeeded in composing a work, which forms not only of itself a harmonious whole, but in each separate part promises the artists for whom it was intended, the fairest success. An opera, which I believe will please even in future times; which will be perhaps pronounced my best work, as I myself esteem it such. But one thing I know; that a representation so perfect as I hope for it through you, is not to be procured hereafter.

“Where could we find a Don Giovanni, like my young friend Luigi Bassi? his noble figure, his wonderful voice, his manner, his wit, his unstudied fire, when he bends in homage to beauty,--qualify him eminently for the hero of my opera. Of the profligate he can assume just so much as is necessary; for my hero is no rude butcher, nor a common mischievous villain, but a hot-headed, passionate youth.

“Could I point out for him a more perfect Donna Anna, than the beautiful, stately, virtuous Saporitti? All conflicting feelings of love, hate, sympathy, revenge, she will depict, in song and in action--as I conceived them when I composed the work.

“And who could represent the faithful, delicate, resentful, yet ever forgiving and loving Elvira, more consummately than the charming, gentle, pensive Catarina Micelli? She is Don Giovanni’s warning angel, forsaking him only in the last moment. Ah! such an angel should convert _me_, for I also am a great sinner, _spite of my insignificant figure_! And now for the little, impatient, mischievous, inexperienced and curious Zerlina.

“_O, la ci darem la mano, Signorella Bondini!_ sweet little one! you are too tempting! and if my stanzerl were to sing her “vedrai carino” to me, like _you_, by Jupiter! it were all over with me!”

“That the good Felice Ponziani is satisfied with his Leporello, and the excellent primo tenoro, Antonio Baglioni, with his Don Ottavio, rejoices my very heart. Signor Guiseppo Lolli has, out of friendship for me, undertaken the part of Massetto, besides that of the Comthur, because he would have all the parts _well_ performed. I have already thanked him for his kind attention, and thank him now again.

“And thus I close my speech so meet;
With joy the evening will I greet,
When my beloved opera
Through you appears in gloria!
If author and singers are agreed,
Of toil for the rest there is no need!
And you shall see with what delight
I will direct and set you right;
I will pay diligent heed to all,
That neither in time nor touch you fall.
Let every one but do his best--
We of success assured may rest;
So tells you from his candid heart
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.”

The master ended his speech; his audience clapped approbation, and they separated in good humor and mutual satisfaction.

THE REHEARSAL.

On the twenty-eighth day of October, Don Giovanni being complete except the overture, the rehearsals began. On the morning of the first rehearsal, before Mozart went to the opera-house, he walked for recreation in the public garden. Before him he saw the well known figure of the trumpeter, Nepomuck Stradetzky, absorbed, as it seemed, in meditation. Mozart walked faster, overtook him and tapped him gently on the shoulder. Nepomuck turned quickly, growling out--

“Ha, what do you want?” but bowed almost to the ground as he recognised the master, and said: “Ah! I beg a thousand pardons, worthy Herr von Mozart! I was deep in revery, and thought it some knave who wanted to play a trick upon me! I beg your pardon--”

“For what?” replied Mozart. “Nobody is pleased at being disturbed in a revery--not I, at least! But what were you thinking about, Herr von Stradetzky?”

Nepomuck answered with a clear brow, “Ay, of what but your opera, most excellent Herr von Mozart? Is not all Prague full of expectation of the miracle that is to appear? Wherever I go, I am asked, “Herr von Nepomuck, when is the first representation? You play the tenor-trumpet, eh, Herr von Nepomuck?”

“No.” I answer, “the bass-trumpet!”

“So, so!” they say--“the bass-trumpet, eh, Herr von Nepomuck?”

“Have you tried your notes through, Herr von Nepomuck?”

“Yes, indeed! Herr von Mozart! and I am delighted with the long full tones; but in the two choruses are a few hard notes.”

“Pah! you will get through with them, Herr von Nepomuck!”

“I hope so, Herr von Mozart, and will do my best.”

They walked a little longer, chatting, in the shaded avenue, and then betook themselves to the theatre.

The rehearsal began; Mozart was everywhere! now in the orchestra, now on the stage, directing or improving the scenic arrangements. In the ball scene of the first act, where Bassi did not dance to please him, he himself joined the circle and danced a minuet with Zerlina with so much grace, that he did all credit to his master Noverre. So by a bold stroke he amended the shriek of Zerlina, which after repeated ‘Da capos’ did not suit him; creeping behind her at the moment she was about to repeat the cry for the fourth time, he suddenly seized her with such violence that, really frightened, she screamed in good earnest; whereupon he cried laughing, “bravo! that is what I want! you must shriek in that way at the representation.”

The good-humored little Bondini forgave him her fright; but an instruction in the second act was not so well received. Here, in the church-yard scene, to strengthen the effect of both adagios, which the statue has to sing, he had placed the three trumpeters behind the monument. In the second adagio the trumpeters blew wrong; Mozart cried, “Da capo!” it was repeated and this time the bass only failed. The master went to the desk, and patiently showed Nepomuck how he wanted the notes played; but even after the third repetition Nepomuck made the same blunder.

“What the mischief, Stradetzky!” cried Mozart, with vexation, and stamping his foot; “you must play correctly!”

Nepomuck, offended, grumbled out, “Herr von Stradetzky is my name, and I play what is possible to play with the trumpet! what you have written _there_, the devil himself could not play.”

“No, indeed!” said Mozart gently; “if what I have written suits not the instrument, I must by all means alter it!” He immediately made the alteration and added to the original instrumentation both bassoons as well as two double basses. Finally, he let the chorus of Furies sing _under_ the scene, and would not permit visible demons to drag Don Giovanni into the abyss.

With this the rehearsal ended. Mozart, on the whole, was satisfied with the singers and the orchestra; and the performers promised themselves the most brilliant success. As the master went home from the theatre, Nepomuck Stradetzky came behind him, took hold of the skirt of his coat, and said earnestly--

“Do not be angry with me, Herr von Mozart, because I have been a little bearish! That is often my way, and you know I mean well!”

Mozart replied cordially, “Nay, Herr von Nepomuck, I ought to be grateful to you, for having pointed out to me the error in my notes for the trumpet. Nevertheless, it is true, faults may be pointed out in a pleasant manner! Well, in future we will observe more courtesy!”

Nepomuck promised, and they parted in friendship.

THE OVERTURE.

The lovely Saporitti endeavored sedulously to efface from the memory of the little Master Amadeo, the unintentional offence her remark had given him. Mozart speedily forgave and forgot it, and was unwearied in giving her assistance in the study of her part, not hesitating to find fault where it was necessary, but likewise liberally bestowing encouraging praise.

The Signora one morning took occasion to praise the serenade of Don Giovanni, as peculiarly happy, and commended its bland southern coloring; observing that _such_ soft persuasive love tones were foreign to the rude northern speech. Mozart replied with a smile--

“We Germans speak out indeed more honestly; yet it often-times sounds not ill!” And the evening of the same day, the master sang a serenade, charming indeed, but quite in the taste of the bagpipe-playing Prague musicians, under the window of the Signora Saporitti.

Meantime the day appointed for the first representation of ‘Don Giovanni,’ the third of November, was just at hand, and Mozart had never yet written the overture! Guardasoni urged--the master’s friends were anxious--Mozart only laughed, and said, “I will write it this afternoon.” But he did not write it; he went on an excursion of pleasure with his wife. Guardasoni was now really in despair.

“You see, it never will do!” he cried repeatedly, and sent messengers in every direction in vain; Mozart was no where to be found; and Strobach was obliged to promise that in case of extreme necessity he would adopt the overture to Idomeneo.

It was midnight when Mozart’s carriage stopped before his dwelling; and his friends, Guardasoni at their head, immediately surrounded him with complaints and reproaches. The master sprung out of his carriage, crying--

“Leave me to myself; now I will go to work in good earnest!” He went into the house, shut the door behind him, threw himself on his seat at the writing table, and began to write. In a few minutes, however, he started up, and cried laughing to his wife--“It will not come right yet! I will go to bed for an hour; wake me up at that time, and make me some punch!” And without undressing he flung himself on the bed. Constance prepared the punch, and in an hour’s time went to awaken her husband; but Mozart slept so sweetly, she could not find it in her heart to disturb him. She let him lie another hour; then, as time pressed, she awakened him.

Mozart rubbed his eyes, collected his thoughts, shook himself, and without further ado began his work. Constance sat by him, gave him the punch, and to keep him in good spirits, began to tell him all manner of funny and horrible stories--of the Prince-fish, of Blue Beard, of the Princess with swine’s snout, etc., etc. till Mozart, still writing, laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. At two o’clock in the morning he began his wonderful work; at six it lay on the desk finished. The master started up; he could hardly stand upright. “Done for this time!” he muttered; “but I shall not soon try it again!” And he laid himself down again to sleep.

At seven the copyist came for the notes, in the utmost hurry to write them out, which he could not accomplish before half-past seven in the evening; so that the performance, instead of commencing at seven was postponed to eight o’clock. Still wet, and covered with sand, the hastily copied parts were brought in and arranged in the orchestra.

The strange story of the composition of the overture soon spread among the audience. When Mozart came into the orchestra, he was greeted with thundering ‘Bravos!’ from an overflowing house. He bowed low, and turning to the performers in the orchestra, said--

“Gentlemen, we have not been able to have a rehearsal of the overture; but I know what I can venture with you. So, quick! to work!” He took up the time-staff, gave the signal, and like a thunder burst, with the clang of trumpets, sounded the first accord of the awful andante; which, as well as the succeeding allegro, was executed by the orchestra with admirable spirit. When the overture was at an end, the storm of applause seemed as if it would never cease.

“There were indeed a few notes dropped under the desk,” observed Mozart, smiling, to Strobach during the introduction; “but on the whole it went off splendidly! I am greatly indebted to these gentlemen.”

How during the remainder of the opera the applause rose from scene to scene--how from its first representation to the present day, on every occasion, the ‘_Fin chan dal vino_,’ called and still calls forth enthusiastic encores, is well known, not only to the brave people of Prague, but to the whole civilized world.

This little circle of scenes may prove a pleasant memorial of the first production of a noble work, destined through all future time to command the admiration of feeling hearts.

LAST VISIT TO DOLES.

It was a holiday in the year 1789; and the venerable cantor of Saint Thomas’ church, Leipzig, after morning service was over, made ready to take a walk about the city, in company with a few of his friends.

The month was May, and the morning was lovely; the old gentleman had smoothed the immaculate ruffles of his shirt-bosom, placed his three-cornered hat on his head a little over the left ear, and taken his Spanish gold-headed walking stick in his hand, ready for his promenade--when a sudden idea darted into his head. The music he had partly composed early that morning, while engaged about the church-service, and which he had thought would turn out nobly, came to him all at once; and fearful of losing it, he turned immediately back, with his customary ejaculation, “To Him alone be the glory!” and entered his own house, where were already arrived his faithful wife and his beloved daughter, Lena.

The good dame asked with some anxiety, wherefore he had returned so soon; and Lena looked as if she feared she would next have to run for the doctor. But Father Doles, (it was no less a person,) soon dissipated their fears by informing them that nothing but a new musical thought had brought him back. The women laughed at this; Lena took his hat and stick, and while her mother helped him to pull off his brown over-coat, and to put on his flowered silk dressing-gown, not forgetting the little black silk cap, she arranged the writing-table, and placed on it some fresh paper for his notes. Next she brought him a bowl of soup, with a bottle of old Rhenish wine, a cask of which had been given her father by the gracious Elector, in token of approbation of his services.

When all was ready, Father Doles embraced his wife, kissed the white forehead of his daughter, and they both left him to his labors. He sat down and commenced his work, not without an inward prayer for success, as was his pious custom.

He had not been writing very long, when the door was opened more hastily than usual, without much ceremony. A tall, stately man strode in, and across the room to where Doles was quietly sitting. It was Jacobus Freigang, a merchant and highly respected magistrate. He came near the table, and struck the floor hard with his cane. Doles looked up from his work, nodded with a cordial smile, and said, reaching his hand to his friend, “Salve!”

His friend did not take his offered hand, but cried rather angrily--“Tell me, I entreat you, are you going to behave like a vain fellow in your old days, and treat your friends as if they were not deserving of civility? There we all are--Weisse, Hiller, and I, and Friedrich, and another person; there we all are, waiting and waiting for you, and running to the door to see if you were coming, and thinking how we should enjoy your surprise at sight of our newly arrived guest. At last, Breitkopf comes to ask after you, and you are not come--though you promised me in the choir you would speedily join us! The company are impatient; Hiller grows surly; I stand there like a fool; at last Friedrich says you must have gone home--so here I come and find you sitting quietly at work! In the name of decency! what are we to make of you?”

Doles laughed heartily at his friend’s comical anger, and then good-naturedly apologised for his neglect. “Do not be angry with me, old friend; I had to write down my thema! Bethink you, I am seventy-two, and any day may be my last. I must use what time I have, and when Heaven sends me a good musical idea, make haste and write down what my old head cannot long retain. Now I have just finished my thema, and if you wish it, I will go with you; though, after all, I am but dull company for younger ones, and they must have dined already.”

“You must not dine at home to-day!” cried his visitor, “our friends are waiting--you must go to Breitkopf’s this moment.”

“Nay, Freigang, now I think of it, ’tis a holiday--and my wife and daughter must not sit down alone to table.”

“They know you are going with me; and as for leaving them alone, I have sent Friedrich to them. He will eat enough for two! So, off with your dressing-gown, and on with your coat.”

“But--”

“But me no buts! I will fetch you a valet who will make you bestir yourself!” so saying, Freigang stepped to the door, opened it, and cried--“Come in!”

A young man, small of stature, and elegantly dressed, of pale complexion, large, dark, flashing eyes, a handsome, aquiline nose, and a mouth that seemed made for music, entered quickly. The voice in which he gave cheerful greeting to Father Doles, as he sprang to his side, was music itself.

Doles started from his seat with an exclamation of joy: his grey eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed, and as he embraced the young man, tears of delight rolled down them.

“My Wolfgang!” he cried, “my dear, good son! I am rejoiced to see you once more!”

Freigang laughed, as much as to say, “See, my point is gained now!”

Lena and her mother came in at that moment, and ran to welcome the stranger. As soon as her father had released him, the lively girl clapped her hands over his eyes, standing behind him, and cried--

“Who is this, Wolfgang--can you tell?”

“A lovely, mischievous little girl!” answered Mozart, laughing, “who calls herself Lena, and shall give me a kiss!” and turning round, he caught her in his arms, and took his revenge.

“Is your wife with you this time?” asked Madame Doles.

“No, I have not brought her with me,” answered Mozart, while he assisted Doles to arrange his dress. “She is not fully recovered from her last winter’s illness. Ah! how often she wishes for you, good mother; you would hardly believe we could feel so lonely and desolate in so large a city as Vienna!”

“Why do you not come and live here?” asked Lena impatiently, “where we all love you so much. We would never let you feel lonely or desolate. Your wife should like us all, and I would keep your boys with me. Be advised, Mozart, and come to live in Leipzig.”

“You are always _couleur de rose_, Lena,” said the composer, laughing; “but I should find it harder to get away than you imagine. In the first place I could not leave my Emperor, and in the next, as far as art is concerned, one can do in Vienna as he cannot well elsewhere.”

“Hem,” muttered Freigang, “we are not badly off as to music, here.”

“By no means,” said Mozart, earnestly, “and most excellent music. Your church music and your concerts are unrivalled--may I never live to see the day when they shall be talked of as a thing that is past! But you know, father,” he turned to Doles, “while your artists and connoisseurs stand among the first, as regards the public and the popular taste, you cannot compete even with the Viennese, much less with mine excellent friends of Prague and Munich. I hope and trust these matters will change for the better in time; just at present, I at least find it my interest to prefer Vienna, Munich, or Prague.”

“It is as you say, dear Wolfgang,” replied Doles; “they call our Leipzig a little Paris; but we must plead guilty to some northern coldness and caution, and this excessive prudence it is which hinders us from following immediately in the new path you have opened for us.”

“And yet I have reason to quarrel with the Viennese,” interrupted Mozart. “My Giovanni can testify to that.”

“Shall I confess to you,” said Doles, “that as much as I have heard of this opera, though it surprises, astonishes, charms me, it does not, to say the truth, quite _satisfy_ me?”

The composer smiled; his old friend began to criticise, when he interrupted him--

“Why have you heard the opera _piecemeal_ in this way? After Idomeneo, Don Giovanni is my favorite--I might say my masterpiece! But you must not hear it piecemeal; you cannot judge of it except as a whole.”

“For my part, I am delighted with your Figaro,” said Lena; “it is sung and played everywhere here; you may hear it in the streets on every barrel organ. I sing it myself on the piano;” and therewith she began carelessly to sing--

“And my glass still flattering, tells me
That I am not such a fright!”

“Lena! Lena!” said her mother, shaking her head. But Mozart cried--“Bravo! go on, little one!” and going to the piano, he began to play. They went through the duet, and at the end Freigang applauded heartily. Then he took Father Doles under one arm, and the composer, still humming, under the other, and bidding the ladies a friendly “Adieu!” departed.

“What a charming man is Mozart!” exclaimed Lena, and still singing her favorite tune, accompanied her mother to the dining room, where they found Friedrich just arrived.

After a social dinner at the house of the hospitable Breitkopf, Mozart’s publisher, the friends adjourned to the celebrated Rosenthal, where Goëthe, as a student, used to amuse himself. The pretty Swiss cottage was not then built; but on the place where it now stands, was pitched, in the summer months, a tent or pavillion, spacious enough to accommodate a large party of ladies and gentlemen in case of a sudden shower, or when they sought refreshment from the heat.

Madame Doles and Lena, Madame Freigang and her daughter Cecilia, went early to Rosenthal, accompanied by Friedrich, and prepared for the arrival of the gentlemen. It was a pleasant little party; the guests were all in high spirits; even the stern Hiller, who sometimes appeared something of the cynic, was heard to burst into frequent laughter at Mozart’s sallies of humor and impromptu verses. Friedrich, a lad of about eighteen, the favorite pupil of Doles, stood near the composer, and listened smiling, though now and then he looked grave when Mozart’s gayety seemed about to overstep the bounds of decorum.

In the midst of their talk Hiller became suddenly serious, then turned about quickly, as if he had a mind to go back, before they entered the tent. Freigang caught his arm, and cried--

“What is the matter with you, Hiller? Right about, you do not part from us till after sunset.”

“Let me alone!” answered the stern old man. “I cannot bear to look at the good-for-nothing fellow!”

“At whom?” Freigang followed the direction of his friend’s finger, and burst out a laughing. “Ha! Mozart!” he cried, “look yonder; there comes Hiller’s favorite!”

A man was coming towards the company; he approached with very unsteady steps, but did not perceive them till he stood directly before them. He seemed about thirty years of age, perhaps older; was slender and well formed, but his features were sharpened and pallid, and his whole person bore the marks of excessive dissipation. His oiled-cloth cap was placed sideways on his uncombed head; his coat had once been a fine one, but lacked much of the lace belonging to it, and several buttons here and there; his satin vest was frayed and torn; his rumpled collar, (the cravat was entirely wanting,) as well as the rest of his attire, bespoke a slovenly disregard to comfort or cleanliness.

“Bon jour, monsieur?” cried Freigang, as this disgusting object came near.

The man stood still, rolled up his meaningless eyes, contracted his brows, and at length shading off the sun with his hand, looked inquisitively at the speaker. After a few moments he recognized him, and with a low, ceremonious bow, from which he found it difficult to recover himself--“Most worthy sir!” he said, “at your service--I am your humble--servant!”

“You seem to be in deep thought,” observed Freigang, laughing.

“He is drunk, the wretched dog!” muttered Hiller, greatly disgusted.

“If I am not mistaken,” stammered the man, “I have the honor--to salute--the most excellent Director of music--Monsieur Hiller--yes--I am right--it is he! I am happy--to speak with your excellency! I am highly pleased at the--unexpected--pleasure of this meeting!”

“I am _not_,” retorted Hiller, angrily; “I would have walked a mile out of the way to avoid it. I do not feel honored at being in such company.”

“Nay, Hiller,” remonstrated Mozart.

“Let the excellent Director scold as much as he likes,” said the stranger, indifferently, and speaking more fluently than at first; “what is in the heart, must come out of the lips; and after all, I must allow, Monsieur Hiller has indeed some little cause to be vexed with me! You must all know I ran away with his foster-daughter! I am the famous violoncellist, MARA, the husband of the famous singer--”

“Is it possible?” cried Mozart, astonished and grieved; “can this be Mara?”

“At your service, most worthy master--eh? what is the little man called?” said he, addressing Doles.

Doles answered--“It is the chapel-master, Mozart, from Vienna.”

Mara lifted up both hands in amazement. “The little”--he cried, “the _great_ Mozart--who has composed such splendid quartettos! who has composed Don Giovanni, and I know not what!”

“The same!” answered Weisse; and Freigang advised Mara to look at him straight, for he was worth taking some pains to see.

Mara seemed overpowered with his respect; he took off his soiled hat, and making a low bow, said to Mozart, “I have the honor to be--your--servant! You see me to-day for the first time _en canaille_; I need not apologise to you, for you know how apt good resolutions are to melt away in a bowl of liquor!” The composer colored slightly. “Another time,” continued the tippler, “you shall see me with my best face, and hear how I can handle my instrument; till then, I have the honor to commend myself to your friendly remembrance!” He went on past the company, but on a second thought turned back for an instant and addressed Hiller. “Before we part, most worshipful music-director--I know you have had much uneasiness on the score of Gertrude; her running away from you was to be excused, as you were only her foster-father! but you would be quite shocked to learn in what a manner she has behaved to me, as Madame Mara, and what I have had to bear on her account! I wish not to insinuate that she has not her good qualities or is altogether an ill-disposed person--_au contraire!_ She paid my debts once in Berlin, but what did that help me? did not the great Frederick--may he rest in peace--keep me a quarter of a year among his soldiers, and had not the brutal corporal the impudence to beat me! Sir, I assure you, such treatment soured my feelings, and to this day, when I am playing, I often think of my wife and the King, and the corporal with his heavy cane! Excuse me then, sir, for if I do take a drop too much now and then, ’tis to drown my sorrows at Gertrude’s scandalous behavior! Let us part good friends, old gentleman; mind not trifles. I shall be happy to see you at any time at my house in Windmill Street, No. 857. I am sober every day, till eight o’clock; come and see me, and if you like a dance I will play for you; my violincello is a capital old instrument, a veritable Cremonese, full toned and strong. Your servant, sir.” Therewith the drunken musician walked on, leaving Hiller undecided whether to laugh or be angry.

The company sat down to a collation under the tent. Mozart was astonished to find Cecilia grown so much. The last time he had seen her was at Berlin, five years before. She was then a pretty child, but now a very beautiful girl. It is not for words to paint that fresh, innocent beauty, the pledge of an unsullied soul. She had grown a woman, and her manner was changed from girlish vivacity and frankness, to womanly dignity and reserve. Mozart did not, however, like her dropping the familiar “_Du_,” (Thou,) and “Wolfgang!” in conversation with him.

“Why do you not still call me Wolfgang?” asked he. “Lena, calls me so, and is she not of the same age with yourself?”

But Cecilia said “Mozart,” so prettily, it sounded like music from her lips. The composer soon learned to reverence her as the gifted and cultivated woman, as well as to admire her as the lovely girl. Nor had he reason to complain of coldness or constraint when once she became interested in the conversation. The hours flew swiftly to that social party of friends, and twilight came too soon upon them.

As they went forth, Cecilia took Lena’s arm and whispered--

“How charming he is, Lena! do you not love him?”

“Ah, Cecilia!” answered her friend, gravely, and shaking her head, “take care you do not love him too much--you know he is sometimes fond of playing the flirt.”

Cecilia blushed, and smiled incredulously, but said nothing. The gentlemen accompanied the ladies to the house of Doles, and then went to supper at Breitkopf’s.

* * * * *

The next day Mozart was showing his friends an autograph letter of King Frederick William II., of Prussia, and a royal present of a gold watch, set round with rich jewels. The composer, on his last visit to Berlin, had played in the King’s presence, and this had been sent as a token of approbation. Lena clapped her hands with delight at seeing it, and called her mother to admire its magnificence, and Doles expressed equal wonder at its splendor, and the liberality of the King.

“Are you pleased with it, father?” cried Mozart, “well, I will make it a present to you,” and would have pressed the watch upon him, but Doles firmly refused, saying it was not treating the King with proper respect to give away his gift. Mozart was really vexed that he should decline it, and would not take back the watch without a grave reproof from Madame Doles. A year after, the same watch was stolen from him by a dissolute musician, Stadeler by name, whom he had permitted to lodge in his house several months, furnished him with supplies, and even composed for him a clarionet concert.

After this little matter was adjusted, and the usual skirmish between the composer and Lena at an end, he and Doles accompanied by Friedrich went to the rehearsal of his concert.

Many persons are living in Leipzig who are so happy as to remember having listened to that last concert of Mozart. I have seen their eyes sparkle, and their cheeks glow, in speaking of it. It recalled to their bosoms the enthusiasm of youth.

Mozart was not wholly satisfied with the musicians, and he drilled them thoroughly. Once he stamped on the floor so emphatically, that he shattered a costly shoe-buckle. The performers were vexed, and played prestissimo; he cried “Bravo!” and said to an old friend, when he saw him shaking his head--“Nay, nay, do not disturb yourself about my strange behavior this morning. These people are old and slow: their work to-night will be a drag, unless I put some fire into them by scolding them out of patience. I think now all will go off admirably.”

And all did go off admirably that night. The boundless applause of the audience, and Mozart’s cheerful commendations and thanks, put the orchestra once more in high good humor.

Cecilia, who had already much reputation as a singer, sang two airs from Idomeneo. Mozart was delighted with her. The true feeling of her singing showed that she was possessed of genius, that rare and precious gift of heaven; thus he whispered to her father while she was singing, and at the end conducted her from the stage himself. Cecilia thought the master’s approval worth more than the noisy applause of the audience, and went home proud and happy.

Some of the wealthy connoisseurs had ordered a splendid supper to be prepared at the principal hotel, in honor of the distinguished composer. When the concert was over, they carried him off in triumph. Freigang was of the party. Doles relished not scenes of mirth, and went home with his wife and daughter, and Cecilia.

The ladies could not give up talking of the pleasures of the evening, till a late hour; and just as Cecilia was taking leave of her friends, a servant came from the hotel with a message to Father Doles that the chapel-master begged they would not wait up for him, as he should not return home that night. The messenger added, by way of comment--

“They are very merry yonder; I do not think for a year past we have opened so many bottles of champagne as for the party to-night--”

“Very well!” said Doles, interrupting him, and dismissed the servant.

“I am sorry for Mozart, indeed,” whispered Cecilia, as she bade Lena good night.

“Never mind,” returned that lively girl, “be quiet about it, and I will read him a lesson to-morrow, the like of which he has not heard for a long time.”

The next morning Mozart made his appearance at breakfast, pale and haggard-looking; confused in his discourse and looking much ashamed. Neither Doles nor his wife made any allusion to his dissipation of the preceding night, and Lena did not venture to show her displeasure in the presence of her parents. Yet Mozart felt that things were not exactly as they should be, and all frankness and openness as he was, he could not long disguise his real feelings. He began to lament what had passed, half in jest and half in earnest; “It had been,” he said, “too wild a night for him, and to say truth, he would have much preferred a quiet evening after the concert,” adding, “but you know, once is not always.”

“True, my dear son,” replied Father Doles, with a smile, “and if you really enjoyed yourself, the gayety of last night could do you no harm. Only, I beg of you in future, to leave off in time, and carry nothing to excess! Your health is feeble, and will not bear much: take good care of it, for the powers of body and mind are but too easily exhausted. Remember poor Mara!”

Mozart looked very grave, and said, somewhat sadly, “Ah! there are the ruins of a noble creature! Let me die, rather than fall thus! No, I shall remember last night--the mischief take _such_ hospitality!”

“Why, what happened?” asked Doles, anxiously.

“You know, father, the invitation was given by the friends of _art_,” said Mozart, with an emphasis of some bitterness; “I accepted it as such; the concert elevated my spirits, and I went with them. All was well at first--we were a set of rational men, met together in the spirit of social enjoyment. When the toasts were going round, one of the company went out and returned with Mara, already half drunk, and set him up to make sport for the rest. The poor wretch made me a very ridiculous speech, and when he was animated by a few more glasses of champagne, they brought him a violincello, and invited him to play. I wished for some cotton in my ears, for I thought nothing else but that I was to suffer torture; but it was far otherwise; indeed I cannot describe to you my sensations, when he began to play--I never heard the like before. It was music to stir the inmost soul. I could not refrain from tears through the adagio, and thought of the witch-music Tartini heard in his dreams--so moving, so entrancing! At the wild concluding allegro, I could have embraced the performer. I did not attempt to conceal what I felt.” The composer stopped suddenly, as if even the recollection moved him.

“Well, and what then?” asked Doles, at length.

Mozart bit his lips. “Mara then played the variations in my duet from Don Giovanni--‘_La ci darem la mano!_’ I assure you, even had I not heard his previous splendid performance, these variations, played in such a manner as showed the most thorough appreciation of the whole work, would have convinced me of his being a perfect master of his art, and of his instrument, and led me to reverence him as such. But how did the friends of art take it?” here Mozart sprang up highly excited, his eyes flashing fire, though his face was paler than ever, “how did they applaud his playing? with huzzas and toasts! and when he ceased, they plied him with more and more wine, till he was beastly drunk and beside himself, and then they set him upon all sorts of foolery, and made him imitate on his instrument, from which he had just drawn such matchless tones, the mewing of cats, the braying of an ass, the crowing of a cock, and the like, and they laughed to see him degrade himself. Oh, shame! shame! And they laughed the more when Mara, unable to stand any longer on his feet, fell on the floor--and then I, like the rest, drank till I was reeling,” concluded he, with a bitter expression of self-contempt.

“Do you not think, my dear son,” asked Doles, mildly, after a pause, “that the time will come when the true artist’s worth will be estimated properly, and he assume the dignity he deserves?”

“It is possible,” answered Mozart, gloomily, “but the artist will never live to feel it.”

“You certainly do, Wolfgang?”

The composer shook his head with a melancholy smile--“You are mistaken, my dear friend, I do _not_. But I am satisfied that some few appreciate and are faithful to me, and I can depend upon them; you for example, father, and my fair friends here!”

Lena wiped her eyes, and said--“Nay, Mozart, you should not talk so, as if you had but few friends.”

Here Friedrich joined them.

“Here comes another,” said the master, smiling, “one who understands me also. May you ever have the consolation of real friends, my good lad, and keep your spirit free and uncontaminated! Aim at that above all things, and do not forget _me_, Friedrich, when I am--gone!”

“Never, never!” cried the youth, clasping the master’s hand and pressing it to his heart. They then bade the ladies good morning, and went out for a walk.

Lena forgave her friend from her heart, and resolved to spare him the lesson she had intended to inflict on him.

“I leave it all to you. Do what I told you and be silent,” said Mozart, in the street, to the lad Friedrich, giving him at the same time a well-filled purse.

Friedrich took the purse, promised secrecy, and hastened to the dwelling of the unhappy Mara. Mozart went on to pay a visit at the house of his friend, Freigang.

“My father is asleep yet,” said Cecilia, as she came into the parlor to meet him. “If you will wait a few moments, I will awaken him.”

“By no means!” said Mozart, detaining her; “Let your father sleep on. I will pay my visit to you, with your permission. I wish to thank you for your admirable singing last evening. Indeed, Cecilia, I was delighted with the simplicity and taste of your performance. I detest the airs and graces so many young women of the present day introduce into their songs. I have been so disgusted in Vienna, that I would not hear the singers again in my pieces.”

“How were you amused, last night, after the concert?” asked the young lady.

“Very badly.”

“How was that?”

Here Mozart told her what he had related to Doles. Cecilia colored, and he saw tears in her eyes as he concluded.

“How cruel,” she said, with noble indignation, “thus to take advantage of the weakness, say the vices of a man in whose breast, notwithstanding all his faults, the fire of genius is still inextinguishable.”

“Cruel indeed!” echoed Mozart.

“But you must not fancy all the world selfish and regardless of the artist’s high claims, because some are so, who indeed are incapable of appreciating what they pretend to admire. Shun such men, dear Mozart--shun them utterly! there is no safety in their companionship.”

“You mean to warn me?” asked the composer.

“I only entreat you,” said Cecilia, earnestly; “such associations can never profit, but must disturb you. What need have I to say anything? Have not you yourself learned by experience how hard it is to help being drawn down in the vortex?”

Mozart confessed that such was the truth; but desirous of removing any unfavorable opinion of his discretion that his fair friend might have conceived from his recent act of folly, he entered into an argument to show her why she need never fear his falling into such snares. This led to reminiscences of his days of enthusiasm, and the raptures of his past successes.

* * * * *

Mozart received, as a parting present from Doles, a collection of church pieces by the elder Bach. These he prized highly, and laid them carefully in his portmanteau. The day was passed in quiet conversation with his venerable friend; in the evening a few came in to bid the master adieu, for he was going to start for Vienna with the evening post, and that went at nine.

It was half-past eight; the faces of all the company began to grow sad, but Mozart seemed gayer than ever. Indeed, those who remember this his farewell interview with his friends, say they never knew him in such high spirits. Excitement, even of a painful kind, sometimes produces such effects upon ardent natures; and besides, the composer wished to keep up the spirits of the rest.

“If we should never meet again!” whispered Cecilia, sadly, and Father Doles responded to her melancholy foreboding.

“Let’s have no whimpering!” cried Mozart, laughing. “I will not hear it. I will give you a toast--Long life, and a happy meeting next year!”

The glasses were filled, and rang as they brought them together. Some one observed the sound was like a knell. Mozart brought his down impatiently on the table and shivered it; he laughed again, and hoped their friendship would prove more durable than the fragile glass.

“Master Mozart!” said Hiller, “will you not write us some little piece before you go, just to bring you to our thoughts sometimes, and remind us of this hour? It _is_ possible that we shall never _all_ meet again in this world.”

“Oh, willingly,” answered Mozart. He paused a few moments thoughtfully, and then called to Friedrich to bring him paper and writing materials.

Friedrich obeyed with alacrity, and the master wrote a piece impromptu, while the others were looking on, wondering at him, and exchanging glances.

When he had finished, he tore the paper into five pieces, and keeping one part for himself, divided the others; to Doles, _basso primo_, to Hiller, _basso secondo_; Friedrich, _tenore primo_, Weisse, _tenore secondo_.

“Now,” he cried, “we have no time to lose; _allons_--begin!”

They sang the farewell song of Mozart! Never was farewell sung with deeper feeling or with better execution. When it was at an end, they all sat silent and sad. Mozart was first to recover himself; he started up, bade a hasty adieu to all present, and seizing his hat, with another broken “farewell,” rushed from the room.

His friends still sat, as if stupified by their grief. Presently the post-horn sounded, and the coach rolled past the window. Their beloved companion was gone.

In the autumn of that same year they buried the venerable Father Doles.

It was just before the Christmas festival, in the year 1791, that Lena, now a happy wife and mother, busied at home in preparing Christmas gifts, was surprised by her friend, Cecilia, who rushed into the room pale as death, without hat or mantle.

“Cecilia!” cried Lena, much alarmed, “what ails you--what has happened?”

“Read it--read it!” faltered the breathless girl, and putting a newspaper into her friend’s hand, she burst into tears, and sank on a seat.

“The Vienna Gazette,” said Lena, and trembling with indefinite apprehension, she looked over a column or two, before her eyes lighted on the paragraph:

“Vienna, December 6th.--Died yesterday evening, the celebrated musician and composer, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Chapel-Master, Knight of the Golden Spurs, etc., etc., in the thirty-sixth year of his age.”

The genius of Cecilia was not destined to ripen on earth. In another year the weeping Lena followed her bier to the grave. She was buried near the resting-place of Father Doles.

THE ARTIST’S LESSON.

In a room meanly furnished, of a small house, No. 857 Windmill street, Leipzig, a man in the beginning of middle age was reclining on a seat, one morning in 1789. He was well built and slender, and his features were rather handsome than otherwise; but they were sharpened and bleached by dissipation, and his whole person bore the marks of excess. He wore a flowered silk dressing-gown, torn and frayed in various places; his collar was open and soiled, though it displayed the whitest of necks; and a dirty velvet cap had just been removed from a head that seemed as if it had not in many days known the discipline of a comb. This individual was leaning on a table, turning over some pages of music carelessly; a violoncello lay beside him.

The sun was high in heaven, the day cloudless and beautiful; a soft and balmy air came in at the open window and door, and stirred the disordered locks of the student, if such he might be called. He seemed now occupied in thought, and pushed away the music; anon he heaved a deep sigh, shook his head and began once more to pore over the notes.

“Bon jour, mon cher!” cried a merry voice, and looking up, the student recognized Heinrich Ferren, one of his neighbors and boon companions, and briefly returned his salutation.

“What the mischief are you about here?” asked Heinrich.

“Ah, mon ami,” replied the other, “if I could only hold it fast! But it flies and whirls about my head--worse than the fumes of the champagne, and is gone as quickly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had a dream last night--such a dream! I and my fellow there,” pointing to the violoncello, “were alone together in the woods; and so glorious an air came to me--so graceful--so moving--so entrancing! Tartini’s witch music was nothing to it! and it seemed that a spirit voice said to me, ‘Do this--Mara--you can!’ Oh, Heinrich! I have been striving ever since I waked to catch it, but in vain; and I was looking over these notes to find something that might recall it.”

“Pshaw--’twas but the wine we drank last night.”

“No, no, Heinrich--but I’ll tell you what it was; the voice of my genius”--

“You make me laugh, Mara!”

“Then what think you of this?” and catching up the instrument, the musician ran over the strings several times, bringing forth snatches of melody so exquisite that Heinrich himself started; but melody broken and incoherent, mingling the wildest and most touching harmony with what was frequently commonplace and harsh.

“Ah! ’tis not that yet! I cannot catch it!” and throwing down the instrument with a gesture of despair, the disappointed artist buried his face in his hands.

“Come, do not take it so,” cried the friend; ’twill come to you to-night! Who thinks, ha! of work in the morning? and you, Mara, of all others, whose inspiration is always in the bottom of your glass!”

“True, true, Heinrich! and we will dive for it, eh!” and rising, the artist went to a closet and brought out a couple of flasks and two tumblers. “Here’s what will drive away melancholy.” He poured out the wine and they pledged each other.

“Come, I have a thought,” cried the violoncellist. “It was at Rosenthal, in my dream, that I heard the witch music. I will go there to-day, with my good fellow, and perhaps it will come back to me. I cannot compose in this house, but in the green vale and under the blue sky--ah, Heinrich!”

“I suppose Madame Mara favors you with an accompaniment sometimes--ha! ha!” cried the friend, laughing.