Chapter VII: Preface (7)

Mara held up his finger significantly and shook his head. “The public are enchanted with Gertrude’s singing, but ’tis anything rather than _adagio_ with me! Ah, mine is a sad lot! And what think you? she will give me no more furniture to my room, though I have had to part with piece after piece to pay for our suppers, Heinrich! You see to what I am reduced! but two chairs and a bench and table, and my fellow here,” hugging his instrument, “which I will die rather than pawn. And Madame Mara rides in her carriage and dresses like a queen at the concerts, and wins all hearts, and gives me nothing of all the money she has paid her! It all goes to the bank, laid up for her luxury, while I have to sell the furniture for this”--pointing to the wine. “But I’ll outwit her. I have a jewelled brooch she thinks lost, and mean to sell it to-morrow; ’twill keep us in good liquor for a month, and then I know where to find more of the same plunder!”

The degraded artist chuckled over the idea of robbing his wife; his _friend_ laughed with him, but observed that were he blessed with a wife who could make money, he would know how to obtain it without stratagem.

“Oh, as to that, mon ami, remember her foster-father--Hiller, the music director; ’tis he encourages her obstinacy, and I should not like to break with him altogether. As to Gertrude, she thinks she acts for my good. Did she not quarrel for my sake with the King at Berlin? Did she not give up her appointment, worth two thousand a year, at the court of Frederick the Great, because the King and I could not pull together? Then, after all, I am not fit, as she says, to be my own master; and I would rather submit to her than the monarch who shut me up three months, or the corporal who thrashed me! ’Sdeath! that corporal with his stout cane! it makes me foam to think of it! But I’ll pay him back some day or other.” And with hand already tremulous from drunkenness, Mara filled and emptied his glass again, signing to his companion to do the same, with a ludicrous expression of hilarious hospitality.

At this moment the clock struck, and a door opened opposite the one leading into the street. A lady of fine figure, and elegantly dressed in a riding habit, came into the room. She stopped as if about to speak, but seeing the wine on the table and the condition of both the tipplers, she cast on them a look of profound and withering contempt, and passed on to the outer door without saying a word.

“Bravo, Madame Mara!” cried Heinrich, when he had recovered from his surprise after she had gone out. “Her ladyship likes not to find us drinking so early. Where goes she? ah! to the rehearsal; and that reminds me, Mara, of what I had nearly forgotten. We must go also; so no more wine till supper time!”

“I will not go!” said Mara, doggedly.

“Yes you will. Do you know who is to be there? The chapel-master from Vienna!”

“What do you say--Mozart?” cried the violoncellist, springing up, half sobered by surprise.

“The very same, mon cher.”

“To-day--at rehearsal?”

“Exactly; Father Doles, Hiller, Weisse and others have arranged a concert for the chapel-master, and it is to take place to-night. Master Wolfgang arrived yesterday. You must go with me to rehearsal and see him.”

“That I will, Heinrich. Do you know it has been the desire of my life to know the great Mozart? Oh, to think of his quartettes! I have painted him before me as I played the music--grand, noble, of towering form, dark, flashing eyes and trumpet voice”--

“Hold, Mara, you are out there,” interrupted Heinrich, laughing heartily. “The little Master Wolfgang never sat for such a picture! In the first place, he is not towering, but low of stature and insignificant in appearance.”

“But no less the _great_ Mozart!” cried Mara, with enthusiasm. “The creator of Idomeneo, of Don Giovanni! I must know him, if only to tell him how I adore his music. Allons--mon ami; but stay; I must put on my coat.”

And pulling off his dressing-gown, assisted by Heinrich, the musician in trembling haste put on a coat that had once been a fine one, though it lacked now much of its lace and several buttons; and clapping his cap on his head, and taking up his stick, after locking up his violoncello, the two worthy companions made their way to the theatre.

* * * * *

Almost all the distinguished musical characters in Leipzig were at the rehearsal of Mozart’s last concert, for it was the last he ever gave in that musical capital of Europe. There was the venerable Father Doles, whose guest Mozart was; there was the cynical director Hiller, whose sternness was not proof against the gayety of the chapel-master; there were pupils of his and Doles, and many other connoisseurs. When our two tipplers arrived, the music and the company seemed to bewilder the brain of the violoncellist, already fuddled by the wine he had drunk. He walked unsteadily to one of the side scenes and looked on. The performers were rehearsing a scene from Don Giovanni; a little, pale, thin man stood on the stage and seemed much interested, for he stopped them several times and forced them to go over what they had sung. Several times he stamped violently on the floor, and once he seized one of the singers by the shoulders and shook him, crying “Prestissimo! I will not have my music dragged out in that way!”

His friends laughed, and the singers looked angry; Mozart cried “Da capo!” and they went on sullenly, but with more spirit than before. Then he encouraged them with “Bravo, friends, I have you now!” and clapped his hands.

Through the rehearsal he continued to play the same part; running hither and thither, stopping one, correcting another and swearing at another, till the performers at last caught his spirit and excelled themselves to please him.

“Is that the man?” asked Mara of his companion when the rehearsal was at an end; and being told that it was Mozart, he took off his cap, went up to him and made a low, ceremonious bow, rolling his red eyes and stammering an expression of his sense of the honor of standing in the presence of so distinguished a person.

“Eh, who is this?” inquired the composer, turning to Hiller.

“One whose company does _us_ no honor,” replied the director, angrily surveying the slovenly figure before him. “I wonder he dares intrude himself here.”

“Who is he, then?”

“Mara, at your service--Mara, the violoncellist,” answered the tippler, with another scraping bow; “I would thank you, sir, for your excellent music.”

“Mara? I have heard of you; you are a famous player. I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

“I thank you, Master Mozart; I am most honored and happy to make yours; I have long wished for this good fortune. I am aware, sir,” with a glance at Hiller, “that I have enemies who misrepresent me; and that is easy, too, for I sometimes misrepresent myself. But I would have _you_ appreciate me. I should like to hear your judgment on my playing; I should hold it an honor, sir, to be permitted to play before you. I should esteem it a favor if you would visit me. I live at 857 Windmill street, and shall be happy to see you at any time--before noon. It would give me great pleasure”--

“I will certainly visit you,” said Mozart.

“You--visit this drunken wretch?” exclaimed Hiller in unfeigned surprise. “No, he is not worthy of your acquaintance.” Just then Madame Mara passed out and descended to her carriage. “He is the torment of his excellent wife, who has made sacrifices enough for him, and now that he is wholly lost and there is no hope of his reformation, she allows to him the necessaries of life, even while she leaves him forever.”

“How?--Gertrude--my wife--” stammered Mara.

“Yes, your injured wife;” repeated the music-director. “You have outraged her feelings by your miserable excesses; you have destroyed her rest by your midnight orgies; she is weary of you. She will return no more to your house; she will see you no more. To-morrow she departs for Paris.”

“Bravo, Heinrich, what fun we shall have!” cried the violoncellist, with a flourish of his stick. “_Eh bien_, foster father--”

“In pity, to you, degraded wretch,” continued Hiller, “she has directed me to supply you with provisions as you need, but with no money to minister to your depraved passion for drinking. Now you know what you have to depend upon.”

“Your most obedient, my lord,” said Mara, bowing with a flourish almost to the ground, from which obeisance he recovered himself with great difficulty, amidst the laughter of the bystanders. “I am wholly at your service, most excellent director of music--at your excellency’s service! But I shall not draw on my banker. I am beholden to Madame Mara, but I can play the violoncello as well as she. You should hear me play,” turning to Mozart. “These gentlemen here, can tell you something of my taste in music.”

“Oh, yes,” cried several in a breath; “Monsieur Mara is a first rate player on the violoncello. You are too severe with him, Monsieur Hiller.”

“Oh, much too severe!” repeated others. “Mara is a good fellow--an excellent fellow--and the best of company. What should we do without him? He is the life of our suppers.” Hiller, in disgust, drew Mozart away; Doles and his party had already gone. They left the theatre while the inebriated musician was making a grateful speech to his “good friends,” and gesticulating in a manner to kill them with laughter.

* * * * *

We change the scene to the celebrated Rosenthal, the beautiful retreat where Goëthe passed so many hours of leisure when a student. It was indeed a valley of roses; for the season was early summer, when flowers are most abundant and the tender green of the rich foliage is freshest and brightest. It was a lovely afternoon, but not sultry; a large awning was spread for temporary use; and just in the shade of a group of trees was set out a table with refreshments. There were not more than a dozen seats arranged round it, evidently for a small and select company. Ere long carriages drove up and some ladies alighted and began to arrange the collation. Two of them were the wife and daughter of Doles; they brought flowers which they had gathered, and decorated the table, placing a wreath of roses and laurels over the seat destined to be occupied by their honored guest. The rest of the company soon joined them, and it would be interesting, had we space, to relate the conversation that formed the most delightful part of their entertainment. They were a few choice spirits, met to enjoy the society of Mozart in an hour sacred to friendship. There was no lack of humor and mirth; indeed the composer would have acted at variance with his character had he not beguiled even the gravest by his amusing sallies; but the themes of their discourse were the musical masters of the world and the state and prospects of their art.

“You have in truth some reason to quarrel with our good Leipzig,” said one of the company to Mozart. “We are slow and cold; we hang back from what they call your innovations, but time will bring us along; and you must not, meantime, judge us incapable of appreciating the wonders you have made known to the world.”

“Far from it,” replied the composer; “or if I should be vexed at the caution of your public taste, unwilling to admire at once what is new, I should be rebuked by your eminence in concerts and church music. You are unrivalled in your artists, and to please your connoisseurs I should esteem the highest triumph in my life.”

“But could we only entice you to live here”--

“No, the atmosphere does not suit me; the reserve would chill my efforts, for I live upon the love of those who suffer me to do as I please. Some other time, perhaps, I may come to Leipzig; just now Vienna is the place for me. By the way, what think you of Bonn?”

“You cannot think of Bonn for a residence?”

“Not I; but never despair! Had you asked me where art had the least chance of spreading her wings for a bold flight--where she was most securely chained down and forbidden to soar, I should have answered, ‘Bonn.’ But that unpromising city has produced one of the greatest geniuses of our day.”

“Who--who?” eagerly demanded several among the company.

“A lad--a mere lad--who has been under the tutelage of the Elector’s masters, and shocked them all by his musical eccentricities. They were ready to give him up in disgust. He came to me just before I left Vienna; modest, abashed, doubting his own genius, but eager to learn his fate from my lips. I gave him one of my most difficult pieces; he executed it in a manner so spirited, so admirable--carried away by the music, which entered his very soul--forgetful of his faintheartedness--full of inspiration! ’Twas an artist, I assure you; a true and noble one, and I told him so.”

“His name?”

“Louis von Beethoven.”

“I know his father well,” said Hiller.

“Then you know one who has given the world a treasure! For mark me; railed at as he may be for refusing to follow in the beaten path, decried for his contempt of ordinary rules, the lad Beethoven will rise to a splendid fame! But his forte will be sacred music.”

The conversation turned to the works of Bach and Händel.

As the sun declined westward the company rose and returned to the city. When they had left the grounds, a figure came forward from the concealment of the foliage and walked pensively to and fro. He had heard most of the conversation unobserved; it was the artist Mara.

“Well, well,” he said to himself, “I have heard and know him now. His taste is the same with mine; he glories in Händel and old Sebastian; and yet, how much may still be done! Ah, that music in my dream!” He struck his forehead. “But I can keep nothing in my head; Mara--Mara--_non e piu com era prima!_ If ’twere not for this vertigo, this throbbing that I feel whenever I strive to collect my thoughts and fix them on an idea; if I could but grasp the conception, oh, ’twould be glorious!”

The spirit of art had not yet left the degraded being it had once inspired; but how sad were the struggles of the soul against her painful and contaminating bonds!

“Why,” resumed the soliloquist, “why was I not invited to make one among the company assembled here to welcome the great chapel-master? I too am a famous artist; I can appreciate music; the public have pronounced me entitled to rank among the first. But nobody will associate with Mara in the day time! It is only at night, at the midnight revels, where such grave ones as the director scorn to appear, that Mara, like a bird of evil omen, is permitted to show his face. Then they shout and clap for me and call me a merry fellow; and I _am_ the merriest of them all! But I do not like such welcome; I would rather be reasonable if I could, and the wine would let me--the wine--am I a slave to that? Ha, a slave! Alas! it is so; wine is my master, and he is jealous of every other, and beats me when I rebel, till I cry mercy and crouch at his feet again. Oh, if I had a friend strong enough to get me out of his clutches! but I have no friends--none--not even Gertrude. She has left me, and there is no one at home now, even to reproach me when I come back drunk, or make a noise in the house over the table with a companion or two. Heinrich--no--he laughs and makes game of me like the rest. I am sick of this miserable life; I am tired of being laughed at and shunned; I will put an end to it all, and then they will say once again, ‘Poor Mara!’”

With a sudden start the wretched man rushed away and was presently hid among the branches of the trees. A whistle was heard just then, and a lad, walking briskly, followed, hallooing after him. He came just in time. A stream, a branch of the Pleysse, watered the bottom of the valley; Mara was about to throw himself into it in the deepest spot, when his arm was caught by his pursuer.

“What the mischief are you about?”

“Let me alone!” cried Mara, struggling.

“Do you mean to be drowned?”

“Yes; that is just what I want. I came here for that purpose. And what have you to say against it, Friedrich?”

“Nothing, if your fancy runs that way,” replied the lad, laughing. “Only you have plenty of leisure for it hereafter, and just now you are wanted.”

“Wanted?”

“Yes; I came to look for you.”

“Who wants the poor drunkard, Mara?”

“They want you at Breithoff’s to-night, at the supper given to Mozart after the concert, and you must bring your instrument; we are to have some rare fun. Come, if you are obedient, you shall go with me to the concert.”

Mozart’s concert! Surprised and pleased that some of his acquaintance had remembered him, Mara suffered himself to be led away by his companion.

* * * * *

The concert was a splendid one and attended by all the taste and fashion of Leipzig. The orchestra was admirable, the singers were full of spirit and good humor, the audience delighted, the composer gratified and thankful. The good effect of his drilling at rehearsal was evident; but those who listened to the noble music and rewarded the performers by frequent bursts of tumultuous applause, knew not the source of their unusual animation and gave them all the credit. Mozart thanked them in a brief speech, and as soon as the concert was at an end was led off in triumph by the connoisseurs, his friends.

Magnificent beyond expectation was the entertainment prepared, and attended by many among the wealthy and the noble, as well as the most distinguished artists. The votaries of art had indeed superior claims, for the feast was in honor of Art and her noblest son. The revelry was prolonged beyond midnight, and as the guests became warmed with good cheer, we are bound to record that the conversation lost its rational tone, and that comical sallies and uproarious laughter began to usurp the place of critical discourse. They had songs from all who were musical; Mara, among the rest, was brought in, dressed in a fantastic but slovenly manner, and made to play for the amusement of the company. When he had played several pieces, the younger guests began to put their practical jokes upon him and provoke him to imitate the noises of different animals on his violoncello. Mara entered into all their fun, convulsing them with his grotesque speeches and gestures, drinking glass after glass, till at last he fell back quite overpowered and insensible. Then his juvenile tormentors painted his face and clipped his mustaches and tricked him out in finery that gave him the look of a candidate for Bedlam, and had him carried to his own house, laughing to imagine what his sensations would be next morning, when he should discover how ludicrously he had been disfigured. In short, the whole party were considerably beyond the bounds of propriety and sound judgment. Mozart also----

* * * * *

It was considerably after noon the next day, that poor Mara, the victim of those merciless revellers, might be seen sitting disconsolately in his deserted home. He had no heart even to be enraged at the cruelties practised on him. Pale as death, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, his limbs shivering, sat this miserable wretch, dressed in the same mockery of finery which had been heaped upon him in wicked sport.

The door opened and Mozart entered.

At sight of the composer Mara rose and mechanically returned his salutation. Mozart looked grave and sad.

“You are much the worse for last night’s dissipation, my good fellow,” said he.

“Ah, Master Mozart,” said the violoncellist, with a faint smile, “it is too good of you to visit such a dog as poor Mara.”

“I have something to say to you, friend,” answered the composer in a voice of emotion. “In the first place, let me thank you for your music last night.”

The bewildered artist passed his hand across his forehead.

“I say, let me thank you. It is long since I have heard such music.”

“You were pleased with it?” asked Mara, looking up, while a beam of joy shot into the darkness of his soul.

“Pleased? it was noble--heart-stirring! I must own I did not expect such from you. I expected to be shocked, but I was charmed. And when you played the air from Idomeneo--sacré! but it went to my soul. I have _never_ had my music so thoroughly appreciated--so admirably executed. Mara, you are a master of your art! I reverence you!”

“You?” repeated the artist, drawing his breath quickly.

“Yes; I own you for my brother, and so I told them all last night.”

The poor man gave a leap and seized the master by both hands; rapture had penetrated his inmost heart. “Oh, you make me very happy!” faltered he.

“I am glad of it; for now I am going to say something painful.” Mara hung his head. “Nay, I reproach myself as much as you. We both behaved ill last night; we both forgot the dignity of the artist and the man.”

Again the poor violoncellist looked bewildered.

“We forgot that such as we, are set up for an example to the uninitiated, and yielded to the tempter, wine! Art--our mother--has reason to blush for us.”

“For me,” cried Mara, deeply moved. “But not for you.”

“Yes, for me,” repeated Mozart; “and for all who were there. It was a shameful scene. What,” he continued, with rising indignation, “what would the true friends of art have thought of such beastly orgies, celebrated in her name? Why, they would have said, perhaps, ‘these men are wild fellows, but we must let them have their way; we owe the fine music they give us to their free living; they must have stimulus to compose or play well.’ No, no, no! it is base to malign the holy science we love. Such excesses but unfit us for work. I have never owed a good thought to the bottle. I tell you I hate myself for last night’s foolery.”

“Ah, master; you who are so far above me!” sighed Mara.

“And lo, here, the wreck of a noble being!” said the composer, in a low voice and with much bitterness; then resuming, “Listen to me, Mara. You have been your own enemy; but your fall is not wholly your own work. You are wondrously gifted; you can be, you shall be, snatched from ruin. You can, you shall, rise above those who would trample on you now; become renowned and beloved and leave an honored name to posterity. You have given me a lesson, Mara--a lesson which I shall remember my lifelong--which I shall teach to others. You have done me good--I will do something for you. Come with me to Vienna.”

The poor violoncellist had eagerly listened to the words of him he so venerated--whom he looked on as a superior being. While he talked to him as an equal, while he acknowledged his genius, lamented his faults and gave him hope that all was not yet lost, the spirit of the degraded creature revived within him. It was the waking of his mind’s energies; the struggle of the soul for life against the lethargy of a mortal malady. Life triumphed! Mara was once more a man; but overcome by the conflict and by the last generous offer, he sank back, bowed his face upon his hands and wept aloud.

“Come,” cried Mozart, after a pause, during which his own eyes were moistened, “come, we have no time to lose. I go out to-night by the evening post for Vienna; you must accompany me. Take this purse, put your dress in order and make haste. I will call for you at eight. Be ready then. Not a word more.”

And forcing a well filled purse into his trembling hands, the master hastened away too quickly to hear a word of thanks from the man he had saved from worse than death.

* * * * *

The great composer was early summoned from this and many other works of mercy and benevolence. But if his noble design was unaccomplished, at least good seed was sown, and Mara placed once more within view of the goal of virtuous hope. Rescued from the mire of degradation, he might, by perseverance, have won the prize; if he did not, the fault was this time wholly his own. Whatever the termination of his career, the moral lesson is for us the same.

GLUCK IN PARIS.

In the street St. Honoré, opposite the principal entrance of the Palais Royal, on a clear evening in the autumn of the year 1779, stood two young officers engaged in a zealous dispute. Suddenly one of them sprang backward a few paces, and, after a pause of an instant, the swords of both flew from their scabbards, and flashed in the lamp-light as they crossed each other.

“_Mort de ma vie!_” cried another voice, and a powerful stroke forced asunder the weapons of the combatants; “a duel in the open streets, and at night, without seconds? Put up your swords, gentlemen, till to-morrow; then I will second you. My name is St. Val, Captain of Hussars in the Body-guard.”

“St. Val?” was the exclamation that burst from both the young men, and St. Val, recognising them, cried laughing--“How? Montespan! Arnaut? Orestes and Pylades fighting? By Jupiter! that is amazing. What may be your quarrel?”

“Ah!” replied the young Arnaut, “talk not of quarrels. My friend and I were only settling a small difference of opinion with regard to the composers of ‘Iphigenia in Tauris.’ My friend gives his voice for the Chevalier Gluck; I for the admirable Piccini;” and therewith the young men prepared to begin the fight anew.

“Put up your swords!” exclaimed St. Val, once more interfering; “Is that the whole cause of your duel?”

“Does it seem to you insignificant?” asked M. de Montespan.

“Why--not exactly”--replied the peacemaker; “I am aware that the citizens of Paris are at present divided into Gluckists and Piccinists; but Monsieur Arnaut, if you are going to fight the Gluckists, you must first begin with your own uncle, and your idol Jean Jacques.--Follow my advice, Messieurs; put up your swords and come with me to the Palais Royal, where you can cool your blood with a few glasses of orangeade in the Café du Feu. This, by my life, is the first time I ever interfered to stop a duel. But in this case, it seems to me not the silliest thing I could do.”

During the captain’s speech, the rage for fighting had evaporated in the breasts of the young officers. They shook hands cordially, returned their swords to the sheath, and followed St. Val.

The brilliantly illuminated saloon of the Café du Feu was at that time the place of resort for the Parisian _bel esprits_; every evening they repaired thither, and with them many young gentlemen of the higher classes--amateurs, connoisseurs, and artists who had come to Paris to admire, or if possible to be admired.

Thus, when our friends entered, they found a various company. Many young men of the nobility resident in Paris, were to be seen there, scattered about the several tables, surrounded by a crowd of followers, admirers, critics, &c. From every group was heard a confused clamor of argument, declamation, and dispute; in short, there was a perfect war of tongues, and the battle cry here, as all over Paris, was ‘_Gluck_’ and ‘_Piccini_.’ Though true Parisians, and used to all this uproar of a café salon, the newly arrived thought it best to secure for the present a place rather more quiet. They caught one of the flying garçons, held him fast, questioned him, and were soon seated in a snug side room.

Three men, besides themselves, were occupants of the room. One, somewhat advanced in years, sat in a corner opposite the entrance, by a table furnished only for one person. He was deep in the shadow of a pillar, so that no one could discern his features; comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, he drummed lightly on the table with the fingers of his right hand; his head leaning back, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He seemed to take no notice of those who entered, and was to all appearance equally indifferent to what passed afterwards.

Nearer the door, and on the other side from the table at which our friends took their place, the other two were seated. The youngest was scarce twenty years of age; a handsome, animated Frenchman, well made, though not tall; the glance of his deep blue eyes, shaded by dark, heavy lashes, was free and unembarrassed. The outline of his features was expressive, his mouth and chin were classically formed, his complexion was of that rich brown which belongs to the native of Provence; his voice was agreeable, his manner easy and spirited without being assuming, and his dress poor, though decent and clean. His prepossessing exterior formed a strange contrast with that of his companion. The latter was a man of about twenty-nine; and answered tolerably to the description which Diderot drew of Rameau’s nephew, except that he was not so long and thin. There was something expressive of mental weakness in his movements; and the air of discontent and spite in his whole manner was not to be mistaken. A rough, bristling, unpowdered peruke, of a pale brown color, covered his head; his features were heavy and might have passed for unmeaning, but for a pair of keen, squinting eyes, and a peevish twist about his mouth, which showed at once the disposition of the man. His pronunciation of French was shocking, and betrayed him for a Saxon.

“You must pardon me, sir,” said the young man, ingenuously, “if I trouble you with my numerous questions; but you are a German, and you must be assured that we French know how to value your great countryman, who has shown us new paths, hitherto undreamed of, to the temple of fame.[7] You are yourself a musician--a composer; you can feel what we owe to the illustrious master! Tell me, what know you of him? And would he not disdain to be the friend and guide of a youth who aspires after the best?”

His companion slowly passed his broad hand over his face, with an oblique glance at the enthusiastic speaker, twisted his mouth into a tragical smile, and answered maliciously; “Hem! yes! would you have me speak of M. Gluck? Indeed, very willingly! I do not exactly understand what a people so accomplished, of so much judgment and taste as the French, find so grand and splendid in this man!”

“How, sir? Speak you of the creator of Armida, of Iphigenia, of Orpheus?”

“Hem, yes; the same. To say truth, he is not thought much of among us in Germany, for we know that of genuine art, I mean of the rules, he understands little or nothing; as the learned Herr Forkel in Gottingen, and many other distinguished critics have satisfactorily proved.”

The handsome youth looked astonished at the speaker for a moment, then answered modestly; “I am myself far from being so learned in the rules of art, as to be able to judge how correct may be the severe reproach his countrymen cast upon the Chevalier Gluck; but--” with rising warmth, “of one thing I am fully and firmly convinced, that his is a noble and powerful spirit. All I have ever heard of his music, awakens high feelings in me; no low or grovelling--nay, _no common_ thought, can come near me while I listen to it; and even when spiritless and dejected by untoward circumstances, my despondency takes instant flight before the lofty enjoyment I experience in Gluck’s creations.”

“And think you,” cried young Arnaut, who with his friend had drawn nearer, “think you, sir German, the celebrated Piccini would condescend to enter into a contest with the chevalier, were he not convinced that he was to strive with a worthy adversary?”

The other was visibly nettled at this question, asked in an animated tone. With a furtive look at the young man standing over him, he muttered in broken phrases,

“Hem! I suppose not! how could I presume to think so? I have all due respect for M. Gluck, even though I have no cause to boast of his friendship towards me; _but_ it does not follow that he is the best composer. We have men very different, as the learned Herr Forkel has clearly proved; and it is certain that M. Gluck, with regard to a church style--”

“But _ma foi_!” interrupted the brown youth, with vivacity, “we are not talking of church styles, but of a grand opera style! Would your German musical critics have Gluck’s Armida made a nun’s hymn, or his wild motets of Tauris sung in the style of Palestrina?”

“Not exactly,” replied the squinter; “but as the learned Forkel has proved, the Chevalier Gluck understands nothing of songs.”

All present, except the man in the corner, exclaimed in amazement at this--“Nothing of songs?”

“As I remarked,” he continued, “Gluck understands nothing of songs; for he cannot carry through an ordinary melody according to rule, and in the old established way; his song, so called, is nothing more than an extravagant declamation.”

The brown youth started up, his gentle kindliness changed into glowing indignation, and with vehemence replied--“Sir, you are not worthy to be a German, if what you say of your great countryman is said in earnest. That Gluck is really a mighty artist, we are all agreed in Paris; the dispute is only to whom the palm of superior greatness shall be yielded, to him or Piccini. We all acknowledge that Gluck, equally far from the cold constraint of rules, and from capricious innovation, seeks to convey the truest expression of feeling and passion; and sets himself the only true aim that exists for the opera-composer. Church and concert music present a different object for the master; whether Gluck could reach that--whether he attempts it--you--I--the multitude know not! He has set himself _one_ task, pursuing that, however, with all his strength, according to the mission of the free-born spirit!”

“What is your name, young man?” asked a sonorous voice behind the speaker. All looked in that direction; the man in the corner stood up, the light of the candles shining full on his face.

“The Chevalier Gluck!” cried they all, in astonishment.

“The same!” replied Gluck, smiling; and then turning to the young enthusiast, he repeated his question. The youth trembled with delight, and bowing low to the master, answered--

“My name is Etienne Mehul, and I am a musician.”

“That I heard,” said Gluck; “I shall be glad if you will visit me; here is my address.” He handed it to him, then turned to the squinter, who sat without daring to look up, by turns red and pale. Gluck enjoyed his embarrassment a few moments, then addressed him with a mixture of indignation and contempt; “Mr. Elias Hegrin! I am rejoiced to meet you so unexpectedly in Paris, in order to tell you once more out of my honest heart, what a miserable rascal you are. So, sir! I understand nothing of music and of songs; and yet you went the whole year in Vienna in and out of my house at your pleasure, and received instruction from me how to correct your works, and took without a scruple of conscience what I gave you out of my own pocket, as well as what I procured you through patrons. Truly, your stupid arrogance must take umbrage, because I candidly told you, you can master only the lifeless form, not the spirit. You seek what you can never obtain, not for the sake of art, but for your own temporary advantage; and you would do better to be an honest tailor or shoemaker, than a mean musician.--_That_ is what you could never forgive me; and so you go off and abuse me for money in Gottingen! You are pardoned, sir, for I bear no malice. Go hence in peace, and grow better, if you can; but that, I think, will be difficult; for he who blasphemes the pure and sacred maiden Art, because she repels his degrading embraces, will be likely to remain a rascal as long as he lives.--Adieu, Messieurs!”

And Gluck walked out of the room, nodding courteously once more to young Mehul.

* * * * *

A gay group was assembled in the apartment of the young queen Marie Antoinette. The Comte d’Artois, the favorite of the Parisian world of fashion, had just returned to the capital from his hunting-castle, and had come this morning in company with his brother, the Comte of Provence, to pay his homage to his lovely sister-in-law.

The queen received the youthful count with great kindness; Provence presenting him as Grand Master of the chase. D’Artois asked with vivacity, “What is there new in Paris? how many balls have they danced without me? how many flirtations have begun and ended without me? who has served my brother of Provence as accoucheur, at the birth of a new piece of wit? what is the newest spectacle? and what are the good Parisians quarrelling about?”

“A good many questions in a breath!” replied Antoinette, with a smile; “I will answer the last, since we are all warmly interested therein. The newest spectacle we are looking for, is the contest between Gluck and Piccini. Both have composed a piece on the same subject; and it is now to be decided which of the two shall keep the field. This is what the Parisians are disputing about.”

“I am for Gluck!” cried D’Artois, “for by my faith, madame, your countryman is a noble fellow!--He was on the chase with me, and made five shots one after the other. As to the Italians, they do not know how to hold a gun.”

“Despite that,” said Provence, “I like better the music of the Italian, than the German, which can only be recited, but to which one cannot well either sing or dance, as our Noverre very justly observes.”

“Oh! Noverre has been obliged to dance to it,” interrupted the queen; and began in her lively manner to tell how Noverre had gone one morning to the Chevalier Gluck, and told him his music was worth nothing, and that no dancer in the grand opera could dance to his Scythian dances: and how Gluck in a rage had seized the little man, and danced him through the whole house, upstairs and down stairs, singing the Scythian ballets the while;--and had asked him at last, “Well, sir! now think you, a dancer in the grand opera can dance to my music?” To which Noverre, panting and blowing, replied, “Excellent! sir, and the ballet corps _shall_ dance!”

All laughed, and thought such a dancing master just the thing for the gentlemen and ladies of the grand opera, who were all growing every day more arrogant and insufferable in their behavior.

A page announced the Chevalier Gluck, who came to give her Majesty a lesson on the piano.

“Let him come in”--said the queen, and Gluck entered.--“We were just speaking of you,” said the Princess Elizabeth to him; “and the queen praised you for a good dancing master.”

“And my brother bears witness to your expertness in the chase, for on that account he belongs to your party,” said Provence.

“Ah! let him alone,” cried the queen, “do not vex him with your idle talk. He will have enough to do, not to lose his patience with me.”

“Because you do not play half so well as queen, as when you were archduchess, Antoinette,” replied Gluck gravely, speaking in German.

Antoinette replied, laughing, in the same language, “Wait a little, Christophe; your ears shall ring presently.--Be quiet, ladies and gentlemen!” she added in French, and went to open the piano. In her haste she seemed to have made a mistake; for when she tried the key, she could not open the instrument. At length she started up impatiently, and cried--“Come hither, Gluck, and help me!”

Gluck tried his hand in vain; the others followed, but equally fruitless were their efforts.

“This is vexatious!” said the queen; and Gluck exclaimed--“What fool can have made such a lock?”

“Take care what you say, chevalier,” said Provence; “the king himself made the lock, and I believe it is of a new-fangled sort.”

D’Artois now went out and returned with the king. Louis XVI., in his short jacket, his head covered with an unsightly leathern cap, his face glowing, and begrimed with soot, with rough hands and a bundle of keys and picklocks at his girdle, looked, in truth, more like an industrious locksmith than a king of France.--He went and busied himself at the instrument; examined the lock with the earnest air of an artisan, and tried several keys in vain; shook his head dissatisfied, and tried others; at length he hit upon the right one. The lock yielded, and with a mien of triumph, as if he had won a battle, he cried--“Look there! it is open! Now madame, you can play.”

But the hour was over, and the queen had lost the inclination to play. Gluck waited for the sign of his dismissal; and the Princess Elizabeth begged that he would entertain them with something new from his Iphigenia. The master of sixty-five seated himself at the instrument and began the frenzy scene of Orestes. All were silent and attentive, particularly Louis, who, when the piece was ended, went up to Gluck, and said, with downcast eyes, in broken sentences--“Excellent, chevalier--most excellent! I am charmed--delighted; I will have your opera produced first--with all care--with all splendor--just as you please! and I hope the success will be such as to gratify you.”

The Chevalier Noverre and the Signor Piccini were here announced and admitted. They came in together. Noverre started when he saw Gluck, and it was evident that he was embarrassed at his presence, though his pride prevented him from betraying such a feeling more than an instant. Piccini was easy and unembarrassed; and when the king commanded him to salute his adversary, he did so with dignity and cordiality. Gluck returned the greeting in like manner.

“What do you bring us new, gentlemen?” asked Antoinette. Noverre answered, with solemn gravity, “Your Majesty was pleased to grant Signor Piccini permission to play you his last notes out of the opera of Iphigenia in Tauris.”

“Very well!” replied the queen; and turning to Piccini, she asked, graciously, “What selection have you made, Signor?”

Piccini bowed and replied--“The Chevalier Noverre wished that your Majesty would permit me to play before you the Scythian dance, number one.”

The Comte d’Artois burst into a peal of laughter; and even the other aristocratic personages, except the king, who shared the embarrassment of Piccini and Noverre, had some difficulty in restraining their mirth.

“You have my ready permission,” said Antoinette. Piccini seated himself at the piano, and began to play his Scythian dance, to which the Comte of Provence and Noverre kept time. The others confessed that Piccini’s dance was far more pleasing, melodious, and adapted to the grace of motion, than that of Gluck. But D’Artois whispered to the king, that he thought the dance, considered by itself, admirable; but beyond dispute, better fitted for a masqued ball, in the salon of the grand opera, than for a private abode in Tauris.

Louis did not reply; Gluck stood listening earnestly and attentively; his sense of the merit of his opponent was visible in his countenance, except that now and then a light curl played about his mouth, when Piccini indulged too much in his pretty quaverings and tinklings. Noverre responded with his foot, by a natural impulse, to the music.

Great applause rewarded Piccini when he ceased; and Noverre neglected not to explain, with an air of great importance, that in the music they had just heard, was displayed that inspiriting rhythmus, which alone had power to charm the dancer’s feet, so that he could give soul and expression to his pirouettes and entrechats.

“Very good, Monsieur Noverre,” said the king, interrupting the current of the dancing master’s speech; “I agree with you that the music of Signor Piccini is admirable, but I hope also, that you will make yourself acquainted with the music of the Chevalier Gluck.”

“Sire,” lisped Noverre in reply, “we, the Chevalier Gluck and I, _are_ on the most friendly terms.” A deep sigh followed these words, but Louis took no notice of it, and after a while permitted the artists to depart.

Going out of the Tuilleries, after Gluck and Piccini had taken a courteous, though cold leave of each other, Gluck said mischievously to the ballet-master--“Take care, chevalier, not to forget what the king commanded you. If you have complained of me to his majesty, because I made you dance against your will, I must take the liberty to assure you, that you have no cause to be ashamed of having gone through a dance with me; for granted I am not--and a pity it is!--such a proficient in the art of dancing as yourself, yet I am, as well as you, chevalier of the order de l’Esprit, in which character I have the honor to wish your worship a good morning.”

And stepping into his carriage, he drove homeward. Noverre looked after him much vexed. Piccini laughed.

* * * * *

The rehearsals and preparations for the representations of the two Iphigenias were nearly finished, and the day was already appointed when the masterpiece of Gluck was to receive the sentence of the Parisians. It was to be performed first, for the precedence was yielded to him as the oldest of the two champions.

“When kings build, cartmen have work;”--the truth of that saying was proved. Men who knew little or nothing of music wrote, for the advantage of their party, treatises, learned and superficial, upon Gluck and Piccini, upon the differences in their style, and upon the operas in question, in a tone as assured and confident as if they had diligently studied the compositions of the masters. The partisans of both received the treatises with satisfaction, reading all that were presented with as much edification as if they had been the productions of Rameau or Rousseau; perhaps with even more eagerness, as the zest of scandal was added.

There was also much dissension among the performers; and poor Piccini had not a little to do, by a thousand attentions, flatteries and favors, to propitiate those of them who were opposed to him, and induce them to promise not to spoil his work purposely. Gluck behaved differently; he resorted to threats, and compelled his enemies at least to conceal their ill designs, for they feared him. As for the rest, he trusted to the excellence of his work, and his motto--“Truth makes its way through all things;” and even in anticipation of the most unfavorable event, consoled himself by the reflection--“Well! the worst success does not make a good work a bad one!”[8]

He sat in his chamber the morning of the day before the representation of his Iphigenia, preparing for the final rehearsal, when the servant announced young Mehul.--“Come in, my dear friend!” cried Gluck cheerfully, as he rose and went to the door to meet his visitor. “I am rejoiced to see you, and have expected you before this.”

“I ventured not to disturb you before,” replied Mehul, “but to-day--”

“Well--to-day--”

“My anxiety brought me hither.”

“Anxiety!--and wherefore?”

“To-morrow your new opera is to be performed for the first time--you have so many enemies.--Ah! should the success of your noble creation not be answerable to its worth!”

“Then let it be so,” said Gluck, smiling.

“Can you say that with so much calmness?”

“Why not?--Do you think of devoting yourself to dramatic composition?”

“I wish with all my heart to do so, and should be very unhappy should I find my powers inadequate.”

“Prove them, young man! Go boldly to work: do not deliberate long; but what reveals itself to you lay hold on with glowing inspiration; plan and complete it with earnest heed. It will soon be shown, what you can do, now or in future. And if I judge you rightly, I think it will not go wrong with _you_! Yes--that is the great matter, that we deviate not from the way. But it is hard in itself; and men and the world make it yet harder for the artist. Many, of whom better things might have been hoped, fall in the conflict.

“You remain victor!”

“Hem--that is as one takes it. Nothing is perfect upon earth; and even if I have gone through life neither a fool nor a knave, still am I not without faults. Each, for good or evil, must be experienced before he can truly value the better part. To the generality, the All Benevolent has granted to know but little, till either what they have is irremediably wasted, or they are in danger of losing it. Happy he, who quickly apprehends, and holds it fast, nor lets it go, though his heart should be torn in the struggle. What will you say when I confess to you, that perception of the highest, the _only_ good, came late, fearfully late, to me. When I look back on my earlier days, I am often astonished. Music was all to me from earliest youth. When a boy, in my home, in lovely Bohemia, I heard her voice, as a divine voice, in all that surrounded me--in the dense forest, in the gloomy ravine, the romantic valley--on the bold, stark cliff--in the cheerful hunter’s call, or the hoarse song of stream and torrent, her voice thrilled to my heart, like a sweet and glorious prophecy. All was clear to my youthful vision. Love commanded--and there was light! Then I thought there was nothing so great and god-like, that man, impotent man, could not achieve it. Too soon I learned that something was impossible. The royal eagle soars upward toward the sun; yet can he never reach the orb; and how soon are clipped the spirit’s wings! Then come harassing doubts, false ambition, thirst of gain, envy, disappointed vanity, worldly cares--the hateful gnomes of earth--that cling to you, and drag you downward, when you would soar like the eagle. So is it with the boy--the youth--with manhood--with old age. One perhaps redeems himself from folly; discerns and appreciates the right, and might create the beautiful. But with folly flies also youth, its ardor and its vigor; and there remains to him enthusiasm, passion for the sublime--and--a grave!”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Mehul, with emotion; “much more remains to _you_!”

“Think you so?” asked Gluck, and after a pause continued; “Well--perhaps something better--it is true; for when I freed myself from the fetters of the unworthy and the base, there came to me a radiant and lovely vision, from the pure bright _Grecian age_. But, believe me, the work of holding it fast, and shaping it in the external world, is my last. And melancholy it is, that a whole vigorous, blooming lifetime could not be consecrated alone to such a theme. But I submit, for I could not do otherwise; and I will bear it, whether these Parisian bawlers adjudge me fame and wealth for my work, or hiss me down.”

The hour struck for the rehearsal; Gluck broke off the discourse, and accompanied by his young friend, went to the Royal Academy of music.

Meanwhile Nicolo Piccini, morose and out of humor, was walking up and down his chamber, from time to time casting a discontented look at the notes of his opera, that lay open on the desk. At times he would walk hastily to the desk as if a lucky thought had struck him, to insert something in the work; but he would let fall the pen before he had touched the paper, shake his head with a dissatisfied and melancholy air, and begin again to walk the room.

There was a knock at the door; Piccini heeded it not; there was a second--a third! At length he went to the door, opened it, and Elias Hegrin entered. Piccini seemed disturbed at sight of him, and asked ungraciously--“What do you want? Why are you here again?”