ML 65.E45N9 
 Nouvelettes of the musicians / 
 
 3 1924 022 272 417 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022272417 
 
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U ? S It I s s s s § 
 
 By MRS. E. F. ELLET, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE WOMEN OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION." 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 CORNISH, LAMPORT & Co., PUBLISHERS. 
 ST. LOUIS :— Mc CARTNEY & LAMPORT. 
 
 u 
 
 K3 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, 
 
 By CORNISH, LAMPORT St Co. 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the 
 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 Stereotyped "by Vincent Dill, Jr., 
 Nos. 21 & 23 Ann Street, N. T. 
 
 \ Rt v\i\ ,,\'\ -\ , 
 fc'if 1 ' , "' I I'' V- • 
 
jpssiFAsa, 
 
 In the following series of Nouvellettes, something higher has 
 been attempted than merely the production of amusing fictions. 
 Each is founded on incidents that really occurred in the artist's 
 life, and presents an illustration of his character and the style 
 of his works. The conversations introduced embody critical 
 remarks on the musical compositions of great masters ; the 
 object being to convey valuable information on this subject — 
 so little studied or known except among the few devoted to the 
 art — in an attractive form. The view given of the scope and 
 tendency of the works of different artists, and their relation to 
 personal character, may also enforce a striking moral ; show- 
 ing the elevating influence of virtue, and the power of vice to 
 distort even the loveliest gift of Heaven into a curse and re- 
 proach. Of the tales — " Tartini," " Two Periods in the Life 
 of Haydn," " Mozart's First Visit to Paris," " The Artist's 
 Lesson," "The Mission of Genius," "The Young Tra- 
 gedian," and "Tamburini," only are original; the others are 
 adapted from the " Kunstnovellen" of Lyser and Rellstab. 
 The sketch of the great pianist, Liszt, is translated from a 
 memoir by Christern, a distinguished professor of music in 
 Hamburg. 
 
(BOSS SET SB, 
 
 HANDEL, . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TARTINI, . . 21 
 
 HAYDN 39 
 
 FRIEDEMANN BACH 75 
 
 SEBASTIAN BACH, 105 
 
 THE OLD MUSICIAN 120 
 
 MOZART 129 
 
 THE ARTIST'S LESSON 1C9 
 
 GLUCK IN PARIS, 184 
 
 BEETHOVEN, 201 
 
 THE MISSION OF GENIUS 227 
 
 PALESTRINA, 244 
 
 THREE LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A TRAVELLER, . 251 
 
 THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN, 261 
 
 FRANCIS LISZT 271 
 
 TAMBURINI, 292 
 
 BELLINI, 311 
 
 LOVE VERSUS TASTE, 320 
 
liouuElUttes of \\)i 3&Mu\au. 
 
 HAIBSS, 
 
 In the parlor of the famous London tavern, " The Good Wo- 
 man," Fleet street, No. 77, sat Master John Farren, the host, 
 in his arm-chair, his arms folded over his ample breast, ready to 
 welcome his guests. 
 
 It was seven in the evening ; the hour at which --the members 
 of the club were used to assemble, according to the good old 
 custom in London, in 1741. Directly before John Farren, stood 
 Mistress Bett, his wife, her withered arms akimbo, and an angry 
 flush on her usually pale and sallow cheeks. 
 
 " Is it true, Master John," she asked, in a shrill tone ; " is it 
 possible ! do you really mean- to throw our Ellen, our only child, 
 into the arms of that vagabond German beggar ?" 
 
 " Not exactly to throw her into his arms, Mistress Bett," re- 
 plied John, quietly ; " but Ellen loves the lad, and he is a brave 
 fellow — handsome, honest, gifted, industrious " 
 
 "And poor as a church mouse!" interrupted Bett; "and 
 nobody knows who or what he may be !" 
 
 " Yes ! his countryman, Master Handel, says there is some- 
 thing great in him." 
 
 " Pah ! get away with your Master Handel ! he is always your 
 authority ! What is he to us, now that it is all over with him in 
 
HANDEL. 
 
 the favor of His Majesty ! While he could go in and out of 
 Carlton House daily, I would have cared for his good word ; but 
 now that he is banished thence for his highflown insolent conduct, 
 what is he, but an ordinary vagabond musician ?" 
 
 " Hold your tongue !" cried John Parren, now really moved; 
 " and hold Master Handel in honor ! If he gives Joseph his 
 good word, by my troth I have ground whereon I can build. Do 
 you understand, Mistress Bett ?" 
 
 The " good woman" seemed as though she would have replied 
 at length ; but before she could speak, the door opened, and 
 two men of respectable appearance entered. Tom, the waiter, 
 snatched up a porter-mug, filled and placed it on the round 
 table in the middle of the room, and stood ready for further ser- 
 vice ; while Mistress Bett, flinging a scowl at both the visitors, 
 silently left the apartment. 
 
 " Well," cried the eldest of the two — a colossal figure, with a 
 handsome and expressive countenance, and large flashing eyes — 
 " well, Master John, how goes it ?" 
 
 " So, so, Master Handel," was the reply, " the better that 
 you are just come in time to silence my good woman." 
 
 Handel gave his hat and stick to the boy, and turned to his 
 companion, a man about the middle height, simple and plain in 
 his exterior ; only in the corner of his laughing eye could the 
 observer detect a world of shrewdness and waggery. His name 
 was William Hogarth ; and he was well esteemed as a portrait 
 painter. 
 
 " You think, then," asked Handel, keenly regarding his com- 
 panion — " you think, then, Bedford would do something for my 
 Messiah, if I got the right side of him ?" 
 
 " You shall not trouble yourself to get the right side of him," 
 exclaimed Hogarth eagerly ; " that I ask not of you ; no honor- 
 able man would ask it. Speak to the point at once with him ; 
 and be sure, he will use all his influence to have your work suit- 
 ably represented." 
 
 " But is it not too bad," cried Handel, " that I must flatter 
 
HANDEL. 
 
 such a shallow-pate as his Grace the Duke of Bedford, to get my 
 best (Heaven knows, William, my best) work brought before the 
 public ? If his Grace but comprehended a note of it ! but he 
 knows no more of music than that lout of a linen-weaver in 
 Yorkshire, who spoiled my Saul in such a manner, that I cor- 
 rected him with my fist." 
 
 Hogarth replied with vivacity — " You have been eight-and- 
 twenty years in England ; have you not yet found out that the 
 patronage of a stupid great man does no harm to a work of art ? 
 You know me, Handel ; and know that I abhor nothing so much 
 as servility, be it to whom it may. Yet, I assure you, should I 
 deal only with those who understand my labors, and have no good 
 word from others,, I should be glad if I obtained employment 
 enough to keep wife and child from starving. As to luxuries, 
 and my punch clubs, that have pleased you so well, I could not 
 even think of them. You know as well as I, that talent, a true 
 taste for art, and wealth to support both, are seldom or never 
 found together. Let us thank God, if the unendowed are good- 
 natured enough not to grudge us our glorious inheritance, while 
 they deny us not a portion of the crumbs from their luxuri- 
 ous tables." 
 
 Handel was leaning with both arms on the table, his head buried 
 in his hands. Without looking up or changing his position, he 
 murmured, " Must it ever be so ; must the time never come, when 
 the artist may taste the pure joy he prepares through his works 
 for others ! Hogarth," he continued, with sudden energy, while 
 he withdrew his hands from his face, and looked earnestly at his 
 friend, " Hogarth, would you consent to leave your country, and 
 exercise your art in other lands ?" 
 
 " What a question ! Not for the world," replied the painter. 
 
 " There it is ! " cried Handel, hastily : " you have held out, 
 and begin now to reap the reward of your constancy ; but I left 
 my dear fatherland, just as new life in art began to be stirring. 
 Oh, how nobly, how magnificently, is it now developed there ! 
 What could I not have done with the gifts bestowed upon me ? 
 
10 
 
 HANDEL. 
 
 Have my countrymen achieved any thing great — they have done 
 it wifMuit toe, while I was here, tormenting myself in vain with 
 your asses of singers -and musicians, to drive a notion of what 
 music is, into their' heads. I have scarce yet numbered fifty 
 years. I will return to my own country ; better a cowherd 
 there, than here again Director of the Haymarket Theatre, or 
 Chapel-master to His Majesty, who, with all his court rabble, 
 takes such delight in the sweet warblings of that Italian ! Ho- 
 garth, you should paint the lambling, as the London women 
 worship him as their idol, and bring him offerings ? " 
 
 " I have already," answered Hogarth, laughing ; " but hush, 
 our friends ! " 
 
 Here the door opened, and there entered Master Tyers, then 
 lessee of Vauxhall, the Abbe Dubos, and Doctor Benjamin Hualdy ; 
 they were 'followed by- Joseph Wach, a young German, who had 
 devoted himself to the study of music under Handel's instruction, 
 and Miss Ellen Farren, the young lady of the house. Master 
 John arose ; and Tom filled the empty porter mugs, and pro- 
 duced fresh ones. 4, 
 
 Handel gave his pupil a friendly nod, and asked: "How 
 come you on with your part ? Can I hear you soon ?" 
 
 ' " I am very industrious, Master Handel," replied Joseph, 
 " and will do my best, I assure you, to be perfect. You must 
 only have a little patience with me." 
 
 " Hem," muttered Handel ; " I have had it so long with the 
 stupid asses in this country, it shall not so soon fail with you. 
 Enough till to-morrow ; to your prating with your little girl 
 yonder." 
 
 " Ah ! Master Handel," cried Ellen, pouting prettily, " you 
 think, then, Joseph should only be my sweet-heart when he has 
 nothing better to do ?" 
 
 " That were, indeed, most prudent, little witch," said Handel, 
 laughing : " but 'tis ill preaching to lovers ; that knows your 
 father by experience, eh ! old John ?" 
 
 " Master Handel," said the Abbe, taking the word, " do yon 
 
HANDEL. 11 
 
 know I was not able to sleep last night, because your chorus — 
 ' For the glory of the Lord shall he revealed,'' — ran continually in 
 my head, and sounded in my ears ? I think, good Master Handel, 
 your glory shall be revealed through your Messiah, when you 
 can once ge,t it brought out suitably. But the Lord Archbishop, 
 it seems, is against it." 
 
 Handel reddened violently, as he always did when anger stirred 
 him : " A just Christian is the Lord Archbishop ! He asked me 
 if he should compose me a text for the Messiah ; and when I 
 asked him quietly if he thought me a heathen who knew nothing 
 of the Bible, or if he thought to make it better than it stood in 
 the Holy Scriptures, he turned his back on me, and represented 
 me to the court as a rude, thankless boor." 
 
 " It is not good to eat cherries with the great," observed wise 
 John Farren. 
 
 " I thought," muttered Handel, " this proverb was only cur- 
 rent on the continent ; but I see, alas ! that it is equally applicable 
 in the land of freedom !" 
 
 " Good and bad are mingled all over the earth," said Benjamin 
 Hualdy, smiling : " and their proportion is everywhere the same. 
 We must take the world, dear Handel, as it is, if we would not 
 renounce all pleasure. Confess then : never felt you more joy — 
 never were you more conscious of your own merit — never thanked 
 you God more devoutly for his gifts to you, than when at last, 
 after long struggle with ignorance and intrigue, you produced a 
 work before the world, that charmed even enmity and envy to 
 admiration !" 
 
 " And what care I for the admiration of fools and knaves ?" 
 interrupted Handel. Benjamin continued, in a conciliating tone 
 — " Friend, he who can admire the beautiful and the good, is not 
 so wholly depraved, as oft appears. There lives a something in 
 the breast of every man, which, so long as it is not quite crushed 
 and extinguished, lets not the worst fall utterly. I cannot name, 
 nor describe it ; but art, and music before all arts, is the surest 
 test whereby you may know if that something yet exists." 
 
12 HANDEL. 
 
 " Most surely," cried Master Tyers. " I myself lore music 
 from my heart, and think with your great countryman, Doctor 
 Luther, ' He must be a brute who feels not pleasure in so lovely 
 and wondrous an art.' But, Master Handel, judge not my dear 
 countrymen too harshly, if they have not accomplished so much 
 as yours in that glorious art. Gifts are diverse ; we have many 
 that you have not." 
 
 " You have been long in England," observed the Abbe, " and 
 have experienced many vexations and difficulties, particularly 
 among those necessary to you in the production of your works. 
 But tell me, Master Handel, supposing it true, that the court and 
 nobles often do you injustice ; that our musicians and singers are 
 inferior to those in your own country ; that we cannot grasp all 
 the high spirit that dwells in your works ; are you not, neverthe- 
 less, the darling of the people of Britain ? Lives not the name 
 of Handel in the mouth of honest John Bull, honored as the 
 names of his most renowned statesmen ? Well, sir, if that is 
 true, give honest John Bull (he means well and truly, at least) 
 a little indulgence. Let us hear your Messiah soon ; your honor 
 suffers nought, and you remain, after all, the free German you 
 were before." 
 
 " Aye !" cried Hogarth, " that is just what I have told him." , 
 " And I," — " And I," exclaimed Tyers and Hualdy ; while John 
 added, coaxingly, " Only think, Master Handel, how often I have ' 
 to give up to my good wife, without detriment to my authority as 
 master of the house." 
 
 Handel sat a few moments in silence, looking gloomily from 
 one to another, around the circle. Suddenly he burst into a loud 
 laugh, and cried in cheerful tone — " By my halidome, old fellow 
 you are right! Give us your hand ; to-morrow early I go to the 
 Duke of Bedford ; and you shall hear the Messiah, were all the 
 rascals in the three kingdoms and the continent against it. Tom 
 another mug !" 
 
 Loud and long applause followed his words : John Farren 
 essayed a leap in his joy, which, 'spite of his corpulence, sue- 
 
HANDEL. 13 
 
 ceeded beyond expectation, and moved the guests to renewed 
 peals of laughter. Joseph whispered to the maiden at his side — 
 " Oh, Ellen ! if it prospers with him, our fortune is made ; I 
 have his word for it." 
 
 The next morning Handel went, as he had promised his 
 friends, to the Duke of Bedford. His Grace had given a grand 
 breakfast, and half the court was assembled in his saloon. As 
 soon as the servants saw Handel ascending the steps, they has- 
 tened to announce his arrival to their lord. 
 
 The Duke was not much of a connoisseur, but he loved the 
 reputation of a patron of the arts, and took great pleasure in 
 exhibiting himself in that light to the court and the king. It 
 was his dearest wish to win the illustrious master to himself; 
 particularly as he knew well that the absence of Handel from 
 Carlton House was in no way owing to want of favor with the 
 sovereign. The king, on the contrary, appreciated and highly 
 valued his genius. But Handel's energetic nature could not 
 bend to the observance of the forms and ceremonies held indis- 
 pensable, not only at Carlton House, but among all the London 
 aristocracy ; and it was natural that this peculiarity should gradu- 
 ally remove him from the circles of the nobility. His fame on this 
 account, however, only rose the higher. His Oratorio of Saul, 
 which the preceding year had been produced, first in London, 
 then in the other large cities of England, had stamped him a 
 composer whom none hitherto had surpassed. The king was 
 delighted ; the court and nobles professed, at least, to be no less 
 so. Among the people, his name stood, as his friend had truly 
 observed, with the proudest names of the age ! When informed 
 of his arrival, the Duke hastened out, shook the master cordially 
 by the hand, and was about leading him, without ceremony, into 
 the hall. But Handel, thanking him for the honor, informed him 
 he was come to ask a favor of his Grace. 
 
 " Well, Master Handel," said the Duke, smiling — " then come 
 with me into my cabinet." The master followed his noble host, 
 and unfolded his petition in few words, to wit : that his Grace 
 
14 HANDEL. 
 
 would be pleased to set right the heads of the Lord Mayor and 
 the Archbishop of London, so that they should cease laying hin- 
 drances in the way of the representation of his Messiah. 
 
 The Duke heard him out, and promised to use all his means 
 and all his influence to prevent any further obstacle being inter- 
 posed, and to remove those already in the way. Handel was 
 pleased, more, perhaps, with the manner in which the polite but 
 haughty Duke gave the promise, than with'the promise itself. 
 
 " Now come in with me, Master Handel," said the Duke ; 
 " you will see many faces that are not strangers to you ; and 
 moreover, a brave countryman of yours, whom I have taken into 
 my service. His name is Kellermann, and he is an excellent 
 flute player, as the connoisseurs say." 
 
 " Alle tausend /" cried Handel, with joyful surprise ; " is the 
 brave fellow in London, and indeed in your Grace's service ? 
 That is news indeed ! I will go with you, were your hall filled 
 besides with baboons." 
 
 " Oh ! no lack of them," laughed the Duke, while he led his guest 
 into the saloon ; " and you will find a fat capon into the bargain." 
 
 Great was the sensation among the assembled guests, when 
 Bedford entered, introducing the celebrated composer. When 
 he had presented Handel to the company, the Duke beckoned 
 Kellermann to him ; and Handel, without regarding the rest, 
 greeted his old friend with all the warmth of his nature, and with 
 childlike expressions of joy. Bedford seemed to enjoy his satis- 
 faction, and let the two friends remain undisturbed ; though the 
 idol of the London world of fashion, Signor Farinelli, hemmed and 
 cleared his throat many times over the piano, in token that he was 
 about to sing, and wanted Kellermann to come back and accompany 
 him. At length, Kellermann noticed his uneasiness; he pressed 
 his friend's hand with a smile, returned to his place, took up his 
 flute, and Signor Farinelli, having once more cleared his throat, 
 began a melting air with his sweet, clear voice. 
 
 Handel, a powerful man, austere in his life, vigorous in his 
 works, abhorred nothing so much as the singing of these effe- 
 
HANDEL. 15 
 
 minate creatures ; and all the luxurious cultivation of Signor 
 Farinelli seemed to him only a miserable mockery of nature, as 
 of heaven4>orn art. But, however much displeased at the soft 
 trilling of the Italian, — whom Kellermann dexterously accompa- 
 nied and imitated on his flute, — he could not refrain from laugh- 
 ing inwardly at the effect produced on the whole company. The 
 men rolled up their eyeSj and sighed and moaned with delight ; 
 the ladies seemed to float in rapture, like Farinelli's tones. 
 " Sweet, sweet !" sighed one to another. " Yes, indeed !" lisped 
 the fair in reply, drooping her eyelids, and inclining her head. 
 Signor Farinelli ceased, and eager applause rewarded his ex- 
 ertions. 
 
 The Duke now introduced Handel to the Italian. 
 
 Farinelli, after some complimentary phrases, addressed the 
 master in broken English. 
 
 " I have inteso," he said, with a complacent smile, " that il 
 Signor Aendel has composed una opera — il Messia. Is there in 
 that opera a part to sing for il famous musico Farinelli — I mean, 
 for me, ?" 
 
 Handel looked at the ornamented little figure from head to 
 foot, and answered in his deepest bass tone, " No, Signora." 
 
 The company burst out a laughing j the ladies covered their 
 faces. Soon after, the German composer, with his friend Hogarth, 
 took his leave. In the vestibule the artist showed Handel a 
 sketch he had made of Farinelli singing, and his admirers lost 
 in ecstasy. " By the Duke's order," whispered he. 
 
 " That is false of him !" exclaimed Handel, indignantly. 
 
 The satirical painter shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Handel sat in his chamber, deep in composition. Once more 
 he tried every note ; now he would smile over a passage that 
 'pleased him ; now pause earnestly upon something that did not 
 satisfy him so well ; pondering, striking out and altering to suit 
 his judgment. At length his eyes rested on the last " Amen :" 
 long — long — till a tear fell on the leaf. 
 
16 
 
 HANDEL. 
 
 " This note," said he, solemnly, and looking upwards — " this 
 note is perhaps my best ! Receive, Oh benevolent Father, my 
 best thanks for this work ! Thou, Lord ! hast given it me ; and 
 what comes forth from Thee — that endureth, though all things 
 earthly perish : — Amen. 
 
 He laid aside the notes, and walked a few times up and down 
 the room. Then seating himself in his easy chair, and folding 
 his arms, he indulged in happy dreams of his youth and his home. 
 Thus he was found by Kellermann, who came at dusk to accom- 
 pany him to the tavern. They discoursed long of their native 
 land, of their art, and the excellent masters then living in Ger- 
 many. At length they broke off from the theme, fearful of 
 keeping their assembled friends waiting too long. 
 
 " Well, friend," cried Hogarth gaily to the master as he 
 entered ; " was not my advice good ? Has not Bedford helped 
 you ? and is your self-respect a whit injured ?" 
 
 Handel nodded good-humoredly, and smiling, seated himself in 
 his wonted place. " You remember, some time ago," the painter 
 continued, " when the Leda of the Italian painter Correggio was 
 sold here at auction for ten thousand guineas, I said — ' If anybody 
 will give me ten thousand guineas, I will paint something quite 
 as good.' Lord G-rosvenor took me at my word ; I went to 
 work, and laid aside everything else. At last my picture is 
 ready ; I take it to his lordship ; he calls his friends together, 
 and, as I said, they all laugh at me ; I have to take back my 
 picture, and go home to quarrel with my wife !" 
 
 All laughed except Handel, who, after a few moments' silence, 
 said ; " Hogarth, you are an honest fellow, but often wondrous 
 dull ! You cannot judge of the Italian painters. In the first 
 place, their manner is entirely different from yours, and then you 
 know nothing of their best works. Had you been, as I have, 
 in Italy, and particularly in Rome, where live the glorious crea- 
 tions of Raphael and Michael Angelo, you would have respect 
 for the old Italian painters ; you would love and honor them, 
 as I do the old Italian church composers. As to the modern 
 
HANDEL. 17 
 
 i 
 
 painters, they are like, more or less, in their way, to Signor 
 Farinelli." 
 
 "Well!" cried Hogarth; "we will not dispute thereupon. 
 Tell us rather how you are pleased with your singers and per- 
 formers, and if you think they will acquit themselves well to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " They cannot do very badly," answered Handel ; I have 
 drilled them diligently, and Joseph has helped me with assid- 
 uous study. Only the first soprano singer is dreadfully me- 
 diocre ; I am sorry for it — for the sake of a few good notes — " 
 
 Here Joseph put his head in at the door, and said, " Master 
 Handel, a word if you please." 
 
 " Well, what do you want ?" asked Handel : and rising, he 
 came out of the room; his companions looked smiling at one 
 another ; and John Farren sent forth from his leathern chair a 
 prolonged "ha ! ha ! ha !" Joseph took his master's hand, and 
 led him hastily across the passage and upstairs into his chamber, 
 where Handel, to his no small astonishment, found the pretty 
 Ellen. 
 
 " Ha ! what may all this mean ?" he asked, while his brow 
 darkened ; " what do you here, Miss Ellen, in the chamber of 
 this young man — and so late too ?" 
 
 " He may tell you that himself, Master Handel," answered 
 the damsel pettishly, and blushing while she turned away her 
 face. But Joseph replied quickly and earnestly : " Think not 
 ill of me and the good Ellen, my dear master ; for what we do 
 here, I am ready to answer before you." 
 
 " Open your mouth, then, and speak," said Handel. 
 
 Joseph went on : " For what I am, and what I can do, I thank 
 you, my dear master. You befriended me when I came hither 
 a stranger, without means of earning a support. To make me a 
 good singer, you spent many an hour,, in which you could have 
 done something great." 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! the fool !" cried Handel ; " and do you think to 
 make a good singer was not doing something great— eh ?" 
 
18 HANDEL. 
 
 " You see, master, it has often grieved me to see you forced to 
 vex yourself beyond reason with indifferent singers, because their 
 education is far behind your works." 
 
 " That is a pity, indeed," sighed Handel. 
 
 " And I have tried," continued Joseph, " to instruct a singer 
 for you : I think I have so far succeeded, that she may venture 
 before you. There she is !" and he pointed to Ellen. 
 
 Handel opened his eyes wide, looked astonished on the damsel, 
 and asked, incredulously, " Ellen ! what, Ellen there ?" 
 
 " Yes, I !" cried Ellen, coming to him, and looking innocently 
 in his face with her clear hazel eyes. " I, myself," she repeated, 
 smiling ; " and now you know, Master Handel, what Joseph and 
 I were about together." 
 
 " Shall she sing before you, Master Handel ?" asked Joseph. 
 
 " I am curious to see how your teaching has succeeded," said 
 Handel, while he seated himself: " Come, then, let her sing." 
 Joseph sprang joyfully to the harpsichord ; Ellen went and stood 
 beside him, and began. 
 
 How it was with the composer, — how he listened, when he 
 heard the most splendid part in his forthcoming Messiah — the 
 noble air, " / know that my Redeemer liveth ;" — and how Ellen 
 sang it, the reader may conjecture, when, after she had ceased, 
 Handel still sat motionless, a happy smile on his lips, his large 
 flashing eyes full of the tears of deep religious emotion. At 
 length he drew a deep breath, arose, kissed the forehead of the 
 maiden, kissed her eyes — in which likewise pure drops were 
 glancing, — and asked in his mildest tone : " Ellen, my good — 
 good child, you will sing this part to-morrow, at the represen- 
 tation, will you not ?" 
 
 " Master Handel — Father Handel !" cried the maiden ; and 
 overcome with emotion, she threw herself sobbing on his neck. 
 But Joseph sang — 
 
 " Erwach' — erwach' — zn Liedern der Wonne ; 
 Frohlocke ! — frohlooke du !" 
 
HANDEL. 
 
 19 
 
 " Amen !" resounded through the vast arches of the church, and 
 died away in whispered melody in its remotest aisles. " Amen !" 
 responded Handel, while he let fall slowly the staff with which 
 he kept time. Successful beyond expectation was the first per- 
 formance of his immortal master-piece. Immense was the im- 
 pression it produced, as well on the performers as upon the audi- 
 ence. The fame of Handel stood now immovable. 
 
 When the composer left the church, he found a royal equipage 
 in waiting for him, which, by the King's command, conveyed him 
 to Carlton House. 
 
 George the Second, surrounded by his whole household and 
 many nobles of the court, received the illustrious German. 
 " Well, Master Handel," he cried, after a gracious welcome, 
 " it must be owned, you have made us a noble present in your 
 Messiah ; it is a brave piece of work." 
 
 " Is it ?" asked Handel, and looked the monarch in the face, 
 well pleased. 
 
 " It is, indeed," replied George. " And now tell me what 
 I can do, to express my thanks to you for it ?" 
 
 "If your Majesty," answered Handel, "will give a place to 
 the young man who sang the tenor solo part so well, I shall be 
 ever grateful to your Majesty. He is my pupil, Joseph Wach, 
 and he would fain marry his pupil, the fair Ellen, daughter to old 
 John Farren ; the old man gives consent, but his dame is oppo- 
 sed, because Joseph has no place as yet. And your Majesty 
 knows full well, that it is hard to carry a cause against the 
 women." 
 
 " You are mistaken, Master Handel," said the King, with a 
 forced smile ; " I know nothing to that effect ; but Joseph has 
 from this day a place in our chapel as first tenor." 
 
 " Indeed !" cried Handel, rubbing his hands with joy, " I 
 thank your Majesty from the bottom of my heart !" 
 
 George was silent a few moments, expecting the master to 
 ask some other favor. " But, Master Handel," he said at length, 
 " have you nothing to ask for yourself ? I would willingly show 
 
20 HANDEL. 
 
 my gratitude to you in your own person, for the fair entertain- 
 ment you have provided us all in your Messiah." 
 
 The flush of anger suddenly mantled on Handel's cheek, and 
 he answered, in a disappointed tone — " Sire, I have endeavored 
 not to entertain you — but to make you better. " 
 
 The whole court was astonished. King George stepped back a 
 pace or two, and looked on the bold master with surprise. Then 
 bursting into a hearty fit of laughter, and walking up to him — 
 " Handel !" he cried — " you are, and will ever be, a rough old 
 fellow, but" — and he slapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder 
 — " a good fellow withal. G-o — do what you will, we remain ever 
 the best friends in the world." He signed in token of dismission ; 
 Handel retired respectfully, and thanked Heaven as he turned 
 his back on Carlton House, to hasten to his favorite haunt, the 
 tavern. 
 
 We shall not attempt to describe the joy his news brought to 
 the lovers, Joseph and Ellen, nor their unnumbered caresses and 
 protestations of gratitude. John Earren took his good wife in his 
 arms and hugged her, 'spite of her resistance and scolding, crying, 
 " Nonsense, Bett ! we must be friends to-day, though all the bells 
 in old England ring a peal for it." 
 
 For ten years more Handel travelled throughout England, and 
 composed new and admirable works. When his sight failed him 
 in the last years of his life, it was Ellen who nursed him as if she 
 had been his child, while her husband Joseph wrote down his last 
 compositions, as he dictated them. 
 
 Proud and magnificent is the marble monument erected in 
 Westminster to the memory of Handel. Time may destroy it ; 
 but the monument he himself, in his high and holy inspiration, 
 has left us — his Messiah — will last forever. 
 
TAETINI, 21 
 
 TA&f III, 
 
 It was late one evening in the summer of 171—, that a party of 
 wild young students at law in the University of Padua were at 
 supper in the saloon of a restaurateur of that city. The revelry 
 had heen prolonged even beyond the usual time ; much wine had 
 been drunk ; and the harmony and good feeling that generally 
 prevailed during their convivial meetings had been interrupted by 
 furious altercation between two of their number. As is almost 
 always the case, the rest took sides with one or other of the dispu- 
 tants ; all rose from table ; high words were exchanged, and a 
 scene of confusion and tumult was likely to ensue, when the of- 
 fenders were imperiously called to order by one of their number. 
 He was evidently young ; but his slender limbs were firmly knit, 
 and his form, though slight, so well proportioned as to give promise 
 both of activity and strength beyond his years. 
 
 " For shame !" he cried, angrily, after producing a momentary 
 silence by a vigorous thump on the table ; " are you but a set of 
 bullies, that you stand here pitching hard words at each other, 
 and calling all the neighborhood to see how valiant we can be 
 with our tongues ? Fetch me him that can swear loudest, and 
 give us space for our swords !" 
 
 Here the clamor was redoubled by all at once explaining, and 
 contradicting each other 
 
 The first speaker struck the table again till all the glasses rang. 
 
 " Have done," he cried, " with this disgraceful uproar, or San 
 Marco ! I will fight you all myself — one by one !" 
 
 This threat was received with cries of " Not me — Giuseppe !" 
 
22 T A R T I N I. 
 
 and after a few moments, the two disputants stood forth, separated 
 from their companions. A space was speedily cleared for the 
 combat. 
 
 The combatants needed no urging ; but scarcely was the clash- 
 ing of their swords heard, when Pedrillo, the restaurateur, ran in, 
 followed by his servants, and with a face pale with terror protested 
 against his house being made the scene of riot and bloodshed. It 
 would be his ruin, he averred ; he should be indicted by the civil 
 authorities ; he should be banished the country ; he could never 
 again show his face in Padua ! If young gentlemen would kill 
 one another there were places enough for such a purpose besides 
 a reputable establishment like his ; and with ludicrous rapidity 
 enumerating the localities resorted to by duellists of the city, he 
 besought them with piteous entreaties to transfer themselves else- 
 where, oiFering even to remain minus the expenses of their supper. 
 But Pedrillo's solicitations had little effect on the wilful young 
 men, till backed by threats that he would call the guard. Most 
 of them had known what it was to fall into the hands of the police 
 for midnight disturbances, and duels were favorite pastimes among 
 the students of the University ; so that immediately on the disap- 
 pearance of Pedrillo's servant, the whole party precipitately left 
 the house. First, however, Giuseppe, the one who had recom- 
 mended a resort to the duel, laid the amount of the reckoning on 
 the table. 
 
 As the party turned the corner of a narrow street, they came 
 close upon a carriage, attended by several servants. At this 
 sudden encounter with so many half intoxicated and noisy stu- 
 dents, recognised by their dress and well known to be always 
 ready for any deed of mischief, the attendants fled in every direc- 
 tion. The horses caught the alarm, and, wild with fright, plunged, 
 reared, and set off at full speed down the street. A shout of 
 laughter from the revellers, who thought it capital sport to see 
 the dismay created at sight of them, greeted the ears of the terri- 
 fied inmates of the carriage. But Giuseppe sprang forward, and 
 at the peril of his life, threw himself upon the horses' necks, pulling 
 
TART IN I. 23 
 
 the bits with such violence as to check them at once. The ani- 
 mals, quivering with fear, stood still ; the coachman recovered 
 his control over them ; and Giuseppe, opening the door, assisted 
 an elderly gentleman, very richly dressed, to alight, and inquired 
 kindly if he had suffered injury. 
 
 " I have only been alarmed ;" replied the gentleman, carefully 
 adjusting his dress, and drawing his cloak about him. " But my 
 daughter" — 
 
 Giuseppe had already lifted from the carriage the nearly lifeless 
 form of a young girl. As the lamp-light fell upon her face, he 
 could see it was one of matchless beauty. 
 
 " My Leonora !" exclaimed the father, in a tone of anxious 
 apprehension. The young girl opened languidly a pair of beautiful 
 dark eyes, started up, gazed with an expression of surprise upon 
 the young student who had been supporting her, then threw her- 
 self into her father's arms. With an expression of joy that she 
 had recovered from her fright, the gentleman ordered his servants, 
 who had returned when the danger was over, to procure another 
 conveyance. This was immediately done ; and turning to Giu- 
 seppe, he thanked him with lofty courtesy for the service he had 
 rendered, and invited him to call next day at the house of the 
 Count di Cornaro, in the Prado della Valle. 
 
 All night wild thoughts were busy in the brain of the young 
 student. Never had such a vision of loveliness dawned upon him. 
 And who was she ? One elevated by fortune and rank so far 
 above him that she would regard him but as the dust beneath her 
 feet. As he had seen her in her delicate white drapery, like 
 floating silver, her hair bound with pearls, she had moved, in 
 some princely palace, among the nobles of the land. Many had 
 worshipped ; many had doubtless poured forth vows at her feet. 
 How would she look upon one so poor and lowly ? Giuseppe 
 heaved a bitter sigh, but he resolved nevertheless to love her, and 
 only her, for the rest of his life. A new sensation was born within 
 him. He had hitherto cared only for frolic and revel and fighting ; 
 had been known only as Giuseppe, the mad student ; the mover 
 
24 
 
 TART IN I. 
 
 and leader in all mischief ; a perfect master of his weapon, and 
 the most skilful fencer in Padua. So great was his passion for 
 fencing, and so astonishing the skill he had acquired in the art, 
 that the most finished adepts in that noble science were frequently 
 known to resort to him for lessons. So fond was he, moreover, 
 of exhibiting this accomplishment, that he shunned no opportunity 
 of exercising it at the expense of his acquaintances. Many were 
 the duels in which he had been engaged ; whether on his own 
 account or for the sake of his friends, it mattered little. His love 
 of fighting was as well known as the fact that few could hope to 
 come off victorious in a strife with him ; and this may account for 
 the ascendancy he evidently had over his companions, their un- 
 willingness to chafe his humor, and submission to the imperious 
 tone in which he was wont to address them. 
 
 Of late, disgusted with the study of law, to which he had been 
 consigned by his parents as a last resort — their first wish having 
 been that he should embrace a monastic life — he had adopted the 
 resolution of leaving Padua, of taking up his abode in one of the 
 great capitals, and pursuing the profession of a fencing-master. 
 Thus he would have opportunity for the cultivation of his favorite 
 science, and at the same time would be unfettered by the control 
 of others, a yoke galling beyond measure to his impatient spirit. 
 Already he had announced this determination to his fellow students, 
 and waited only a favorable opportunity to effect his escape from 
 the University. 
 
 How often are the plans of a human mind changed by the 
 slightest accident ! How many fortunes have been made or 
 marred by occurrences so trivial that they would have passed 
 unnoticed by ordinary observation ! How many events of impor- 
 tance have depended on causes at the first view scarce worth the 
 estimation of a hair ! In the present instance, the Count di 
 Cornaro's horses taken fright cost a capital fencing-master, and 
 gave the world — a Tartini ! 
 
 In due time next day, Giuseppe appeared in the Prado della 
 
TART IN I. 25 
 
 Valle. As he was about to ascend the steps of the noble mansion 
 belonging to the Count di Cornaro, a window above was hastily- 
 thrown open, and a rose fell at his feet. Glancing upward, he 
 caught a glimpse of the bright face of Leonora ; she smiled, and 
 vanished from the window. The youth raised the flower, pressed 
 it to his lips, and hid it in his bosom. 
 
 At the door, the porter received him as one who had been ex- 
 pected, and ushered him into a splendidly furnished apartment. 
 The marble tables were covered with flowers ; a lute lay on one 
 of them ; the visitor took it up, not doubting that it belonged to 
 the beautiful Leonora, and while waiting for the Count, played 
 several airs with exquisite skill. 
 
 " By my faith ! you have some taste in music !" cried Cornaro, 
 who had entered unperceived, as he finished one of the airs. The 
 young man laid down the instrument, embarrassed, and blushing 
 deeply, stammered an apology for the liberty he had taken. 
 
 " Nay, I excuse you readily, my young friend," said the Count, 
 cordially — extending his hand. Then motioning him to a seat, he 
 asked his name, 
 
 " Giuseppe Tartini." 
 
 " A native of Padua ?'- 
 
 " No ; I was born at Pisano, in Istria." 
 
 " Your business here ?" 
 
 " I am a student at law, in the University." 
 
 The speaker colored again ; for he had suddenly become anxious 
 to obtain the Count's good opinion. 
 
 " And where," asked Cornaro, after a pause, " did you acquire 
 your knowledge in music ?" 
 
 " You are pleased, Signor," replied the youth, modestly, and 
 bending his eyes to the ground, " to commend what is indeed not 
 worthy — " 
 
 " Allow me judgment, if you please," interrupted the Count, 
 sharply. " I am myself skilled in the art. I ask, where did you 
 receive instruction ?" 
 
 " I took some lessons at Capo d' Istria," answered Giuseppe, 
 
26 TART IN I. 
 
 " when very young ; my parents had placed me there to be edu- 
 cated for the church ; and I found music a great solace in my 
 seclusion." 
 
 " The church ! and why have you changed your pursuits ?" 
 
 " I could not, Signor, conscientiously devote myself to a religious 
 life — when I knew myself in no way fitted for it." 
 
 " I understand ; you wished to act a part in the world ; you 
 were right. Your parents were wrong to decide for you prema- 
 turely. I like your frankness and simplicity, Giuseppe. You 
 may look upon me as a friend." 
 
 This was said in the lofty tone of a patron. The young man 
 bowed in apparent humility and gratitude. 
 
 " You rendered me a service last night, at great risk to your- 
 self — ay, and some injury, too !" Here he noticed, for the first 
 time, a slight wound on the cheek of his young visitor. 
 
 " Oh, it is nothing, Signor !" cried Giuseppe, really embarrassed 
 that so slight a hurt should be alluded to. 
 
 " You may esteem it such, but I do not forget that I owe you 
 thanks for your timely aid ; nor do I fail to observe that you are 
 modest as brave. I perceive, also, that you have talents, and 
 lack, perhaps, the means of cultivating them. In such a case, you 
 will not find me an ungenerous patron. In what way can I assist 
 you now ?" 
 
 Tartini made no reply, for his head was full of confused ideas. 
 His former purposes and plans were wholly forgotten. The 
 Count remarked his embarrassment, and graciously gave him per- 
 mission to go home for the present and consider what he had said. 
 
 The young man lingered a moment before the door, and stole a 
 glance upward, hoping to see once more the angelic face that had 
 smiled upon him ; but the window was closed and all was silent. 
 He departed with a feeling of sadness and disappointment at his 
 heart. He knew not how powerful an advocate he had in the 
 bosom of the maiden herself. Under the sun of Italy love is a 
 plant that springs up spontaneously ; and the handsome face and 
 form of the youth who had perilled his life to save her from harm 
 
TART IN I. 27 
 
 had already impressed deeply the fancy of the susceptible girl. 
 Unseen herself, she watched his departure from her father's house ; 
 and, impelled by something more than mere feminine curiosity, 
 immediately descended to know the particulars of his visit. It 
 was to be supposed that her woman's wit could point out some 
 way in which the haughty Count could discharge his obligation 
 to the humble student. And she failed not to suggest such 
 a way. 
 
 Two days after, Giuseppe was surprised by a message from the 
 Count di Cornaro, proposing that he should become his daughter's 
 tutor in music, and offering a liberal salary. With what eager- 
 ness, with what trembling delight he accepted the offer ! How 
 did his heart beat, as he strove in the Count's presence to conceal 
 the wild rapture he felt, under a semblance of respect and down- 
 cast humility ! How resolutely did he turn his eyes from the 
 face of his beautiful pupil, lest he should become quite frantic 
 with his new joy, and lest the passion that filled his breast should 
 betray itself in his looks ! As if it were possible long to conceal 
 it from the bewitching object ! 
 
 It was a day in spring. The soft air, laden with the fragrance 
 of flowers, stole in at the draperied windows of Cornaro's princely 
 mansion, and rustled in the leaves of the choice plants ranged 
 within. In the apartment to which we before introduced the 
 reader, sat a fair girl, holding a book in her hand, but evi- 
 dently too much absorbed in melancholy thought to notice its 
 contents. She was reclining upon a couch in an attitude of the 
 deepest dejection. Her face was very pale, and bore the traees 
 of recent tears. As the bell rang, and the door was opened by 
 the domestic, she started up and clasped her hands with an ex- 
 pression of the most lively alarm. But when a young man, appa- 
 rently about twenty years of age, entered the room, she ran 
 towards him, and throwing herself into his arms, wept and sobbed 
 on his bosom. 
 
28 
 
 TAB. TIN I. 
 
 "Leonora! my beloved!" cried the youth; "For heaven's 
 sake, tell me what has happened !" 
 
 " Oh, Giuseppe !" she answered, as soon as she could speak 
 for weeping, " We are lost ! My father has discovered all !" 
 
 " Alas ! and his anger has not spared thee !" 
 
 " No — Giuseppe ! He has pardoned me ; thou art the destined 
 victim ! Stay — let me tell thee all — and quickly ; for the mo- 
 ments are precious ! The Marchese di Rossi, thou knowest, has 
 sought my hand. He saw thee descend last night from my 
 window." 
 
 " He knows, then, of our secret marriage ?" 
 
 " No — he knows nothing ; but seeing thee leave my chamber at 
 night, he gave information this morning to my uncle, the Bishop." 
 
 " The villain ! he shall rue this !" muttered Tartini, grasping 
 the hilt of his weapon. 
 
 " Oh, think not of punishing him ! it will but ruin all ! Fly — 
 fly — before my uncle " 
 
 " Tell me all that has happened." 
 
 " This only— the Bishop revealed what he knew to my father ; 
 I was summoned to his presence scarce an hour since. He re- 
 proached me with what he called the infamy I had brought upon 
 his house. I could not bear his agony — Giuseppe ! I confessed 
 myself thy wedded wife !" 
 
 " Thou wast right — my Leonora ! and then ?" 
 
 " He refused to believe me ! I called Beatrice, who witnessed 
 our marriage, with her husband. My father softened ; I knelt at 
 his feet, and implored forgiveness." 
 
 " And he ?" asked Tartini, breathlessly. 
 
 " He pardoned me — he embraced me as his daughter ; but re- 
 quired me to renounce thee forever." 
 
 The young man dropped the hand he had held clasped in his. 
 
 " Wilt thou — Leonora ?" he asked. 
 
 " Never — Giuseppe !" 
 
 " Beloved ! let us go forth ; I will claim thee in the face of the 
 world." 
 
TART INI. 29 
 
 " Nay, my husband — listen to me ! I have seen our friend, the 
 good Father Antonio — and appealed to him in my distress. He 
 counsels wisely. Thou must leave Padua, and that instantly ! 
 My father's anger is not to be dreaded so much as that of my 
 haughty uncle, who would urge him to all that is fearful. They 
 would sacrifice thee — Giuseppe ! Oh, thou knowest not the pride 
 of our house ! They would shrink from no deed — " 
 
 Here the speaker shuddered — and her fair cheek grew pale as 
 death. 
 
 " I have no fears for myself — Leonora. They cannot sever 
 the bonds of the church that united us ; my own life I can 
 defend." 
 
 " Ah, thou knowest them not ! the dungeon — the rack — the 
 assassin's knife — all will be prepared for thee. As thou lovest 
 me, fly !" And gliding from his embrace, she sank down at his 
 feet. 
 
 " Forsake thee — my wife ! Abandon thee to the Cardinal's 
 vengeance — " 
 
 " I have naught to fear from him. Oh, hear Antonio's advice ! 
 When thou art gone, the Bishop's anger will abate. A few months 
 may restore thee to me. Go — Giuseppe : there is safety in flight 
 — to stay is certain death ! Must Leonora entreat in vain ?" 
 
 Their interview was interrupted by Beatrice, the nurse, who 
 came in haste to warn Tartini that her master, with his brother 
 the Bishop of Padua, was, approaching the house, and that they 
 were accompanied by several armed servants. There could now 
 be no doubt of their intentions towards the offender. He compre- 
 hended at once, that even the forbearance the Count had shown 
 his daughter had been dictated by a wish to secure his person. 
 To stay would be utter madness ; and yielding to the passionate 
 entreaties of his young wife, he clasped her for the last time to 
 his heart, pressed a farewell kiss on her forehead, and was gone 
 before his pursuers entered the house. 
 
 That night, while the emissaries of the Bishop of Padua were 
 searching the city, with orders to arrest the fugitive, and to cut 
 
30 TART IN I. 
 
 him down without mercy should he resist, Tartini, disguised in a 
 pilgrim's dress, was many miles on the way towards Home. 
 
 More than two years after the occurrence of this scene, one 
 evening in the winter of 1713, the Guardian of the Minors' Con- 
 vent at Assisi was conversing with the organist, Father Boemo, 
 on the subject of one of the inmates, whom Boemo had taken 
 under his peculiar care. 
 
 " The youth is a relative of mine," continued the Guardian ; 
 " but considerations of humanity alone moved me to grant him an 
 asylum, when, poor, persecuted and homeless, he threw himself 
 on my compassion. Since then his conduct has been such as to 
 secure my favor, and the respect of all the brethren." 
 
 " In truth it has," said Boemo, warmly. " And believe me, 
 brother, you will have as good reason to be proud of him as a 
 kinsman, as I of my pupil. It is my knowledge of his worth that 
 causes me such pain at his loss of health." 
 
 " The wearing of grief, think you ?" 
 
 " Not wholly. His anxiety for the safety of his wife was set at 
 rest long ago by intelligence of her welfare. He knows well that 
 the only daughter of so proud a house must be dear to her kins- 
 men — even by their unwearied efforts to discover his retreat. 
 And I have taught him to solace the pains of absence." 
 
 " Fears he still the Bishop's resentment ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; these convent walls are secure, and his secret well 
 guarded, since only in your keeping and mine. His enemies 
 may ransack Italy ; they will never dream of finding him here." 
 
 " What is the source, then, of his depression ?" 
 
 " It is a mystery to me. I have marked it growing for weeks. 
 And sure I am, it is not weariness of the solitude of this abode. 
 Since his spirits rose from the sadness of his first misfortunes — 
 since he breathed the air of comparative freedom, and joined in 
 the exercises of our pious brethren, Giuseppe has been a changed 
 man. Sorely hath he been tried in the furnace of affliction, and 
 
TART IN I. 81 
 
 he hath come forth pure gold. The religious calm of this retreat 
 has taught him reflection and moderation. His past sorrow has 
 chastened his spirit ; the holy example of the brethren has nour- 
 ished in his hreast humility and resignation and piety. The 
 ardent aspirations of his nature are now directed to the accom- 
 plishment of those great things for which Heaven has destined 
 him. Never have I known so unwearied, so devoted a student." 
 
 " With your training and good counsel, brother, he might well 
 love study," said the Guardian, with a smile. 
 
 " Nay, brother," replied Boemo, modestly, " I have but di- 
 rected him in the cultivation of his surprising genius for music. 
 And you know he excels on the violin. It is for that he seems 
 to have a passion — a passion that I fear is consuming his very 
 life." 
 
 They were interrupted by one of the brethren, who had some 
 business with the Guardian ; and Father Boemo proceeded to the 
 cell of his pupil, whom he was to accompany to vespers. 
 
 He found the object of his care seated by his table, on which 
 he leaned in a melancholy reverie. His form was emaciated ; his 
 face so pale that the good monk, who had seen him but a few 
 hours before, was even startled at the increased evidence of indis- 
 position. His violin was thrown aside neglected — strongest possible 
 proof of the malady of one who had worshipped music with an 
 idolatry bordering on madness. 
 
 Boemo laid his hand kindly on his pupil's shoulder, and said, 
 in a tone of mild reproof — " Giuseppe !" 
 
 The young man made no reply. 
 
 " This is not well, my brother !" continued the worthy organist 
 " The gifts of God are not to be thus slighted ; we offend Him by 
 our despondency, which, save abuse of power, is the worst in- 
 gratitude." 
 
 " It is your fault !" said the youth, bitterly, and looking up. 
 
 " Mine — and how ?'" 
 
 Giuseppe hesitated. 
 
 " How am I to blame for this sinful melancholy you indulge ?" 
 
32 TART IN I. 
 
 " Your lessons have given me knowledge." 
 
 " And does knowledge bring sorrow ?" 
 
 " Saith not your creed thus ? Since Adam tasted the fruit — " 
 
 " Of a knowledge forbidden." 
 
 " So is all knowledge — of things higher than we can attain to. 
 To aspire — and never reach — that is the misery of humanity." 
 And the speaker again buried his face in his hands. 
 
 " I understand you, my brother ;" said Boemo, after a pause. 
 " I have been to blame in suffering you to pursue your studies in 
 solitude. Knowing nothing of the outer world, you have wrought 
 but in view of that ideal which, to every true artist, becomes more 
 glorious and inaccessible as he gazes — as he advances. You 
 despond, because you have labored in vain after perfection. Is it 
 not so ?" 
 
 "I have mistaken myself;" answered Tartini ; "you have 
 mistaken me. It was cruel in you to persuade me I was an 
 artist." 
 
 " And who tells you you are not ?" 
 
 " My own judgment — my own heart." 
 
 " It deceives you, then." 
 
 " It does not," cried Tartini, with sudden energy, and starting 
 up with such violence that the worthy monk was alarmed. " It 
 is you who have deceived me. You have taught me to flatter 
 myself ; to imagine I could accomplish something ; to thirst for 
 what was never to be mine. You have pointed me to a goal 
 toward which I have toiled and panted — in vain — while it receded 
 in mockery. You have given me wishes which are to prove my 
 everlasting curse. Yes," — he continued, striking his forehead, 
 " my curse. What doom can be more horrible than mine ?" 
 
 " You have but passed," answered Boemo, mildly, " though 
 the trial of every soul gifted by Heaven with a true perception of 
 the great and the beautiful." 
 
 "It is not so," exclaimed his pupil, passionately. "I have 
 striven to soar — and fallen to the earth, never more to rise. I 
 have dreamed myself the favorite of art— and awaked to find my- 
 
TART IN I. 33 
 
 self outcast and scorned. My soul is dead within me. You must 
 have foreseen this. Why prepare such anguish for one already 
 the victim of misfortune ?" 
 
 " Young man," said the organist, impressively, " this feeling is 
 morbid. I will not reason with you now ; come with me, and let 
 us see what change of subject " 
 
 " Ay," muttered Tartini, his face distorted, " to show the 
 brethren what you have done ; that they, too, may mock at me ! 
 I see them now — " 
 
 " Holy Mother ! what ails you, my son ?" cried Boemo, much 
 alarmed at the wild looks of his pupil. 
 
 " You will deem me mad, good father ;" said Giuseppe in an 
 altered voice, and grasping the monk's arm ; " but I swear to you 
 — 'tis the truth. I see them every night !" 
 
 " See whom ?" 
 
 " The spirits — the demons, who come to mock at me ! They 
 range themselves around my cell — and grin and hiss at me in 
 devilish scorn. As soon as it is dark they throng hither. See — 
 they are coming now ! stealing through the window " 
 
 " My brother ! my brother ! is it come to this ?" cried Boemo 
 in a tone of anguish. 
 
 " Sometimes," said his pupil, " I have thought it but an evil 
 dream. I strove against it till I knew too well it was no delusion 
 of fancy." 
 
 "'Why — why did I not know of this before ?" 
 
 " It was needless. I would not grieve you, father. Besides — 
 I would not have the demons think I sought aid against them. 
 That would have been cowardly ! No — they do not even know 
 how much their malice has made me suffer." 
 
 " This must be looked to !" muttered the monk to himself; 
 and drawing Giuseppe's arm within his, he led him out of the cell 
 and down to the chapel, intending after the evening service to 
 confer with the Guardian respecting this new malady of his unfor- 
 tunate friend. 
 
 They decided that it was best to leave Giuseppe no more alone 
 
TAUT IN I. 
 
 at night. The melancholy he had suffered to prey so long on his 
 mind had impaired his reason ; repose and cheerful conversation 
 would restore him. Father Boemo resolved to pass the first part 
 of the night in his cell ; but as he had to go before the hour of 
 matins to pray with a poor invalid, he engaged a brother of the 
 convent to take his place at midnight. 
 
 When the organist the next day saw his pupil, he was surprised 
 at the change in his whole' demeanor. Giuseppe received him in 
 his cell with a face beaming with joy, but at the same time with 
 an air of mystery, as if he almost feared to communicate some 
 gratifying piece of intelligence. 
 
 " You passed a better night, my son," said the benevolent 
 monk. " I am truly rejoiced. I have prayed for you." 
 
 " Listen, father !" said Giuseppe, eagerly. " I have conquered 
 them. I have put them all to flight." 
 
 " The evil one . fleeth from those who resist him," said Father 
 Boemo, solemnly. 
 
 " But I have done better ; I have made a compact with him." 
 
 " Giuseppe !" The monk crossed himself, in holy fear. 
 
 " Nay, father Boemo ! I have yielded nothing. The devil is 
 my servant — the slave of my will. Last night the demons came 
 again so soon as you were gone, and while brother Piero slept, to 
 torment me. They mocked me more fiercely than ever. I was 
 in despair. I cried to the saints for succor.' 
 
 " You did right." 
 
 " The evil spirits vanished ; but the mightiest of all, Satan 
 himself, stood before me. I made a league with him. Do not 
 grow pale, father ! Satan has promised to serve me. All will 
 go now according to my will."* 
 
 Boemo shook his head, mournfully. 
 
 " As a test of his obedience, I gave him my violin and com- 
 manded him to play something. What was my astonishment 
 when he executed a sonata, so exquisite, so wonderful, that I had 
 
 * Lalande, to whom Tartini himself communicated this curious anecdote, relates it in 
 his Travels in Italy. 
 
TART INI. 35 
 
 never in my life imagined anything approaching it ! I was be- 
 wildered — enchanted. I could hardly breathe from excess of 
 rapture. Then the devil handed the violin back to me. " Take 
 it, master," said he, " you can do the same." I took it, and suc- 
 ceeded. Never had I heard such music. You were right, father ! 
 I have done wrong to despair." 
 
 " The monk sighed, for he saw that his poor friend still labored 
 under the excitement of a diseased imagination. He made, how- 
 ever, no effort to reason with him, but sought to divert his mind 
 by speaking of other matters. 
 
 " You shall hear for yourself," cried Tartini ; and seizing his 
 violin, he walked several times across the room, humming a tune, 
 and at last began to play. The music was broken and irregular, 
 though in the wild tones he drew from the instrument, the ear of 
 an artist caught notes that were strangely beautiful. It seemed, 
 in truth, the music of a half-remembered dream. 
 
 Again and again did Giuseppe strive to catch the melody ; at 
 length throwing down the instrument, he struck his forehead and 
 wrung his hands in bitterness of disappointment. 
 
 " It is gone from me !" he cried, in a voice of agony. Father 
 Boemo sought in vain to lead his mind from this harrowing 
 thought. Now he would snatch up the violin and play as if de- 
 termined to conquer the difficulty ; then fling it aside in despair, 
 vowing that he would break it in pieces and renounce music 
 forever. 
 
 After a consultation with the Guardian, Father Boemo summoned 
 medical assistance, and that night himself administered a composing 
 draught to his young friend. He had the satisfaction of seeing him 
 soon in a profound slumber ; and having given him in charge 
 once more to Piero, withdrew to spend an hour or two in prayer 
 for his relief. 
 
 Just before matins the organist was aroused by a cry without. 
 Being already dressed, he hastily descended to the court where 
 the brother who had given the alarm stood gazing upward in 
 speechless terror. Well might he shake with fear ! Upon the 
 
TARTINI. 
 
 edge of the roof stood a figure, clearly visible in the moonlight, 
 and easily recognized as that of the unhappy Giuseppe. 
 
 " Hush ! not a word — or you are his murderer !" whispered 
 Boemo, grasping th ■ arm of the affrighted monk. Both gazed on 
 the strange figure ; the one in superstitious fear — the other in 
 breathless anxiety. Boemo now perceived that Giuseppe held his 
 violin. After a short prelude he played a sonata so admirable, so 
 magnificent, that both listeners forgot their apprehensions and 
 stood entranced, as if the melody floating on the night wind had 
 indeed been wafted downward from the celestial spheres.* 
 
 A dead silence — a silence of awful suspense, followed this strange 
 interruption. Neither dared to speak ; for Boemo well knew that 
 a single false step would cost his friend's life. And he was well 
 aware that the sleep-walker often passes in safety over places 
 where no waking man could tread. The great danger was that 
 his slumber might be suddenly broken. 
 
 The sonata was not repeated. The figure turned and slowly 
 retraced his steps along the roof, taking the way to Tartini's cell. 
 Father Boemo breathed not till his pupil was in safety ; then with 
 a faint murmur of thanksgiving he sank on his knees, while the 
 liberated monk hastened to communicate to the superior what he 
 had seen. The worthy organist watched by the bed of his friend, 
 after blaming severely the negligence of the brother who had been 
 left to guard him. Giuseppe awoke feverish and disturbed — the 
 workings of an unquiet imagination had worn out his strength and 
 an illness of many weeks followed. During all this his faithful 
 friend scarcely left him, but sought to minister to the diseased 
 mind as well as the feeble frame. His care was rewarded. With 
 returning health, reason and cheerfulness returned. 
 
 It was a holiday in Assisi. The inhabitants came in crowds to 
 the church to join in the services ; in fact so goodly an assemblage 
 
 * It may be seen by a reference to any detailed biography of Tartini, that nearly all 
 the incidents recorded in this little tale are real facts. 
 
TAHTINI, 37 
 
 had never been seen in that old place of worship. The fame of 
 the admirable music to be heard there formed a powerful attrac- 
 tion. It is almost needless to say that the execution was that of 
 the brothers of the Minors' Convent. 
 
 Much curiosity had been excited among the people by the cir- 
 cumstance that a curtain was drawn across a part of the choir 
 occupied by the musicians, during all parts of the service. As 
 usual, general attention was fixed by the least appearance of 
 mystery. The precaution had, in fact, been adopted for the sake 
 of Tartini, who played the violin. He still stood in fear of the 
 vengeance of the Cornaro family, who had spared no pains to dis- 
 cover his abode. 
 
 The service was nearly ended. While the music still sounded, 
 the wind suddenly lifted the curtain and blew it aside for a mo- 
 ment. A suppressed cry was heard in the choir, and the violin- 
 player ceased. He had recognized in the assembly a Paduan who 
 knew him well. 
 
 The Guardian and Father Boemo, when informed of this dis- 
 covery, opposed Giuseppe's resolution of quitting the convent. 
 Both pledged themselves to protect him against the anger of the 
 Bishop of Padua ; besides, who knew that the same accident had 
 discovered him ? Even among the brethren he passed by an as- 
 sumed name ; it was probable that all was yet safe. 
 
 " Come, Giuseppe, you must play to-day in the chapel ; the 
 Guardian has guests, who have heard of our music, and we must 
 do our best." 
 
 The grateful pupil and the pleased instructor did their best. 
 When the service was over, Father Boemo took his young friend 
 by the arm and led him into the parlor of the convent. 
 
 A lady of stately and graceful form, her face concealed by a 
 veil, stood between two distinguished looking men, one in the robes 
 of a cardinal. Tartini gave but one glance ; the next instant — 
 " Leonora ! — my wife !" burst from his lips, and he clasped her, 
 fainting, in his arms. 
 
TART IN I. 
 
 " Receive our blessing, children," said the cardinal Cornaro. 
 " Years of religious seclusion, Giuseppe, have rendered thee more 
 worthy of the happiness thou art now to possess. Not to the wild 
 disobedient youth, but to the man of tried worth, do I give my 
 niece. Give him thy hand, Leonora." 
 
 The young couple joined hands, and the cardinal pronounced 
 over them a solemn benediction. 
 
 " In one thing, my son, thou art to blame," he resumed — " in 
 hiding thyself from us, instead of trusting our clemency. We 
 have sought thee, not for the purpose of vengeance, but to restore 
 thee to thy wife and country. But for a happy chance, we should 
 still have been ignorant of the place of thy retreat. Yet Heaven 
 orders all for the best. Sorrow has done a noble work with thee." 
 
 " And it has made thee only more beautiful — my beloved !" 
 whispered the happy artist, " my own Leonora — mine — mine 
 forever !" 
 
 We do not question the sincerity of Tartini's joy at his reunion 
 with his lovely wife. But we must have our own opinion of his 
 constancy, when, not long after, we find him leaving her side and 
 flying from Venice for fear of the rivalship of Veracini, a celebrated 
 violin-player from Florence. Perhaps this want of confidence was 
 necessary to the development of his qualities as an artist. But 
 we leave his after life with his biographer. One thing, however, 
 is certain ; of all his compositions, the most admirable and the 
 most celebrated is " The Devil's Sonata." 
 
.: ." . )i" )© S „ 
 
HAYDN. 39 
 
 HiYBI- 
 
 THE APPRENTICESHIP. 
 
 In a small and insignificant dwelling in the village of Rohran, 
 on the borders of Hungary and Austria, lived, at the beginning 
 of the last century, a young pair, faithful and industrious, plain 
 and simple in their manners, yet esteemed by all their neighbors. 
 The man, an honest wheelwright, was commonly called " merry 
 Jobst," on account of the jokes and gay stories with which he 
 was always ready to entertain his friends and visitors, who, he 
 well knew, relished such things. His wife was named Elizabeth, 
 but no one in the village, and indeed many miles round it, ever 
 called her any thing but " pretty Elschen." Jobst and Elschen 
 were indeed, to say truth, the handsomest couple in the country. 
 
 The Hungarians, like the Austrians and Bohemians, have great 
 love for music. " Three fiddles and a dulcimer for two houses," 
 says the proverb ; and it is a true one. It is not unusual, there- 
 fore, for some out of the poorer classes, when their regular 
 business fails to bring them in sufficient for their wants, to take 
 to the fiddle, the dulcimer, or the harp ; playing on holidays on 
 the highway or in the taverns. This employment is generally 
 lucrative enough, if they are not spendthrifts, to enable them, 
 not only to live, but to lay by something for future necessities. 
 
 " Merry Jobst" was already revolving in his own mind some 
 means to be adopted for the bettering of his very humble for- 
 tunes, when Elschen one day said to him, " Jobst ! it is time 
 
40 HAYDN. 
 
 to think of making something more for our increasing family !" 
 Jobst gave a leap of joy, embraced pretty Elschen, and an- 
 swered, " Come then ! I will string anew my fiddle and your 
 harp ; every holiday we will take our place on the road side 
 before the tavern, and play and sing merrily : we will give good 
 wishes to those that listen to and reward us, and let the surly 
 traveller, who stops not to hear us, go on his way !" 
 
 The next Sunday afternoon merry Jobst and pretty Elschen 
 sat by the highway before the village inn ; Jobst fiddled, and 
 Elschen played the harp and sang to it with her sweet clear 
 voice. Not one passed by without noticing them ; every traveller 
 stopped to listen, well pleased, and on resuming his journey threw 
 at least a silver twopence into the lap of the pretty young woman. 
 Jobst and his wife, on returning home in the evening, found then- 
 day's work a good one. — They practised it regularly with the like 
 success. 
 
 After the lapse of a few years, as the old cantor of the neigh- 
 boring town of Haimburg passed along the road one afternoon, 
 he could not help stopping, admiring and amused at what he saw. 
 In the same arbor, opposite the tavern, sat merry Jobst fiddling 
 as before, and beside him pretty Elschen, playing the harp and 
 singing ; and between them, on the ground, sat a little chubby- 
 faced boy about three years old, who had a small board, shaped 
 like a violin, hung about his neck, on which he played with a 
 willow twig as with a genuine fiddle-bow. The most comical and 
 surprising thing of all was, that the little man kept perfect time, 
 pausing when his father paused and his mother had solo, then 
 falling in with him again, and demeaning himself exactly like his 
 father. Often too, he would lift up his clear voice, and join dis- 
 tinctly in the refrain of the song. The song pretty Elschen sang, 
 ran somewhat in this way : 
 
 " The Spring it is come — and the Withe earth is green, 
 Birds and flowers are abroad, and how glistening the sheen ! 
 O'er the broken stones sparkling, the stream murmurs nigh, 
 And how fresh from the mountains the breezes sweep by. 
 
HAYDN. 41 
 
 " The bees hum around us, the lambs frolic too, 
 And golden clouds sport in the heavens' deep blue ! 
 The young mountain shepherd, his shawm he hath wound, 
 And the maiden steps softly, and follows the sound. 
 
 " The bell in yon valley breaks faint on the air, 
 Stranger ! haste not away ! pause and breathe first a prayer, 
 And give thanks to our Maker, on whom good men call — 
 Who created in love, and sustaineth us all." 
 
 " Is that your boy — fiddler ?" asked the teacher, when the song 
 was at an end. Jobst answered, 
 
 " Yes, sir, that is my little Seperl."* 
 
 " The little fellow seems to have a taste for music." 
 
 " Why not ? if it depends on me, I will take him, as soon as I 
 can do so, to one who understands it well, and can teach him. 
 But it will be some time yet, as with all his taste and love for it, 
 he is very little and awkward." 
 
 " We will speak further of it," said the teacher, and went his 
 way. Jobst and Elschen began their song anew, and the little 
 Joseph imitated his father on his fiddle, and joined his infant 
 voice with theirs when they sounded the ' Hallelujah !' 
 
 The cantor came from this time twice a week to the house of 
 merry Jobst to talk with him about his little son, and the young- 
 ster himself was soon the best of friends with the good-natured 
 old man. So matters went on for two years, at the end of which, 
 the cantor said to Jobst, " It is now the right time, and if you 
 will trust your boy with me, I will take him, and teach him what 
 he must learn, to become a brave lad and a skilful musician." 
 
 Jobst did not hesitate long, for he saw clearly how great an 
 advantage the instruction of Master Wolferl would be to his son. 
 And though it went harder with pretty Elschen to part with 
 Seperl, who was her favorite and only child, yet she gave up at 
 last, when her husband observed — " The boy is still our own, and 
 if he is our only child, we are — Heaven be praised ! — both young, 
 and love each other !" 
 
 * The diminutive for " Joseph" in the dialect of the country. 
 
42 HAYDN. 
 
 So he said to Wolferl, the next time he came — " Agreed ! here 
 is the boy ! treat him well — and remember that he is the apple 
 of our eye." 
 
 " I will treat him as my own !" replied the teacher. Elschen 
 accordingly packed up the boy's scanty wardrobe in a bundle, 
 gave him a slice of bread and salt, and a cup of milk — embraced 
 and blessed him, and accompanied him to the door of the cottage, 
 where she signed him with the cross three times, and then 
 returned to her chamber. Jobst went with them half the way to 
 Haimburg, and then also returned, while Wolferl and Joseph 
 pursued their way till they reached Wolferl's house, the end of 
 their journey. 
 
 Wolferl was an old bachelor, but one of the good sort, whose 
 heart, despite his grey hairs, was still youthful and warm. He 
 loved all good men, and was patient and forbearing even with 
 those who had faults, for he knew how weak and fickle too often 
 is the heart of man. But the wholly depraved and wicked he 
 hated, as he esteemed the good, and shunned all companionship 
 with them ; for it was his opinion " that he who is thoroughly 
 corrupt, remains so in this world at least ; and his conversation 
 with the good tends not to his improvement, but on the contrary, 
 to the destruction of both." 
 
 Such lessons he repeated daily to the little Joseph, and taught 
 him good principles, as well as how to sing, and play on the horn 
 and kettledrum ; and Joseph profited thereby, as well as by the 
 instruction he received in music, and cherished and cultivated 
 them as long as he lived. 
 
 In the following year, 1737, a second son was bestowed on the 
 happy parents, whom they christened Michael. 
 
 Years passed, and Joseph was a well instructed boy ; he had a 
 voice as clear and fine as his mother's, and played the violin as 
 well as his father ; besides that, he blew the horn, and beat the 
 kettledrum, in the sacred music prepared by Wolferl for church 
 festivals. Better than all, Joseph had a true and honest heart, 
 had the fear of God continually before his eyes, and was ever 
 
HAYDN. 43 
 
 contented, and wished well to all ; for which everybody loved 
 him in return, and Wolferl often said with tears of joy — " Mark 
 what I tell you, God will show the world, by this boy Joseph, 
 that not only the kingdom of heaven, but the kingdom of the 
 science of music shall be given to those who are pure in heart !" 
 The more Wolferl perceived the lad's wonderful talent for art, the 
 more earnestly he sought to find a patron, who might better for- 
 ward the youthful aspirant towards the desired goal ; for he felt 
 that his own strength could reach little further, when he saw the 
 zeal and ability with which his pupil devoted himself to his stu- 
 dies. Providence ordered it at length that Master von Reuter, 
 chapel-master and music director in St. Stephen's Church, 
 Vienna, came to visit the Deacon at Haimburg. The Deacon 
 told Master von Reuter of the extraordinary boy, the son of the 
 wheelwright Jobst Haydn, the pupil of old Wolferl, and created 
 in the chapel-master much desire to become acquainted with him. 
 — The Deacon would have sent for him and his protector, but 
 von Reuter prevented him with " No — no — most reverend Sir ! 
 I will not have the lad brought to me ; I will seek him myself, 
 and if possible, hear him when he is not conscious of my presence 
 or my intentions ; for if I find the boy what your reverence thinks 
 him, I will do something, of course, to advance his interests." 
 The next morning, accordingly, von Reuter went to Wolferl's 
 house, which he entered quietly and unannounced. Joseph was 
 sitting alone at the organ, playing a simple but sublime piece of 
 sacred music from an old German master. Reuter, visibly moved, 
 stood at the door and listened attentively. The boy was so deep 
 in his music that he did not perceive the intruder till the piece 
 was concluded, when accidentally turning round, he fixed upon 
 the stranger his large dark eyes, expressive of astonishment in- 
 deed, but sparkling a friendly welcome. 
 
 " Very well, my son !" said von Reuter at last ; " where is 
 your foster-father ?" 
 
 " In the garden," said the boy ; " shall I call him ?" 
 
 " Call him, and say to him that the chapel-master, von Reuter, 
 
44 HAYDN. 
 
 wishes to speak with him. Stop a moment ! you are Joseph 
 Haydn ; are you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am Seperl." 
 
 "Well then, go." 
 
 Joseph went and brought his old master, Wolferl, who with 
 uncovered head and low oheisance welcomed the chapel-master 
 and music director at Saint Stephen's, to his humble abode. Von 
 Reuter, on his part, praised the musical skill of his protege, 
 enquired particularly into the lad's attainments, and examined 
 him formally himself. Joseph passed the examination in such a 
 manner that Reuter's satisfaction increased with every answer. 
 After this he spent some time in close conference with old Wol- 
 ferl ; and it was near noon before he took his departure. Joseph 
 was invited to accompany him and spend the rest of the day at 
 the Deacon's. 
 
 Eight days after, old Wolferl, Jobst and pretty Elschen, the 
 little Michael on her lap, sat very dejectedly together, and talked 
 of the good Joseph, who had gone that morning with Master von 
 Reuter to Vienna, to take his place as chorister in St. Stephen's 
 church. 
 
 The clock struck eight, and all were awake in the Leopold- 
 stadt. A busy multitude crowded the bridge — market women 
 and mechanics' boys, hucksters, pedlars, hackney coachmen and 
 genteel horsemen, passing in and out of the city ; and through 
 the thickest of the throng might be seen winding his way quietly 
 and inoffensively, the noted Wenzel Puderlein, hairdresser, burgher 
 and house-proprietor in Leopoldstadt. Soon he passed over the 
 space that divides Leopoldstadt from the city, and with rapid 
 steps approached through streets and alleys, the place where 
 resided his most distinguished customers, whom he came every 
 morning to serve. 
 
 He stopped before one of the best looking houses ; ascended 
 the steps, rang the bell, and when the house-maid opened the 
 
HAYDN. 45 
 
 door, stepped boldly, and with apparent consciousness of dignity 
 through the hall to a side door. Here he paused, placed his feet 
 in due position, took off his hat modestly, and knocked gently 
 three times. 
 
 " Come in !" said a powerful voice. Wenzel, however, started, 
 and hung back a moment, then taking courage, he lifted the 
 latch, opened the door and entered the apartment. An elderly 
 man, of stately figure, wrapped in a flowered dressing-gown, sat 
 at a writing table ; he arose as the door opened, and said, 
 
 " 'Tis well you are come, Puderlein ! Do what you have to do, 
 but quickly, I counsel you ! for the Empress has sent for me, and 
 I must be with her in half an hour." He then seated himself, 
 and Wenzel began his hairdressing without uttering a word, (how 
 contrary to his nature ! ) well knowing that a strict silence was 
 enjoined on him in the presence of the first physician to Her 
 Imperial Majesty. 
 
 Yet he was not doomed long to suffer this greatest of all tor- 
 ments to him, the necessity of silence. The door of the chamber 
 opened, and a youth of about sixteen or seventeen years of age 
 came in, approached the elderly man, kissed his hand reverently, 
 and bade him good morning. 
 
 The old gentleman thanked him briefly, and said, " What was 
 it you were going to ask me yesterday evening, when it struck 
 eleven and I sent you off to bed ?" 
 
 The youth, with a modest smile, replied, "I was going to beg 
 leave, my father, if your time permitted, to present to you the 
 young man I would like to have for my teacher on the piano." 
 
 " Very well ; after noon I shall be at liberty; but who has 
 recommended him to ycm ?" 
 
 " An admirable piece which I was yesterday so fortunate as to 
 hear him play at the house of Mile, de Martinez." 
 
 " Ah ! your honor means young Haydn," cried Puderlein, 
 unwittingly, and then became suddenly silent, expecting nothing 
 less than that his temerity would draw down a thunderbolt on his 
 head. But contrary to his expectation, the old gentleman merely 
 
46 HAYDN, 
 
 looked at him a moment, as if in surprise, from head to foot, then 
 said mildly, " You are acquainted with the young man then : what 
 do you know of him ?" 
 
 "I know him!" answered Puderlein ; "Oh, very well, your 
 honor ; I know him well. What I know of him ? Oh, much ; 
 for observe, your honor, I have had the honor to be hairdresser 
 for many years to the chapel-master, von Reuter, in whose house 
 Haydn has long been an inmate — it must now be ten or eleven 
 years. I have known him, so to speak, from childhood. Besides 
 I have heard him sing a hundred times at St. Stephen's, where 
 he was chorister, though it is now a couple of years since he was 
 turned off." 
 
 " Turned off ? and wherefore ?" 
 
 "Aye ; observe, your honor, he had a fine clear voice, such as no 
 female singer in the Opera ; but getting a fright, and being seized 
 with a fever — when he recovered, his fine soprano was gone ! And 
 because they had no more use for him at St. Stephen's, they 
 turned him off." 
 
 " And what does young Haydn now ?" asked the Baron. 
 
 " Ah, your honor, the poor fellow must find it hard to live by 
 giving lessons, playing about, and picking up what he can ; he 
 also composes sometimes, or what do they call it ? Well, what 
 helps it him, that he torments himself ? he lives in the house with 
 Metastasio, not in the first story, like the court poet, but in the 
 fifth ; and when it is winter, he has to lie in bed and work, to 
 keep himself from freezing ; for, observe, he has indeed a fire- 
 place in his chamber, but no money to buy wood to burn therein." 
 
 " This must not be ! this shall not be !" cried the Baron von 
 Swieten, as he rose from his seat. " Am I ready ?" 
 
 " A moment, your honor, — only the string around the hair- 
 bag." 
 
 " It is very good so ; now begone about your business !" 
 Puderlein vanished. " And you, help me on with my coat ; give 
 me my stick and hat, and bring me your young teacher this after- 
 noon." Therewith he departed, and young von Swieten, full of 
 
HAYDN. 47 
 
 joy, went to the writing-table to indite an invitation to Haydn to 
 come to his father's house. 
 
 Meanwhile, Joseph Haydn sat, sorrowful, and almost despair- 
 ing, in his chamber. He had passed the morning, contrary to his 
 usual custom, in idle brooding over his condition ; now it appeared 
 quite hopeless, and his cheerfulness seemed about to take leave 
 of him forever, like his only friend and protectress, Mile, de 
 Martinez. That amiable young lady had left the city a few hours 
 before. Haydn had instructed her in singing, and in playing 
 the harpsichord, and by way of recompense, he enjoyed the 
 privilege of board and lodging in the fifth story, in the house 
 of Metastasio. Both now ceased with the lady's departure ; 
 and Joseph was poorer than before, for all that he had earned 
 besides, he had sent conscientiously to his parents, only keeping so 
 much as sufficed to furnish him with decent, though plain clothing. 
 
 Other patrons and friends he had none ! Metastasio, who was 
 nearest him, knew him only by his unassuming exterior, and was 
 too indolent to enquire particularly into his circumstances, or to 
 interest himself in his behalf. He had briefly observed to the 
 poor youth, that since the Lady Martinez had left Vienna and his 
 lessons were over, he could look about till the end of the month 
 for other lodgings ; and Joseph was too retiring, if not too proud, 
 to answer anything else than that " he thanked the Signor for the 
 privilege hitherto enjoyed, and would look out for another home." 
 But where ? thought he now, and asked himself, sobbing aloud. 
 " Where — without money ?" Just then, without any previous 
 knocking, the door of his chamber was opened, and with bold 
 carriage, and sparkling eyes, entered Master Wenzel Puderlein. 
 
 " With me, .'" cried the friseur, while he stretched his curling 
 irons like a sceptre towards Joseph, and pressed his powder-bag 
 with an air of feeling to his heart, " With me, young orphan ! 
 I will be your father, — I will foster and protect you ! for I have 
 feeling for the grand and the sublime, and have discerned your 
 genius — and what you can, with assistance, accomplish ; I know, 
 too, your inability to cope yet with the world, — for you have not 
 
48 
 
 HAYDN , 
 
 my experience of men. I will lead you to Art — I myself; and 
 if before long you be not in full chase, and have not captured her, 
 why you must be a fool, and I will give you up !" 
 
 " Ah, worthy Master von Puderlein !" cried Haydn surprised ; 
 " You would receive me now, when I know not where to go, or 
 what to do ? Oh ! I acknowledge your goodness ! but how have 
 I, poor knave ! deserved it ? and how shall I thank you ?" 
 
 " That is nothing to you !" said Puderlein shortly ; "all that 
 will appear in due time ! Now sit you down on the stool, and do 
 not stir till I give you leave. I will show the world what a man 
 of genius can make of an indifferent head !" 
 
 " Are you determined, then, to do me the honor of dressing 
 my hair, Master von Puderlein ?" 
 
 " Ask no questions, but sit still." 
 
 Joseph obediently seated himself, and Wenzel began to dress 
 his hair according to the latest mode. When he had done, he 
 said with much self-congratulation, " Really, Haydn, when I look 
 at you, and think what you were, before I set your head right, 
 and what you are %ow, I may, without presumption, call you a 
 being of my own creation. But I am not so conceited ; and only 
 remark to you, that so long as you have walked like a man on two 
 legs, you have first been enabled through me to present the visage 
 of a man ! Now pay attention ; you are to dress yourself as 
 quickly as possible, or to express myself in better German, you 
 are to put yourself prestissimo into your best trim — and collect 
 your moveables together, that I can send to fetch them this even- 
 ing. Then betake yourself to the Leopoldstadt, to my house on 
 the Danube, No. 7 ; go up the steps, knock at the door, make 
 my compliments to the young lady my daughter, and tell her you 
 are so and so, and that Master von Puderlein sent you, and if 
 you are hungry and thirsty call for something to eat and a 
 glass of Ofener or Klosterneuburger ; after which you may remain 
 quiet till I come home, and tell you further what I design for you. 
 Adieu !" 
 
 Therewith Master Wenzel Puderlein rolled himself out of the 
 
 |L 
 
HAYDN. 49 
 
 door, and Joseph stood awhile with his hair admirably well dressed, 
 but a little disconcerted, in the middle of his chamber. When 
 he collected his thoughts at length, he gave thanks with tears 
 to Grod, who had inclined the heart of his generous protector 
 towards him, and put an end to his bitter necessity ; then he 
 gathered, as Puderlein had told him, his few clothes and many 
 notes together, dressed himself carefully in his best, shut up his 
 chamber, and after he had taken leave, not without emotion, of 
 the rich Metastasio, walked away cheerfully and confidently, his 
 heart full of joy, and his head full of new melodies, towards the 
 Leopoldstadt and the house of his patron. 
 
 When young von Swieten came half an hour later to ask for 
 the young composer, Signor Metastasio could not inform him 
 where " Giuseppo" might have gone. How many hours of des- 
 pondency did this forgetfulness of the wise man and renowned 
 poet prepare for the poor, unknown, yet incomparably greater 
 artist, — Haydn ! 
 
 When Joseph after a long walk stood at length before Puder- 
 lein's house, he experienced some novel sensations, which may 
 have been naturally consequent upon the thought that he was to 
 introduce himself to a young lady, and converse with her ; an 
 idea which, from his constitutional bashfulness, and his ignorance 
 of the world, was rather formidable to him. . But the step must 
 nevertheless be taken. He summoned all his courage, and 
 went and knocked at the door. It was opened, and a handsome 
 damsel of eighteen or nineteen presented herself before the trem- 
 bling Joseph. 
 
 The youth, in great embarrassment, faltered forth his compli- 
 ments and his message from Master Wenzel. The pretty Nanny 
 listened to him with an expression both of pleasure and sympathy 
 — the last for the forlorn condition of her visitor. When he had 
 ended, she took him, to his no small terror, by the hand, without 
 
50 HAYDN. 
 
 the least embarrassment, and leading him into the parlor, said in 
 insinuating tones, " Come in, then, Master Haydn, it is all right ; 
 I am sure my papa means well with you, for he concerns himself 
 for every dunce he meets, and would take a poor wretch in, for 
 having only good hair on his head ! He has often spoken to me 
 of you, and you may rely upon it, he will assist you ; for he has 
 very distinguished acquaintances. But you must give in to his 
 humors a little, for he is sometimes a trifle peculiar." 
 
 Joseph promised he would do his best, and Nanny went on, 
 " you must also accommodate yourself to my whims, for, look 
 you, I lead the regiment alone here in the house, and even papa 
 must do as J will. Now, tell me, what will you have ? Do not 
 be bashful ; it is a good while since noon, and you must be hungry 
 from your long walk." 
 
 Joseph could not deny that such was the. case, and modestly 
 asked for a piece of bread and a glass of water. 
 
 Pshaw ! cried Nanny, laughing ; and tripped out of the room. 
 Ere long she returned, followed by an apprentice boy, whom she 
 had loaded with cold meats, a flask of wine, and a pair of tum- 
 blers, till his arms were ready to sink under the burden, while 
 yet he dared not make a face, — rfor he had been in the family long 
 enough to be sufficiently convinced of Mademoiselle Nanny's ab- 
 solute dominion. Nanny busily arranged the table, filled Joseph's 
 glass, and invited him to help himself to the cold pastry or what- 
 ever else stood awaiting his choice. The youth fell to, at first 
 timidly, then with more courage ; till, after he had at Nanny's 
 persuasion emptied a couple of glasses, he took heart to attack 
 the cold meats more vigorously than he had done in a long time 
 before ; making at the same time the observation mentally, that 
 if Mademoiselle Nanny Puderlein was not quite so distingue and 
 accomplished as his departed patroness, the honored Mile, de 
 Martinez, still, as far as youth, beauty, and polite manners were 
 concerned, she would not suffer by a comparison with the most 
 distinguished dames in Vienna. — In short, when Master "Wenzel 
 Puderlein came home an hour or so after, he found Joseph in high 
 
HAYDN. 61 
 
 spirits, with sparkling eyes, and cheeks like the rose — already- 
 more than half in love with the pretty Nanny. 
 
 Joseph Haydn lived thus many months in the house of Wenzel 
 Puderlein, burgher, house proprietor, and renowned friseur in the 
 Leopoldstadt of Vienna, and not a man in the Imperial city knew 
 where the poor, but talented and well educated artist and com- 
 poser was gone. In vain he was sought for by his few friends ; in 
 vain by young von Swieten ; in vain at last, by Metastasio himself ; 
 Joseph had disappeared from Vienna without leaving a trace. 
 Wenzel Puderlein kept his abode carefully concealed, and won- 
 dered and lamented like the rest over his loss, when his aristocratic 
 customers asked him, whom they believed to know everything, if 
 he could give them no information as to what had become of 
 Joseph. He thought he had good reasons, and undoubted right, 
 to exercise now the hitherto unpractised virtue of silence ; because, 
 as he said to himself, he only aimed at making Joseph the hap- 
 piest man in the world ! But in this he would labor alone ; he 
 wanted none to help him ; and even his protege was not fully to 
 know his designs, till he was actually in possession of his good 
 fortune. 
 
 Joseph cheerfully resigned himself to the purposes of his friend, 
 and was only too happy to be able undisturbed to study Sebastian 
 Bach's works, to try his skill in quartettes — to eat as much as 
 he wished, and day after day to see and chat with the fair Nanny. 
 It never occurred to him, under such circumstances, to notice 
 that he lived in a manner as a prisoner in Puderlein's house ; that 
 all day he was banished to the garden behind the house, or to his 
 snug chamber, and only permitted to go out in the evening with 
 Wenzel and his daughter. It never occurred to him to wish for 
 other acquaintance than the domestics and their nearest neighbors, 
 among whom he was known only as " Master Joseph ;" and he 
 cheerfully delivered every Saturday to Master Wenzel the stipu- 
 lated number of minuets, waltzes, &c, which he was ordered to 
 compose. Puderlein carried the pieces regularly to a dealer in 
 such things in Leopoldstadt, who paid him two convention guil- 
 
52 HAYDN. 
 
 ders for every full toned minuet — and for the others in proportion. 
 This money the hairdresser conscientiously locked up in a chest, 
 to use it, when the time should come, for Joseph's advantage. 
 With this view, he enquired earnestly about Joseph's greater 
 works, and whether he would not soon be prepared to produce 
 something which would do him credit in the eyes of the more 
 distinguished part of the public. 
 
 " Ah — yes — indeed !" replied Joseph ; " this quartette, when I 
 shall have finished it, might be ventured before the public ; for I 
 hope to make something good of it ! Yet what shall I do ? No 
 publisher will take it ; it is returned on my hands, because I am 
 no great lord, and because I have no patron to whom I could de- 
 dicate 'it !" 
 
 " That will all come in time," said Pirderlein, smiling ; " do 
 you get the thing ready, yet without neglecting the dances ; I tell 
 you a prudent man begins with little, and ends with great ; so to 
 work !" 
 
 And Joseph went to work ; but he was every day deeper and 
 deeper in love with the fair Nanny ; and the damsel herself looked 
 with very evident favor on the dark, though handsome youth. — 
 Wenzel saw the progress of things with satisfaction ; the overs 
 behaved with great propriety, and he suffered matters to go on 
 in their own way, only interfering with a little assumed surliness, 
 if Joseph at any time forgot his tasks in idle talk, or Nanny her 
 housekeeping. 
 
 But not with such eyes saw Mosjo Ignatz, Puderlein's journey- 
 man and factotum hitherto ; for he thought himself possessed of 
 a prior claim to the love of Nanny. No one knows how much or 
 how little reason he had to think so, for it might be reckoned 
 among impossibilities for a young girl of Vienna, who has reached 
 the age of fourteen, to determine the number of her lovers. The 
 Viennese damsels are remarkable for their prudence in what con- 
 cerns a love affair. However that may have been, it is certain 
 that it was gall and wormwood to Ignatz to see Joseph and the 
 fair Nanny together. He would often fain have interposed his 
 
HAYDN. 53 
 
 powder-bag and curling irons between them, when he heard them 
 singing tender duets ; for it must be owned that Nanny had a 
 charming voice, was very fond of music, and was Joseph's zealous 
 pupil in singing. 
 
 At length he could endure no longer the torments of jealousy ; 
 and one morning he sought out the master of the house, to 
 discover to him the secret of the lovers. How great was his 
 astonishment, when Master Wenzel, instead of falling into a vio- 
 lent passion, and turning Joseph out of doors without further 
 ado, replied with a smile, 
 
 " What you tell me, Mosjo 'Natz, look you, I have long known, 
 and am well pleased that it is so." 
 
 " Nein !" cried Ignatz, after a long pause of speechless asto- 
 nishment ; " Nein, Master von Puderlein ! you should not be 
 pleased. You seem as if you knew not that I — I, for several years 
 have been the suitor of your daughter." 
 
 It was Wenzel's turn to be astonished, and he angrily replied, 
 " I knew no such thing ; I know not, nor will I know any such 
 thing. What — Natz ! is he mad ? the suitor of my daughter ! 
 What has ome into the man ? Go to ! Mind your powder-bag 
 and your curling irons, and serve your customers, and set aside 
 thoughts too high for you ; for neither my daughter nor myself 
 will wink at such folly." 
 
 " Oho, and have you not both promised ? There was a time, 
 Master von Puderlein, when you and mademoiselle your daugh- 
 ter—" 
 
 " Hold your tongue and pack yourself off." 
 
 " Master von Puderlein, you are a man of honor ; are you doing 
 me justice for my long years of faithful service ? I have always 
 taken your part. When people said ' von Puderlein is an old miser 
 and a blockhead,' I have always said, ' that is not true ;' even if 
 it has been often the truth that people said." 
 
 " Have done, sir, will you ?" 
 
 " Master von Puderlein, be generous ; I humbly entreat you, 
 give me your daughter to wife." 
 
64 
 
 HAYDN. 
 
 " I will give you a box on the ear presently, if you do not come 
 to reason." 
 
 " What !" cried Ignatz, starting up in boiling indignation, " a box 
 on the ear, to me — to me, a free spoken member of the society of 
 periwig makers ?" 
 
 " And if you were a king, and if you were an emperor, with a 
 golden crown on your head, and a sceptre in your hand, here in 
 my own house I am lord and sovereign, and I will give you a box 
 most certainly, if you provoke me much further." 
 
 " Good," answered Ignatz, haughtily ; " very good, Master von 
 Puderlein ; we are two, henceforth ; this hour I quit this treach- 
 erous roof — and you and your periwig stock. But I will be re- 
 venged ; of that you may be sure ; and when the punishment comes 
 upon you and your faithless daughter, and your callow bird of a 
 harpsicord player, then you may think upon Natz Schuppenpelz." 
 
 The journeyman then hastened to pack up his goods, demanded 
 and received his wages, and left the house vowing revenge against 
 its inmates. Von Puderlein was very much incensed ; Nanny 
 laughed, and Joseph sat in the garden, troubling himself about 
 nothing but his quartetto, at "which he was working. 
 
 Wenzel Puderlein saw the hour approaching, when the attention 
 of the Imperial city, and of the world, should be directed to him, 
 as the protector and benefactor of a great musical genius. The 
 dances Joseph had composed for the music seller in the Leopold- 
 stadt, were played again and again in the halls of the nobility ; all 
 praised the lightness, the sprightliness and grace that distinguished 
 them ; but all enquiries were vain at the music dealer's, respect- 
 ing the name of the composer. None knew him ; and Joseph 
 himself had no idea what a sensation the pieces he had thrown off 
 so easily, created in the world. But Master Wenzel was well 
 aware of it, and waited with impatience the completion of the first 
 quartetto. At length the manuscript was ready ; Puderlein took 
 it, carried it to a music publisher, and had it sent to press imme- 
 diately, which the sums he had from time to time laid by for 
 Joseph, enabled him to do. Haydn, who was confident his pro- 
 
HAYDN. 55 
 
 tector would do everything for his advantage, committed all to his 
 hands ; he commenced a new quartette, and the old one was soon 
 nearly forgotten. 
 
 They were not forgotten, however, by Mosjo Ignatz Schuppen- 
 pelz, who was continually on the watch to play Master Puderlein 
 some ill trick. The opportunity soon offered ; his new principal 
 sent him one morning to dress the hair of the Baron von Fiirnberg. 
 Young von Swieten chanced to be at the Baron's house, and in 
 the course of conversation mentioned the balls recently given by 
 Prince Easterhazy, and the delightful new dances by the unknown 
 composer. In the warmth of his description, the youth stepped 
 up to the piano and began a piece, which caused Ignatz to prick 
 up his ears, for he recognized it too well ; it was Nanny's favorite 
 waltz, which Joseph had executed expressly for her. 
 
 " I would give fifty ducats," cried the Baron, when von Swieten 
 had ended, " to know the name of that composer." 
 
 " Fifty ducats," repeated Ignatz, " your honor, hold a moment ; 
 your honor — but I believe I can tell your honor the name of the 
 musician." 
 
 " If you can, and with certainty, the fifty ducats are yours ;" 
 answered Fiirnberg and von Swieten. 
 
 " I can, your honor. It is Pepi Haydn." 
 
 " How ? Joseph Haydn ? How do you know ? Speak !" cried 
 both gentlemen to the friseur, who proceeded to inform them of 
 Haydn's abode and seclusion in the house of Wenzel Puderlein ; 
 nor did the exjournoyman lose the opportunity of bepowdering 
 his ancient master plentifully with abuse, as an old miser, a surly 
 fool, and an arch tyrant. 
 
 " Horrible !" cried his auditors, when Ignatz had concluded his 
 story. " Horrible ! This old friseur makes the poor young man, 
 hidden from all the world, labor to gratify his avarice, and keeps 
 him prisoner ! We must set him at liberty." 
 
 Ignatz assured the gentlemen they would do a good deed by 
 doing so : and informed them when it was likely Puderlein would 
 be from home ; so that they could find opportunity of speaking 
 
66 
 
 HAYDN. 
 
 alone with young Haydn. Young von Swieten resolved to go that 
 very morning, during the absence of Puderlein, to seek his favor- 
 ite ; and took Ignatz along with him. The hairdresser was not a 
 little elated, to be sitting opposite the Baron, in a handsome 
 coach, which drove rapidly towards Leopoldstadt. When they 
 stopped before Puderlein's house, Ignatz remained in the coach, 
 while the Baron alighted, entered the house, and ran up stairs to 
 the chamber before pointed out to him, where Joseph Haydn sat 
 deep in the composition of a new quartette. 
 
 Great was the youth's astonishment, when he perceived his dis- 
 tinguished visitor. He did not utter a word, but kept bowing to 
 the ground ; von Swieten, however, hesitated not to accost him 
 with all the ardor of youth, and .described the affliction of his 
 friends (who they were Joseph knew not) at his mysterious disap- 
 pearance. Then he spoke of the applause his compositions had 
 received, and of the public curiosity to know who the admirable 
 composer was, and where he lived. " Your fortune is now made," 
 concluded he. " The Baron von Piirnberg, a connoisseur, my 
 father, I myself — we all will receive you ; we will present you to 
 Prince Esterhazy ; so make ready to quit this house, and to es- 
 cape, the sooner the better, from the illegal and unworthy tyranny 
 of an avaricious periwig maker." 
 
 Joseph knew not what to reply, for with every word of von 
 Swieten his astonishment increased. At length he faltered, blush- 
 ing, " Your honor is much mistaken, if you think I am tyrannized 
 over in this house ; on the contrary, Master von Puderlein treats 
 me as his own son, and his daughter loves me as a brother. He 
 took me in when I was helpless and destitute, without the means 
 of earning my bread." 
 
 " Be that as it may," interrupted young von Swieten, impa- 
 tiently, " enough, this house is no longer your home ; you must 
 go into the great world, under very different auspices, worthy of 
 your talents. Speak well or ill of your host, as you please, and 
 as is most fitting ; to-morrow the Baron and I come to fetch you 
 away." — Therewith he embraced young Haydn with cordiality, 
 
HAYDN. 67 
 
 quitted the house and drove back to the city, while Joseph stood 
 and rubbed his forehead, and hardly knew whether all was a dream 
 or reality. 
 
 But the pretty Nanny, who listening in the kitchen had heard 
 all, ran in grief and affright to meet her father when he came 
 home, and told him everything. Puderlein was dismayed ; but 
 he soon collected himself, and commanded his daughter to follow 
 him, and to put her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 Thus prepared, he went up to Haydn's chamber ; Joseph, as 
 soon as he heard him coming, opened the door, and went to meet 
 him, to inform him of the strange visit he had received. 
 
 But Puderlein pushed him back into the chamber, entered him- 
 self, followed by the weeping Nanny, and cried in a pathetic tone, 
 " Hold, barbarian, whither are you going ?" 
 
 " To you," answered Joseph. " I was going to tell you — " 
 
 " It is not necessary," interrupted Puderlein ; " I know all ; 
 you have betrayed me, and are now going to leave me like a 
 vagabond." 
 
 " Ha, surely not, Master von Puderlein. But listen to me." 
 
 " I will not listen ; your treachery is clear ; your falsehood to 
 me and to my daughter. Oh, ingratitude, see here thine own 
 image ! I loved this boy as my own son ; I received him when 
 he was destitute, under my hospitable roof, clothed and fed him. 
 I have dressed his hair with my own hands, and labored for his 
 renown, and for my thanks, he has betrayed me and my innocent 
 daughter. There, sir, does not your conscience reproach you for 
 the tears you cause that girl to shed?" 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Master von Puderlein, listen to me. I 
 will not leave you ; I will not be ungrateful ; on the contrary, I 
 will thank you all the days of my life for what you have done for 
 me, so far as it is in my power." 
 
 " And marry that girl ?" 
 
 " Marry her ?" repeated Joseph, astonished, " marry her ? I — 
 your daughter ?" 
 
 " Who else ? have you not told her she was handsome ? that 
 
58 HAYDN. 
 
 you liked her ? have you not behaved as though you wished her 
 well, whenever you have spoken with her ?" 
 
 " I have indeed, but — " 
 
 " No buts ; you must marry her, or you are a shameless traitor ! 
 Think you, a virtuous damsel of Vienna lets every callowbird 
 tell her she is handsome and agreeable ? No ! the golden age 
 vet flourishes among our girls ! Innocence and virtue are para- 
 mount with them ! they glance not from one to another, throw- 
 ing their net over this one and that one ; they wait quiet and 
 collected, till the one comes who suits them, who will marry them, 
 and him they love faithfully to the end of their days ; and there- 
 fore are the Viennese maidens famed throughout the world. — You 
 told my innocent Nanny that she was handsome, and that you 
 liked her ; she thought you wished to marry her, and made up 
 her mind honestly to have you. She loves you, and now will 
 you desert and leave her to shame ?" 
 
 Joseph stood in dejected silence. Puderlein continued, " And 
 I, have I deserved such black ingratitude from you, eh ? have I ?" 
 With these words, Master Wenzel drew forth a roll of paper, un- 
 folded and held it up before the disconcerted Joseph, who uttered 
 an exclamation of surprise as he read these words engraved on it, 
 " Quartetto for two violins, bass viol, and violincello, composed by 
 Master Joseph Haydn, performer and composer in Vienn%. — Vi- 
 enna, 1751." " Yes !" cried Puderlein, triumphantly, when he saw 
 Haydn's joyful surprise ; " Yes ! cry out and make your eyes as 
 large as bullets ; I did that ; with the money I received in pay- 
 ment for your dances, I paid for paper and press work, that you 
 might present the public with a great work. Still more ! I have 
 labored to such purpose among my customers of rank, that you 
 have the appointment of organist to the Carmelites. Here is 
 your appointment! and now, go, ingrate, and bring my daughter 
 and me with sorrow to the grave." 
 
 Joseph went not ; with tears in his eyes he threw himself into 
 Puderlein's arms, who struggled and resisted vigorously, as if he 
 would have repelled him. But Joseph held him fast, crying, 
 
HAYDN. 69 
 
 " Master von Puderlein ! listen to me ! there is no treachery in 
 me ! Let me call you father ; give me Nanny for my wife ! 
 I will marry her ; the sooner the better. I will honor and love 
 her all my days. Ah ! I am indeed not base nor ungrateful." 
 
 Master Wenzel was at last quiet ; he sank exhausted on an arm 
 chair, and cried to the young couple, " Come hither, my children, 
 kneel before me, that I may give you my blessing. This eve- 
 ning shall be the betrothal, and a month hence we will have the 
 wedding." 
 
 Joseph and Nanny kneltdown, and received the paternal bene- 
 diction. All wept and exhibited much emotion. But all was 
 festivity in No. 7, on the Danube, that evening, when the organ- 
 ist, Joseph Haydn, was solemnly betrothed to the fair Nanny, the 
 daughter of Wenzel Puderlein, burgher and proprietor in the 
 Leopoldstadt in Vienna. 
 
 The Baron of Eurnberg and young von Swieten were not a 
 little astonished when they came the next morning to take Haydn 
 from Puderlein's house, to find him affianced to the pretty Nanny. 
 They remonstrated with him earnestly in private, but Joseph 
 remained immoveable, and kept his word pledged to Puderlein 
 and his bride, like an honorable young man. 
 
 At a later period he had reason to acknowledge that the step 
 he had taken was somewhat precipitate ; but he never repented 
 it ; and consoled himself, when his earthly muse mingled a little 
 discord with his tones, with the companionship of the immortal 
 partner, ever lovely, ever young, who attends the skilful artist 
 through life, and who proved herself so true to him, that the 
 name of Joseph Haydn shall, after the lapse of centuries, be 
 pronounced with joyful and sacred emotion, by our latest pos- 
 terity. 
 
60 HAYDN. 
 
 TWO PERIODS IN AFTER LIFE. 
 
 It was about noon of a day in the spring of 175-, that a man 
 of low stature and pale and sallow complexion might have been 
 seen entering a meanlooking house in one of the narrow streets 
 of Vienna. Before he closed the door, the sound of a sharp 
 female voice, speaking in shrill accents, was quite audible to the 
 passers-by. As the person who entered ascended the stairs to his 
 lodgings, he was greeted by a continuance of the same melody from 
 the lips of a pretty but slovenly dressed young woman, who stood 
 at the door of the only apartment that seemed furnished. 
 
 " A pretty mess is all this !" she exclaimed. " Here the 
 printers have been running after you all the morning for the piece 
 you promised to have ready for them, and I nothing to do but 
 hear their complaints and send them away one after the other !" 
 
 " My good Nanny " 
 
 " But, my good Joseph, is not my time as precious as yours, 
 pray ? What have you from this morning's work ?" 
 
 " Seventeen kreutzers," sighed he. 
 
 " Ay, it is always so — and you spend all your time in such 
 profitless doings. At eight, the singing desk of the brothers de 
 la Merci ; at ten, the Count de Haugwitz's chapel ; grand mass at 
 eleven — and all this toil for a few kreutzers." 
 
 " What can I do ?" 
 
 " Do ? What would I do in your place ? Give up this foolish 
 business of music, and take to something that will enable you to 
 live as well as a peasant, at least. There is my father, a hair- 
 dresser, did not he give you shelter when you had nothing but 
 your garret and skylight ?— when you had to lie in bed and write 
 for want of coals to warm you ? Yes, in spite of your boasted 
 genius and the praises you received, you were forced to come to 
 him for bread !" 
 
HAYDN. 61 
 
 " He gave me more, Nanny," said her husband, meaningly. 
 " Yes — his daughter, who had refused half the gallants in 
 Vienna — for whom half-a-dozen peruke-maker's apprentices went 
 mad. Yes — and had he not a right to expect you would dress 
 her as well as she had been used at home, and that she should 
 have servants to wait upon her as in her father's house ? A fine 
 realizing of his hopes and schemes for his favorite child — this miser- 
 able lodging, with but a few sous a day to keep us from starving !" 
 " You should not reproach me, Nanny. Have I not worked 
 incessantly till my health has given way ? And if fortune is still 
 
 inexorable " 
 
 " Ah, there it is, fortune ! — as if fortune did not always wait, 
 like a handmaid, upon industry in a proper calling ! Your patrons 
 may admire and applaud, but they will not pay ; and yet you will 
 drudge away your life in this ungrateful occupation. I tell you, 
 Joseph, music is not the thing." 
 
 " Alas !" sighed Haydn, " I once dreamed of fame." 
 " Fame — pshaw ! And what were that worth if you had it ? 
 Wfiuld fame clothe you or change these wretched walls to a 
 palace ? Believe me for once, and give up these idle fancies." 
 
 Here a knock was heard at the door, and the wife, with ex- 
 clamations of impatience, flounced away. The unfortunate artist 
 threw himself on a seat, and leaned his head on a table covered 
 with notes of music — works of his own, begun at various times, 
 which want of health, energy or spirits, had prevented him from 
 completing. So entirely had he yielded himself to despondency, 
 that he did not move, even when the door opened, till the sound 
 of a well known voice close at his side startled him from his melan- 
 choly reverie. 
 
 " How now, Haydn, what is the matter, my boy ?" 
 The speaker was an old man, shabbily dressed, but with some- 
 thing striking and even commanding in his noble features. His 
 large, dark, flashing eyes, his olive complexion and the contour of 
 his face, bespoke him a native of a sunnier clime than that of 
 Germany. 
 
62 HAYDN. 
 
 Haydn sprang up and welcomed him with a cordial embrace. 
 " And when, my dear Porpora, did you return to Vienna ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " This morning only ; and my first care was to find you out. 
 But how is this ? I find you thin and pale, and gloomy. Where 
 are your spirits ?" 
 
 " Gone," murmured the composer, and dropped his eyes on 
 the floor. His visitor regarded him with a look of affectionate 
 interest. 
 
 " There is something more in this than there ought to be," said 
 he, at length. " You are not rich, as I see ; but that you were 
 not when we last parted, nor when I first found — in the youthful, 
 disinterested friend, the kind companion of a feeble old man — a 
 genius such as Germany might be well proud of. Then you were 
 buoyant, full of enthusiasm for art, and of hope for the future." 
 
 " Alas !" replied Haydn, " I was too sanguine. I judged more 
 favorably of myself " 
 
 " Did I not say you were destined to something great ?" 
 
 " Your friendship might deceive you." 
 
 " And think you I had lost my judgment because I am old ? — 
 or am a fool, to be blinded by partiality ?" 
 
 " Nay, dear Porpora " 
 
 " Or that, because you were fain to serve me like a lacquey 
 from pure love, I rewarded you with flattering lies, eh ?" 
 
 " Caro, you mistake me. I know you clearsighted and candid 
 — yet I feel that I shall never justify your kind encouragement. 
 I have toiled till youth is passing away in vain. I have no heart 
 to bear up against the crushing hand of poverty — I succumb." 
 
 " You have lost, then, your love of our art ?" 
 
 " Not so. What your valuable lessons, dear master, have 
 opened to me, forms the only bright spot in my life. Oh that I 
 could pursue — could grasp it !" 
 
 " Why can you not ?" 
 
 " I am chained !" cried Haydn, bitterly-^-and giving way to 
 the anguish of his heart, he burst into tears. 
 
HAYDN. 63 
 
 Porpora shook his head, and was silent for a few moments. 
 At length he resumed — " I must, I see, give you a little of my 
 experience ; and you shall see what has been the life of a pros- 
 perous artist. I was, you know, the pupil of Scarlatti ; and from 
 the time I felt myself capable of profiting by the lessons of that 
 great master, devoted myself to travel. I was more fortunate 
 than you, for my works procured me, almost at once, a wide-spread 
 fame. I was called for not only in Venice, but in Vienna and 
 London." 
 
 " Ah, yours was a brilliant lot !" cried the young composer, 
 looking up with kindling eyes. 
 
 " The Saxon court," continued Porpora, " which has always 
 granted the most liberal protection to musical art, offered me the 
 direction of the chapel and of the theatre at Dresden. Even the 
 princesses received my lessons — in short, my success was so great, 
 that I awakened the jealousy of Hasse himself." 
 
 " That was a greater triumph still," observed Haydn, smiling. 
 
 " So I thought ; and still greater when I caused a pupil of 
 mine, the young Italian Mengotti, to dispute the palm of song 
 with the enchantress Faustina* — aye, to bear it away upon more 
 than one occasion. All this you know, and how I returned to 
 London upon the invitation of amateurs in Italian music." 
 
 Where you rivaled Handel !" said Haydn, enthusiastically. 
 
 " Ah, that was the turning point in my destiny. Farinelli, the 
 famous singer, gloried in being my scholar. He turned all his 
 
 * " Faustina Bordoni, born at Venice in 1700, was one of the most admirable singers 
 Italy ever produced. She was a pupil of Gaspari&i, but adopted the modern method of 
 Bornaccbi, which she aided greatly to bring into popular use. She appeared on the 
 stage at the age of sixteen ; her success was so great that, at Florence, a medal was 
 struck in her honor ; and it was said that even gouty invalids would leave their bed3 
 to hear her performance. She was called to Vienna in 1734 ; two years afterwards she 
 came to the London theatre with a salary of 50,000 francs. Everywhere she charmed 
 by the freshness, clearness and sweetness of her voice, by the grace and perfection of 
 her execution, so that she was called the modern siren. It was at London she met the 
 celebrated Cuzzoni, who enjoyed a brilliant reputation ; and the lovers of song were 
 divided in their homage to the two rivals. Handel took part in these disputes. Faus- 
 tina quitted England in 1728, and returned to Dresden, where she became the wife of 
 Hasse." — Biog. XTniverselle. 
 
6* HAYDN. 
 
 splendid powers to the effort of assuring the triumph of my com- 
 positions. I could have borne that these should fail in command- 
 ing popularity ; I could have borne the defeat by which Handel 
 was elevated at my expense to an idol shrine among the English — 
 but it grieved me to see that Farinelli's style, so really perfect in 
 its way, was unappreciated by the most distinguished connoisseurs. 
 I did justice to the strength and grandeur of my rival ; should he 
 not have acknowledged the grace, finish and sweetness of Italian 
 song ? But he despised Farinelli, and his friends made caricatures 
 of him." 
 
 " Handel, with all his greatness, had no versatility," observed 
 Haydn. 
 
 " I wished to attempt another style, for this repulse had some- 
 what cooled my zeal for the theatre. I set myself to cultivate 
 what was new — what was not born with me. I published my 
 sonatas for the violin — the connoisseurs applauded, and I was en- 
 couraged to hope I could face my rival on his own ground. I 
 composed sacred music " 
 
 " And that," interrupted his auditor, " will live — pardon me 
 for saying so — when your theatrical compositions have ceased to 
 enjoy unrivaled popularity." 
 
 " When they are forgotten, say rather — for such, I feel, will be 
 their fate. My sacred compositions may survive and carry my 
 name to posterity — for taste in such things is less mutable than in 
 the opera. After all, the monks may claim me," and he smiled 
 pensively.* " You see now, dear Haydn," he resumed, after a 
 pause, " for what I have lived and labored. I was once renowned 
 and wealthy — what did prosperity bring me ? Envy, discontent, 
 rivalship, disappointment ! And did art flourish more luxuriantly 
 on such a soil ? With me the heavenly plant languished, and 
 
 * It 19 related of Porpora, who was a man of much wit as well as one of the first 
 pianists of his age, that, in reply to certain monks who boasted of the music as well as 
 the piety of theirorganist, he observed — " Ah yes, I see that this man fulfils to the letter 
 the precept of the evangelist — he does not let his left hand know what his right hand 
 doeth !" 
 
HAYDN. 65 
 
 would have died but that I had some energy within me to save it. 
 I repine when I look back on those years." 
 
 " You ?" repeated Haydn, surprised. 
 
 " Would you know to what period I can look back with self- 
 approbation, with thankfulness ? To the toil of my early years ; 
 to the struggle after an ideal of greatness, goodness and beauty ; 
 to the self-forgetfulness that saw only the glorious goal far, far 
 before me ; to the undismayed resolve that sought only its attain- 
 ment. Or to a time still later, when the visions of manhood's 
 impure and selfish ambition had faded away ; when the soul had 
 shaken off some of her fetters, and roused herself to a perception 
 of the eternal, the perfect, the divine ; when I became conscious 
 of the delusive vanity of earthly hopes and earthly excellence, but 
 at the same time awakened to the revelation of that which cannot 
 die! 
 
 " You see me now, seventy-three years old, and too poor to 
 command even a shelter for the few days that yet remain to me in 
 this world. I have lost the splendid fame I once possessed ; I 
 have lost the riches that were mine ; I have lost the power to win 
 even a competence by my own labors — but I have not lost my 
 passion for our glorious music, nor enjoyment of the reward, more 
 precious than gold, she bestows on her votaries ; nor my confidence 
 in Heaven. And you, at twenty-seven, you — more greatly en- 
 dowed — to whom the world is open — you despair ! Are you worthy 
 to succeed, man of little faith ?" 
 
 " My friend — my benefactor !" cried the young artist, clasping 
 his hand with deep emotion. 
 
 " Cast away your bonds ; cut and rend, if your very flesh is 
 torn in the effort ; and the ground once spurned, you are free. 
 Come, I am pledged for your success — for if you do not rise, I am 
 no prophet ! What have you been doing ?" and he turned over 
 rapidly the musical notes that lay on the table. " Here, what is 
 this — a symphony ? Play for me, if you please." 
 
 So saying, with a gentle force he led his young friend to the 
 piano, and Haydn played from the piece he had nearly completed. 
 
66 HAYDN. 
 
 " So, this is excellent, admirable !" cried Porpora, when he 
 rose from the instrument. " This suits me exactly. And you 
 could despair while such power remained to you ! When can you 
 finish this ? for I must have it at once." 
 
 " To-morrow, if you like," answered the composer, more cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 " To-morrow then — and you must work to night. I see you 
 are nervous and feverish ; but seize the happy thought while it 
 flies — once gone, you have no cord to draw it back. I will go and 
 order you a physician ; — not a word of remonstrance ; — he will 
 come to-morrow morning ; — how madly your pulse throbs — and 
 when your work is done, you may rest. Adieu for the present." 
 And pressing his young friend's hands, the eccentric but benevolent 
 old man departed — leaving Haydn full of new thoughts, his bosom 
 fired with zeal to struggle against adverse fortune. In such moods 
 does the spiritual champion wrestle with the powers of the abyss 
 and mightily prevail. 
 
 When Haydn, late that night, threw himself on his bed, weary, 
 ill and exhausted, his frame racked with the pains of fever, after 
 having worked for hours in the midst of reproaches from her who 
 ought to have lightened his task by her sympathy, he had accom- 
 plished the first of an order of works destined to endear his name 
 to all succeeding time. Who that listened to its clear and beauti- 
 ful melody, could have divined that such a production had been 
 wrought out in the gloom of despondency, poverty and disease ? 
 
 While the artist lay on a sick bed, attended only by the few 
 friends whom compassion more than admiration of his genius called 
 to his side, and forgotten by the great and gay to whose amuse- 
 ment so many years of his life had been devoted, a brilliant fete 
 was given by Count Mortzin, an Austrian nobleman of immense 
 wealth and influence, at which the most distinguished individuals 
 in Vienna were present. The musical entertainments given by 
 these luxurious patrons of the arts were, at that time and for some 
 
HAYDN. 67 
 
 years after, the most splendid in Europe, for the most exalted 
 genius was enlisted in their service — and talent, as in all ages, was 
 often fain to do homage to riches and power. 
 
 When the concert was over, Prince Antoine Esterhazy ex- 
 pressed the pleasure he had received, and his obligations to the 
 noble host. " Chief among your magnificent novelties," said he, 
 " is the new symphony, St. Maria. One does not hear every day 
 such music. Who is the composer ?" 
 
 The Count referred to one of his friends. The answer was — 
 " Joseph Haydn." 
 
 " I have heard his quartettos — he is no common artist. Is he 
 in your service, count ?" 
 
 " He has been employed by me." 
 
 " With your good leave, he shall be transferred to ours ; and I 
 shall take care he has no reason to regret the change. Let him 
 be presented to us." 
 
 There was a murmur among the audience, and a movement, 
 but the composer did not appear ; and presently word was brought 
 to his highness that the young man on whom he intended to confer 
 so great an honor was detained at home by indisposition. 
 
 " So, let him be brought to me as soon as he recovers ; he 
 shall enter my service — I like his symphony vastly. Your pardon, 
 count, for we will rob you of your best man." 
 
 And the great prince, having decided the destiny of a greater 
 than himself, turned to those who surrounded him to speak of other 
 matters. 
 
 News of the change in his fortune was brought to Haydn by his 
 friend Porpora ; and so renovating was the effect of hope, that he 
 was strong enough on the following day to pay his respects to his 
 illustrious patron. Accompanied by a friend who offered to intro- 
 duce him, Haydn drew near the dwelling of the prince, and was 
 so fortunate as to find admittance. His highness was just pre- 
 paring to ride, but would see the composer ; and he was conducted 
 through a splendid suite of rooms to the apartment where the 
 proud head of the Esterhazys deigned to receive an almost name- 
 
68 
 
 HAYDN. 
 
 less artist. What wonder that Haydn blushed and faltered as he 
 approached this impersonation, as he felt it, of human grandeur ? 
 
 The prince, in the splendid array suited to his rank, glanced 
 somewhat carelessly at the low, slight figure that stood before him, 
 and said, as he was presented — " Is this, then, the composer of 
 the music I heard last night ?" 
 
 " This is he — Joseph Haydn," was the reply. 
 
 " So — a Moor, I should judge by his dark complexion."* 
 
 The composer bowed in some embarrassment. 
 
 " And you write such music ? You look not like it, by my 
 faith ! Haydn — I reccollect the name ; and I remember hearing, 
 too, that you were not well paid for your labors, eh ?" 
 
 " I have not been fortunate, your highness " 
 
 " Why have you not applied to me before ?" 
 
 " Your highness, I could not presume to think- 
 
 " Eh ? Well, you shall have no reason to complain in my ser- 
 vice. My secretary shall fix your appointments ; and name what- 
 ever else you desire. Understand me, for all of your profession 
 find me liberal. Now then, sir Moor, you may go ; and let it be 
 your first care to provide yourself with a new coat, a wig and 
 buckles, and heels to your shoes. I will have you respectable in 
 appearance as well as in talents ; so let me have no more of shabby 
 professors. And do your best, my little duskey, to recruit in 
 flesh — 'twill add to the stature ; and to relieve your olive with a 
 shade of the ruddy. Such spindle masters would be a walking 
 discredit to our larder, which is truly a spendthrift one." 
 
 So saying, with a laugh, the haughty nobleman dismissed his 
 new dependent. The artist chafed not at the imperious tone of 
 patronage, for he felt not yet the superiority of his own vocation. 
 It was the bondage-time of genius ; the wings were not yet grown 
 which were to bear his spirit up, when it brooded over a new 
 world. 
 
 The life which Haydn led in the service of Prince Esterhazy, 
 
 * This interview, but little varied in the circumstances, is related by several of 
 Haydn's biographers. 
 
HAYDN. 69 
 
 to which service he was permanently attached by Nicolas, the 
 successor of Antoine, in the quality of chapel-master, was one so 
 easy, that, says his biographer, it might have proved fatal to an 
 artist more inclined to luxury and pleasure, or less devoted to his 
 art and the love of glory. Now, for the first time relieved from 
 care for the future, he was enabled to yield to the impulse of his 
 genius, and create works worthy of the name — works not only 
 pleasing to himself and his patron, but which gradually extended 
 his fame over all the countries of Europe. 
 
 On the evening of a day in the beginning of April, 1809, all the 
 lovers of art in Vienna were assembled in the theatre to witness 
 the performance of the oratorio of the " Creation." The enter- 
 tainment had been given in honor of the composer of that noble 
 work, the illustrious Haydn, by his numerous friends and admirers. 
 He had been drawn from Grumpendorf — his retreat in the suburbs, 
 the cottage surrounded by a little garden, which he had purchased 
 after his retirement from the Esterhazy service, and where he had 
 spent the last years of his life— to be present at this species of 
 triumph. Three hundred musicians assisted at the performance. 
 The audience rose en masse, and greeted with rapturous applause 
 the white-haired man, who, led forward by the most distinguished 
 nobles in the city, was conducted to the place of honor. There 
 seated, with princesses at his right hand, beauty smiling upon him, 
 the centre of a circle of nobility, the observed and admired of all, 
 the object of the acclamations of thousands, who would not have 
 said that Haydn had reached the summit of human greatness — 
 had more than realized the proudest visions of his youth ? His 
 serene countenance, his clear eye, his air of dignified self-posses- 
 sion, showed that prosperity had not overcome him, but that amid 
 the smiles of fortune he had not forgotten the true excellence of 
 man. 
 
 " I can never hear this oratorio," remarked one of his friends, 
 
70 HAYDN. 
 
 whom we shall call Manuel, to another beside him, " without re- 
 joicing for the author. None but a happy spirit could have con- 
 ceived — only a pure, open, trustful, buoyant soul could have 
 produced such a work. His, like the angels, is ever fresh and 
 young." 
 
 " I agree," replied his friend, " in your judgment of the mind 
 of Haydn. All the harmony and grace of nature, in her magnifi- 
 cent and beautiful forms, in her varied life, breathe in his music. 
 But I like something deeper, even if it be gloomy. There is a 
 hidden life, which the outward only represents ; a deep voice, the 
 echo of that which we hear. The poet, the musician, should 
 interpret and reveal what the ordinary mind does not receive." 
 
 " Beethoven's symphonies, then, will please you better ?" 
 
 " I acknowledge that I am more satisfied with them, or rather 
 I am not satisfied, which is precisely what I want. The longings 
 of a human soul are after the ineffable, the unfathomable ; and to 
 awaken those longings is the highest triumph of the artist. "We 
 are to be lifted above the joys of earth ; out of this sunny atmos- 
 phere, where trees wave and birds fly, though we rise into a region 
 of cloud and storm, chilly and dark and terrific." 
 
 " You are more of a philosopher than I am, returned Manuel, 
 laughing. " You may find consolation for your clouds and storms 
 in the thought that you are nearer heaven ; but give me the genial 
 warmth of a heart imbued with love of simple nature. I will re- 
 linquish your loftier ideal for the beauty and blessing of reality 
 and the living present. For this reason is Haydn, with his free, 
 bright, child-like, healthful spirit, bathing itself in enjoyment, so 
 dear to me. I desire nothing when I hear his music ; I feel no 
 apprehension ; I ask for no miracles. I drink in the bliss of 
 actual life, and thank Heaven for its rich bestowments." 
 
 " I thought our great composer, on the verge of life, would 
 have looked beyond in his last works," said the other, thought- 
 fully ; " but I see plainly he will write no more." 
 
 " He has done enough, and now we are ready for the farewell 
 of Haydn." 
 
HAYDN. v 71 
 
 " The farewell ?" 
 
 " Did you never hear the story ? I have heard him tell it often 
 myself. It concerns one of his most celebrated symphonies. The 
 occasion was this : — Among the musicians attached to the service 
 of Prince Esterhazy, were several who, during his sojourn upon 
 his estates, were obliged to leave their wives at Vienna. At one 
 time his highness prolonged his stay at the Esterhazy Castle con- 
 siderably beyond the usual period. The disconsolate husbands 
 entreated Haydn to become the interpreter of their wishes. Thus 
 the idea came to him of composing a symphony in which each 
 instrument ceased one after the other. He added, at the close 
 of every part, the direction, ' here the light is extinguished.' 
 Each musician, in his turn, rose, put out his candle, rolled up his 
 notes, and went away. This pantomime had the desired effect ; 
 the next morning the prince gave orders for their return to the 
 capital." 
 
 " An amiable thought ; I have heard something of it before." 
 
 " As a match story, he used to tell us of the origin of his 
 Turkish or military symphony. You know the high appreciation 
 he met with in his visits to England ?" 
 
 " Where, he maintains, he acquired his continental fame — as 
 we G-ermans could not pronounce on his claims till they had been 
 admitted by the Londoners." 
 
 " True ; but notwithstanding the praise and homage he received, 
 he could not prevent the enthusiastic audience from falling asleep 
 during the performance of his compositions. It occurred to him 
 to devise a kind of ingenious revenge. In this piece, while the 
 current is gliding softly, and slumber beginning to steal over the 
 senses of his auditors, a sudden and unexpected burst of martial 
 music, tremendous as a thunder peal, startles the surprised sleep- 
 ers into active attention. I should like to have seen the lethargic 
 islanders, with their eyes and mouths thrown open by such an 
 unlooked-for shock !" 
 
 Here a stop was suddenly put to the conversation by the com- 
 mencement of the performance. " The Creation," the first of 
 
72 HAYDN. 
 
 Haydn's oratorios, was regarded as his greatest work, and had 
 often elicited the most heartfelt applause. Now that the aged 
 and honored composer was present, probably for the last time to 
 hear it, an emotion too deep for utterance seemed to pervade the 
 vast audience. The feeling was too reverential to be expressed 
 by the ordinary tokens of pleasure. It seemed as if every eye 
 in the assembly was fixed on the calm, noble face of the venerated 
 artist ; as if every heart beat with love for him ; as if all feared to 
 break the spell of hushed and holy silence. Then came, like a 
 succession of heavenly melodies, the music of the " Creation," 
 and the listeners felt as if transported back to the infancy of the 
 world. 
 
 At the words, " Let there he light, and there was light," when 
 all the instruments were united in one full burst of gorgeous 
 harmony, emotion seemed to shake the whole frame of the aged 
 artist. His pale face crimsoned ; his bosom heaved convulsively ; 
 he raised his eyes, streaming with tears, towards Heaven, and lift- 
 ing upwards his trembling hands, exclaimed — his voice audible in 
 the pause of the music — " Not unto me — not unto me — but unto 
 Thy name be all the glory, Lord !" 
 
 From this moment Haydn lost the calmness and serenity that 
 had marked the expression of his countenance. The very depths 
 of his heart had been stirred, and ill could his wasted strength 
 sustain the tide of feeling. When the superb chorus at the close 
 of the second part announced the completion of the work of crea- 
 tion, he could bear the excitement no longer. Assisted by the 
 prince's physician and several of his friends, he was carried from 
 the theatre, pausing to give one last look of gratitude, expressed 
 in his tearful eyes, to the orchestra who had so nobly executed 
 his conception, and followed by the lengthened plaudits of the 
 spectators, who felt that they were never to look upon his face 
 again. 
 
 Some weeks after this occurrence, Manuel, who had sent to 
 inquire after the health of his infirm old friend, received from him 
 a card on which he had written, to notes of music, the words 
 
HAYDN. 73 
 
 " Meiiw kraft ist dahin," (my strength is gone.) Haydn was in 
 the habit of sending about these cards, but his increased feeble- 
 ness was evident in the handwriting of this ; and Manuel lost no 
 time in hastening to him. There, in his quiet cottage, around 
 which rolled the thunders of war, terrifying others but not him, 
 sat the venerable composer. His desk stood on one side, on the 
 other his piano, and he looked as if he would never approach 
 either again. But he smiled, and held out his hand to greet his 
 friend. 
 
 " Many a time," he murmured, " you have cheered my soli- 
 tude, and now you come to see the old man die." 
 
 " Speak not thus, my dear friend," cried Manuel, grieved to 
 the heart ; " you will recover." 
 
 " But not here," answered Haydn, and pointed upwards. 
 
 He then made signs to one of his attendants to open the desk 
 and reach him a roll of papers. From these he took one and 
 gave it to his friend. It was inscribed in his own hand — " Cata- 
 logue of all my musical compositions, which I can remember, from 
 my eighteenth year. Vienna, 4th December, 1805." Manuel, 
 as he read it, understood the mute pressure of his friend's hand, 
 and sighed deeply. That hand would never trace another note. 
 
 " Better thus," said Haydn, softly, " than a lingering old age 
 of care, disease, perhaps of poverty ! No — I am happy. I have 
 lived not in vain ; I have accomplished my destiny ; I have done 
 good. I am ready for thy call, Master !" 
 
 A long silence followed, for the aged man was wrapt in devo- 
 tion. At length he asked to be supported to his piano ; it was 
 opened, and as his trembling fingers touched the keys, an expres- 
 sion of rapture kindled in his eyes. The music that answered to 
 his touch seemed the music of inspiration. But it gradually faded 
 away ; the flush gave place to a deadly pallor ; and while his 
 fingers still rested on the keys, he sank back into the arms of his 
 friend, and gently breathed out his parting spirit. It passed as in 
 a happy strain of melody ! 
 
 Prince Esterhazy did honor to the memory of his departed 
 
74 HAVDN. 
 
 friend by the pageant of funeral ceremonies. His remains were 
 transported to Eisenstadt, in Hungary, and placed in the Francis- 
 can vault. The prince also purchased, at a high price, all his 
 books and manuscripts, and the numerous medals he had obtained. 
 But his fame belongs to the world ; and in all hearts sensible to 
 the music of truth and nature, is consecrated the memory of 
 Haydn. 
 
FRIEDEMANNBACH. 75 
 
 It was on Sylvester night of the year 1736, that a man 
 closely wrapped in his mantle, his hat drawn over his brows, was 
 leaning against the wall of the castle at Dresden, looking upward 
 at the illuminated windows of a mansion opposite. Music sounded 
 within, and the burst of trumpet and the clash of kettledrum 
 accompanied, ever and anon, the announcement of some popular 
 toast. A moment of silence at length intervened, as if one of the 
 guests were speaking aloud ; till, suddenly, in a jovial shout, the 
 name "Natalie" was uttered, and every voice and instrument 
 joined in tumultuous applause. 
 
 The listener in the street turned to depart, but the next instant 
 felt himself seized by the hand, and looking up, saw the royal page 
 M. Scherbitz. 
 
 " Bon soir — mon ami .'" cried the page, pressing cordially the 
 hand he had taken. " I am right glad to have met you ; I have 
 sought you the whole evening, but never dreamed of finding you 
 here. What are you doing ?" 
 
 " Philosophizing !" answered the other, with something between 
 a laugh and a sigh. 
 
 " Bon .'" cried the page — " and just here, opposite the lord 
 premier's mansion, is the best occasion, I grant, but not exactly 
 the best place for it. Besides it is terribly cold ! You will have 
 the goodness, mon ami, to come with me to Seconda's cellar ? 
 We shall not fail there of some capital hot punch, and excellent 
 company." And taking his friend's arm, he walked with him to 
 a then celebrated Italian house of refreshment, on the corner of 
 Castle Street and the old market. 
 
76 FRIEDEMANN BACH. 
 
 Signor Seoonda received his guests with many compliments, and 
 officiously begged to know with what he should have the happiness 
 and honor to serve milord, the page, and milord, the court organ- 
 ist. The page ordered hot punch, and passed, with his friend, 
 into an inner apartment, which, to the surprize of both, they 
 found quite empty. 
 
 " They will be here presently," observed von Scherbitz. 
 " Meantime, we will take our ease, and thaw ourselves a little. 
 Parbleu ! there is no place on earth so delicious; and I thank 
 fortune, so far as I am concerned, that I can spend the night 
 here ! Eh lien,! make yourself at home, friend." 
 
 The other threw off his hat and cloak, and stood revealed a 
 handsome man, of about five and twenty, of a figure tall, symmetri- 
 cal, and bold in carriage, and a countenance whose paleness 
 rendered more striking the effect of his regular, noble, and some- 
 what haughty features. About his finely chiselled mouth lurked 
 something satirical whenever he spoke ; there was a fierce bright- 
 ness in his large dark eyes, which sometimes, however, gave 
 place to a wild and melancholy expression, particularly when he 
 fixed them on the ground, suffering the long lashes to shade them. 
 
 " You are very dull to-night, mon ami /" said the page, while 
 he pressed his friend to a seat next him. " Has any thing hap- 
 pened ? Non ? Well then, banish your ill humor, and be 
 merry ; for life, you know, is short at best." 
 
 " Never fear," replied his friend. " My resolution is taken, to 
 live while I live, in this world. Yet have patience with me, that 
 I cannot go all lengths with you at all times. You know I am 
 but a two years' disciple." 
 
 " Pah ! one year sufficed to spread your fame in music through 
 Europe ! Who knows not the name of Friedemann Bach ? You 
 have but one rival, the admirable Sebastian, your father !" 
 
 Friedemann colored deeply as he replied, " How durst I think 
 of comparing myself with my father ? If my name is celebrated, 
 whom have I to thank but my father ? Beside him, I feel, with 
 pride as well as pain, his greatness and my own insignificance. 
 
FB.IEDEMANNBACH. 77 
 
 Ah ! my love for him elevates me ; his love crushes me to the 
 dust, for I know myself unworthy of it !" 
 
 " Nay, you are too conscientious," observed Scherbitz. 
 
 " Too conscientious !" repeated Friedemann, with a bitter 
 smile. 
 
 " Yes !" returned Scherbitz, " I know not how otherwise to 
 express it. What is the head and front of the matter ? The old 
 gentleman is, in certain respects, a little strict ; pourqtwi ? because 
 he is old ! you are young, impetuous ; have your adventures, and 
 your liberal views, and conceal them from him ; not, mark me, 
 out of apprehension, but because things he has no power to 
 change, might cause him chagrin. Enftn ! where is the harm in 
 all this ?" 
 
 Friedemann was sitting with his head resting on his open palm. 
 At the last question he sighed deeply, and seemed about to make 
 a quick reply, but on a second thought, only said, passing his 
 hand over his brow, " Let it alone, Scherbitz ; it is as silly as use- 
 less to discuss certain matters. Enough, that I have strength, or 
 if you will have it — perverseness, to enjoy life after my own heart. 
 Let us be merry, for here comes the punch !" 
 
 Signor Seconda entered, followed by two attendants carrying 
 the hot punch, with glasses ; serving his guests at the round table 
 in the midst of the apartment, and providing for the new comers, 
 who entered one after another. These consisted of several officers, 
 and some of the most distinguished musicians and painters then 
 living in the capital. 
 
 " Said I not — mon frere ?" whispered Scherbitz to his com- 
 panion, " said I not, they would be here presently ? See : 
 Monsieur Hasse," he said aloud, as he rose to greet a distinguished 
 looking man, who just then came in. Hasse returned his saluta- 
 tion, and after a rapid glance round the company, seated himself 
 at a distant corner table, and motioned to an attendant to take 
 away the light just placed on it. The man obeyed, and set before 
 him a cup and a flask of burgundy. 
 
 " The poor fellow," observed Scherbitz, in a low tone to 
 
78 FRIEDEMANN BACH. 
 
 Friedemann, " dismisses the old year with an ' Alas !' and greets 
 the new with an ' Ah, me !' tout comme chez nous ! If he drink 
 much to-night, 'tis all in honor of his fair Faustina. Well — " he 
 lifted his glass, to drink with Friedemann. 
 
 " I am sorry for him," replied Bach ; " bat why not- separate 
 himself from the wife no longer worthy his esteem and love ? 
 they say it is out of gratitude for her having taken care of him 
 when an unknown youth ; but this gratitude is weakness, and will 
 be the destruction not only of the man, but of the artist. All his 
 works show too well what is wanting in him — namely : strength. 
 In everything he writes there is a softness, the offspring of deep, 
 hidden sorrow. But not the grief of a man ; it is, if not thoroughly 
 womanish, the sorrow of a stripling !" 
 
 " Is it not on this account that he is the favorite composer in 
 our world of fashion ?" 
 
 " Very possibly ; but I am sure he would give much not to be 
 so on this account !" 
 
 Their discourse was here interrupted ; for many newly arrived 
 guests took their places at the table. The glasses were rapidly 
 emptied and replenished ; the conversation became general, and 
 assumed more and more of a jovial character. 
 
 An elegant groom of the chambers, whom a mischievous lieu- 
 tenant of the guard had enticed thither, and introduced, before he 
 was aware, into the midst of the company, occasioned infinite 
 amusement among the guests, whose unbridled festivity he 
 endeavored to awe by a mien of importance. His efforts, how- 
 ever, produced a contrary effect from that which he intended ; 
 and after he had joined the revellers in pledging a few toasts, he 
 was himself the merriest of all. He laughed, he strode about — 
 he clapped applause. Friedemann watched the scene with secret 
 pleasure ; it nourished the scorn which he, in common with others 
 who stand ill with themselves, cherished for the whole human 
 race. He could not refrain, now and then, from stealing a glance 
 at the corner where Hasse sat, apparently indifferent to all that 
 was passing about him. 
 
FRIEDEMANN BACH. 79 
 
 "Apropos — sir groom!" cried Scherbitz, suddenly — "what 
 was that admirable poem you had the pleasure of presenting to a 
 famous artiste, a few days ago ?" 
 
 The groom winked at him with a smile, pursed up his mouth, 
 and said, " Monsieur Scherbitz, at your service — the poem runs 
 in this way — 
 
 " On earth's warm breast the pensile beams fall goldenly and bright — 
 The mountain gales, the merry flowers — are swelling with delight ; 
 But nothing can such rapture yield unto this heart of mine, 
 As — Oh, Faustina Hasse, that radiant neck of thine !" 
 
 " Ah ! c'est bun dit, sur mon honncur .'" cried Scherbitz. 
 
 " Is it not ?" returned the groom, self-complacently ; " it is 
 composed by our best poet, and I paid for it five august d'ors, 
 besides a tun of stadt beer." 
 
 " Here's to the ' radiant neck,' " cried one of the guests with 
 a laugh. All joined in the toast, and the glasses clashed. 
 
 Hasse rose from his seat, and approaching the table, said, with 
 a courtly bow — 
 
 " Messieurs ! I commend myself to your remembrance, one 
 and all ! To-morrow early I leave Dresden, to return to Italy, 
 perhaps for ever." 
 
 The company were astonished. An officer asked — " How, 
 Monsieur Hasse — you leave us ? And your lady — ?" 
 
 " Kemains here," interrupted Hasse, with a smile of bitterness. 
 There was universal silence. Hasse, turning to Friedemann, and 
 offering him his hand, said mildly, though earnestly — " Farewell, 
 Bach ! Present my adieus to your esteemed father, and tell him 
 he may depend on hearing something good, one day, of the 
 disciple of Scarlatti. May Heaven keep you from all evil !" He 
 then, visibly affected, left the room. 
 
 Friedemann looked after him with much emotion, and mur- 
 mured, " Poor wretch ! and yet, would I not exchange with him ? 
 I might be the gainer !" 
 
 Peals of laughter interrupted him ; they were occasioned by the 
 
80 FRIEDEMANNBACH. 
 
 comical groom, who, scarcely master of his wits, was going over 
 the secret chronique scandakuse, to the amusement of his auditors, 
 relating the most surprising events, in all which he had been the 
 hero, though few of them redounded to his honor. From these 
 he went on to others ; from the chronique scandakuse to the dis- 
 putes of the artists ; in all matters of gossip proving himself 
 thoroughly at home, and, finally, as the crown of all his merits, 
 avowing himself a devoted adherent of Voltaire, whose epoch had 
 then just commenced. The chamberlain received a full tribute 
 of applause ; the clapping of hands, cries of " bravo !" and fresh 
 toasts, attested the approbation of the spectators at his speech, not 
 the less, that the speech was in part unintelligible. At length he 
 fell back in his seat quite overcome, and was asleep in a few mo- 
 ments. This was just what his mischievous friends desired. They 
 stripped him of his gay court dress, and put on a plain one ; some 
 wild young men then carried him out of the house, and delivered 
 him into the custody of the watch, as a drunken fellow whom no 
 one knew, to be taken to the great guard-house. The company 
 then amused themselves with imagining the terror and despair of 
 the poor groom, when, awakening on New-year's morning, he 
 should find himself in his new quarters. 
 
 The last hour of the old year struck, like a warning, amid the 
 mirth and festivity of those guests ; they heeded it not. Clamor- 
 ous revelry filled up that awful interval between the departing and 
 the coming time ; revelry echoed the stroke of the first hour in 
 the new year, mingled with the tumult of the storm that raged 
 without ; nor was the bacchanalian feast at an end till the morn- 
 ing broke, troubled and gloomy. The revellers then, one after 
 another, reeled homewards ; Friedemann Bach alone retained the 
 steadiness of his gait, and his self-possession. The youthful vigor 
 of his frame enabled him to withstand the effects of a night's fes- 
 tivity ; but the bitter contempt with which he had early learned 
 to look upon the ordinary efforts and impulses of men, found suf- 
 ficient to nourish its growth. 
 
 On the morning of the New year, Friedemann, pale and dis- 
 
FRIEDEMANN BACH. 81 
 
 turbed, wa3 pacing up and down his chamber, when Scherbitz 
 came in. 
 
 " The compliments of the season to you !" cried the ever merry 
 page. " Health, contentment, fortune, and all imaginable bles- 
 sings !" 
 
 " The blessing is here !" sighed Friedemann, handing his friend 
 an open letter. 
 
 Scherbitz read it through, and said, with some appearance of 
 emotion — " Mon ami ! your papa is a dear, charming old gentle- 
 man, whose whole heart is full of kindness for his Friedemann ; 
 every line of this letter expresses it. May he have a long and 
 happy life ! But I pray you, for the thousandth time, to recollect 
 that it is quite impossible to satisfy, honestly, all the claims of 
 such distinguished virtue of the olden time. Believe me, mon ami, 
 the time will come when we, madcaps as we now are, shall bo 
 pointed out as wig-blocks that frown upon the disorderly behavior 
 of our juniors. The wheel of time rolls on, and no mortal hand 
 can check its course ; it should suffice that we keep ourselves 
 from falling, and being crushed in the dust beneath it." 
 
 " Can we do that ?" 
 
 " Mon ami .'" Do J not stand, albeit I am a page forty years 
 old ? And look you, I know that I shall remain so, as long as I 
 serve my lord faithfully. I might have opposed the all-powerful 
 minister, and the country would have glorified me ; yet I am a 
 page, no captain, at forty years of age ! I have been the talk of 
 the capital, yet I stand firm !" 
 
 " And your consolation ?" 
 
 " A knowledge that it has always gone thus in the world ; that 
 I am not the first whose life is a failure ; that I shall not be the 
 last ; a perverse determination to live through a life which a 
 thousand others would end in despair ; in fine, curiosity to see 
 what will be the end of the whole matter. Be reasonable, mon 
 ami ! I am really something of a hero ! Were I an artist, as you 
 are, I should have nobler consolations than perverseness and curi- 
 osity. Enough of my own insignificance ; but let me ask you, 
 
82 FRIEDEMANNBACH. 
 
 have you forgotten the heroic Handel, whom, three years ago, you 
 welcomed here in the name of your father ?" 
 
 " How could I forget that noble being ?" 
 
 " Ah, there I would have you, friend ! You tell me yourself, 
 Handel is not, as an artist, like your father ; his fantasy is more 
 powerful, his force more fully developed ; he soars aloft, a mighty 
 eagle, in the blaze of eternal light ; while your father, a regal 
 swan, sails majestically over the blue waters, and sings of the 
 wonders of the deep. Well ! we all know Monsieur Handel an 
 honorable man — a man comme il faut ; yet how different is he 
 from your father ! What the one, in limited circles, with calm 
 and earnest thought, labors after, what he accomplishes in his 
 silent activity — the other reaches amidst the tumult of a stormy 
 life ; amid a thousand strifes and victories. Yet your father 
 honors and loves him, and blames him not for the path by which 
 he travels towards the goal. It is also your path, and is not the 
 worst that you might take. So — era avcmt — mon ami .'" 
 
 " You forget," said Friedemann, gloomily, " you forget that 
 Handel, in all his wild and agitated life, never lost himself; and 
 that his belief was such as he might acknowledge even to my in- 
 flexible father." 
 
 " That I well remember, friend ; and also that if Handel had 
 been born in 1710, instead of 1687, he must have had more liberal 
 views of certain things than he now has, if he thought it worth 
 while to spend time upon matters of belief at all. He is a mighty 
 musician ; he lives and lets live ; and credit me, did as others do, 
 before he was your age ; Faustina Hasse could tell you many 
 pretty stories thereof, if she placed not so much stress upon out- 
 ward demeanor." 
 
 " He never played the hypocrite to his father !" 
 
 " Because it was not worthwhile to lie to the old dupe. And 
 now, mon ami, do not flatter yourself you can mislead a page forty 
 years old ! To speak fairly and honestly, your self-reproach and 
 your — pour ainsi rfire^profligacy, have a cause very different from 
 that you have chosen to assign. I tell you, between ourselves, 
 
FRIEDEMANN BACH. 83 
 
 there is another secret, whose discovery you dread far more than 
 the unmasking of your petty hypocrisy." 
 
 Friedemann reddened as he asked, " What do you mean, von 
 Soherbitz ?" 
 
 " Ha, ha !" laughed the page, " you need not look so gloomy 
 because I have guessed the truth. Non, non, cher ami. If you 
 really wish to keep your secret, you must govern your eyes better, 
 when the name, ' Natalie' is uttered. Your last night's behavior 
 opposite the minister's palace was not necessary to convince me 
 that you have looked too deeply into the dark eyes of the little 
 countess." 
 
 The flush on Friedemann's cheeks gave place to a deadly pale- 
 ness ; but mastering his emotions by a violent effort, he said, in a 
 husky voice — 
 
 " You have discovered all ; but you will be silent — will you 
 not ?>' 
 
 " O mafoi ! said I not, mon enfant, that I only warned you to 
 be cautious before others ? I will be silent, as a matter of course, 
 and so, no more of it. Farewell ! I am going to the guard-house, 
 to see the happy waking of our noble chamberlain ! You go to 
 church, to edify the faithful with your organ-playing ; come after- 
 wards to Seconda's, where the groom shall give a splendid break- 
 fast as his ransom. Courage ! be not too philosophical ! I hate 
 the old Italian who made you so melancholy !" 
 
 The page departed, and Friedemann, having dressed himself, 
 left his house to go to the church of Saint Sophia. 
 
 The service was at an end ; the organ's last tones died tremu- 
 lously along the vast arches, like the sighs of a suppliant angel. 
 All was still again, and the worshippers departed from the sanctu- 
 ary. Friedemann, too, arose, closed the instrument, and descended 
 from the choir, more composed, if not more cheerful, than he had 
 gone there. Just as he was going out, he felt himself clasped in 
 a pair of vigorous arms ; and looking up, with a joyful cry of — 
 " Ah, my father !" flung himself on the bosom of Sebastian Bach. 
 
 " G-od's grace be with thee, on this New year's morn," cried 
 
84 FRIEDEMANN BACH. 
 
 Sebastian, clasping his son to his heart. " And my best blessing ! 
 Yea, a thousand, Friedemann ! You made my heart leap, ere 
 yet I saw you, with pure joy ! Truly, you have bravely—- greatly 
 acquitted yourself, in this morning's work ! Ay, you know, to 
 make others skilful in our sacred art, was ever my pride ; Heaven 
 will not reckon with me for presumption, nor must you take it 
 for such, when I say — that as you were always my dearest pupil, 
 you have become my best ! Now conduct me to your lodgings, 
 Master court-organist ; Philip is already there, and unpacking ; 
 for eight days I propose to tarry with my Friedemann. We have 
 been long separated, and though you wrote me charming letters, 
 that, as you know, between father and son, is not like discoursing 
 face to face, with hand in hand !" So saying, he took Friede- 
 mann's arm with affectionate pleasure, and walked with him 
 towards his dwelling, talking all the while. 
 
 A new surprise awaited Friedemann there ; for his younger 
 brother, Philip Emanuel, in the three years that had flown since 
 his departure ff om Leipzig, had grown a stately youth^ and as his 
 father testified, a ripe scholar in his art. He was a gay, light- 
 hearted boy, " a little subtle upon the organ," as his father ob- 
 served with a smile, " and certainly more at home on the piano ; 
 but a true and pious spirit, that scorned disguise." 
 
 Friedemann suppressed a sigh at the last remark of Sebastian, 
 and gave his brother a heartfelt welcome. A servant in a rich 
 livery interrupted the conversation. He presented a note to 
 Friedemann, and said he was ordered to wait for an answer. 
 Friedemann colored as he took the billet, opened it, glanced at 
 the contents, and said briefly, " I will be there at the appointed 
 hour." The servant bowed and disappeared. 
 
 " Ha !" observed Sebastian, with a smile, " it seems our court- 
 organist has to do with very distinguished people." 
 
 " It was the livery of the Lord Premier," said Philip. 
 
 Sebastian started, and asked, " Eh, Friedemann, is it so ? A 
 domestic of His Excellency, the Count von Bruhl, comes to your 
 house ?" 
 
FRIEDEMANN BACH. 85 
 
 " He was sent," replied Friedemann, with some embarrass- 
 ment, "only by the niece of His Excellency, the Countess 
 Natalie." 
 
 " Eh ? you are acquainted with the young lady, then ?" 
 
 " She is my pupil. This billet instructs me to come to her 
 this afternoon, to arrange a concert she wishes to give on her 
 aunt's birth-day." 
 
 " Eh ? how come you to such an honor ? I thought those 
 matters were under the jurisdiction of M. Hasse." 
 
 " My dear father, as the young Jady's music-master, I cannot 
 well decline commissions of the sort, especially as they here pro- 
 mote one's reputation. With regard to M. Hasse, he departed 
 hence early this morning ; we shall no more have the pleasure of 
 hearing new songs from him. " 
 
 " Hasse gone hence ?" repeated Sebastian, with astonishment — 
 " the excellent, amiable Hasse ? Eh ? where is he gone ? Tell 
 me, Friedemann !" 
 
 " It is a long story," replied his son, with a meaning glance at 
 his young brother. 
 
 The father understood the hint. " You may go till meal-time, 
 Philip," he said, " and amuse yourself by seeing the city." Philip 
 bowed obediently, gave his hand to his brother, and quitted the 
 room. " Now, my son," said Sebastian, " we are alone ; what 
 has happened to M. Hasse ?" 
 
 Friedemann gave him an account of Hasse's departure — of his 
 contemplated journey to Italy, and the well known cause of his 
 disquiet and exile. Bach listened attentively. When his son had 
 ended, he said, confidentially — " It was right that Philip should 
 not hear such a tale — and that you suggested it to me to send 
 him away. Hem ! at court, indeed, all is not as it should be ; 
 there is much said in our Leipzig, as I could tell you, about it. 
 Well, one must not listen to every thing ; our most gracious 
 Elector and sovereign means well with his subjects, and whoever 
 is a faithful subject, will acknowledge that, and speak not of things 
 which he who commits them has to answer for. We will say no 
 
86 FRIEDEMANNBA C H. 
 
 more about it ; you will go this afternoon to her gracious ladyship, 
 and I warrant me, know how to demean yourself. I have cared 
 enough, methinks, for your manners." Friedemann pressed his 
 father's hand, and looked fondly on the good old man. " Tell 
 me now, sir court-organist," continued the elder Bach, " what 
 you have been doing of late. You have sent me but little for a 
 long while ; I hope you have not been idle." 
 
 " Surely not, my father ! I have worked assiduously, but have 
 done little that satisfied me ; and what does not satisfy me, I 
 would rather destroy, than venture before the world. In art, one 
 should accomplish the best, or nothing at all." 
 
 " No, no !" cried Sebastian, interrupting his son ; " that would 
 be, indeed, a hard condition for many ; for the greatest number 
 among those who earnestly and honestly devote themselves to 
 art ; who find therein, often, the only consolation and happiness 
 of their lives. The chosen are few — the called are many ! And 
 trust me, Friedemann, the called are not held in less esteem for 
 the sake of the chosen, if they prove themselves true laborers ! 
 Art is like love. We all bear and cherish love in our hearts, and 
 whether the bosom is covered by a regal mantle, or by a beggar's 
 cloak, love, which dwells within, owns but one home — Heaven. 
 Could the highest and the best alone avail in art, how should we 
 and our equals stand ? I can do little, but my will is honest, and 
 vast is my reward ! Yes ! I am, as regards earthly good, like the 
 poor man in the Evangelist ; yet I would not exchange with a 
 monarch ! I rejoice in humility over my success, great or small 
 as it may be ; and for the rest, I submit me to the will of God !" 
 
 " Oh, that all had your apprehension of Art, my dear father ; 
 that all would strive to practise it as you do !" 
 
 " You will, my boy !" said Sebastian, tenderly. " I find much 
 that is excellent in your Fughetten. Be not too severe with your- 
 self ; and remember that the fresh, free impulses of a young heart 
 are ever accordant with the dictates of justice and truth." 
 
 " They are, indeed !" murmured Friedemann, gloomily. 
 
 His father continued — " Since we are permitted, my boy, to 
 
FRIEDEMANNBACH. 87 
 
 meet on this New-year's morning, allow me to ask how it stands 
 with you in other respects ? Eh, Friedemann, will you not soon 
 seek out a wife among the daughters of the land ? I warrant me, 
 the court-organist need not seek long, to find a comely and willing 
 damsel. Eh ? speak, boy !" 
 
 " Dear father ! there is time enough !" 
 
 " Pah ! pah ! I was not as old as you are, when I espoused 
 your mother ; and by my faith ! I would have married sooner, if 
 I had had my place. So make haste, Friedemann ! ' Early 
 wooed, has none rued !' " 
 
 " It is a serious step, father." 
 
 " That is very certain, and I am sure you would not take it 
 precipitately ; but I pray you, dear son, do it speedily. How 
 merry a grandfather I shall be ! and if the child is a boy, he must 
 be named after me ; and I will teach him his first notes. Ay, 'tis 
 very true, marriage is no child's play. I can tell you, son, I have 
 toiled unweariedly, oft oppressed with care, to furnish you, my 
 boys and girls, with your daily bread. Yet, has not the Almighty 
 blessed my labors ? Have I not brought you all up happily, to be 
 brave men, and skilful musicians ? It is singular, Friedemann, 
 that from my great grandfather down, all the sons of the Bach 
 family have had taste and talent for music. Look you — as I 
 wrote down my last fugue, I thought of my sons, and of you, par- 
 ticularly, and confessed myself happy ! I used often to think I 
 might write something, like the old masters, which, centuries 
 hence, could edify and delight men — that they would love my 
 memory. May I be forgiven if there was aught of worldly arro- 
 gance in the thought. Now, however, I have become less ambi- 
 tious ; but I have one vision, in which my fancy will revel as long 
 as I live ! It is this — how rapturous will it be — when all the 
 Bachs meet together in the Kingdom of Heaven, and unite in 
 singing to the glory of God — their ' hallelujahs' resounding forever 
 and ever in the presence of the Uncreate — who was, and is, and 
 shall be ! Friedemann ! child of my heart ! let me not miss you 
 there !" 
 
88 FRIEDEMANN BACH. 
 
 "Father!" cried the young man, and sank overpowered at 
 Sebastian's feet. 
 
 The elder Bach, unacquainted with the wo that struggled in his 
 son's breast, saw only in his agitation a burst of filial feeling. He 
 laid both hands on the head of the kneeling youth, and said, de- 
 voutly, " God's peace be with you, my Friedemann, now and ever, 
 Amen !" 
 
 Friedemann arose, pale, but with a smile on his face. He 
 kissed his father's hand, and slowly withdrew from the apartment ; 
 but scarcely was the door closed behind him, than he rushed im- 
 petuously through the hall, down the steps, and through the streets 
 to the open space, where he threw himself on the frozen earth, 
 hid his burning forehead, and cursed aloud his miserable being. 
 
 After the lapse of an hour, having collected and composed him- 
 self, he returned to his father, and conversed with apparent 
 cheerfulness. The elder Bach chatted at table with Philip, who 
 was required to give him an account of all the magnificence he had 
 seen in the capital. The splendor of Dresden had reached its 
 utmost under the administration of the luxurious and prodigal 
 Count von Bruhl ; and no court, not even that of Vienna, rivalled 
 the Polish Saxon in this respect. 
 
 After dinner, the father reminded his favorite that it was time 
 to dress, so as to be in season at the minister's palace ; and 
 Friedemann hastened to do so. With a beating heart, with feel- 
 ings that partook both of pleasure and despair, he found himself 
 at the palace. As he entered the hall, a side door was suddenly 
 thrown open, and a small man, with striking features, and soft, 
 clear blue eyes, richly dressed, with a blazing star on his breast, 
 came forth : it was the minister himself. As Friedemann stopped 
 and bowed to him, he advanced, speaking in the gentlest and 
 blandest tone imaginable — 
 
 " Ah ! bon jour, Monsieur Bach ! Much happiness with the 
 New year ! My niece has sent for you ? I am pleased to see you 
 so punctual. I see, with satisfaction, you are attached to our 
 house, and shall remember your zeal where it will do you good. 
 
FRIEDEMANNBACH. 89 
 
 I shall improve the first opportunity to convince you by deeds, of 
 my good will. Now to the Countess !" 
 
 He nodded to the young man, smiled, and skipped out of the 
 door and down the steps to his carriage, which soon drove away 
 with him. 
 
 Young Bach looked after him, and murmured to himself, " Can 
 he have guessed my secret ? The smile of that man ever bodes 
 disaster ! Well, come what may, what can make me more 
 wretched than I am ? On, reprobate !" He crossed the hall, 
 and passed through one of the galleries towards the apartment of 
 the Countess Natalie. 
 
 " This way," said the maid, who was waiting for him in the 
 ante-room, and without further announcement, she opened the 
 door of the cabinet, where Natalie, charmingly dressed, was reclin- 
 ing on a divan. Friedemann entered. 
 
 Natalie arose quickly, and stood a moment gazing earnestly on 
 the visitor. She might have seen twenty summers ; her figure was 
 not tall, but perfectly symmetrical, and voluptuous in its rounded 
 fulness ; her head was beautiful, though not classical in its con- 
 tour ; a curved nose, and a pair of well defined, though delicately 
 pencilled eyebrows, gave an expression of decision and pride to her 
 countenance, while the exquisite, rosy mouth, and eyes shadowed 
 by their long lashes, exhibited more the character of softness and 
 tenderness. A profusion of dark hair floated unconfined over her 
 neck, and relieved the outlines of her somewhat pale, but lovely 
 face. 
 
 She stood still a moment before Friedemann, who cast down his 
 eyes embarrassed ; then approaching, she laid her small white 
 hand lightly on his shoulder, and said, in a mild voice — " Tell 
 me, Bach, what were you doing last night so late, opposite our 
 house ?" 
 
 Friedemann raised his dark, flashing eyes to hers, but dropped 
 them the next instant. Natalie continued — " I saw you plainly, 
 as I stepped a moment out on the balcony for a breath of fresh 
 air — and I knew you at once. You were leaning against the castle 
 
90 FRIEDEMANNBACH. 
 
 wall ; it seemed as if you were waiting for some one. Come — 
 Bach, answer me !" 
 
 The young man struggled down his emotions, and after a 
 pause, said coldly — " You sent for me, most gracious Countess, 
 to honor me with your commands respecting the arrangement of a 
 concert." 
 
 Natalie turned her hack pettishly, and cried in an angry and 
 disappointed tone — " Thus — haughty man ! you thank me, too 
 weak of heart ! for my trust — for my concessions ! Out on 
 ungrateful man !" 
 
 Eriedemann's pale face became crimson, and in a subdued voice, 
 which had something in it absolutely terrific, from the deep sorrow 
 and the wild passion it expressed, he replied — " What shall I — 
 what can I say to you ? Look at me, and enjoy your triumph ! 
 You have made me wretched-^— but I conjure you, let me have the 
 only consolation that remains — the conviction that I alone am to 
 bear the wrath and curse of offended heaven !" 
 
 " Friedemann !" cried the maiden, shocked, and she turned 
 again to him, her eyes suffused with tears — " spare me ; master 
 this agitation, I entreat you !" 
 
 " I will not .'" returned the young man, impetuously, " I will 
 not spare you ! you have yourself torn open, in cruel sport, the 
 wounds of this heart ! Look, how it bleeds ! and yet, oh, fate, 
 cannot cease to beat ! I will not spare you ! you are the only 
 being on earth, to whom I dare unveil myself; I have purchased 
 that right with my happiness here and hereafter ; and this only, 
 last right none shall tear from me ! I gave you all ! truth for 
 falsehood — pure, undying love, for frivolous, heartless mockery !" 
 
 "I mocked you not!" protested Natalie, looking earnestly at 
 him. Believe me, I meant well." 
 
 " With me ? Did you love me ?" 
 
 " Ask me not." 
 
 " Natalie, answer ! Did you love me ?" 
 
 " How can it help, if I tell you I loved you ? Are we not 
 parted for ever ?" 
 
FRIEDEMANNBACH. 91 
 
 " No ! by my soul ! no ! If you love me, nothing on earth 
 shall part us ! For the sake of your love, mark me — I would not 
 spare even the heart of my father, though it should cost his life ! 
 But I must know — if you have loved — if you yet love me ! If 
 you have not, if you do not, I will ask — woman ! wherefore did 
 you tempt the free-hearted youth, who lived but for his art, with 
 encouraging looks and flattering words ? Wherefore did you give 
 yourself — " 
 
 " Hold, unhappy man !" 
 
 " Wherefore ?" repeated Priedemann, with a burst of passion- 
 ate grief. 
 
 " I honored your mind — your genius — your heart." 
 
 " And you loved me not ?" 
 
 " You will madden me with these questions !" 
 
 " And you loved me not ?" 
 
 " I could not see you suffer — I wished to restore your peace — 
 to have you acquiesce — " 
 
 " All that you gave without love, I despise ! If you do love me, 
 how can you bear to think of becoming the wife of another ?" 
 
 " Ah ! you know well, my station — the will of my uncle — " 
 
 " And my happiness, my peace is nothing to you ?" 
 
 " Why can you not be calm — happy, when you know that my 
 affection is still yours — that I can never love another !" 
 
 Friedemann's brow kindled, he stamped fiercely with his foot, 
 and muttered — " Hypocrite, liar, coward ! and all for the sake of 
 a coquette !" 
 
 " Your passion makes you unjust and weak," said Natalie, with 
 displeasure. " I am no coquette. Is not the story of my educa- 
 tion familiar to you ? My parents died early ; they were poor, 
 but descended from one of the oldest families in the land ; my 
 proud uncle, whose nobility was younger, surrounded me with all 
 the state and splendor his power could command. I will not 
 indulge in self-commendation, for that I early perceived the worth- 
 lessness of all this magnificence ; but it is something, that I yielded 
 not to temptation, which, in the midst of pomp and luxury, 
 
92 FRIEDEMANN BACH. 
 
 approached me in a thousand enticing shapes. It is much ; I 
 dare commend myself therefor, and be proud ; for I had no loving, 
 careful mother, to teach me the lessons of virtue. I grew thus to 
 womanhood, flattered by puppets, by venal , slaves, by smiling 
 fools ; for I had not yet seen a man. I saw you — I loved you. 
 Must I excuse to you my too mighty love ?" 
 
 " Ah ! Natalie ! what must I think ? You love me, yet scorn 
 to be my true and wedded wife ! You love me, and will marry 
 the creature of your uncle, whom you regard with indifference — 
 with aversion ? Must I never know what to make of you ?" 
 
 " You must know that interest impels me not to this step, but 
 a sense of duty." 
 
 " Sense of duty ?" 
 
 " Yes ! and towards you. I feel that as your wife I could never 
 make you happy — could never be happy myself. You are a great 
 artist, can accomplish much ; but you cannot rise beyond a cer- 
 tain sphere — and I — think you it would be so easy for a princely 
 maiden to fulfil the duties of a quiet citizen's wife ? And were I 
 willing to sacrifice all for you, where should we find a refuge from 
 the pursuit of my incensed uncle ? Nay — if we even found that, in 
 some desert solitude, how long could the high-minded, ambitious 
 artist endure this inglorious concealment ?" Friedemann looked 
 mournfully on the ground, and was silent ; the lady continued, — 
 " If I knew you discontented, could I be happy ? Or you, if you 
 saw my grief ? I will do all for you that a woman in my circum- 
 stances can do for her beloved ; my uncle's minion can never 
 obtain any portion of my heart. I will live for you alone ! And 
 you— live for your art and me!" 
 
 " And must I enjoy your affection as a dishonorable thief?" 
 asked Friedemann, angrily. 
 
 " Our regard cannot remain concealed — yet, for your sake, I 
 will bear the condemation of the world !" 
 
 " And the world's scorn ? No — you shall not ! The woman 
 whom I love — for whom I am miserable — for whose sake I have 
 deceived father, brother, friends — that woman shall none dare to 
 
FRIEDEMANN BACH. 
 
 scorn ! Farewell, Natalie ! we never meet again ! Be what your 
 future husband is not — be noble and true. And believe me, low 
 as I am sunk, all virtuous resolution has not yet left my heart ! I 
 must be unhappy, but no longer utterly wretched, for you shall 
 esteem me !" 
 
 " Friedemann !" cried the maiden, and threw herself weeping 
 on his breast, " I honor, I admire you !" 
 
 Here the waiting maid entered hastily, and not without alarm, 
 announced the minister's approach. 
 
 "Eecollect yourself!" whispered Natalie, as she disengaged 
 herself from the arms of her lover. 
 
 " The minister cried in a cordial tone as he entered — Ha ! 
 Monsieur Bach, here still ? I am delighted to see you again. 
 Well, ma chire niece .'" turning to the blushing girl, " how goes 
 it ? Is all arranged for the concert — and will it suit ?" 
 
 " I hope so, most gracious uncle !" 
 
 " That is charming, my love ; my wife will be enchanted with 
 this kind attention. You, my dear Monsieur Bach, will certainly 
 arrange all for the best, of that I am assured. Come very often 
 to my house ! understand — very often ! I place the highest value 
 upon you and your talents." 
 
 The young man thanked him, somewhat bewildered, and took 
 his leave. 
 
 " A strong head, and great, great talent," observed the minister, 
 looking after him, while he took a pinch from his jewelled snuff- 
 box. He said more in his praise, then passed to indifferent sub- 
 jects, and at length retired from the apartment, after having 
 pressed his lips to the white forehead of his niece, who dutifully 
 kissed his hand. 
 
 As Friedemann left the palace, the page rushed hastily from 
 round a corner to him, and asked — " Whither ?" 
 
 " Home !» 
 
 " Not there. Gome with me instantly to Faustina's." 
 
 " Are you mad ?" 
 
 " More reasonable than yourself, mein engel ! Out on the 
 
94 raiEDEMANN BACH. 
 
 blindness that cannot see the trap the wary bird-catcher has laid 
 for the bird !" 
 
 " What mean you ? What is the matter ?" 
 
 " Sacre-bleu, ! Come to Faustina's with me, or you are to-night 
 on the road to Konigstein ! The lord Minister knows all !" And 
 he' led him away. 
 
 Twilight had come on ; Philip had called for lights, and placed 
 himself beside his father, who, sitting at the table, was diligently 
 perusing Friedemann's last exercises and compositions, giving 
 ■what he had read to his son, for the same purpose. At last, 
 looking up, he asked — " Well, Philip, what think you of our 
 Friedemann ?" 
 
 " Ah, father," replied the lad, " do not make sport of me ! 
 But indeed, I know not how to express what I think and feel. I 
 am moved, rapt — I admire my brother. It seems to me often as 
 if I were reading something of yours ; and then all is again so 
 strange to me — so different from yours — I feel troubled — I know 
 not why. In short, I cannot feel undisturbed joy in these com- 
 positions." 
 
 Sebastian looked grave and thoughtful for a moment, then turn- 
 in <r with a smile to his son, he said — 
 
 " Yes, Philip, there is to me also something strange and para- 
 doxical in Friedemann's works ; and this is more the case in his 
 exercises and sketches, than in his finished pieces ; yet I am not 
 disturbed ; yea, I deeply rejoice therein." 
 
 " Rejoice ?" repeated Philip, and looked doubtingly on his 
 father ; the latter continued — 
 
 " I know what you mean by this question ; your own light, glad 
 spirit accords not with the earnest, oft gloomy character displayed 
 in Friedemann's works, Heaven knows, he inherits not the gloomy 
 from me, though I have always dealt earnestly with art. But, 
 observe, Friedemann's character is not yet fixed. All assures me 
 there is something great in the man ; but he is hardly yet deter- 
 mined how to develop it. He seeks the form, by which he shall 
 
FRIEDEMANNBACH. 95 
 
 represent what lives within him. I have examined closely and 
 dispassionately ; it is not a father's partiality that leads me to speak 
 as I do. Friedemann seeks for himself a new path to the goal. 
 Will he succeed ? I hope so, when I reflect that every strong 
 spirit has sought and discovered a new path, winning what his pre- 
 decessor would have given up as impossible. I know not if I de- 
 serve so high a degree of praise as has been accorded to me ; but 
 this I know, Philip, and acknowledge, that from her origin, Art 
 has ever advanced, and still advances, and her temple is not yet 
 completed. Will it ever be ? I think not ; for the perfect dwells 
 not on earth ; yet therefore is Art on earth so divine and eternal, 
 that we may ever long for her fairest rewards, and strive after 
 them with our best strength." 
 
 " It is so," said Philip, struck with his father's remarks ; " if 
 one thinks he has accomplished something worthy, he soon finds 
 there exists in his fantasy images far nobler and fairer, than with 
 all his industry and taste he oan produce." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by a stout knock at the door. 
 The elder Bach answered by a " Come in !" the door opened, and 
 two tall men entered, and inquired for the court-organist. 
 
 " I expect my son every moment," answered Bach, and asked 
 if the gentlemen had any message to leave. They replied that 
 they were friends of the court-organist, and would wait for his 
 coming. They seated themselves without farther ceremony ; Se- 
 bastian also resumed his seat, and endeavored to introduce general 
 conversation. But his politeness and his trouble were in vain ; 
 the two visitors only answered in monosyllables, and in a tone by 
 no means encouraging, so that an awkward silence soon prevailed, 
 and Sebastian, as well as Philip, wished, with all their hearts, for 
 Friedemann's arrival. Still Friedemann came not ; but after the 
 lapse of a quarter of an hour, the door was opened without a pre- 
 vious knock, and the page, von Scherbitz, entered. 
 
 "Bon soir .'" cried he, in an indifferent tone, while he fixed a 
 keen look on the two strangers, who rose from their seats as they 
 perceived him. 
 
96 FRIEDEMANNBACH. 
 
 " Whom have I the honor — " asked Sebastian, somewhat sur- 
 prised at the unceremonious intrusion. 
 
 "Von Scherbitz," replied he, "page in the service of His 
 Highness, and a friend of your son Friedemann, if so be that you 
 are the elder Bach." 
 
 " I am," returned Sebastian, smiling. " My son must be in 
 soon ; these gentlemen, also his friends, are waiting for him." 
 
 " Friends ?" repeated von Scherbitz, " friends of Friedemann ! 
 So, so !" He placed himself directly before the two men, who 
 were visibly embarrassed, and looked down. The page stood 
 awhile in silence ; at length he said in a cold, ironical tone, 
 " Messieurs ! you are come too late, in spite of the haste with 
 which his Excellency thought proper to send you, and indeed you 
 are here quite unnecessarily. Gro, messieurs ! Carry your lord 
 the compliments of the page, M. Scherbitz, and tell him the 
 court-organist, Bach, is with the Signora Hasse ; I myself took 
 him there, informed the sovereign of my doing, as in duty bound, 
 and have already obtained my pardon !" 
 
 The two men started up and left the apartment without answer- 
 ing a word ; the page threw himself on a seat, and burst into loud 
 laughter. 
 
 The elder Bach, who knew not what to make of the whole 
 scene, stood in blank surprise in the middle of the room, looking 
 inquiringly at Philip, who, with equally astonished and anxious 
 looks, was gazing at the page. 
 
 At length von Scherbitz ceased laughing, arose, approached the 
 old man, and said with earnestness and respect, " Pardon, Master 
 Cantor, for my strange behavior. I will explain it to you ; I have 
 much to communicate, but to you alone. It concerns your son, 
 Friedemann — *' 
 
 " My son ?"— " My brother ?» cried Sebastian and Philip in the 
 same breath. " Where is he ?" 
 
 " As I told those men," replied the page, " at the house of Sig- 
 nora Hasse." 
 
 " And what does he there ?" asked Sebastian. 
 
FRIEDEMANN BACH. 97 
 
 " I must tell you alone." 
 
 " Gro, Philip, to your chamber," said the father mildly ; and 
 as the boy lingered, he repeated with more earnestness — " Go !" 
 With a look of anxiety the youth retired. 
 
 Sebastian, full of serious misgiving, seated himself, and said, 
 " Now, M. Scherbitz, we are alone ; what have you to tell me 
 of my Friedemann, whose friend you are pleased to call yourself ?" 
 
 " I am his friend !" said the page, not without feeling ; " and 
 that I am, I have not first proved to-day !" 
 
 " And those two men, who marched off so quickly, when you 
 told them my son was at Madame Hasse's ?" 
 
 " Were in no way his friends — tout au eontraire, mon ami ! and 
 on this account I wish to speak with you." 
 
 " Speak, then, M. Scherbitz !" 
 
 Scherbitz seemed at a loss in what manner to communicate to 
 Bach the information he could no longer keep from him. For 
 the first time in his life, in the presence of that worthy old man, 
 his bold levity deserted him. Sebastian sat opposite with folded 
 hands, his clear and searching eyes fixed steadily upon him. Ke- 
 collecting himself, at last he began — 
 
 " Your son, Friedemann, my good sir, has told me how differ- 
 ent, even when^a child, he always was from his brothers and sisters, 
 in that, with an earnestness far beyond his years, he apprehended 
 and retained whatever moved his fancy." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it was so !" exclaimed Bach. " This peculiarity 
 endeared the boy to me at first ; but in later years it has made 
 me anxious for him." 
 
 " You have brought him up strictly, sir." 
 
 " Very strictly, M. Scherbitz ; in the fear of God, as is a pa- 
 rent's duty ! yet I have constrained him to nothing — and only 
 when he was convinced, have I led him strictly to follow his con- 
 viction. He who discerns the truth and the right, and obeys it 
 not, is either a fool or a knave ; not a man !" 
 
 " Ah ! my dear sir, may not an excess of strength lead a well 
 meaning man out of the way ; yea, even to his ruin ?" 
 
FRIEDE.MANN BACH. 
 
 " That is possible ; but he should reserve his strength to strug- 
 gle, not weakly yield. He should either rouse himself, and atone 
 for his faults, or perish like a man." 
 
 " Heaven grant the first !" murmured the page. 
 
 " Do you fear the last ?" asked Sebastian, quickly, and alarmed. 
 
 " No, M. Cantor ; I trust Eriedemann's strength to rise again." 
 
 " To rise again ? Monsieur, tell me, in few words— what of 
 my son ?" 
 
 " Well, then ! you have brought up your son as a man of 
 honor ; but you yourself, sir, are too little acquainted with the 
 present ways of the world, to be able to shield him against the 
 dangers that beset the path of youth, when, without a guide or 
 counseller, he enters the great arena of life. Your son, till then, 
 had known nothing of the world, beyond his paternal dwelling and 
 your church of Saint Thomas. He was called to Dresden. He 
 was received as the son — as the first disciple of the famous Se- 
 bastian Bach ; and it was soon found that he was himself a master 
 in his art. Esteem, admiration, were his ; the great treated him 
 with favor, his inferiors flattered him as the favorite of the great. 
 Is it surprising that his head was somewhat turned, and that he 
 forgot his place ? Yet all would soon have been right again, 
 when he learned to separate appearances from realities ; but as ill 
 luck would have it, the young Countess de Bruhl employed him 
 as her music-master. In a word, your son loves her !" 
 
 " Is the boy mad ?" cried Bach, angrily, and rising from his 
 chair. 
 
 " Gently, papa !" interrupted the page ; " if you knew the 
 young Countess, you would confess, that for a young man like 
 your son, it would be impossible not to love her ; particularly as 
 she was resolved to be loved ; and in truth, she has excellently 
 well managed it !" 
 
 " Sebastian sank again on his seat, and his brow became clouded. 
 The page continued — 
 
 " Friedemann struggled bravely against his passion, but the 
 little Countess would not allow resistance — " 
 
FRIEDEMANN BACH. 99 
 
 " Poor Friedemann !" sighed the father. 
 
 " When the first violence of his passion was over, he thought 
 upon his father. He would have torn himself from his beloved — 
 but could he ? ought he ? Everything was against their union. 
 Was he to discover all to you, who had no misgiving ? Disturb 
 your peace, and that of your family ? He resolved to bear all the 
 anguish alone. The resolution was a noble one, but it made him 
 so much the more wretched, since he, who so reverenced truth, 
 had to dissemble with his father." 
 
 " Cease, M. Scherbitz !" said Sebastian, in a low, mournful 
 voice. 
 
 " I have little more to say, M. Cantor. " Friedemann's con- 
 science gave him no peace day or night ; and he suffered much 
 from the fear of discovery. He fled to dissipation for relief. 
 There were about him younger and older libertines. Thus. I 
 became acquainted with him ; I, whose life has been an error ! I 
 would fain have aided him ; but I saw then was not the time. 
 His grief was too new ; his passion reigned too fiercely in his 
 breast ; I looked to time for the cure, and sought only to keep 
 him from too wild company. I was not always successful. Now, 
 however, he has taken a wise step. He himself has broken off 
 his connection with the Countess." 
 
 " Heaven be praised !" cried Sebastian with joy ; the page 
 continued — 
 
 " First hear me out, M. Cantor ; the minister has discovered 
 their intimacy. He swears your son's destruction — there I have 
 baffled him ; but I cannot prevent the necessity of Friedemann's 
 quitting this place." 
 
 " It needs not !" said Sebastian, with quickness. " My poor 
 son shall go hence ; he needs comfort, and he can find it only 
 with me !" 
 
 " He may come to you, then ?" asked Scherbitz. 
 
 " What a question ! Where is the father who can repel his un- 
 happy child ? And I know, sir, how unhappy my poor Friedemann 
 must be ; for I know, better than any other, his fiery soul ! Bring 
 
100 FRIEDEMANNBACH. 
 
 him to me. I know he has ever loved his father ; he must learn 
 also to trust me with filial confidence !" 
 
 " My good sir !" cried Seherbitz with emotion, taking Sebas- 
 tian's hand, and pressing it to his bosom, " had I had such a 
 father, I should have been something more than a page, in my 
 fortieth year. Your Friedemann is saved !" 
 
 He left the apartment. Sebastian looked sadly after him, and 
 murmured to himself, " Ah ! you know not what is in my heart, 
 and that I dare not speak the whole truth, if I would save my 
 boy ! My fairest dream is melted away — the dream I indulged, 
 of finding in my first-born a friend, pure and true — such as I have 
 sought my life long in vain ! Oh ! now I acknowledge, the truest 
 friend, the purest joy, is Art ! Without her, where should I find 
 comfort ? All thanks and praise to Him who has given the 
 children of earth such a companion through their pilgrimage of 
 life !" 
 
 He passed from the room into an adjoining dark one, where a 
 small but excellent work of Silbermann's was set up ; he opened 
 the piano, played a prelude, and began, with a full heart, the 
 beautiful melody of an old song by Paul Gerhard, the first verse 
 of which ran as follows : — 
 
 " Commit thy ways, Oh, pilgrim, 
 And yield thy sick heart's sighs 
 Unto the faithful earing 
 Of Him who rules the skies !" 
 
 More steady, more powerful rose the harmony ; it filled the 
 apartment, and was heard even in the streets, where it brought 
 peace and consolation to more than one sick heart, as the passers- 
 by stopped to listen. 
 
 In a luxuriously decorated room, lighted by a splendid astral 
 lamp, reclined on a rich ottoman Faustina Hasse, the most beauti- 
 ful woman, and the greatest dramatic singer, not only of her own, 
 but perhaps of all times. 
 
 She wore a simple white robe, of the finest material ; a costly 
 
FRIEDEMANN BACH. 101 
 
 necklace of pearls was rivalled by the snow of her lovely neck ; 
 her lofty brow was somewhat paler than usual, and a touch of 
 melancholy about her mouth softened the pride that generally 
 ruled the expression of those exquisite features. 
 
 " Let him come in !" said she, carelessly, to the waiting-maid, 
 who had just announced a visitor. The maid withdrew, and the 
 minister, Count von Bruhl, entered, with a low and courtly bow. 
 Faustina replied by a slight inclination of her head, and without 
 changing her own easy position, motioned him to a seat. The 
 minister sat down, and began smilingly — 
 
 " My late visit surprises you, does it not, Signora ?" 
 
 " I am not yet aware of its object." 
 
 " Oh, that is plain ! I am a good Bpouse, as is known ; in four- 
 teen days comes my consort's birth-day, and I intend giving a 
 fete, as handsome as my poor means will allow. But how will it 
 surpass in splendor all other fetes in the world, if Faustina Hasse 
 will honor it with her presence ! Will the Signora let me sue in 
 vain ?" 
 
 " I do not sing, my lord minister." 
 
 " How have I deserved, Signora, that you should so misinter- 
 pret my well meant petition ?" 
 
 " Will His Highness honor the feast with his presence ?" 
 
 " He received graciously his most faithful servant's petition, 
 and was pleased to promise me." 
 
 " Good— I will be there." 
 
 " Divine Faustina ! My gratitude is unbounded !" 
 
 He kissed her hand, and was about to retire. Faustina started 
 up hastily, and eried with flashing eyes — 
 
 " Hold — a word !" The minister stood still. " Where is 
 Friedemann Bach ?" asked she. 
 
 The Count could not suppress a start of surprise, but he 
 answered blandly — " This question, most honored lady, from 
 you — " 
 
 " Where is Friedemann Bach ?" repeated Faustina, with 
 vehemence. " I will know !" 
 
102 FRIEDEMANN BACH. 
 
 " Well, then ; he is probably on his way to Konigstein." 
 
 " Faustina smiled scornfully, and asked — " For what ?" 
 
 " To save hiui from yet severer punishment. The whole parish 
 is disgusted at the scandalous life their court-organist leads, who, 
 if he edifies the devotional with his organ-playing on Sunday 
 morning, celebrates the wildest orgies with his fellow rioters, at 
 Seconda's, on Sunday night !" 
 
 " And what is done with his fellow rioters ?" 
 
 The Count von Briihl shrugged his shoulders, and replied de- 
 jectedly — " They are of the first families." 
 
 " And therefore pass unpunished ? Very fair, my lord minister ! 
 But you are mistaken ; Bach is not on the road to Konigstein ; 
 he is here, in my house, and has seen His Highness." 
 
 "How, Signora !" cried the Count, really shocked — "what 
 have you done ?" 
 
 " Silence — I command you !" said Faustina, haughtily. The 
 minister was silent, and she continued — " His Highness knows all ; 
 knows why you pursue the unhappy youth, and would bring un- 
 speakable misery on the whole family — and such a family ! 
 Heartless courtier ! You cannot comprehend the worth of such 
 a man. Friedemann must leave this city, but he goes freely, 
 and must not be unprovided for. G-ive him another place, one 
 worthy of his genius. That is His Highness's will !" 
 
 She left the apartment. The minister stepped in much em- 
 barrassment to a window, looked out into the darkness, and 
 drummed with his fingers upon the pane. When he turned 
 round, he saw Friedemann and the page, who had entered the 
 room. There was a storm in his breast, but he suppressed all 
 signs of agitation, and walking up to the young man, said in a 
 gentle, though earnest tone, " Monsieur Bach, it grieves me 
 much that you must leave us so suddenly ; but since that cannot 
 be helped, we must yield to what is unavoidable. You will go as 
 soon as possible to Merseburg ; the place of organist in that 
 cathedral is vacant, and I have appointed you to it. Adieu !" 
 And he retired. 
 
TRIE DEM ANN BACH. 103 
 
 " Bravissimo, mon comte ."' cried the page, laughing as he 
 looked after him — " where is there a better actor ? Roscius is a 
 poor bungler to him ! But now, mon ami " — he turned to 
 Friedemann — " come with me to your father. Courage ! he 
 knows all." 
 
 " All !" repeated the youth, and with a look of despair he 
 followed his friend. They passed out into the open air. It was 
 a clear winter's night ; the stars glittered in the deep blue 
 firmament, recording in burning lines their hymn of praise 
 to Infinite love ; but in the heart of the young man dwelt hopeless 
 anguish. 
 
 The pious melody Sebastian sang, was yet unfinished, when 
 they arrived at the house. They entered. Philip, who saw them 
 first, hastened to tell his father. Sebastian came into the room ; 
 as he approached his son, he said, " You come back to me — you 
 are welcome !" 
 
 " Can you forgive me, father ?" murmured Friedemann, fixing 
 his looks gloomily on the ground. 
 
 " You have deeply sinned against your first, your truest friend ; 
 but I trust you will have ability to amend, and I have forgiven 
 you !" 
 
 " And without a word of reproach ?" 
 
 " Your own conscience has suggested more than I could say ; 
 it is now my part to console you. Come with me to Leipzig, 
 and if I alone cannot comfort you, why, the others shall help 
 me!" 
 
 " No, by my life !" cried Friedemann, looking up boldly. " I 
 pass not again the sacred threshold of my home, till I am worthy 
 of you — or quite resigned to despair !" 
 
 " Is that your firm resolve ?" asked Sebastian. 
 
 " It is, my father ! Henceforward I will be true to you. I 
 know not if I shall overcome this anguish, but I will struggle 
 against it, for I have yet power ! If victorious, more is won than 
 lost ! But if I am overcome — " 
 
104 FRIEDEM ANN B ACH. 
 
 " Then come to my heart, Friedemann !" 
 
 " I will !" 
 
 Sebastian held out his hand to his son. Friedemann flung him- 
 self into his father's arms. 
 
 The next morning they parted. Sebastian returned to Leipzig, 
 and Friedemann prepared for his journey to Merseburg. 
 
@IEI©£i SITIIAK J^.LCJS, 
 
SEBASTIAN BACH. 105 I 
 
 S8BAS2IAI BAfiH, 
 
 " If the lessons were only over !" cried impatiently Lina, the 
 youngest daughter of Sebastian Bach. 
 
 " They will soon be over," said her mother ; " it has already 
 struck twelve." 
 
 " Ah ! what with the beating and blowing above there, my 
 father often does not hear the hour strike. He is too zealous 
 with his pupils." 
 
 Madam Anna Bach smiled good humoredly at the impatience 
 of her favorite, and replied — " Take care your father does not hear 
 you talk so. He would interpret it ill. He regrets often enough, 
 already, that his daughters have no gift for music, while his sons 
 have been skilled on the piano and the organ from their earliest 
 childhood." 
 
 Lina fixed her beautiful hazel eyes earnestly on her mother, 
 and said with some petulance — " Yet my father, if he would be 
 just, must acknowledge that we three girls give him more pleasure 
 than all his sons, skilful musicians as they are !" 
 
 " Silence !" said her mother, gravely. " It does not become 
 you to boast of your father's regard, nor to accuse your brothers. 
 Go to your sisters, and to work." 
 
 Lina obeyed ; but when at the door she turned suddenly round, 
 ran back to her mother, seized her hand, kissed it affectionately, 
 and said — " Be friends with me, mamma ! I meant no harm by 
 what I said." 
 
 " That I well know," replied Madam Bach ; " you are a good 
 girl, but you have not the quiet manners of your other sisters. 
 
106 SEBASTIAN BACH. 
 
 You are hasty and vehement, like the brother you resemble 
 in outward features — whom you always blame, because he has 
 grieved your father, and yet whom you love better than all the 
 rest." 
 
 " Friedemann !" cried Lina, and threw herself sobbing into her 
 mother's arms. Then recovering herself, with a " I will be good, 
 mamma !" she left the apartment. 
 
 Madam Bach, after speaking a moment with her youngest son, 
 Christian, was about to follow, when the door opened and her 
 excellent husband, Johann Sebastian, entered. He was still a 
 stately and handsome man, of steady carriage, and eyes that 
 beamed with the brilliancy of youth ; but thirteen years had con- 
 siderably changed him ; deep furrows were in the once open and 
 smooth forehead ; his cheeks were fallen in, and their color be- 
 trayed disease. 
 
 " Is your lesson over ?" asked his wife. 
 
 Sebastian held out his hand affectionately, and answered — 
 "Yes, for to-day." He placed himself in his arm-chair, and 
 Madam Bach continued — 
 
 " You are glad of it, for you seem to-day very much exhausted." 
 
 " Ay ; old age will have its claims satisfied, and rest does me 
 good now and then ; but glad — no ! I am not glad that the hours 
 are at an end, in which I must do my duty. I can impart in- 
 struction yet — I have strength to make good scholars, and so 
 long as I can work, none shall find me remiss." 
 
 " You will do much good yet !" 
 
 " That is in G-od's hand, Anna ! My will indeed is to do — you 
 look so pleasant — what have you there ?" 
 
 " A letter for you from Philip." 
 
 " Ho, ho !" cried Sebastian, while he joyfully rose ; " has the 
 scapegrace at last found time to write to his old father ? By my 
 faith, I have doubted whether he has ever learned letter- writing, 
 since he has been concert-master in the service of His Majesty of 
 Prussia ! Well — what says he ?" and he opened the letter, and 
 read — 
 
SEBASTIAN BACH. 107 
 
 " My dear and honored father — 
 
 " You will pardon your most dutiful son, that he has not 'written in 
 so long a time to his beloved and honored parent, and will impute this 
 neglect of duty by no means to any lack of filial affection, or of dutiful 
 esteem, since it is solely and entirely owing to the pressing business of 
 my situation. This magnificent capital is all life, as far as music is con- 
 cerned. At court there is a great concert two or three times a week, 
 without numbering the private entertainments, which His Majesty has 
 every evening in his cabinet, where I accompany him on the pretty Sil- 
 bermann's piano, on which my beloved father played before His Majesty. 
 
 " His Majesty plays on the flute quite surprisingly ; and I think his 
 tone fuller and better than Herr Quantz can produce. But, as respects 
 time, I am obliged to give good heed to keep with him, for His Majesty is 
 capricious, and troubles himself little with the notes— going forward and 
 backward and stopping at his own will and pleasure. This is pleasant 
 enough when he plays alone, but in concerts occasions much confusion. 
 
 " His Majesty has always been very well pleased with my accompani- 
 ment; and after every piece we have executed together, His Majesty 
 has been pleased to say—' You have done this well.' 
 
 " His Majesty always inquires in a friendly manner after my esteemed 
 father, and often asks me—' Will not your papa come once more to Ber- 
 lin ?' This I would propose, with proper discretion ; and I can promiso 
 beforehand, if my dear and esteemed father will visit us, he will be re- 
 ceived with joy and honors by all. Be pleased to pardon my hasty 
 writing ; convey my best love and duty to my most honored mother, my 
 beloved brothers and sisters, and make happy with a speedy answer 
 " Your dutiful son, 
 
 "Philip Emanuel Bach." 
 
 "Berlin, July 18/A, 1760. 
 
 Sebastian folded the letter again, and said, with a good humored 
 smile — " His hasty writing I must indeed pardon for this once ; 
 for he has never written to me otherwise." 
 
 " What think you of his proposition to visit Berlin once again ?" 
 asked Madam Baeh. " The journey, I think, would do you 
 good." 
 
 " It would indeed !" replied Sebastian, cheerfully. " I would 
 gladly see Berlin and His Majesty once more ! Ay ! twice in my 
 life have I been wrought to believe there was something good in 
 me ; the first time was in the year seventeen, when Monsieur 
 
108 SEBASTIAN BACH. 
 
 Marchand took himself quietly off, the evening before our ap- 
 pointed contest, so that I held the field alone in Dresden — ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! The second time, was three years ago, when the great 
 King of Prussia came into the ante-chamber to meet me and give 
 me welcome ; and when some rude chamberlains began to laugh 
 at my expressions of duty and homage, His Majesty chid them 
 with ' Messieurs ! voyez vous, c' est le vkux Bach /' That pleased 
 me wonderfully, and Friedemann, too !" 
 
 " You will go, then ?" 
 
 " Yes — if they will give me leave here — and there be a small 
 overplus of money in the purse, I should be glad. It is strange 
 that in my old days, I should be seized with a roving propensity, 
 of which I had little or nothing when I was young. Enough for 
 this time ; let us go to dinner." 
 
 The day was near its close, and Sebastian sat before the door 
 of his dwelling, by the side of his wife, and surrounded by his 
 family ; his two eldest sons only, Friedemann and Philip, were 
 wanting. The mother and daughters were employed in sewing 
 and knitting work, and whispered now and then to each other. 
 The sons listened to what the elder Bach was telling them of his 
 youthful studies, particularly under the century-old organist, 
 Eeinecken, in Hamburg. 
 
 The setting sun threw his last rays upon the quiet group under 
 the green and stately linden which shaded the entrance to the 
 old Thomas school. A picture was presented, which in its true 
 keeping might have inspired the genius of the greatest painter of 
 that day. 
 
 In the midst of Sebastian's story, Caroline, who had been look- 
 ing towards the corner where Cloister street runs into Thomas' 
 church-yard, sprang to her feet with a cry of surprise. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" asked her mother, alarmed : while the 
 others all rose, leaving the venerable father alone sitting on the 
 bench. Before the maiden could answer, the tall figure of a man 
 
SEBASTIAN BACH. 109 
 
 was seen hastily crossing the church-yard towards the house, 
 and now Sebastian rose too, for he recognized his son Friedemann. 
 
 " Salve!" cried the old man. " Do you come to stay ?" 
 
 ' I have kept my word !" answered Friedemann, " and if you 
 think right, I will stay !" 
 
 Sebastian, nodding a pleased assent, held out his hands to his 
 son, and embraced him with transport. His mother and the rest 
 crowded round him, all but Caroline, who stood in her place, look- 
 ing inquiringly at her brother. After he had returned the greeting 
 of his family, he turned and addressed her. Then her eyes 
 sparkling, her lovely face suffused with the flush of joy, she 
 cried — 
 
 " I also bid you welcome !" 
 
 After the first surprise was over, Sebastian led his son into his 
 chamber, and with gentle earnestness repeated his question. 
 
 " Come as you will, you are welcome ;" said he : " yet what 
 brings you here so suddenly ?" 
 
 " That it is not the old story, my father," replied Friedemann, 
 " you will believe upon my assurance. Ah ! thirteen years are 
 enough to blunt one sorrow — the more certainly, the greater it is ! 
 But a thousand new ones are born to me, and one among them 
 yields not in bitterness to the first !" 
 
 " And what is that, Friedemann ?" 
 
 " I despair of ever doing anything truly great in my art ! I 
 have only pride, not power, to support me against daily vexations. 
 I have purposed well — true ! I have purposed well. I wished to 
 strike out a new path, without neglecting the excellent old school. 
 I might err — ay ! I have erred ! the result proves it ; but the 
 motive of my exertions was pure ; what I strove after was great 
 and noble. But I have been slandered — insulted ! my aim ridi- 
 culed — my endeavors themselves maliciously criticised — de- 
 cried ! — " 
 
 " And by whom, Friedemann ?" 
 
 Friedemann started at this question ; at length he said — " I 
 am wrong, I know, to permit the judgment, or rather the silly 
 
110 SEBASTIAN BACH. 
 
 prating of a malignant fool to destroy the pleasure arising from 
 my exertions ; and yet it is so. There is a certain schoolmaster 
 Kniff in Halle, who, though all he accomplishes himself is con- 
 temptible, yet passes for a luminary in the musical horizon ; I think 
 they call his works reviews." 
 
 " Ay," cried Sebastian, " I know them to be ridiculous. I 
 think the schoolmaster must be the cause of some sport in 
 Halle." 
 
 " You are mistaken, father," replied Friedemann. " He is not 
 derided, but feared on account of his malice ; and those who fear 
 him not, are pleased at the base libels by which he strives to bring 
 down others to his own level." 
 
 " And can that disturb you ?" asked Sebastian, " notwithstand- 
 ing your knowledge that only the base and the evil array them- 
 selves against the good ? Methinks I have ever taught you, there 
 is no more certain proof of elevated worth, than the impotent 
 rage and opposition of the vicious. I never taught you to look 
 with pride or arrogance on your equals or inferiors, but to be calm, 
 self-possessed, and to maintain your ground, even against the great, 
 much more against the rich ! That is man's first duty ; practise 
 it, Friedemann, and no schoolmaster Kniff, or any one else, can 
 make you dissatisfied with yourself or your efforts." 
 
 Caroline here interrupted the conversation, announcing a 
 stranger, who wished to speak with her father. 
 
 " Who is it ?" asked Sebastian. 
 
 " He will not tell his name, but says he is a friend of yours." 
 
 " Bring him in, then," answered the old man, and Caroline 
 left the chamber. 
 
 " Bon soir .'" cried the stranger, as he entered, in a sharp voice, 
 while he hastened towards Sebastian, and held out his hand ; " ion 
 soir, mon char papa ! Do you not know me ?" 
 
 Sebastian could not immediately recollect the face. Friedemann 
 recognized him at once, and said — 
 
 " Ah ! Monsieur Scherbitz ! good evening." 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" cried Scherbitz, laughing, " is not this our ex- 
 
SEBASTIAN BACH. Ill 
 
 court-organist ? Exactly ! there is the same ill-boding frown 
 between the brows as in 1737. You are but little changed, my 
 friend, with being thirteen years older. I am still the same, ex- 
 cept that at fifty-three I am grown to be First Lieutenant." 
 
 " You proved yourself a friend to my son in time of misfor- 
 tune," said Sebastian, " and are therefore ever welcome to me 
 and mine. To what lucky chance am I indebted for the pleasure 
 of welcoming you in my quiet home ?" 
 
 " To the most unlucky, my good sir ! I was so careless, at the 
 Prime Minister's last court, as to tread on the left fore-paw of his 
 lady-consort's lap-dog. The beast cried out ; the Countess de- 
 manded satisfaction ; and in punishment for my misdeed I am 
 marched as first lieutenant to Poland, in the body-guard of his 
 Excellency." 
 
 " Friedemann laughed. Sebastian, who felt a horror creep over 
 him at his sarcastic, misanthropic wit, sought to change the con- 
 versation, but in vain ; Scherbitz went on jesting in his bitter 
 way about his tragical destiny. He concluded his account with 
 the information — that he had come over to Leipzig simply and 
 solely to see Papa Bach once more in his life, for, on the word of 
 a first lieutenant, he had ever loved and honored him since the 
 first time he beheld him, thirteen years ago 
 
 The next morning, von Scherbitz was walking in the little gar- 
 den behind Thomas school, which afforded but a narrow view, 
 being bounded by the high wall on one side, when he saw at the 
 other end Caroline, occupied in fastening the branches of a vine 
 to an espalier. He approached and saluted the young lady ; she 
 turned and replied with the same cordiality. 
 
 " You are very early at work, Mademoiselle Bach," said Scher- 
 bitz, after a pause, during which she was arranging her vines. 
 
 " My father takes great pleasure in cultivating vines," answered 
 Caroline. 
 
 " Do they flourish here ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! sometimes." 
 
 " I heard some charming singing, early this morning ; it was a 
 
112 SEBASTIAN BACH. 
 
 woman's voice. Faustina never sang clearer ! Were you the 
 singer, Mademoiselle Bach ?" 
 
 Caroline blushed, and said — " Not I — it was my mother." 
 
 " Your mamma ! C' est vrai ! Friedemann told me she sings 
 admirably. But you sing too, mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " I hum a little, sometimes, like all girls when they are cheer- 
 ful — but none of my father's daughters are musical — and he says 
 we have neither taste nor talent to learn it properly." 
 
 " Perhaps you understand it by intuition, already." 
 
 Caroline looked at the lieutenant, and replied with a smile — 
 " you are a good guesser, M. Scherbitz." 
 
 " No great guessing is required ; there are many young ladies, 
 who do not sing or play according to rules, yet who, nevertheless, 
 are by no means unmusical." 
 
 " Oh ! I love music — I love it dearly ! Brother Friedemann 
 knows that — and it is therefore we are so dear to each other. But 
 it is a very peculiar kind of music that I mean." 
 
 " You mean church music ?" 
 
 " No !" 
 
 " Or concert music ?" 
 
 "Nor that." 
 
 " Or dancing music ?" 
 
 " No— no !" 
 
 " Eh bien ! then you are fond of the Opera ?" 
 
 " Not I— indeed !" 
 
 " What sort of music then will you have ?" 
 
 Caroline laughed, but immediately after replied with a gentle 
 sigh — " The music that I mean is not to be had here in 
 Leipzig." 
 
 " What does that mean ? Leipzig is the musical capital of all 
 Europe !" 
 
 " Yes — it is very strange — but quite true ! I find little or 
 nothing of it here, admirably as my father, my brothers and their 
 scholars execute their parts. Something is still wanting." 
 
 " Mademoiselle Bach, you must have studied in Professor 
 
SEBASTIAN BACH. 113 
 
 Gottsched's college, since you are not satisfied even with your 
 father and your brothers !" 
 
 " Ah ! you must understand me !" cried Caroline, eagerly. 
 If I would enjoy my music in perfection, all around me must 
 harmonize, and that is not possible here. But in a wood, sur- 
 rounded by high mountains, the summits glowing in the morning 
 or evening light, while it is yet twilight below ; or when only a 
 ray here and there streams down upon the foliage ; while above, in 
 the deep blue heaven, clouds are moving, white, rosy and golden 
 — that is a charming accord. And the tops of the trees waving 
 and whispering — the bushes answering in sighs — the brook singing 
 its constant, yet ever new melody — the flowers moving like magic 
 bells — the wild bird trilling his song ! And when the sun is set, 
 and the moon climbs the rocky verge and pours her soft silvery 
 light on, the scene, — or when dark clouds gather in the heavens, 
 and hissing lightnings dart through them, and echo reverberates 
 the thunder, and the swollen stream roars, and foams over the 
 rocks and the crushed trees — all is to me, music !" 
 
 Scherbitz looked a moment in astonishment at the young lady, 
 then answered — " Mademoiselle, it is possible you are not a singer, 
 but you are a poet /" And he left her, to communicate his dis- 
 covery to his friend. 
 
 Friedemann, with a bitter smile, replied — " It is as you say, von 
 Scherbitz, and that it is so, is reason enough to drive me mad, if 
 there were none other ! I love this child, as my own soul. I 
 have seen her grow up, and ripen into bloom — I shall see her die 
 — for the fairest gifts of heaven are only lent to poor unhappy 
 man, that their loss may add to his misery." 
 
 " True, and false, mon ami I as we take it. Do you know in 
 what lies your fault and mine ? We philosophize too much ! Do 
 not laugh ; parole aVhonneur — I speak in earnest ! It is true, 
 each of us in his way ; we should have done better by acting, in- 
 stead of thinking so deeply ; instead of mocking at, and saying all 
 possible evil of tbis miserable world — we should have acted. Not 
 the will, but action, removes mountains. There lies a paradox in 
 
114 SEBASTIAN BACH. 
 
 the truth that the greatest thinker, when it comes to the deed, 
 can do absolutely nothing ; a paradox, but it manifests at the 
 same time the wisdom of the Creator ; for wo to the system of the 
 world, if the mightiest thoughts and designs were deeds ! Satan, 
 who revolted, cannot be dangerous to heaven. Man, whom the 
 Maker created after his own image, could, if he possessed the 
 power to do what he imagines in the moments of his exstacy — " 
 
 " Cease, von Scherbitz !" cried Friedemann ; " I see the abyss 
 before me !" 
 
 " Va ! we are safe, cher ami ! for as I said, we are but philoso- 
 phers. Had not the minister played the spy on you and his pretty 
 niece, had not I, malheureusement, stepped upon the foot of the 
 Countess' lap dog, we should be perhaps at this moment both 
 sitting quietly in Dresden — you as Natalie's fireside friend, be- 
 witching her, yourself, and the world — I, as a merry page of fifty- 
 three, jesting and enduring — and, morbleu ! am I not enduring 
 even now ?" 
 
 " Do you know," asked Friedemann, and as he spoke his coun- 
 tenance assumed a strange expression — " do you know I have 
 often fervently prayed that I might be mad — for a time — not for 
 ever !" in a quick and vehement tone — " no, no ! for all the 
 world not for ever ! but for a time I would be mad, that I might 
 forget ; and again, I feel the memory of what I have experienced 
 would even then cling to me." He pressed his hand with a wild 
 gesture before his eyes. 
 
 The lieutenant started, and said, soothingly — " Give not so 
 much heed to my idle talk, my friend ! I am old, melancholy — 
 have no hope of a brighter future ; but you, you are young, can 
 yet do much — so much — " 
 
 " What can I do ?" cried Friedemann, with harrowing laughter. 
 " Nothing — nothing — nothing ! With me at five and thirty, all 
 is dead ! All — more than with you at fifty ! Ha ! mark you 
 not, where madness lurks yonder, behind the door, and makes 
 ready to spring upon my neck, as I go out? He dares not 
 seize on me when my father is near ; but shrinks up, till he is 
 
SEBASTIAN BACfi. 115 
 
 little, very little, then hides himself in an old spider's web over 
 the window. But he shall not get hold of me so easily ! ha, ha, 
 ha ! I am cunning ! I will not leave the chamber without my 
 father ! Look you, old page, I understand a feint as well as 
 you !" 
 
 " Mon ami! mon ami ! what is the matter ?" cried the lieu- 
 tenant, and seizing his friend by the shoulders, he shook him 
 vehemently. " Friedemann Bach, do you not hear me ?" 
 
 Friedemann stared at him vacantly a moment. At length his 
 face lost its unnatural expression, his eyes looked like living eyes 
 again, and he asked softly — " What would M. Scherbitz ?" 
 
 " What would I ? man ! what makes you such an idiot ? Re- 
 collect yourself." 
 
 "Eh!" said Friedemann, smiling; "Eh, M. Scherbitz, who 
 takes a jest so deeply ? And you really believe, that I am some- 
 times mad ? Ah ! not yet ; I am rational, more rational than 
 ever !" 
 
 " Well, well ! mon ami, it was your jest, but one should not 
 paint Satan on the wall. Pry'thee, sit you down, and play me 
 something, that I may recover myself ; you acted your part so 
 naturally." 
 
 Friedemann sat down in silence to the instrument and began to 
 play. 
 
 " I dreamt not of this !" muttered the lieutenant, while 
 Friedemann, after having played half an hour, suddenly let his 
 hands drop down, sank back, and fell fast asleep. 
 
 On the morning of the 21st July, 1750, the church-bells rang 
 a solemn, yet cheerful peal, inviting the. pious inhabitants of the 
 city to the house of Grod. The sky was perfectly cloudless ; the glad 
 Sabbath sun shone brightly, and the pious heart felt strengthened 
 anew in faith and devotion. Into Friedemann's heart also this 
 day penetrated a beam of comfort, of joy, of love. He had spent 
 a part of the preceding night in studying a masterpiece of his 
 father's — the great Passions Music. Full of the grandeur of the 
 work, his face animated with serene delight, he was walking to and 
 
116 SEBASTIAN BACH. 
 
 fro in the chamber of the old man, pondering in his mind a 
 similar work, which he had thought of undertaking. 
 
 Sebastian sat in his arm-chair, with folded arms, dressed ready 
 for church, and followed with his eyes, smiling affectionately, the 
 movements of his son. After a while he said — 
 
 " I am glad the Passions Music pleases you so well ; I have a 
 work of quite another kind finished, the first idea of which I got 
 from your Fughetten. And you are the first after me that shall 
 see it." 
 
 He went to his desk, opened it, took out a sealed packet and 
 gave it to his son. It bore the inscription — " To my son 
 Friedemann." 
 
 " In case I had died without seeing you again," observed the 
 old man. " I am rejoiced it has happened otherwise ; you may 
 break the seal." 
 
 Friedemann did so, and on opening the package, his eyes fell on 
 that nobly conceived, that admirably executed work, which, from 
 the day of its first appearance to the latest time, has commanded 
 the admiration and reverence of all the initiated — " The Art of 
 Fugues, by Johann Sebastian Bach.'''' 
 
 Friedemann looked over the manuscript with sparkling eyes, 
 and said — " Then I have not lived in vain ! my poor attempt has 
 suggested a work which, or I must be deceived, is destined to 
 immortalize the name of its author ! Keceive my thanks, father ; 
 you have given me much to-day !" 
 
 " I know, Friedemann, you at least appreciate and honor my 
 design ; so that I receive much from you. Such appreciation is 
 most gratifying to us from those we love, and is the highest reward 
 earth can bestow." 
 
 " And you, father, have understood me ?" 
 
 " Yes — grieve not over the judgment of others ; yet while you 
 endeavor to deserve the appreciation, the regard of your equals, 
 labor to instruct those who cannot repay you thus. Will man 
 assume more than higher powers — and only show to the best, that 
 he belongs to the best ! Are you skilful and faithful, let your light 
 
SEBASTIAN BACH. 117 
 
 shine, else you degrade yourself and rebel against the Being who 
 gave you power and inclination to be so." 
 
 Here the chime of the bells, which had ceased for some time, 
 began anew ; the door opened, and Madame Bach, her three 
 daughters, the boy Christian, and von Scherbitz, entered, all ready 
 for church. Madame Bach gave her husband a prayer-book and 
 a bunch of flowers ; Caroline handed him his hat. 
 
 Sebastian rose, gavt his arm to his wife, and waited to the 
 door, accompanied by his children and his friend. Turning back 
 an instant, he glanced at the window shaded with vine-leaves, on 
 which the sunlight glistened, and said — 
 
 " What a lovely morning !" 
 
 He was about quitting the room, when he stopped suddenly ! 
 prayer-book and flowers fell from his hands : the females shrieked ; 
 he struggled to regain his strength a moment, then sank back 
 lifeless into the arms of his son. 
 
 Thus died Johann Sebastian Bach, by a stroke of apoplexy, the 
 21st of July, 1750. 
 
 Three years after, Baron von Grlobig was celebrating the feast 
 of the vintage at his splendid villa at Loschwitz, some distance 
 from Dresden. Richly gilded gondolas, with long and many 
 colored pennants, were gliding to and fro over the bosom of the 
 Elbe, landing the distinguished guests invited by the proprietor of 
 the villa. The splendor, nay, profusion, that marked all the pre- 
 parations, was not unworthy of the favorite and confidant of the 
 Count von Bruhl. Nothing was wanting which the most refined 
 and fastidious taste could suggest. 
 
 The host fatigued himself by exuberant efforts to do the honors 
 suitably ; this appeared the more singular, as no one took par- 
 ticular notice of him ; all observation being directed to his lady, 
 who, though dignified and courteous in her demeanor, manifested 
 little interest in anything that passed. 
 
 As twilight came on, colored lamps were lighted in the garden 
 
118 SEBASTIAN BACH. 
 
 walks, and gorgeous illuminations were displayed before the en- 
 trance. Bands of musicians alternated with each other, and 
 joined m full bursts of harmony; brilliant and stately figures 
 whirled through the merry mazes of the dance ; all was hilarity 
 and joy, and care was banished. 
 
 When the company reassembled in the saloon, the Prussian 
 ambassador presented to the lady of the house a young but dis- 
 tinguished-looking man, as Philip Emanuel* the second son of the 
 great Sebastian Bach. 
 
 The Baroness blushed slightly, and after a few words of saluta- 
 tion had passed, asked — " Where is your elder brother, now ?" 
 
 " We do not know," replied Philip, sadly ; " Friedemann dis- 
 appeared from Leipzig the day of our father's death, and none of 
 us have seen him since." 
 
 The Baroness turned away without speaking again. The Baron 
 came up and said in his bland tone — " Will you have the kindness, 
 most honored sir, to let us hear before supper a little, if but a 
 little piece from you ? My guests will be delighted to listen to 
 the celebrated Monsieur Bach ; and to enhance the effect of your 
 divine playing, I have, by way of fun, permitted a poor half crazy 
 musician from the Prague choir, who plays dances in the villages, 
 to give us a tune in the ante-chamber. The doors may be 
 opened, but he must not come into the light, for his dress is soiled 
 and disordered." 
 
 Meanwhile a full accord sounded from the ante-room ; a ser- 
 vant threw open the doors, and in the imperfect light the guests 
 had a glimpse of a meanly dressed man, sitting at the piano, with 
 his back turned towards the door. 
 
 The company had anticipated a joke, for the Baron had 
 privately informed every body of his purpose : but it was quite 
 otherwise, when they had heard the wonderful, entrancing har- 
 mony, now towering into passion, now sinking to a melodious 
 plaint, which the poor unknown musician drew from the instru- 
 ment. All were touched ; but the Baroness and Philip stood, 
 pale as death, and looked inquiringly, yet doubtingly, upon each 
 
SEBASTIAN BACH. 119 
 
 other. Suddenly, at a bold turn in the music, the Baroness whis- 
 pered — " 'Tis he !" — and Philip cried aloud — " 'Tis he ! 'tis my 
 brother — Friedemann !" 
 
 The musician turned round, sprang up, and rushed into Philip's 
 arms. But at sight of the Baroness, he started back with the 
 exclamation — "Natalie !" 
 
 The Baroness fell back in a swoon. Friedemann, forcing him- 
 self a way through the crowd, rushed from the house. 
 
120 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 $28 GJ3) MFSZGSAf. 
 
 In a room in the upper story of a house in the Friedrichstadt 
 of Berlin, sat an old man, reading musical notes that lay on a table 
 before him. From time to time he made observations with a 
 pencil upon the margin ; and seemed so intently occupied that he 
 noticed nothing around him. The room was poorly furnished, 
 and lighted only by a small lamp that flared in the currents of 
 wind, flinging gloom and fitful shadows on the wall. A few coals 
 glimmered in the grate ; the loose panes clattered in the window, 
 shaken by the storm without ; the weather-cocks creaked as they 
 swung on the roof, and the moaning blast uttered a melancholy 
 sound. It was a night of cold and tempest, and the last of the 
 old year. 
 
 The figure of the old man was tall and stately, but emaciated ; 
 and his pale and furrowed visage showed the ravages of age and 
 disease. His thin snow-white locks fell back from his temples ; 
 but his eyes were large and bright, and flashing with more than 
 youthful enthusiasm, as he read the music. 
 
 The bell struck midnight. From the streets could be heard 
 festive music and shouts of mirth, blended in wild confusion ; and 
 the wind bore the chant of the Te Deum from a neighboring church. 
 
 The old man looked up from his occupation, and listened earn- 
 . estly. Presently the door was opened, and a young man entered 
 the apartment. The paleness of his face appeared striking in 
 contrast with his dark hair ; his expression was that of deep mel- 
 ancholy, and his form was even more emaciated than that of his 
 companion. 
 
THB OID MUSICIAN. 121 
 
 " Did you hear the hour strike ?" asked the old man. 
 
 " I heard it ; it was midnight." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 " You had better go to rest." 
 
 " To sleep, mean you ? I do not need it. I have been read- 
 ing this legacy of my father. Would that you had had such a 
 father, poor Theodore ! What is the New year ?" 
 
 " Eighty-four." 
 
 " Eighty-four ! when it was thirty-seven — we will not speak of 
 that !" 
 
 " You always talk thus," said the young man. " Am I never 
 to know who you are ?" 
 
 " You might have asked that the day we first met ; the day I 
 found you — a madman — who had placed the deadly weapon 
 against his own breast. I pulled it away ; I said to you, Live ! 
 even if life hath nothing but wo to offer ! Live, if thou canst 
 believe and hope ; if not, bid defiance to thy fate ; but live !" 
 
 " You saved me ; you see I live, old even in youth." 
 
 " You have many years to number yet." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; I suffer too much ! But tell me your name, 
 perverse old man !" 
 
 " He who composed that noble work," said the old man, point- 
 ing to the music, " was my father." 
 
 " And have you not torn out the first leaf, on which was the 
 title and name ? You know I can guess nothing from the notes ; 
 they speak a language unknown to me. Speak, old friend ; who 
 are you ?" 
 
 " The Old Musician." 
 
 " Thus you are called by the few who know you in this 
 great city. But you have another name. Why not tell it 
 me ?" 
 
 " Let me be silent," entreated the old man. " I have sworn to 
 reveal my name only to one initiated, if I meet such." 
 
 The youth answered with a bitter smile. There was a pause 
 of a few moments ; the old man looked anxiously at him, as if 
 
122 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 noticing for the first time his sunken cheek, and other evidences 
 of extreme ill health. At length he said — 
 
 " And have you no better fortune, Theodore, for the New year ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, fortune comes when we have no longer need of her." 
 
 He drew a roll of money from his vest pocket, and threw it 
 upon the table. 
 
 " Grold !" exclaimed the old man. 
 
 Theodore produced a flask from the pocket of his cloak. " You 
 have drunk no wine," he said, " in a long while ! Here is some, 
 the best of Johannisberger ! Let us greet the New year with 
 revel !" 
 
 The old man turned away with a shudder, for recollections of 
 pain were associated with the time. 
 
 The youth took a couple of glasses from the cupboard, drew 
 another chair to the table, and sat down while he uncorked the 
 flask. As he filled the glasses, a rich fragrance floated through 
 the room. 
 
 He drank to the old man, who responded ; and the glasses were 
 replenished. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! you seem used to it !" cried Theodore, laughing. 
 " It is good for you. Wine is better than Lethe ; it teaches us 
 not to forget pain, but to know it the frivolous thing it really is. 
 What a pity that we find the philosopher's stone only in the bottom 
 of the cup !" 
 
 " And how, I pray, came you by such luck ?" 
 
 " I sold my work to a spendthrift lord, travelling through the 
 city." 
 
 " It is a pity you had not a replico, for your work will never 
 become known, thus disposed of." 
 
 " Ay, but how much is lost that deserves to remain ! Those 
 sketches cost me seven years of more than labor ; all I have 
 thought, lived, suffered ; the first dream of youth ; the stern 
 repose after the struggle with fate ! I sacrificed all — I spared not 
 even the spark of life ; and I thought, when the work was finished, 
 the laurel would at least deck the brow of the dead. Dreams, 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN, 123 
 
 fantasies ! Wherever I offered my work, I was repulsed. The 
 publishers thought the undertaking too expensive ; some said I 
 might draw scenes from the Seven years' war, like M. Chadowiski ; 
 others shook their heads, and called my sketches wild and fantastic." 
 
 " Yes, yes !" murmured the old man, musingly. " Lessing, 
 who died three years ago, was right when he said to me, 'All the 
 artist accomplishes beyond the appreciation of the multitude brings 
 him neither profit nor honor.' Believe me, Theodore, I know well 
 by experience what is meant by the saying ' The highest must 
 grovel with the worm.' " 
 
 " And I must grovel on, old friend ! As long as I can remem- 
 ber, I have had but one passion — for my ar.t ! The beauty of 
 woman moved me with but the artist's rapture ! Yet must I de- 
 grade my art to the vain rabble ; must paint apish faces, while visions 
 of divine loveliness float before me ; must feel the genius within 
 me comprehended by none ; must be driven to despair of myself ! 
 Gifted as few are, free from guilt, I must ask myself, at five and 
 twenty, wherefore have I lived ?" 
 
 " Live ; — you will find the answer." 
 
 " Have you found it — at seventy-four ? You cannot evade the 
 question ; it presses even on the happy. Had I obtained what I 
 sought, the answer might be — I have lived, and wrought, to win 
 the prize ; to shine a clear star in the horizon. So shines Raphael 
 to me ; and to you, some old master of your art ; and we are 
 doomed to insignificance and disappointment." 
 
 " Be silent !" exclaimed the old man ; " that leads to mad- 
 ness, and madness is terrible ! They tell me I was thus a long 
 while." 
 
 " Have no fear of that, old friend ! We are both too near a 
 sure harbor ! Come, finish the wine ; welcome the New year ! 
 Hark ! to the music and the revelry below in the streets ; and we 
 are exalted like the ancient gods on the top of Olympus, sipping 
 the precious nectar, and laughing at the fools who rejoice in their 
 being. Drink, as I do ! Well, yonder is your bed, and here is 
 mine. I am weary, and wish you a good night !" 
 
124 TEE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 The old man also retired to rest ; the storm ceased to rage 
 without. The music and ringing of bells continued throughout 
 the night. 
 
 The first beams of the sun poured into the chamber, and awoke 
 the old man. It was a clear and cold morning ; the air was keen 
 and bracing, the sky blue and cloudless, and the frost had wrought 
 delicate tracery on the panes. 
 
 The old man looked out of the window awhile, then went to 
 awaken his young companion. Alas ! the hand that lay upon the 
 bed-clothes was cold and stiff. Theodore's sorrows were ended. 
 The spirit so nobly endowed had broken in the struggle with 
 destiny. 
 
 Long did the old man gaze upon the pale remains, his features 
 working with intense emotion. His last stay was broken ; his 
 only friend had departed ; he was alone and forsaken in the 
 world. 
 
 He sat down by the body, and remained motionless the whole 
 day. As night came on, the woman who kept the house came to 
 deliver a message to Theodore, and found the old man sitting by 
 the corpse, exhausted and shivering with the cold. She led him 
 into a warmer room, and gave him food. 
 
 The Old Musician and Theodore had lived together nearly 
 two years. The youth supplied their wants by his small earnings 
 as a portrait painter, and by his receipts now and then for a draw- 
 ing. The old man had nothing ; and the landlady, who saw that 
 what Theodore had left would not last long, urged him to go to 
 the overseer of the poor-house and seek an asylum. He repelled 
 the idea, and answered, " No, I will go to Hamburg." 
 
 " To Hamburg !" repeated the woman. " That you cannot 
 do. Hamburg is a long way from Berlin, and before you reach 
 there you would be on another journey." 
 
 But the next day the old man seemed to have forgotten his 
 purpose. According to his custom before he met with his young 
 friend, he wandered through the streets of Berlin, stopping to 
 listen wherever he heard music. Sometimes he would go into the 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 125 
 
 houses, being seldom prevented ; for many remembered the Old 
 Musician, whom they had concluded dead, and were glad to see 
 him once more. 
 
 As he wandered one evening through the streets, he stopped 
 in front of a palace brilliantly illuminated, from which came the 
 sound of music. He was about to enter, according to his wont, 
 but the Swiss porter pushed him rudely back ; so he stood without 
 and listened, and, in spite of the cutting night wind, continued to 
 stand and listen, murmuring often expressions of pleasure and 
 admiration. 
 
 A lacquey in rich livery, running down the steps, encountered 
 the old man, and cried in surprise, " Ha ! is that you again, Old 
 Musician ? It is long since I have seen you. But why do you 
 stand there shaking in the cold ?" 
 
 " The Swiss would not let me pass," answered the old man. 
 
 " The Swiss is a shallow-pate. Never heed, old friend, but 
 come in with me, and I will bring you a glass of wine to thaw 
 your old limbs. My lord gives a grand concert !" And he led 
 the old man up the steps, saying to the porter, " You must never 
 hinder him from coming in ; it is no beggar, but the Old Musician. 
 He comes to hear the music, and my lord has given orders that 
 he shall always be admitted." 
 
 The lacquey led the old man to a seat near the fire in the ante- 
 room, and drew a folding screen before him. " Keep yourself 
 quiet, my good friend," he said ; " You are out of view here, and 
 yet can hear everything. I will fetch you a glass of wine 
 presently." 
 
 The old man sat still and listened to the music in the saloon ; 
 it thrilled through his inmost heart. He remained there many 
 hours, till the lacquey, who had frequently visited him in his 
 corner, came and said : 
 
 " It is time now to go, my friend ; the company are dispersing ; 
 I will send my boy home with you." 
 
 " That was admirable music !" cried the old man, drawing a 
 deep breath. 
 
126 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 " I am glad you were pleased," replied the lacquey. " All you 
 heard to-night was composed by the same master, who is now the 
 guest of my lord." 
 
 " Who is he ?" 
 
 " Master Naumann, chapel-master to the Elector of Sax- 
 ony." 
 
 "A Saxon!" cried the old man. "Naumann! that is well ; 
 where is he ?" 
 
 " Here, in the house." 
 
 " Let me speak with him." 
 
 " Certainly, if you want to ask anything." 
 
 " No, not to ask ; I want to thank him." 
 
 " Well, you may come to-morrow morning." 
 
 " I will come !" 
 
 Naumann was not a little surprised when the servant, the next 
 morning, announced his strange visitor. To the question, who 
 was the Old Musician ? the man could give no other answer than 
 — " He is the Old Musician, and nobody in Berlin knows his 
 name. He is sometimes half crazy, but is said to have a thorough 
 knowledge of music." 
 
 " Let him come in," said Naumann ; and the lacquey opened 
 the door for the old man. 
 
 Naumann rose when he saw him, for in spite of his mean ap- 
 parel, he had a dignity of mien that inspired with involuntary 
 respect. Advancing to meet him, he said : 
 
 " You are welcome, my good sir, though I know not by what 
 name to address you. But you are a lover of the art, and that is 
 enough. Be seated, I pray you." 
 
 The old man, still standing, answered, " I come to thank you, 
 sir chapel-master, for the pleasure of yesterday evening. I was 
 privately a listener to the concert, in which were performed your 
 latest compositions. I will not conceal from you my name ; I am 
 Friedemann Bach !" 
 
 Naumann stood petrified with astonishment. " Friedemann 
 Bach !" he repeated at length, in a tone of deep and melancholy 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 127 
 
 interest ; " the great son of the great Sebastian Bach ! It is 
 strange, indeed! Only last year I saw your brother Philip 
 Emanuel at Hamburg. The excellent old man mourns you as 
 dead." 
 
 " Let him do so," was the reply, " and all who knew me in 
 better days ; for the knowledge of my life, as it is, would make 
 them unhappy. Even in Berlin none know that Priedemann Bach 
 yet lives ; not even Mendelssohn, the friend of Lessing, to whom 
 I owed, that while he lived, I needed not to starve." 
 
 " What can I do for you ?" asked Naumann. " Your brother 
 told me your history. How shall I tell you all the admiration, the 
 affection, the sorrow I have felt, and still feel for you ? Tell me, 
 what can I do ?" 
 
 " Nothing," answered Baeh ; " you have done everything for 
 me, in showing me what I could and should have done. I strove 
 after that which you have accomplished. You know wherefore I 
 failed, how my life was wasted, why I fell short in all my bold and 
 burning schemes. But you need not the warning of my history. 
 You walk securely and cheerfully in the right path, and I can 
 only thank you for your magnificent works. The blessing of 
 God be with you ! and now I feel that I have nothing more to do 
 in this world." 
 
 The Old Musician departed, and Naumann, when he had col- 
 lected his thoughts, inquired in vain where he could be found. 
 Friedemann had not suffered the boy who went home with him 
 the preceding evening to go to his door. At length Naumann 
 happened to meet with Moses Mendelssohn, and mentioned what 
 had occurred. Mendelssohn was amazed to hear that Priedemann 
 Bach was yet living, and in Berlin. The two made an appoint- 
 ment to go the next morning to the ancient abode of Lessing, 
 where the Old Musician had lived. 
 
 They went together to the house of Lessing in the Friedrich- 
 stadt. The landlady opened the door. 
 
 " Does M. Friedemann Bach live here yet ?" asked Men- 
 delssohn. 
 
128 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 " Ah, pardon me !" cried the woman, wiping her eyes with her 
 apron ; " just at this time yesterday they carried away my poor 
 Old Musician! He died exactly three weeks after his young 
 Mend the painter, whom he loved so well." Her voice was in- 
 terrupted hy tears. 
 
 Mendelssohn and Naumann left the house in silence. 
 
\ 
 
 Ml © 5Z >^ Ki~ ^ ■> 
 
MOZART. 129 
 
 FIRST VISIT TO PARIS. 
 
 One morning, in the month of November, 1763, a middle aged 
 man, with two children, was seen standing at the door of a small 
 hotel in the Rue St. Honore. When the servant in livery opened 
 the door in answer to his knock, he inquired if M. Grimm lived 
 there, and presented a letter to be given to him. By his dress, 
 he was evidently a stranger, and as his accent proved, a German. 
 Some minutes passed, while the valet went to deliver the letter ; 
 he then returned, and ushered the visitors into his master's 
 presence. 
 
 M. Grimm, the celebrated critic, was reclining in a large arm- 
 chair, close to the fire-place, in a splendid apartment, occupied 
 in reading a new tragedy. He held in his hands the letter he 
 had just received, and glanced over its contents, while the two 
 younger visitors, although uninvited, drew near the fire and spread 
 out their little hands to feel the warmth. 
 
 The letter was from one Frederic Boemer, a fellow-student 
 of M. Grimm at the University of Leipzig, and Secretary to the 
 Prince Archbishop of Saltzburg ; less favored however by the 
 gifts of fortune than M. Grimm, who, having come to Paris as the 
 preceptor of the Count von Schomberg's sons, had risen to be 
 the oracle of literature and art. The letter was filled with re- 
 miniscences of the past life of the two friends ; and only at the 
 close did the writer remember the purpose of his missive. This 
 was to introduce M. Mozart, the sub-director of the chapel of 
 
130 MOZAKT. 
 
 the Archbishop, who found the small salary he received insuf- 
 ficient for the support of his family, and had determined to 
 travel with his children, and endeavor to earn a maintenance by 
 the exhibition of their astonishing musical talents. They were 
 recommended to the attentions of M. Grimm, whose good word 
 could not fail to excite interest in their behalf. 
 
 " You are M. Mozart, of Saltzburg, and these are your chil- 
 dren ?" asked the critic of the stranger, when he had finished 
 reading the letter. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur." 
 
 " And you are come to Paris to exhibit these young artists ? 
 I fear I cannot promise you the success I could wish, and for 
 which you hope. The French, with all their pretensions to taste 
 in music, commonly judge of it as deaf people would do. They 
 are in love with the screaming of their actors, and fancy the more 
 noise the finer harmony. Your only chance of success here is to 
 pique the public curiosity by proving the remarkably precocious 
 genius of your children ; moreover, the people of the court give 
 the tone to the rest of society, and it will be necessary to secure 
 their favor. I may do something for you with those I can influ- 
 ence ; I will try what I can do. Let me see you again in a few 
 days." 
 
 With this scanty encouragement, jthe father of Wolfgang Mozart 
 was fain to quit the magnificent dwelling of the correspondent of 
 princes. 
 
 Leopold Mozart had some reason, founded on experience, to 
 hope for success in his enterprise. He had been, with his wife 
 and two children, in the principal cities of Germany. At Munich, 
 the first place visited by him, his reception by the Elector was 
 encouraging. At Vienna the children were admitted to play 
 before the Emperor. After their return from this first expedition 
 to Saltzburg, the youthful Wolfgang devoted himself, with more 
 ardor than ever, to his musical studies. It was in the month of 
 July, 1763, that this marvellous child, then eight years old, began 
 his journey to Paris, passing through the cities of Augsburg, Man- 
 
MOZART. 181 
 
 heim, Frankfort, Coblentz and Brussels, and stopping in all of 
 them to give concerts. 
 
 Arrived in Paris, without patrons or friends, and but imperfectly 
 acquainted with the language, the father no longer felt the con- 
 fidence he had before. His first care was to find out the resi- 
 dence of M. Grimm, and to deliver his letter. The splendor that 
 surrounded that distinguished person, was astonishing to him ; 
 and contrasting it with the simple home of the Archbishop's sec- 
 retary, he did not wonder at finding himself dismissed with a vague 
 promise of protection. 
 
 As the little family walked through the streets, they found 
 everything new and wonderful. The beauty of the buildings, the 
 richness of the equipages, the splendor of the shops, delighted the 
 youthful travellers, accustomed to the quiet and plain exterior of 
 the smaller German cities. Now they stopped to admire some 
 extraordinary display of magnificence in the shops ; now to hear 
 the singers, or those who performed on musical instruments in the 
 streets. 
 
 " Sister," said the little Wolfgang, after they had listened for 
 some time to a man playing the violin in the court of a hotel, " if 
 they have no better music than this in Paris, I shall wish we had 
 stayed in Vienna." 
 
 The father smiled on the infant connoisseur, and called their 
 attention to different objects as they walked on. They had now 
 reached the Place Louis XV., between the court and garden of 
 the Tuilleries, — where the new equestrian statue of that monarch, 
 executed by Bouchardon, had just been erected. A great crowd 
 was assembled here. Some one had discovered, affixed to the 
 pedestal of the monument, a placard with the words " Statiw, 
 Statna." Very little was necessary, then as now, to bring to- 
 gether a crowd among the population of Paris. Considerable 
 excitement was evinced in the multitude. It was by no means 
 allayed when the police arrested several, whom, from their wild 
 behavior, they judged to be disturbers of the public peace. 
 
 Leopold, holding his children by the hand, continued to advance, 
 
182 MOZARl. 
 
 curious to see the cause of the tumult, yet obliged frequently to 
 draw his little ones close to him, to protect them from the rude 
 jostling.of the passers by. Suddenly he felt a hand laid in a kindly 
 manner on his arm. 
 
 " My friend," said the person who stopped him, " I perceive 
 you are a stranger here. Let me advise you to go no farther ; you 
 may be taken up by the police." 
 
 " Can you tell me," asked Leopold Mozart, " the cause of all 
 this confusion ?" 
 
 " Not a whit ; but I can do better — advise you to get off while 
 you may," returned the other. " It would be a pity those pretty 
 children should spend the night in prison ! This way — this way !" 
 And giving a hand to the boy, the friendly speaker assisted the 
 Germans to escape from the throng. When they were in safety, 
 he replied to the father's thanks by a courteous adieu, and de- 
 parted in another direction from that in which they were going. 
 
 Our little party lost no time in hastening to the Hotel des 
 Trois Turcs, Rue Saint Martin, where they had fixed their 
 temporary home. It was already past their customary dinner- 
 hour. As they took their places at the table, a servant handed 
 a small package to the elder Mozart. It contained tickets of 
 admission to the opera, sent by M. Grimm. It was the second 
 representation in the new hall of the Tuilleries. The bills prom- 
 ised an entertainment that would be likely to draw a considerable 
 audience. 
 
 Here was delight in store for the inexperienced inhabitants of 
 Saltzburg ! They talked of nothing else. They dined in haste, 
 and scarce gave themselves time afterwards to make the requisite 
 change in their dress ; so great was their impatience and fear of 
 losing, by delay, the smallest portion of their expected enjoyment. 
 They were soon on the way to the theatre, where they arrived 
 full two hours before the commencement of the performance. 
 
 By good fortune, while they were looking about in search of 
 some amusement to occupy the time, they lighted upon the gentle- 
 man who had warned them to escape from the crowd in the Place 
 
MOZART. 133 
 
 of Louis XV. He appeared to have plenty of leisure and joined 
 their party. The singular circumstance that the opera should be 
 performed in the Hall of the Tuilleries, excited the curiosity of 
 Leopold Mozart. His new acquaintance gave him in detail an 
 account of the removal, its consequences, etc., which in brief were 
 somewhat as follows : 
 
 A fire broke out in the theatre of the opera, April 6th, 1763, 
 supposed to have originated from the negligence of the workmen 
 employed there. The alarm was not given till too late to save 
 the building, and the flames spread to the buildings of the Palais 
 Royal, the wing of the first court being soon destroyed. No lives 
 were lost, though about two thousand persons were at work in 
 extinguishing the fire. In Paris the people are always disposed 
 to laugh at the most lamentable occurrences, and there was no 
 lack of jokes on this occasion. When the talk was of choosing a 
 location for the new hall, they spoke of the Carousel, the Louvre, 
 and several other places. An abbe, who was well known to hate 
 French music, observed that the opera ought to be located oppo- 
 site the place where bull-fights were held — " because your great 
 noises should be heard without the city." 
 
 The Due d' Orleans was anxious that the opera should remain 
 in his neighborhood. He requested of the king that the building 
 should be reconstructed on the same spot, offering many facilities, 
 as well as promising to provide all the means that could be 
 devised for the future safety of the edifice. Louis consented, and 
 the work was commenced. Meantime the French comedians gen- 
 erously offered to give up their theatre gratuitously three times 
 a week for the performances of the opera. The locality however 
 ■was not convenient ; and the managers could not agree to the 
 conditions on which the theatre occupied by the Comidie-Italienne 
 was offered. One immense hall in the Tuilleries was suitable for 
 the purpose ; and the king gave permission that it should be ap- 
 propriated for the opera. At the first concert, on the 29th of 
 April, a great crowd attended. The female singers were Arnould, 
 Lemiere and Dubois ; the chief male performers, Gelin, Larrive 
 
134 MOZAHT. 
 
 and Magnet. The wags said the concerts were the ointments for 
 the burning. The singers were loudly applauded, and it was ob- 
 served that the orchestra was fuller and performed better than 
 that of the opera. 
 
 While these and other pieces of information were given with 
 true French volubility to M. Mozart, the children listening with 
 great attention, the crowd assembled and before long began to 
 chafe and murmur because the doors were not yet opened. The 
 appointed hour struck from the great clock of the Tuilleries, and 
 the impatient multitude pressed with violence against the barriers 
 erected. Our Germans were beginning to be alarmed for their 
 own safety, when the doors were thrown open, and they were borne 
 with the foremost comers into the theatre. They took seats in 
 the pit ; the two rows of boxes being occupied by the aristocratic 
 part of the audience. 
 
 The admiration of the youthful Mozart was excited by the pro- 
 portions and splendor of the hall, the luxury of the decorations, 
 and the magnificence of the ladies in the dress circles. Here were 
 the most gorgeous accompaniments to music. He gazed about him 
 wonder-struck till the overture began. 
 
 With more than a father's interest, Leopold watched the coun- 
 tenance of his son. How would a mere child, whose musical 
 taste was not an acquirement, but a gift — an inspiration — judge 
 of what he heard ? This orchestra was celebrated throughout 
 Europe, solely on the faith of French judgment. Leopold saw 
 the shade of disappointment on the boy's speaking face. 
 
 " Father," whispered he, when there was a pause in the music, 
 " they do better than this in our chapel !" 
 
 And so in Leopold's estimation they did ; but he dared not to 
 set his own opinion against that of the Parisians ; he dared not 
 speak with the boldness of his son. 
 
 The overture seemed a long punishment to Wolfgang ; at last 
 the curtain rose, amidst an uproar of applause that for some time 
 prevented the actors from being heard. None of the performers 
 were known to the Mozart family. By good luck, however, their 
 
M O Z A. B. T. 135 
 
 acquaintance of the outside obtained a seat near them, and had 
 something to say about every one. 
 
 " That is Sophie Arnould," he remarked of one of them ; " she 
 is a delicious actress ; there is none more exquisite upon the 
 stage." 
 
 " And is she the first singer in the opera ?" asked Wolfgang, 
 after having heard her grand air. 
 
 " Certainly," replied the complaisant cicerone, " you may see 
 that by the applause she calls forth. She plays better than she 
 sings, I confess ; her voice has not power enough for the place ; 
 but she makes amends for all that by her spirit in acting — by her 
 gestures, and the expression of her eyes, which I defy you to 
 resist. Our young gentlemen are enchanted with her wit ; her 
 conversation furnishes the most piquant sauce to their suppers. 
 If in song she only equalled M'lle. Antier, a great actress who 
 retired from the opera twenty years ago ! M'lle. Antier was for 
 twenty years the chief ornament of the first theatre in the world. 
 The queen presented her, on her marriage, with a snuff-box of 
 gold, containing the portrait of her majesty ; M. and Mme. de 
 Toulouse also made her beautiful presents. She had the honor 
 of filling the first parts in the ballets danced before the king. 
 M'lle. Arnould has not obtained the like favors ; but it must be 
 owned that the court is less liberal than formerly. Meanwhile, 
 she is the idol of the public, and her reign promises to be of long 
 duration." 
 
 The youthful artist could not echo these praises. He shook 
 his head and remained silent. 
 
 " Or do you like better M'lle. Chevalier, the actress now on 
 the stage ? Her fort, they say, is in the grand, the tragic ; you 
 need not say to her with Despreaux — 
 
 " To move my tears, your own eyes must be wet " 
 
 T defy you to remain cold while she is declaiming some great scene. 
 But she has not the grace of Sophie Arnould, and there is some- 
 
136 MOZART. 
 
 thing of hardness in her tones. Nevertheless, she has her par- 
 tisans. One of our poets has written some verses to be put at 
 the base of her portrait, to the effect that she bewitches by her 
 voice the hearts that have stood proof against her face." 
 
 Neither in this instance could young Mozart share the enthu- 
 siasm of his neighbor. He had no experience, but he was endowed 
 with an intuitive and delicate apprehension in music, which taught 
 him that with their great voices these artists of the opera were 
 not great singers. He became restless with his discontent. The 
 performance went on. The male singers, Pillot and Zelin, were 
 below mediocrity. 
 
 " We should have M. Chasse in this part," cried the cicerone ; 
 " he had a most imposing voice, and noble action ; but alas ! he 
 retired six years ago ! His place has not yet been filled." 
 
 The only part of the representation that pleased little Wolfgang, 
 was the dancing. Vestris was not there, but the celebrated Lany 
 performed a pas de deux with her brother. This actress had also 
 received the homage of poetry. The last ballet was admirably 
 executed. It restored the good humor of the young critic. 
 
 " After all, my father," said Wolfgang, as they returned home, 
 " it was not worth while to come from Vienna to Paris to hear 
 such music." Leopold pressed his boy's hand, as he thought that 
 this fresh impulse of genius made him a better judge than all the 
 educated and schooled connoisseurs of Paris. 
 
 Keturning to the hotel of the Trois Turcs, they found an invi- 
 tation from the Baron d' Holback to a soiree the next evening. 
 But this, and how young Mozart played the organ in the royal 
 chapel, and by his performance and his sonatas, gave the first 
 intimation of that wonderful genius that was to work a revolution 
 in music, it belongs not to our present task to describe. 
 
MOZART. 137 
 
 DON GIOVANNI." 
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 
 
 A light travelling carriage stopped before the hotel of the 
 Three Lions, in Prague. A drove of servants poured out of the 
 house ; one opened the carriage door, and assisted an elegaiit 
 young lady to alight ; she sprang out, and was followed by a 
 young man, humming a cheerful tune. 
 
 " St. Nepumuck !" cried the host, who had come to the door ; 
 " do I see aright ? Herr von Mozart ?" 
 
 " You see, I keep my word !" replied Mozart, saluting him 
 cordially. " Yes ! here I am once more, and you may keep me 
 till after harvest ; and as a surety for my wise behavior, I have 
 brought my wife along with me." 
 
 The host bowed low to the fair lady, and began a set speech 
 with the words — " Most honored Madam von Mozart — " 
 
 " Leave your speechifying, man !" cried Mozart, interrupting 
 him, " and show us our quarters ; and let us have some refresh- 
 ments ; and send a servant to Gruardasoni, to inform him that I am 
 here." He gave his arm to his lady, and stepped into the house, 
 followed with alacrity by the host, and the servants with trunks 
 and band-boxes, which they had unpacked from the carriage. A 
 handsome young man, who just then crossed the market, when he 
 heard from a footman the name of the newly arrived guest, rushed 
 up the steps, and into Mozart's chamber, and threw himself into 
 his arms with an exclamation of joy. 
 
 "Ho, ho ! my wild fellow!" cried Mozart, "you were near 
 giving me a fright !" and turning to his wife, he presented the 
 young stranger to her. " Well, how do you like him ? this is he 
 — Luigi Bassi, I mean." 
 
 THE LIBRETTO. 
 
 " I sing this evening the Count in your Figaro, Master 
 Mozart !" said Bassi. 
 
138 MOZART. 
 
 " Very well !" replied Mozart. " What say your Prague 
 people to the opera ?" 
 
 " Come to-night to the theatre, and you shall hear for yourself ! 
 This is the twelfth representation in sixteen days ; and this 
 evening it is performed at the wish of Duke Antony of Saxony." 
 
 " Ho, ho ! and what says Strobach r" 
 
 " He and the whole orchestra say every night after the per- 
 formance, that they would be glad to begin it over again, though 
 it is a difficult piece." 
 
 Mozart rubbed his hands with pleasure, and said to his wife — 
 
 " You remember, I told you, the excellent people of Prague 
 would drive out of my head the vexation I endured at Vienna ! 
 A,nd I will write them an opera, such as one does not hear every 
 day ! I have a capital libretto, Bassi, a bold, wild thing, full 
 of spirit and fire, which Da Ponte composed for me. He says he 
 would have done it for no one else ; for none else would have had 
 the courage for it. It was just the thing for me ! The music has 
 long run in my head ; only I knew not to what I should set it, for 
 no other poem would suit ! In Idomeneo and Figaro you find 
 sounds — but not exactly of the right sort ; in short — it was with 
 me, as when the spring should and would come — but cannot ; on 
 bush and tree hang myriads of buds, but they are closed ; then 
 comes the tempest, and the thunder cries, ' burst forth !' and the 
 warm rain streams down, and leaf and blossom burst into sudden 
 and bright luxuriance ! The deuce take me, if it was not so in 
 my mind, when Da Ponte brought me the libretto ! Yon shall 
 take the principal part ; and the deuce take you !" 
 
 Bassi wanted to know more of the opera ; but Mozart assumed 
 an air of mystery, and laughing, put him off, exhorting the im- 
 patient to patience. 
 
 FIN CHAN DAL VINO. 
 
 In the evening, when Mozart appeared in the theatre, in the 
 box of Count Thurn, he was greeted by the audience with three 
 rounds of applause ; and during the representation this testi- 
 
MOZART. 139 
 
 inony of delight was repeated after every scene. This was the 
 more pleasing to the composer, as his Figaro had been very 
 indifferently received in Vienna. Through the ill offices of Sali- 
 eri, the piece had been badly cast and worse performed ; so that 
 Mozart had sworn an oath never to write another opera for the 
 Viennese. 
 
 Loud and prolonged "vivats!" accompanied his carriage to 
 the hotel ; there he found his friends — Duscheck, the leader 
 Strobach, and the Impressario of the opera company, Guardasoni, 
 who had ordered a splendid supper ; afterwards came Bassi, 
 Bondini with his wife, and the fair and lively Saporitti. Much 
 pleasant discourse about art, and sportive wit enlivened the meal ; 
 the gaiety of the company, even when the champagne was un- 
 corked, never once passing, however, the bounds of decorum. 
 
 In his festive humor, Mozart was not so reserved to the curi- 
 osity of the impetuous Bassi, as he had been in the morning ; but 
 was prevailed on to give him a sketch of his part, of which three 
 airs were already finished. , 
 
 " Very good, Master Amadeus !" said Bassi, " but these airs 
 are, with deference, rather insignificant for me." 
 
 " How ?" asked Mozart, looking at him with laughing eyes. 
 
 " I mean," answered Bassi — " there is too little difficulty in 
 them ; they are all too easy !" 
 
 " Do you think so ?" 
 
 " Yes — exactly so — Master ? You must write me some very 
 grand, difficult airs, or give me some you have ready ! eh ? will 
 you do so ?" 
 
 " No !" replied Mozart with a smile ; " no, my good Bassi ! 
 that I will not do." Bassi's face visibly lengthened, but Mozart 
 continued good humoredly, " Look you, tesoro ! that the airs are 
 not long, is true ; but they are as long as they should be, and 
 neither more nor less. But as to the great, too great facility, of 
 which you complain, let that pass ; I assure you, you will have 
 plenty to do, if you sing them as they should be sung." 
 
 " Ha ?" mused Bassi. 
 
140 MOZART. 
 
 " For example, sing me this air — ' Fin chan dal vino /' " 
 
 He stepped to the piano ; Bassi followed him somewhat unwill- 
 ingly ; and just glancing at the notes, began hurriedly and with 
 not too gentle a touch. 
 
 " Gently — gently !" cried Mozart, laughing, and interrupting 
 his playing ; " not so amfwrio over hedge and stone ! Can you 
 not wait, to keep pace with my music ? Where I have written 
 presto, must you sing prestissimo, and pay no heed at all to forte 
 and piano ? Eh ? who sings there ? a drunken beast of a land- 
 lord, or a merry Spanish cavalier, who thinks more of his gentle 
 love, than of the wine ? I pray you — drink a glass of champagne, 
 think of your beloved, and, mark me ! when it begins to hum in 
 your ears — in the softest, most serial tempo, piano, piano .' crescendo 
 forte piano ! till at the last all crashes together in the loud, wild 
 jubilation — that is what I mean." 
 
 And Bassi, inspired by the exhortation of the master, sprang 
 up, drank a glass of champagne, snatched a kiss from the lovely 
 cheek of Saporitti, began the air anew, and completed it this time 
 with such effect, that the whole company were electrified and en- 
 cored the song with shouts of applause. 
 
 " Well !" cried Mozart with a smile, after Bassi had three 
 times rehearsed it, " said I not so ? does it not go off pleasantly !" 
 Before he could prevent it, Bassi seized his hand, kissed it, and 
 said modestly — 
 
 " I will do my best — to have you satisfied with me !" 
 
 HERR VON NEPUMUCK. 
 
 At Duscheck's urgent request, Mozart quitted his abode in 
 the city, and removed to Kosohirz to the country-seat of his 
 friend. He came there on a lovely morning in September. 
 Duscheck had quietly arranged a little fete, and the composer was 
 not a little surprised and delighted to find himself welcomed to 
 his new abode by his assembled friends and acquaintances. To 
 crown his joy, Duscheck handed him a written request, signed by 
 many of the most distinguished citizens of Prague, that he would 
 
MOZART. 141 
 
 very soon give a concert ! For this purpose the theatre was 
 placed freely at his disposal, and Count Johann von Thurn had 
 offered to bear the expenses. Mozart, with a heart full, observed — 
 
 " The Viennese did not this to me." 
 
 " It seems, my friend," said Duscheck, " that your good 
 Viennese, as you always call them, knew not rightly what they 
 had in you, and less what they should do with you ! The Em- 
 peror left you without a place, and made the sneak, Salieri, 
 master of the musical band ; while he well knew who you were 
 and who Salieri was ; — and the people of Vienna looked on quietly 
 —0, fie !" 
 
 " Nay," replied Mozart to his zealous friend ; " think not so 
 ill of him ; Joseph has more important affairs than mine to think 
 about ; and then, you know, he has counsellors, on whom he de- 
 pends, and who know how to get the right side of him. As to 
 the Viennese, I always maintain that they are brave fellows. 
 When I came from Salzburg, where my lord the Prince Bishop 
 had treated me like a dog, and the Viennese received me so 
 cordially — I felt as if I had stepped into paradise ! For that I shall 
 remember them now and ever ! In truth, they are often a little 
 stupid, and always willing to be told that they are magnanimous, 
 and connoisseurs, and the like ; yet if one tells them the truth to 
 their face — they will hear, and will applaud him, and grant him 
 all he asks. But that I cannot do ; I would rather bear a blow 
 than thrust my praises into any body's face. I have held a 
 wheedler, all my lifelong, for a shabby fellow, and shall I myself 
 become one ? Salieri makes nothing of it — but it is not so bad 
 with him, for he is an Italian, and they bepraise each other even 
 to plastering. Bah ! let the Viennese prefer him to me ! let 
 them stuff him with sweetmeats ! Give me a glass of Bur- 
 gundy !" 
 
 Before Duscheck could turn round to hand the glass to his 
 friend, a tall corpulent man, having a red shining visage, with a 
 friendly simper and low obeisance, offered the master a goblet full 
 of the dark sparkling liquor. 
 
142 MOZART. 
 
 Mozart took the cup, and drank a long draught, and repeated 
 the following lines with a comic air of seriousness, looking the 
 colossal G-anymede in the face : 
 
 " Johann von Nepomucken 
 Musst springen von der Prager Brucken, 
 Weils dem Wenzel nit wollt glucken, 
 Der Konigin Beicht ihm zu entrucken." 
 
 " The master recollects me, then ?" asked the stout man with 
 sparkling eyes ; Mozart replied smiling — 
 
 " How could I have forgotten my excellent trumpeter, Nepo- 
 muck Stradetzky ?" 
 
 " Herr von Nepomuck !" growled the trumpeter, correctingly ; 
 but immediately added in his blandest tone, and with an air of 
 humility — " Pray, pray, Herr von Mozart — von /" The master 
 nodded obligingly and reached out his hand to him. 
 
 When the company reassembled in the evening, they were un- 
 expectedly entertained with pieces from " The Marriage of 
 Figaro," by a chorus of Prague musicians. Mozart listened well- 
 pleased, and thanked them cordially when they ceased. 
 
 " But, if you would do me a very great pleasure, gentlemen," 
 said he, " I beg you to indulge us by playing and singing the fine 
 old song of the Prague Musicians. You know which I mean !" 
 
 Highly honored and pleased at this request, the musicians 
 began : — 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
MOZART. 143 
 
 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 ? 
 
144 MOZART. 
 
 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 instru- 
 mentation. 
 
 Gruardasoni 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 con- 
 fessed 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 pos- 
 sessed 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 Gruardasoni 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, some- 
 thing 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. Gruardasoni 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 in- 
 
MOZAKT. 145 
 
 significant figure, especially to such a tall man as Guardasoni. 
 He colored, but merely said with nonchalance — 
 
 " Call them together for me, Signor Gruardasoni, 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 Impres- 
 sario, 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 pro- 
 mises 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 here- 
 after. 
 
 " Where could we find a Don Giovanni, like my young friend 
 Luigi Bassi ? his noble figure, his wonderful voice, his man- 
 ner, his wit, his unstudied fire, when he bends in homage to 
 
146 
 
 MOZART. 
 
 beauty, — qualify hiin 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 Oatarina Micelli ? She is Don Giovan- 
 ni'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 Gruiseppo 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 per- 
 formed. 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. 
 
MOZART. 147 
 
 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 approba- 
 tion, and they separated in good humor and mutual satisfaction. 
 
 THE REHEARSAL. 
 
 On the twenty-eighth day of October, Don Giovanni being com- 
 plete 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 think- 
 ing 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 representa- 
 tion ? 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 Nepo- 
 muck ?" 
 
 " 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." 
 
148 M O Z A E T. 
 
 " Pah ! you will get through with them, Herr yon Nepo- 
 muck !" 
 
 " 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 vexa- 
 tion, 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 then, 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 im- 
 mediately made the alteration and added to the original instru- 
 mentation both bassoons as well as two double basses. Finally, 
 
MOZART. H9 
 
 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 like- 
 wise 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 
 
150 MOZART. 
 
 Mozart had never yet written the overture ! Gruardasoni 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. Gruardasoni 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 he 
 found ; and Strobach was obliged to promise that in case of ex- 
 treme necessity he would adopt the overture to Idomeneo. 
 
 It was midnight when Mozart's carriage stopped before his 
 dwelling ; and his friends, Gruardasoni 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 dis- 
 turb 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. 
 
MOZART. 151 
 
 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 com- 
 mencing 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 or- 
 chestra, 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 over- 
 ture 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 l Fin chan dal vinof 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 
 
152 
 
 MOZART. 
 
 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 fear- 
 ful 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 re- 
 turned 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 noth- 
 ing 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 
 
MOZART. 153 
 
 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 BreitkopPs this mo- 
 ment." 
 
154 MOZART. 
 
 " 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 huts ! 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 re- 
 joiced 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 wel- 
 come 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, laugh- 
 ing, " 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 recov- 
 ered 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 !" 
 
MOZART. 155 
 
 " Why do you not come and live here ?" asked Lena impa- 
 tiently, " 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 Preigang, " 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," inter- 
 rupted 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 
 
156 MOZART. 
 
 Idomeneo, Don Giovanni is my favorite — I might say my master- 
 piece ! 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!" de- 
 parted. 
 
 " 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 Rosen- 
 thal, where Groethe, 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 pa- 
 villion, 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 
 
MOZART. 157 
 
 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 ? Eight 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 di- 
 rectly before them. He seemed about thirty years of age, perhaps 
 older ; was slender and well formed, but his features were sharp- 
 ened and pallid, and his whole person bore the marks of excessive 
 dissipation. His oiled-cloth cap was placed sideways on his un- 
 combed 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. 
 
158 MOZART. 
 
 " 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 violincellist, Mara, the hus- 
 band 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 tip- 
 pler, you shall see me with my best face, and hear how I can 
 
MOZAET. 159 
 
 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 — mi 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 G-ertrude'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 violineello 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. 
 
160 MOZART. 
 
 " 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 con- 
 straint 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 BreitkopFs. 
 
 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 com- 
 poser, 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 
 I __ 
 
MOZART. 161 
 
 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 ac- 
 companied by Priedrich went to the rehearsal of his concert. 
 
 Many persons are living in Leipzig who are so happy as to re- 
 member 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 em- 
 phatically, that he shattered a costly shoe-buckle. The per- 
 formers were vexed, and played prestissimo ; he cried " Bravo !" 
 and said to an old friend, when he saw him shaking his htad — 
 " 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 ap- 
 plause 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 
 
162 MOZART. 
 
 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 mes- 
 senger 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 frank- 
 ness 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. Kemember poor Mara !" 
 
 Mozart looked very grave, and said, somewhat sadly, " Ah ! 
 there are the ruins of a noble creature ! Let me die, rather than 
 
MOZAK.T. 163 
 
 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 ac- 
 cepted 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 per- 
 former. I did not attempt to conceal what I felt." The com- 
 poser 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 d 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 fool- 
 
164 MOZART. 
 
 ery, 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-con- 
 tempt. 
 
 " 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 r" 
 
 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 uncontami- 
 nated ! 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 
 
MOZART. 165 
 
 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. In- 
 deed, 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 inextin- 
 guishable." 
 
 " 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 associa- 
 tions 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 re- 
 
166 MOZART. 
 
 moving 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 some- 
 times, 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 
 
MOZART. 167 
 
 thoughtfully, and then called to Friedrich to bring him paper and 
 writing materials. 
 
 Friedrich obeyed with alacrity, and the master wrote a piece 
 inpromptu, 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 sccondo ; 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 ?" 
 
 " Head 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, 
 
168 MOZART. 
 
 Knight of the Golden Spurs, eto„ 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-plaoe of Father Doles. 
 
THE ARTIST'S LESSON. 169 
 
 A fit, Js A a i i « i ■© itS-ft-sull) 
 
 In a room meanly furnished, of a small house, No. 857 Wind- 
 mill 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 ?" 
 
170 THE ARTIST'S LESSON. 
 
 " 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 mov- 
 ing — 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 instru- 
 ment, 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 common- 
 place 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 mel- 
 ancholy." 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 '" 
 
171 
 
 " I suppose Madame Mara favors you with an accompaniment 
 sometimes — ha ! ha !" cried the friend, laughing. 
 
 Mara held up his finger significantly and shook his head. " The 
 public are enchanted with Gertrude's singing, hut '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 con- 
 certs, 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 sub- 
 mit 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 
 
172 THE AHTIST's LESSON. 
 
 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 ele- 
 gantly 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 re- 
 covered 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 ar- 
 ranged 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, laugh- 
 ing 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." 
 
LESSON. 173 
 
 " 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 but- 
 tons ; 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 direc- 
 tor 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 rehears- 
 ing 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 suno\ 
 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 
 
174 THE ABTIST's LESSON. 
 
 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 misrepre- 
 sent 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 un- 
 feigned 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 
 
THE ARTIST'S LESSON. 175 
 
 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 violon- 
 cellist, with a flourish of his stick. " Eh lien, 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. 
 1 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 gesticu- 
 lating in a manner to kill them with laughter. 
 
 We change the scene to the celebrated Bosenthal, the beautiful 
 
176 THE ARTIST'S LESSON. 
 
 retreat where G-oethe 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 after- 
 noon, 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 be- 
 guiled 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 con- 
 certs 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 " — 
 
THE ARTIST'S LESSON. 177 
 
 •' 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 wingsibr 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 com- 
 pany. 
 
 " A lad — a mere lad — who has been under the tutelage of the 
 Elector's masters, and shocked them all by his musical eccen- 
 tricities. 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 inspira- 
 tion ! '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 Handel. 
 
 As the sun declined westward the company rose and returned 
 to the city. When they had left the grounds, a figure came for- 
 ward from the concealment of the foliage and walked pensively to 
 
178 THE AKTIST's LESSON. 
 
 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 Handel 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 appreci- 
 ate 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 reason- 
 able 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 !' " 
 
THE ARTIST'S LESSON. 179 
 
 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 ypu 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 pur- 
 pose. 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 r" 
 
 " 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 tumul- 
 tuous applause, knew not the source of their unusual animation 
 and gave them all the credit. Mozart thanked them in a brief 
 
180 THE ARTIST'S LESSON. 
 
 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 up- 
 roarious 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 prac- 
 tical 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 over- 
 powered 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 con- 
 siderably 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 dis- 
 consolately 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. 
 
LESSON. 181 
 
 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 com- 
 poser 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 — sacre ! 
 but it went to my soul. I have iiever 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 pain- 
 ful." 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." 
 
182 THE ARTIST'S LESSON. 
 
 " 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 in- 
 dignation, " 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 5 master ; you who are so far above me !" sighed Mara. 
 
 "And lo, here, the wreck of a noble being!" said the com- 
 poser, 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 ; be- 
 come 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 
 
THE ARTIST'S LESSON. 183 
 
 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. Res- 
 cued from the mire of degradation, he might, by perseverance, 
 have won the prize ; if he did not, the fault was this time wbolly 
 his own. Whatever the termination of his career, the moral 
 lesson is for us the same. 
 
184 GLTJCK IN PARIS. 
 
 In the street St. Honore, opposite the principal entrance of the 
 Palais Koyal, 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 Grluck ; 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 inter- 
 fering ; " 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 G-luckists 
 andPiccinists ; but Monsieur Arnaut, if you are going to fight the 
 
GLUCK IN PARIS. 185 
 
 Gluckists, you must first begin with your own uncle, and your idol 
 J ean Jacques. — Follow my advice, Messieurs ; put up your swords 
 and come with me to the Palais Royal, where you can cool your 
 Wood with a few glasses of orangeade in the Cafe 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 evapor- 
 ated 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 Cafe du Feu was at 
 that time the place of resort for the Parisian Id esprits ; every 
 evening they repaired thither, and with them many young gentle- 
 men 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 l Gluck y and ' Pimni.'' Though true Parisians, 
 and used to all this uproar of a cafe salon, the newly arrived 
 thought it best to secure for the present a place rather more 
 quiet. They caught one of the flying gallons, 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. 
 
186 GLUCK IN PARIS. 
 
 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 soarce 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 unembar- 
 rassed. 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 un- 
 meaning, 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, hith- 
 erto undreamed of, to the temple of fame.* 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 
 
 * Gluck has been called the Michael Angelo of music. 
 
61UCK IN FAEIS, 187 
 
 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 
 Porkel in G-ottingen, 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 
 Grluck ; 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 ani- 
 mated 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 
 
188 GLUCI IN PARIS. 
 
 learned Herr Eorkel 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 Pa- 
 lestrina ?" 
 
 " Not exactly," replied the squinter ; " but as the learned 
 Forkel has proved, the Chevalier Gluck understands nothing of 
 
 All present, except the man in the corner, exclaimed in amaze- 
 ment at this — " Nothing of songs ?" 
 
 " As I remarked," he continued, " Gluck understands nothing 
 of songs ; for he cannot carry through an ordinary melody accord- 
 ing 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 country- 
 man is said in earnest. That Gluek 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. 
 
GLUCK IN PARIS. 189 
 
 " The Chevalier Gluek !" cried they all, in astonishment. 
 
 " The same !" replied Grluek, 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 Grluek ; " 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. Glluck 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 con- 
 science 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 Got- 
 tingen ! You are pardoned, sir, for I bear no malice. Go hence 
 in peace, and grow better, if you can ; but that, I thick, 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 
 
D90 GLUCK IN PARIS. 
 
 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 quar- 
 relling 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 dis- 
 puting about." 
 
 " I am for Grluck !" 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 
 
GLUCK IS PARIS. 191 
 
 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 be- 
 havior. 
 
 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 Grluck 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 
 
192 GLUCK IN PARIS. 
 
 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 ; ex- 
 amined 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. G-luck 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 G-luck, 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 an- 
 nounced 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 unem- 
 barrassed ; and when the king commanded him to salute his adver- 
 sary, 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 ?" 
 
GLUCK IN PARIS. 193 
 
 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 re- 
 straining 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, me- 
 lodious, 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 atten- 
 tively ; 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 quaver- 
 ings 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 entre- 
 chats. 
 
 " 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 Cheva- 
 lier Gluck." 
 
 " Sire," lisped Noverre in reply, " we, the Chevalier Gluck 
 and I, are on the most friendly terms." A deep sigh followed 
 
194 GLUCK IN PARIS. 
 
 these words, but Louis took no notice of it, and after a while per- 
 mitted the artists to depart. 
 
 Going out of the Tuilleries, after Grluck and Picoini had taken a 
 courteous, though cold leave of each other, Grluck said mis- 
 chievously 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 danc- 
 ing 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 Grluck 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 Grluck 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 satis- 
 faction, reading all that were presented with as much edification as 
 if they had been the productions of Eameau or Rousseau ; per- 
 haps 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 
 
GIDCK IN PARIS. 195 
 
 to him, and induce them to promise not to spoil his work pur- 
 posely. Grluck 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 !"* 
 
 He sat in his chamber the morning of the day before the re- 
 presentation 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 ex- 
 pected 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 Grluck, 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 ! Gro boldly to work : do not de- 
 liberate 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 
 
 * Gluck's own words to Rousseau. 
 
196 GLUCK IN PARIS. 
 
 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. Bach, 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 percep- 
 tion 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 appreci- 
 ates 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 !" 
 
GLUCK IN PARIS, 197 
 
 " Oh, no, no !" cried Mehul, with emotion ; " much more re- 
 mains to you /" 
 
 " Think you so ?" asked G-luek, 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 ; Grluck broke off the dis- 
 course, and accompanied by his young friend, went to the Royal 
 Academy of music. 
 
 Meanwhile Nicolo Piccini, morose and out of humor, was walk- 
 ing up and down his chamber, from time to time casting a discon- 
 tented 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 ?" 
 
 With his usual sullen smile Blias replied — " The Chevalier 
 Noverre sent me ; he said Signor Piccini wished to speak with me." 
 
 Piccini remained a few moments in gloomy silence, as if strug- 
 gling inwardly ; at length he said with a sigh — " It is true ; I 
 wished to see you." 
 
 " And in what can I serve my honored patron ?" 
 
 "By speaking the truth!" replied Piccini, regarding him 
 sternly. " Confess it, Elias Hegrin, you uttered a falsehood, when 
 
198 GLUCK IN PARIS. 
 
 you told me Gluck stirred up all his friends and acquaintances to 
 make a party against me." 
 
 Elias Hegrin changed color, but he collected himself, and an- 
 swered — " I spoke the truth." 
 
 " It is false, Elias ! and you spoke a falsehood when you told 
 me you had read the manuscript of my adversary, and that the 
 work scarce deserved the honors of mediocrity !" 
 
 " It was the truth, Signor Piccini, and I can only repeat my 
 opinion of the opera of the Chevalier Gluck." 
 
 " So much the worse for your judgment of art, for now, after 
 having heard five rehearsals, I must, aye, and will, declare before 
 all the world, that Gluck's Iphigenia is the greatest of all operas 
 I know, and that in its author I acknowledge my master." 
 
 Elias stared. 
 
 " I believed I had accomplished something worthy in my own 
 work," continued Piccini, speaking half to himself ; " and indeed, 
 my design was pure ; that I can say ; nor is what I have done 
 altogether without merit ; — but oh ! how void and cold, how weak 
 and insignificant does it seem to me, compared with Gluck's gi- 
 gantic creation ! Yes — creation ! mine is only a work ! A 
 human work, which will soon vanish without a trace — while 
 Gluck's Iphigenia will endure so long as feeling for the grand and 
 the beautiful is not dead in the hearts of men." 
 
 " But — Signor Piccini" — stammered Elias. 
 
 " Be silent !" interrupted Piccini, in displeasure. " Wherefore 
 have you lied ? wherefore have you slandered the noble master, 
 and toiled to bring down his works and his character to your own 
 level in the dust ? Are you not ashamed of your pitiful behavior ? 
 I have never fully trusted you, spite of Noverre's recommenda- 
 tion ; for well I know that Noverre hates the great master for 
 having wounded his ridiculous vanity ; but I never thought you 
 capable of such meanness as I now find you guilty of. Gluck stir 
 up his friends, to make a party against me ! — There ! look at these 
 letters in Gluck's own hand, written to Arnaud, Bollet, Maurepas, 
 wherein he judges my work thoroughly, dwelling upon the best 
 
GLUCK IN PARIS. 199 
 
 parts, and entreats them to listen to my opera impartially, as to 
 his own, and to give an impartial judgment, for that he is anxious 
 only for the truth. Through my patron, the Count of Provence, 
 I obtained these letters from those gentlemen, whom he persuaded 
 to send them to me, thereby to remove my groundless suspicions. 
 How mortified am I now for having descended to make common 
 cause with you ! I have been deceived ; but you — tell me, man, 
 what has induced you to act in this dishonorable and malicious 
 manner towards your benefactor ?" 
 
 While Piccini was speaking, Elias had shrunk more and more 
 into himself. Humbled, and in a lachrymose voice he replied, 
 " Ah, my dearest patron, you misapprehend me. Yes — I will 
 confess, I have spoken falsely — I have acted meanly — shamefully ! 
 But I am not so bad as you think me. If you but knew all ! 
 Ah ! I am an unhappy man, and deserve not your anger, but 
 rather your sympathy. When a boy, I heard it daily repeated by 
 my parents and family, that I had extraordinary talent for music ; 
 that I should become a great composer, and one day acquire both 
 wealth and reputation. In this hope I applied myself zealously 
 to art, hard as it was to me. My first work of importance was 
 looked on as a miracle in the town where I lived ; this strength- 
 ened me in the opinion of my abilities, and I thought I had 
 only to go to a great city, to reap renown and gold without 
 measure. I went to Vienna ; but gained neither." 
 
 " I know it ; but there Grluck took you by the hand, supported 
 you, gave you instruction, corrected your works." 
 
 " He did so, indeed ; but he likewise told me I had no genius, 
 and that I never could be a great composer." 
 
 "And did he deceive you? what have you proved yourself? 
 Can you for this, hate and maliciously slander him, because he 
 honestly advised you to desist from useless efforts, to limit your- 
 self to a small circle in our art, or rather to become an honest 
 tailor or shoemaker ?" 
 
 Elias shrugged his shoulders with vexation, squinted sullenly at 
 the speaker, and answered in a fierce tone : " Yes — I hate him ! 
 
200 GLUCE IN PARIS. 
 
 I shall always hate him ! what need was there of telling me so ? 
 Even if I was in error — I dreamed of fame and gold — and have 
 had neither ! Curse him ! He has embittered my life ; and I 
 will embitter his, whenever it is in my, power." 
 
 " Go — wrelch !" cried Piceini, full of horror. " Go, we have 
 nothing more in common. The divinity of man is honor ; your 
 gods are selfishness — vanity — envy — cowardly malice ! Such as 
 you deserve no sympathy — away !" And gnashing his teeth with 
 spite and impotent rage, Elias Hegrin left Piccini's house 
 
 'Piccini's opera was greatly admired, but that of his adversary 
 obtained a complete victory, and awakened an enthusiasm till then 
 unknown even in Paris. 
 
 Followed by the acclamations of the enraptured multitude, after 
 the third representation of his work, Gluck left the opera-house 
 on his way to his quiet home. He was accompanied only by his 
 favorite Mehul, who was to be his guest for the evening, and aid 
 him to celebrate his victory. — Arrived at Gluok's house, they 
 both entered the room where the collation was prepared, but 
 started with surprise as they entered ; for a man, wrapped in his 
 mantle, stood at the window, looking out upon the clear starry 
 night. At the rustling behind him he turned round. 
 
 " Signor Piceini !" cried Gluck, surprised. 
 
 " Not unwelcome, I hope ?" said Piceini, smiling. 
 
 " Most welcome, by my troth !" answered Gluck, taking and 
 cordially shaking the offered hand. " Yes, I honor so noble an 
 adversary." 
 
 " Talk no more of adversaries !" cried Piceini earnestly ; " our 
 strife is at an end ; I acknowledge you for my master, and will 
 be happy and proud to call you my friend ! Let the Gluckists 
 and the Piccinists dispute as long as they like ; Gluck and Piceini 
 understand each other !" 
 
 " And esteem each other !" exclaimed Gluck with vivacity ; 
 " Indeed, Piceini, it shall be so !" 
 
:i;:;;ii«: > H , <yj)': cflj \?' ) £ Kf 
 
BEETHOVEN. 201 
 
 BBSS H0?BH. 
 
 If, dear reader, you have never been so happy as to travel 
 through the beautiful country of the Rhine, I wish from my heart 
 you may speedily have that pleasure ; for truly, he who has not 
 seen that unrivalled land, with' its pretty villages and its noble 
 cities, its smiling villas and vineyards, and romantic ruined castles 
 — its lordly Ehine, the father of all — nor heard the cheerful songs 
 of its peasants, laboring in the vineyards, cannot know how dear 
 and lovely is our native Germany ! 
 
 If you have been at Bonn, dear reader, it follows as a matter 
 of course, that you left not unvisited the venerable cathedral 
 And how solemn and strange the feeling that filled your heart, 
 when entering, for the first time, beneath the shadow of those 
 lofty, twilight arches ! An awful stillness prevailed around, and 
 speaking pictures looked forth upon you ; then as you advanced, 
 streams of softened light came downward from the arched windows 
 of the gigantic nave ! The organ was heard ; a low, distant mur- 
 mur, swelling louder and higher, till, rising into powerful harmony, 
 the " Gloria" burst forth ; then, overpowered by emotion, rapt in 
 contemplation of the unspeakable greatness of Deity — conscious 
 of the feebleness of man — you could but kneel and adore ! 
 
 At least, so it was with*me — and often so — when a youth. I 
 have listened to that music, heard it from beginning to end, then 
 rushed down from the choir, to throw myself prostrate on the marble 
 pavement, and weep tears of joy ! Were not heaven and earth 
 my own ? Did I not see them in their holiest loveliness ? Heard 
 I not enraptured, their thousand thousand voices — from the sweet 
 
202 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 murmuring of the flowers, to the awe-inspiring thunder-peal ? 
 Understood I not the mysterious harmony of all I saw and 
 heard ? 
 
 Alas ! those years of enthusiasm are flown ; the harmony is 
 broken ! The flowers that mark the coming of spring, have no 
 longer a voice for me ; the startling thunder, that once spoke of 
 the sunshine and beauty about to succeed the short-lived storm — 
 has no significance ; even the tones of that magnificent music fail 
 to lift my soul to the height of devotion, inspiring her to mingle 
 her adoration with the world-wide hymn of praise ! My heart is 
 hard and cold ; but seldom roused, and relapsing into deadness 
 when the brief excitement is over. I am older even in feeling 
 than in years. I shun the merry company of men ; I shudder at 
 their jests — their careless hearts — their jovial faces ; for they seem 
 to me like shadows — gibbering forms — that mockingly repeat the 
 tones of life. Enough of myself; how prone are we to run into 
 egotism ! Let me rather amuse the reader by some reminiscences 
 of a gifted individual, whose fame is linked with the scenes I have 
 spoken of. 
 
 THE BOY. 
 
 It was a mild October afternoon, in the year 1784. A boat 
 was coming down the Khine, close to that point where the fair 
 city of Bonn sits on its left shore. The company on board con- 
 sisted of old and young persons of both sexes, returning from an 
 excursion of pleasure. 
 
 The sun was sinking in the west, and touched the mountain 
 summits, castle-crowned, with gold and purple, as the boat came 
 to the shore not far from the city. The company landed, full of 
 gaiety and mirth, the young people walking on before, while their 
 seniors followed, as happy as they, though more thoughtful and 
 less noisy. They adjourned to a public garden, close on the river 
 side, to finish the day of social enjoyment by partaking of a col- 
 lation. Old and young were seated, ere long, around the stone 
 
BEETHOVEN. 203 
 
 table set under the large trees. The crimson faded in the west ; 
 the moon poured her soft light, glimmering through the leafy 
 canopy above them, and was reflected in full beauty in the waters 
 of the Rhine. 
 
 The merriment of the guests was at its height ; the wine spar- 
 kled, and lively toasts were drunk, in which the youngsters joined 
 as gleefully as their elders. 
 
 " Your boys are right merry fellows," said a benevolent-looking 
 old gentleman, addressing Herr von Beethoven, a tenor singer in 
 the Electoral chapel ; pointing, at the same time, to his two sons 
 — lads of ten and fourteen years of age. " They will certainly turn 
 out something clever," he continued, laughing, as he watched 
 their pranks ; " but tell me, Beethoven, why do you not take 
 Louis with you, when you indulge the children with a party of 
 pleasure ?" 
 
 " Because," answered the person he addressed, " because Louis 
 is a stubborn, dogged, stupid boy, whose troublesome behavior 
 would only spoil our mirth." 
 
 " Ah !" returned the old gentleman, " you are always finding 
 fault with the poor lad, and perhaps impose too hard tasks upon 
 him ! I see you are more indulgent to the others. It is no 
 wonder he becomes dull and obstinate ; nay, I am only surprised 
 that he has not, ere this, broken loose from your sharp control." 
 
 " My dear Simrock," replied Beethoven, laughing, " I have a 
 remedy at hand for such humors — my good Spanish cane, which, 
 you see, is of the toughest ! Louis is well acquainted with its 
 excellent properties, and stands in wholesome awe thereof ! And 
 trust me, neighbor, I know best what is for the boy's good. He 
 has talent, and must be taught to cultivate it ; but he will never 
 go to work properly, unless I drive out some of his capricious 
 notions, and set his head right." 
 
 " Ah, Johann !" interposed Madame von Beethoven, " you do 
 not know the boy ! He has the best and most docile of disposi- 
 tions, if you only manage him in the proper way." 
 
 " The proper way !" repeated the father ; " and so I must coax 
 
204 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 and cajole him, and ask his leave humbly to give him a word of 
 instruction !" 
 
 " No, certainly ; only grant him the same indulgences you allow 
 to his brothers." 
 
 " He is not like Carl and Johann," was the muttered answer ; 
 " they ought not to be treated alike." 
 
 " Nay, nay, neighbor," said Simrock, earnestly. 
 
 " Let us talk no more about it," interrupted Beethoven ; " I 
 know well what I am doing ; and my reasons are satisfactory to 
 myself. These, boys are a comfort to me ; a couple of fine lads ; 
 I need hardly ever speak to them, for they are ready to spring at 
 a glance ; they always obey me with alacrity and affection. Louis, ' 
 on the other hand, has been bearish from his infancy. I have 
 never sought to rule him by fear, but only to drive out a little of 
 his sulkiness now and then ; yet nothing avails. When his 
 brothers joke with him, as all boys will sometimes, he usually 
 quits the room murmuring ; and it is easy to see he would fain 
 beat them if he were not afraid of me. As to his studies, music 
 is the only thing he will learn — I mean with good will ; or if he 
 consents to apply himself to anything else, I must first knock it 
 into him that it has something to do with music. Then he will 
 go to work, but it is his humor not to do it otherwise ! If I give 
 him a commission to execute for me, the most arrant clodpole 
 could not be more stupid about it." 
 
 " Let him alone, then, to live for his favorite art," said Herr 
 Simrock. " It is often the case that the true artist is a fool in 
 matters of every-day life." 
 
 " Those are silly fancies," answered Beethoven, again laughing. 
 " Helen is always talking so. The true artist is as much a man 
 as others, and proves himself so ; will thrive like the rest of the 
 world, and take care of his family. I know all about it ; money 
 — money's the thing ! I mean Louis to do well ; and that he may 
 learn to do well, I spare not trouble — nor the rod either, when 
 it is necessary ! The boy will live to thank me for my pains." 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted, and the subject was 
 
BEETHOVEN. 205 
 
 not resumed. The hours flew lightly by ; it struck nine, and the 
 festive company separated, to return to their homes. 
 
 Carl and Johann were in high glee as they went home ; they 
 sprang up the steps before their father, and pulled the door bell. 
 The door was opened, and a boy about twelve years old stood in 
 the entry, with a lamp in his hand. He was short and stout for 
 his age ; but a sickly paleness, more strongly marked by the con- 
 trast of his thick black hair, was observable on his face. His 
 small grey eyes were quick and restless in their movement, very 
 piercing when he fixed them on any object, but softened by the 
 shade of his long dark lashes ; his mouth was delicately formed, 
 and the compression of the lips betrayed both pride and sorrow. 
 It was Louis Beethoven. 
 
 " Where are my father and mother ?" asked he. 
 
 " Hallo, nightcap !" cried Carl, laughing, " is it you ? Cannot 
 you open your eyes ? They are just behind us !" 
 
 Without answering his brother, Louis came to meet his parents, 
 and bade them " good evening." 
 
 His mother greeted him affectionately ; his father said, while 
 the boy busied himself fastening the door — " Well, Louis, I hope 
 you have finished your task ?" 
 
 " I have, father." 
 
 " Very good ; to-morrow I will look and see if you have earned 
 your breakfast." So saying, the elder Beethoven went into his 
 chamber ; his wife followed him, after bidding her sons good night, 
 Louis more tenderly than any of them. Carl and Johann with- 
 drew with their brother to their common sleeping apartment, 
 entertaining him with a description of their day of festivity. 
 " Now, Louis," said little Johann, as they finished their account, 
 " if you had not been such a dunce, our father would have taken 
 you along ; but he says he thinks that you will be little better 
 than a dunce all the days of your life — and self-willed and stubborn 
 besides." 
 
 " Don't talk about that any more !" answered Louis, " but 
 come to bed !" 
 
206 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 " Yes, you are always a sleepy head !" cried they both, laugh- 
 ing ; but in a few moments after getting into bed, both were 
 asleep, and snoring heartily. 
 
 Louis took the lamp from the table, left the apartment softly, 
 and went up stairs to an attic chamber, where he was wont to 
 retire when he wished to be out of the way of his teasing brothers. 
 He had fitted up the little room for himself as well as his means 
 permitted. A table with three legs, a leathern chair, the bottom 
 partly out, and an old piano, which he had rescued from the pos- 
 session of rats and mice, made up the furniture ; and here, in 
 company with his beloved violin, he was accustomed to pass his 
 happiest hours. He was passionately fond of solitude, and nothing 
 would have better pleased him, than permission to take long walks 
 in the country, where he could hear the murmur of streams and 
 the rustling of foliage, and the surging of the winds on the moun- 
 tains. But he had not that liberty. His only recreation was to 
 pass a few hours here in his favorite pursuit, indulging his fantasies 
 and reveries, undisturbed by his noisy brothers, or his strict father's 
 reproof. 
 
 The boy felt, young as he was, that he was not understood by 
 one of his family, not even excepting his mother. She loved him 
 tenderly, and always took his part when his father found fault with 
 him ; but she never knew what was passing in his mind, because 
 he never uttered it. How could he, shy and inexperienced, clothe 
 in words what was burning in his bosom — what was perpetually 
 striving after a language more intense and expressive than human 
 speech ? But his genius was not long to be unappreciated. 
 
 The next morning a messenger came from the Elector to Bee- 
 thoven's house, bringing an order for him to repair immediately 
 to the palace, and fetch with him his son Louis. The father was 
 surprised ; not more so than the boy, whose heart beat with unde- 
 fined apprehension as they entered the princely mansion. A ser- 
 vant was in waiting, and conducted them without delay, or further 
 announcement, to the presence of the Elector, who was attended 
 by two gentlemen. 
 
BEETHOYEN. 207 
 
 The Elector received old Beethoven with great kindness, and 
 said, " We have heard much, recently, of the extraordinary mu- 
 sical talent of your son Louis. Have you brought him along with 
 you ?" Beethoven replied in the affirmitive, stepped back to the 
 door, and bade the boy come in. 
 
 " Come nearer, my little lad !" cried the Elector, graciously ; 
 " do not be shy. This gentleman here, is our new court organist 
 — Herr Neefe ; the other is the famous composer, Herr Yunker, 
 from Cologne. We promised them both they should hear you 
 play something ; and think you may venture upon a tune 
 before them. The late Master von Eden always spoke well of 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, he was pleased with me !" murmured the boy, softly. 
 The Prince smiled, and bade him take his seat and begin. He sat 
 down himself in a large easy chair. Louis went to the piano, and 
 without examining the pile of notes that lay awaiting his selection, 
 played a short piece ; then a light and graceful melody, which he 
 executed with such ease and spirit — nay, in so admirable a man- 
 ner, that his distinguished auditors could not forbear expressing 
 their surprise ; and even his father was struck. When he left off 
 playing, the Elector arose, came up to him, laid his hand on his 
 head, and said encouragingly — 
 
 " Well done, my boy ! we are pleased with you ! Now, Mas- 
 ter Yunker," turning to the gentleman on his right hand, " what 
 say you ?" 
 
 " Your Highness !" answered the composer, " I will venture to 
 say the lad has had considerable practice with that last air, to ex- 
 ecute it so well." 
 
 Louis burst into a laugh at this remark ; the others looked sur- 
 prised and grave ; his father darted an angry glance at him, and 
 the boy, conscious that he had done something wrong, became in- 
 stantly silent. 
 
 The Elector himself laughed at the comical scene. " And 
 pray what are you laughing at, my little fellow ?" asked he. 
 
 The boy colored and looked down as he replied, " Because 
 
208 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 Herr Yunker thinks I have learned the air by heart, when it oc- 
 curred to me but just now while I was playing." 
 
 " Then," returned the composer, " if you really improvised 
 that piece, you ought to go through at sight a motiv I will give 
 you presently." 
 
 " Let me try," answered Louis. 
 
 " If his Gracious Highness will permit me," said the composer. 
 
 Permission was granted. Yunker wrote down on paper a diffi- 
 cult motiv, and handed it to the boy. Louis read it over care- 
 fully, and immediately began to play it according to the rules of 
 counterpoint. The composer listened attentively— his astonish- 
 ment increasing at every turn in the music ; and when at last it 
 was finished in a manner so spirited as to surpass his expectations, 
 his eyes sparkled, and he looked on the lad with keen interest, as 
 the possessor of a genius rarely to be found. 
 
 " If he goes on in this way," said he in a low tone to the Elec- 
 tor, " I can assure your Highness that a very great counterpoint- 
 ist may be made out of him." 
 
 Neefe observed with a smile, " I agree with the master ; but it 
 seems to me the boy's style inclines rather too much to the 
 gloomy and melancholy." 
 
 " It is well," replied his Highness, smiling, " be it your care 
 that it does not become too much so. Herr von Beethoven," he 
 continued, addressing the father ; " we take an interest in your 
 son ; and it is our pleasure that he complete the studies com- 
 menced under your tuition, under that of Herr Neefe. He may 
 come to live with him after to-day. We will take care that he 
 wants for nothing ; and his further advancement, also, shall be 
 cared for. You are willing, Louis, to come and live with this 
 gentleman ?" 
 
 The boy's eyes were fixed on the ground ; he raised them, and 
 glanced first at Neefe and then at his father. The offer was a 
 tempting one ; he would fare better and have more liberty in his 
 new abode. But there was his father ! whom he had always 
 loved ; who, spite of his severity, had doubtless loved him, and 
 
BEETHOVEN. 209 
 
 now stood looking upon him earnestly and sadly. He hesitated 
 no longer, but seizing Beethoven's hand and pressing it to his 
 heart, he cried, " No ! no ! I cannot leave my father." 
 
 " You are a good and dutiful lad," said his Highness. " Well, 
 I will not ask you to leave your father, who must be very fond of 
 you. You shall live with him and come and take your lessons of 
 Herr Neefe ; that is our will. Adieu ! Herr von Beethoven." 
 
 From this time Louis lived a new life. His father treated him 
 no longer with harshness, and even reproved his brothers when 
 they tried to tease him. Carl and Johann grew shy of him, how- 
 ever, when they saw what a favorite he had become. Louis 
 found himself no longer restrained, but came and went as he 
 pleased ; he took frequent excursions in the country, which he 
 enjoyed with more than youthful pleasure, when the lessons were 
 over. . 
 
 His worthy master was astonished at the rapid progress of his 
 pupil in his beloved art. " But, Louis," said he, one day, " if 
 you would become a great musician, you must not neglect every 
 thing besides music. You must acquire foreign languages, par- 
 ticularly Latin, Italian, and French. These are all necessary, 
 that you may know what learned men have said and written upon 
 the art. You must not fancy all this knowledge is to come to you 
 of itself; you must be diligent and devote yourself to study, and 
 be sure of being well repaid in the end. For without such culti- 
 vation you can never excel in music ; nay, even genius, left to 
 itself, is but little better than blind impulse. Would you leave 
 your name to posterity as a true artist, make your own all that 
 bears relation to your art." 
 
 Louis promised, and kept his word. In the midst of his play- 
 ing he would leave off, however much it cost him, if the hour 
 ijtruck for his lessons in the languages. So closely he applied 
 himself, that in a year's time he was tolerably well acquainted, 
 not only with Latin, French, and Italian, but also with the Eng- 
 lish. His father marvelled at his progress not a little ; for years 
 he had labored in vain, with starvation and blows, to make the 
 
210 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 boy learn the first principles of those languages. He had never, 
 indeed, taken the trouble to explain to him their use in the acqui- 
 sition of the science of music. 
 
 In 1785 appeared Louis's first sonatas. They displayed un- 
 common talent, and gave promise that the youthful artiut would 
 in future accomplish something great, though scarcely yet could 
 be found in them a trace of that gigantic genius, whose death 
 forty years afterward filled all Europe with sorrow. 
 
 The best understanding was now established between father and 
 son ; and the lad's natural generosity and warmth of heart being 
 unchecked by undue severity, his kindly feelings overflowed upon 
 all around him. This disposition to love his friends, and to enjoy 
 life, remained with the artist to the end of his days. The be- 
 nevolent Master Simrock was much pleased at his good fortune, 
 and withal somewhat surprised, for spite of his compassionate 
 espousal of the boy's cause, he looked upon Louis rather as a dull 
 fellow. Now, his opinion was quite changed ; and to show his 
 good will he sent him several presents, and insisted on his coming 
 frequently to his lodgings, to drink a glass of Rhenish in company 
 with his old friend. 
 
 " We were both mistaken in the lad," he would say to old Bee- 
 thoven ; " he abounds in wit and odd fancies, but I do not alto- 
 gether like his mixing up in his music all sorts of strange conceits ; 
 the best way, to my notion, is a plain one. Let him follow the 
 great Mozart, step by step ; after all, he is the only one, and there 
 is none to come up to him — none !" And Louis's father, who 
 also idolized Mozart, always agreed with his neighbor in his judg- 
 ment, and echoed — " None !" 
 
 Thus the summer flew by ; the foliage grew yellow and began* 
 to fall. Our young hero delighted — as what poetical soul does 
 not ? — in communion with nature. He wandered often in the 
 woods, and welcomed the autumn breezes that scattered the yellow 
 leaves at his feet. I have always found a pleasant melancholy in 
 
BEETHOVEN. 211 
 
 toy walks at this season, when the slant rays of the sun gleam 
 upon dismantled trees, and the wealth of summer lies on the 
 ground ; when the winds sigh through the desolate branches, or 
 the ear is startled by the woodman's stroke, or perhaps the wind- 
 ing of the hunter's horn. 
 
 Let none despair of himself to whom Heaven has granted the 
 power of enjoying the beauty of Nature ! In her maternal bosom 
 is consolation for every wo ! He is her favored child. Doth he 
 weep over blighted hopes or crushed affections — unreproved his 
 tears flow, and amid silence and solitude, in the calm wood, he 
 hears angel voices that mourn with him, while from the stars far 
 up in heaven comes down a whisper of consolation ; " Life is 
 brief, and frail and changeful is the heart of man ; but Love is 
 infinite — eternal ; thou hast friends that know no change ; look 
 above, and hope !" And with the coining sun that wakes to life 
 such myriads of happy creatures, shall new strength and hope visit 
 his soul. But alas for thee ! child of sorrow, if thou hearest not 
 that kind healing voice ; if night is starless to thine eyes — ere 
 ceases thy heart to beat ! Could life arise for thee from the 
 dead, thou wouldst still be wretched, wouldst still stand alone and 
 uncared for — kept but by Divine compassion from despair. 
 
 Enjoy while thou canst, oh, youthful enthusiast ! the luxury 
 of thy being — the beauty around thee ! Think'st thou 'tis but 
 after all a lovely dream ? No — 'tis a fair reality, still more fleet- 
 ing than a dream ! Dreams may return to enchant us ; realities 
 that are past, never ! 
 
 The first lasting sorrow that befel Louis was the loss of his 
 father. Beethoven's health failed at the beginning of winter. 
 Ere long his physician pronounced him beyond hope. By his own 
 request his family were informed that his end was near. Helen 
 and her two sons, Carl and Johann, received the intelligence with 
 loud lamentations ; Louis said not a word, but his grief was no 
 less acute. 
 
212 
 
 BEETHOVEN, 
 
 At night the afflicted family gathered round the bed of the dying. 
 " My Louis !" said Beethoven, faintly. The boy was kneeling 
 by the bed, pale as the siek man himself. He clasped his father's 
 cold hand and pressed it to his lips, but could not speak for 
 tears. 
 
 " God's best blessings be upon you, my son !" said his parent. 
 " Promise me that throughout life you will never forsake your 
 brothers ; I know they have not loved you as they ought ; that is 
 partly my fault ; promise me that whatever may happen, you will 
 continue to regard and cherish them." 
 
 " I will — I will, dear father !" cried Louis, sobbing. Bee- 
 thoven pressed his hand in token of satisfaction. The same night 
 he expired. The grief of Louis was unbounded. It was a bitter 
 thing thus to lose a parent just as the ties of nature were strength- 
 ened by mutual appreciation and confidence ; but it was necessary 
 that he should rouse himself to minister support and comfort to 
 his suffering mother. 
 
 The first keenness of his sorrow was blunted by time ; and he 
 returned with renewed diligence to his studies. His mother often 
 remonstrated against his pursuit of them with such absorbing 
 eagerness. " You will injure your health, my beloved son," she 
 would say. But he would answer cheerfully, " Be not uneasy, 
 dear mother ; the winter will soon be past, and when spring comes 
 I will relax my labors." 
 
 Louis was now in his eighteenth year ; and the period was 
 memorable in his life. A young kinswoman of his mother, whose 
 parents lived in Cologne, came on a visit to Bonn. Adelaide was 
 a beautiful, sprightly girl. Louis saw her, and it seemed to him 
 that all his previous existence was but a void, and that his real 
 being had but just begun. He was conscious of a thousand new per- 
 ceptions, and thought he had never before felt or seen what was 
 in the world. Nature had new charms for him ; he had capacities 
 for joy before undreamed of. As for music, till now, it seemed to 
 him the spirit of art had slumbered within him. How magnificent 
 was her awakening ! The magic name of Adelaide, her voice, her ' 
 
BEETHOVEN. 213 
 
 smile, called his genius into full life, and he felt that he had power 
 to do as he had never done. 
 
 First love ! Is it not a misnomer ? for but once can the heart 
 how to the all-subduing influence ! Once cold can it ever be 
 warmed again to that bright luxuriance of life and feeling ? And 
 how soon does the tender flower born of fantasy, wither in the 
 breath of reality — never to bloom again ! Memory of the lost 
 paradise alone remains ; it is well if there remain not also the 
 saddest fruit of disappointment — a sceptical scorn of all that seems 
 winning and lovely. Happy he whom fate deprives of the object 
 of his love before the sweet illusion is over ! No words can paint 
 his heartfelt anguish at the loss. But one bliss is left him ; the 
 image of the beloved is still robed in its magic charms ; his faith 
 in his ideal is still unshaken. His heart has never proved the 
 bitterest pang. 
 
 For a time our youthful hero was the happiest of the happy, for 
 he yielded his soul to the sway of love, and music was its appro- 
 priate language. But Adelaide understood him not ; how could 
 she ? His eyes indeed spoke a passion deeper than words could 
 reveal ; his melodies were of a bolder and higher, yet a tenderer 
 cast ; but it was only in the silence of his own apartment, when 
 he sat playing alone, that these signs of emotion might have been 
 discovered. In her presence he sought not to paint in language 
 his devoted love ; it was enough for him to look upon her, to watch 
 her graceful movements, to listen to her voice. That was inspira- 
 tion enough ; he wished not for more. 
 
 The fair sex are not usually pleased with this species of mute 
 homage ; all maidens are not Cecilias ; most of them prefer a 
 lover bold enough to venture on an open confession of their power 
 to charm. The fair dream Louis indulged was ere long to be 
 rudely broken. I am not going to give the reader a melancholy 
 love tale ; suffice it to say the boy's passion became known to his 
 brother, Carl, and one evening he chanced to overhear a conver- 
 
214 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 sation between him and Adelaide. Carl was telling his cousin of 
 Louis's love for her, and laughing at his simplicity in never dream- 
 ing of declaring it. Adelaide laughed heartily at her " unsophis- 
 ticated lover," as she called him, saying she had never suspected 
 such a thing — that she could not help pitying the poor boy — yet 
 was half inclined to draw him out, it was such a capital joke ! 
 Carl joined in her merriment, and the two concerted a scheme for 
 their own amusement at the expense of poor Louis. 
 
 Pale and trembling, while he leaned against' the window-seajt 
 concealed by the folds of a curtain, Louis listened to this colloquy. 
 As his brother and cousin left the room, he rushed past them to 
 his own apartment, locked himself in, and did not come forth that 
 night. Afterwards he took pains to shun the company of the 
 heartless fair one ; and was always out alone on his walks, or in 
 his own room, where he worked every night till quite exhausted. 
 
 " The lad has found us out," said Carl to his pretty cousin. 
 
 " "What a pity !" answered Adelaide ; " I should like to have 
 brought him'to reason in my own way, I confess. Such an excel- 
 lent joke ! It is really a pity !" 
 
 THE YOUTH. 
 
 The first emotions of chagrin and mortification soon passed 
 away in the bosom of young Beethoven, but he did not soon 
 recover his vivacity. His warmest feelings had been cruelly 
 outraged ; the spring of love was never again to bloom for 
 him ; and it seemed, too, that the fair blossoms of genius also 
 were nipped in the bud. His self-confidence, so necessary to 
 the development of the artist, was shaken — nay, had nearly 
 deserted him. 
 
 The wings of his spirit had unfolded joyously in the sunshine 
 of love, and were spread for a bold flight into the upper regions 
 of Art, where the every-day world could not follow him. As in 
 after life, he was entirely indifferent to the applause of the multi- 
 
BEETHOVEN. 215 
 
 tude, and never sought it. What he thought and felt he expressed 
 in his enthusiastic inspiration ; his best reward was the conscious- 
 ness of having aimed at the best, and deserved the approbation 
 of true artists. 
 
 If, however, the cultivated taste of the present day fails fully 
 to appreciate him, it will not be wondered at that the critics of 
 the time, fettered as they were to the established form, should 
 have been shocked at his departure from their rules. Even 
 Mozart, whose fame stood so high, whose name was pronounced 
 with such enthusiastic admiration, what struggles had he not been 
 forced into with those who would not approve his so called in- 
 novations ! 
 
 The youth of nineteen had struck out a bolder path ! What 
 marvel, then, that instead of encouragement, nothing but censures 
 awaited him ? His master, Neefe, who was accustomed to boast 
 of him as his pride and joy, now said coldly and bitterly, his 
 pupil had not fulfilled his cherished expectations — nay, was so 
 taken up with his new-fangled conceits, that he feared he was 
 forever lost to real art. 
 
 " Is it so, indeed ?" asked Louis of himself in his moments of 
 misgiving and dejection. " Is all a delusion ? have I lived till 
 now in a false dream ? Oh ! where is truth on earth : I wish 
 I were dead, since my life is worse than useless !" 
 
 Young Beethoven sat in his chamber, leaning his head on his 
 hand, looking gloomily out of the vine-shaded window. There 
 was a knock at the door : piano — pianissimo ; crescendo, — -forte, — 
 fortissimo ! Still, wrapped in his deep despondency, he heard it 
 not, nor answered with a " come in." 
 
 The door was opened softly a little way, and in the crevice 
 appeared a long and very red nose, and a pair of small, twinkling 
 eyes, overshadowed by coal-black bushy eye-brows. Gradually 
 became visible the whole withered, sallow, comical, yet good- 
 humored face of Master Peter Pirad. 
 
216 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 Peter Pirad was a famous kettle-drummer, and was much ridi- 
 culed on account of his partiality for that instrument, though he 
 also excelled on many others. He always insisted that the kettle- 
 drum was the most melodious, grand, and expressive instrument, 
 and he would play it alone in the orchestra, partotitement, as he 
 said. But he was one of the best-hearted persons in the world. 
 It was quite impossible to look upon his tall, gaunt, clumsy figure, 
 which, year in and year out, appeared in the well-worn yellow 
 woolen coat, siskin colored breeches, and dark worsted stockings, 
 with his peculiar fashioned felt cap, without a strong inclination 
 to laugh ; yet ludicrous as was his outward man, pone remained 
 long unconvinced that spite of his exterior, spite of his numerous 
 eccentricities, Peter Pirad was one of the most^amiable of men.* 
 
 * It may be interesting to the readers of the above sketch to know something of this 
 remarkable individual. Peter Hrad was born in Hamburg ; his father was a dealer in 
 grain and distiller ; his business, though coarse, was lucrative, and Peter, his youngest 
 son, was destined to follow the same. The son had, however, little inclination thereto ; 
 his whole heart and mind were bent to the science of music j and his father resolved, 
 when he was but eight years old, to bind him apprentice to a town musician, since he 
 was firmly persuaded that " nothing better could be done with the yonng rascal." 
 
 His master soon discovered Peter was not so dull as seemed at first ; and after a course 
 of instruction, when Telemann. a director of music in the city, heard him play on the 
 viol and horn, and beat the kettle-drum, he became so much interested in the boy that 
 he devoted several hours to giving him lessons, in recompense for which kindness Peter 
 assisted whenever Telemann's compositions were performed, playing the kettle-drum 
 in a manner that astonished all who heard him. 
 
 "When Telemann died, Peter was about twenty-four. He remained a year longer in 
 Hamburg, and prosecuted his higher studies under Philip Emanuel Bach. His father 
 died in 1768 ; he had buried his mother a year before. He now left Hamburg for the 
 first time in his life, to obtain a knowledge of the world. After some adventures he 
 turned his course to Vienna, thence to Saltzburg, where he became acquainted with 
 the court trumpeter, an intimate friend of Mozart's family. Schachtner was master 
 not only of the trumpet, but also of the viola di gamba, a now forgotten instrument. 
 Pirad became warmly attached to him j without doubt the excellence of Schachtner 
 atimulated him to higher proficiency as a kettle- drummer, for he ascribed his enthu- 
 siasm on that instrument to the impressions received during his stay in Saltzburg. 
 From Saltzburg he went to Vienna ; from Vienna to Prague, Dresden, and Berlin, where 
 he made himself personally acquainted with all the great masters then living. The 
 year 178S found him at Bonn, where he beat the kettle-drum in the electoral chapel. 
 He always looked upon Bonn as his home, till the outbreak of the French Revolution, 
 when he became alarmed, and then there was no rest for the sole of his foot. In the 
 later years of his life he used to speak with great emphasis of a bedstead, painted red, in 
 
BEETHOVEN. 217 
 
 From his childhood, Louis had been attached to Pirad ; in later 
 years they had been much together. Pirad, who had been absent 
 several months from Bonn, and had just returned, was surprised 
 beyond measure to find his favorite so changed. He entered the 
 room, and walking up quietly, touched the youth on the shoulder, 
 saying, in a tone as gentle as he could assume, " Why, Louis ! 
 what the mischief has got into your head, that you would not 
 hear me ?" 
 
 Louis started, turned round, and recognising his old friend, 
 reached him his hand. 
 
 which he had been often frightened from sleep for the space of half a year, because it 
 reminded him of the guillotine. 
 
 In Copenhagen, where he drew breath quietly after his terror, he applied himself to 
 his favorite science. Naumann's Orpheus so moved him that he was obliged to keep 
 his bed several days. Except Hoffmann, and the excellent violin player, Rolla, in 
 Dresden, I know of no artist on whose physical constitution the hearing of delightful 
 music produced such violent, even pernicious effects, as on that of Peter Pirad. 
 
 Till this time Peter had known little or nothing of love j here he became enamored 
 of his landlady, the widow of a Danish ship lieutenant, a dame of goodly proportions, 
 being about as tall and twice as thick as himself. He married this colossal fair one. 
 His first son, even in his sixteenth year, was taller than his father. If I am not mis- 
 taken, he is yet living, a painter, in Riga. 
 
 In the last years of his life Pirad settled at Hamburg, whence he made frequent and 
 long excursions. At length his journeyings ceased at Flensburg, where, in lb-2-2, ho 
 died, peaceful, happy, and full of years. As a performer on the kettle-drum, he has 
 seldom or never been surpassed. He had also the most thorough knowledge of counter- 
 point ; played on many instruments with skill and precision ; and was perfect on the 
 organ and double bass. But his kettle-drum was everything to him. He was inces- 
 santly occupied with it. He kept it in as perfect tune as the most devoted violin vir- 
 tuoso ever kept his instrument. Not an indent was to be seen in it ; the parchment 
 was so fine and transparent it looked as though it would burst at every stroke, and yet 
 Pirad would play without injuring it from the highest pianissimo to the deepest forte. 
 He suffered none else, however, to meddle with it ; and I verily believe, notwithstanding 
 his characteristic timidity and gentleness, would have murdered any body outright, 
 who should have spoiled his instrument. 
 
 It may readily be conceived that his peculiarities caused him many vexations. He 
 lived continually in disputes with his landlord and neighbors ; for it was not unusual 
 with him when, in the middle of the night, a new idea came into his head, to spring out 
 of bed and beat his kettle-drum till the whole neighborhood was in an uproar. 
 
 His language was a mangled mixture of almost all the different German dialects, 
 varied with broken phrases of Italian, French, and Latin. With his wife he murdered 
 DanisTi, which he understood as imperfectly as she did German ; so that each seldom 
 comprehended all that the other meant to say i yet they always agreed. 
 
 Many amusing anecdotes might be related of Pirad, but the space allotted to a note 
 is already filled up with this brief account of the leading incidents of his life. 
 
218 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 " You see," continued Pirad, " you see I have returned safely 
 and happily from my visit to Vienna. Ah ! Louis ! Louis ! that's 
 a city for you ! May I be hanged if 'tis not a noble city ! Some- 
 thing new every day ; something to please all tastes. Such living ! 
 Oh ! 'twas admirable ! and as for taste in art, you would go mad 
 with the Viennese ! As for artists, there are Albrectsberger and 
 Haydn, Mozart and Salieri, — my dear fellow, you must go to 
 Vienna." With that Pirad threw up his arms as if beating the 
 kottle-drum, (he always did so when excited) and made such 
 comical faces, that his young companion, spite of his sorrow, 
 could not help bursting out a laughing. 
 
 " Saker !" cried Pirad, " that is clever ; I like to see that you 
 can laugh yet ; it is a good sign ; and you shall soon give care 
 and trouble to the winds. Ay, ay, where old Peter comes, he 
 banishes despondency ; and now, Louis, pluck up like a man, and 
 tell me what all this means. Why do I find you in such a bad 
 humor, as if you had a hole in your skin, or the drums were 
 broken ? You know me, lad, for a capital kettle -drummer ; there 
 is not another such in the land. I warrant you there are plenty 
 of ninnies who fancy they can beat me ; but everybody who is a 
 judge laughs at them. You know, too, I have always wished you 
 well ; so out with it, my brave boy, what is the matter with you ?" 
 
 " Ah !" replied Beethoven, "much more than I can say; I 
 have lost all hope, all trust in myself. You, perhaps, will not 
 understand me, Pirad ; you will censure me if I have been doing 
 wrong ; yet you have always been a kind friend to me, and I will 
 tell you all my troubles, for indeed, 1 cannot keep them to my- 
 self any longer !" So the melancholy youth told all to his attentive 
 auditor : his unhappy passion for his cousin ; his master's dissat- 
 isfaction with him, and his own sad misgivings. 
 
 When he had ended, Pirad remained silent awhile, his fore- 
 finger laid on his long nose, in an attitude of thoughtfulness. At 
 length, raising his head, he gave his advice as follows : 
 
 " This is a sad story, Louis ! but it convinces me of the truth 
 of what I used to say : your late excellent father — I say it with 
 
BEETHOVEN. 219 
 
 all respect for his memory — and your other friends, never knew 
 what was really in you. As for your disappointment in love, that 
 is always a business that brings much trouble and little profit. 
 Women are capricious creatures at best, and no man who has a 
 respect for himself will be a slave to their humors. I was a little 
 touched in that way, myself, when I was something more than 
 your age, but the kettle-drum soon put such nonsense out of my 
 head. My advice is, that you stick to your music, and let her 
 go ; my friendship will be a truer accompaniment for you ; and 
 that, I need not assure you, will never fail. For what concerns 
 the court-organist, Neefe, I am more vexed ; his absurdity is 
 what I did not precisely expect. I will say nothing of Herr 
 Yunker ; he forgets music in his zeal for counterpoint ; as if he 
 should say, he could not see the wood for the tall trees, or the 
 city for the houses ! Have I not heard him assert, ay, with my 
 own living ears, slanderously assert, that the kettle-drum was a 
 superfluous instrument ? Only think, Louis, the kettle-drum a 
 superfluous instrument ! Donner and — . Did not the great 
 Haydn — bless him for it ! — undertake a noble symphony ex- 
 pressly with reference to the kettle-drum ? What could you do 
 with " Dies irce — dies ilia," without the kettle-drum ? I played 
 it at Vienna in Don Giovanni, the chapel-master Mozart himself 
 directing. In the spirit scene, Louis, where the statue has ended 
 his first speech, and Don Giovanni in consternation speaks to his 
 attendants, while the anxious heart of the appalled sinner is 
 throbbing, the kettle-drum thundering away — " Here Pirad 
 began to sing with tragical gesticulation. " Yes, Louis, I beat 
 the kettle-drum with a witness, while an icy thrill crept through 
 my bones : and for all that, the kettle-drum is a useless instru- 
 ment ! What blockheads there are in the world ! To return to 
 your master, — I wonder at his stupidity, and yet I have no cause 
 to wonder. You are perhaps aware that many wise and sensible 
 people take me for a fool and a ridiculous fellow, because I dis- 
 agree with them on certain subjects ; nevertheless, I know much 
 that wise and sensible people do not know. Now my creed is, 
 
220 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 that Art is a noble inheritance left us by our ancestors, which it 
 is our duty to enlarge and increase by all honest and honorable 
 means. There are those among the heirs who think the capital 
 already large enough ; talk of the impossibility of bettering it — a 
 bird in the hand being worth two in the bush, etc. But such 
 spiritless persons only waste what they know not how to use to 
 advantage. He who has a soul for art will not spare his labor, 
 but consider how he may best do justice to the testator, and render 
 useful the good gift of the Almighty, surely not bestowed for 
 nought ! No, my dear boy, I tell you I hold you for an honest 
 heir, who would not waste your substance ; who has not only 
 power, but will, to perform his duty. So take courage ; be not 
 cast down at trifles ; and take my advice and go to Vienna. 
 Himmcltcmsend ! whom have you here above yourself ? but there 
 you will find your masters : Mozart, Haydn, Albrechtsberger, and 
 others not so well known, but well worthy your emulation. One 
 year, nay, a few months in Vienna will do more for you than ten 
 years vegetating in this good city. You can soon learn, then, 
 what you are capable of, and what not ; only mind what Mozart 
 says, when you are playing in his hearing." 
 
 The young man started up, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks glow- 
 ing with new enthusiasm, and embraced Pirad warmly. " You 
 are right, my good friend !" he cried, " I will go to Vienna ; and 
 shame on any one who despises your counsel ! Yes, I will go to 
 Vienna." 
 
 When he told his mother of his resolution she looked grave, 
 and wept when all was ready for his departure. But Pirad, with 
 a sympathizing distortion of countenance, said to her, " Be not 
 disturbed, my good Madame von Beethoven ! Louis shall come 
 back to you much livelier than he is now ; and even if he does 
 not, why, the lot of the artist is always to suffer some privation, 
 that he may cling more closely to his science. And, madam, you 
 may comfort yourself with the hope that your son will become a 
 great artist !" 
 
 Young Beethoven visited Vienna for the first time in the spring 
 
BEETHOVEN. 221 
 
 of the year 1792. He experienced strange emotions as he 
 entered that great city ; perhaps a dim presentiment of what he 
 was in future years to accomplish and to suffer. He was not so 
 fortunate this time as to find Haydn there ; that artist had set out 
 for London but a little before. He was disappointed, but the 
 more anxious to make the acquaintance of Mozart. 
 
 Albrechtsberger, Haydn's intimate friend, undertook to intro- 
 duce him. " But we must not be out of patience, Beethoven," 
 said he, good humoredly, " if we have to go frequently to the 
 master's house without finding him. Schickaneder has got him in 
 his clutches at present — for Mozart has written an opera for his 
 company. There are some new and difficult scenes in the piece 
 which the manager wants to arrange, and he gives our friend the 
 master no rest, with his suggestions and contrivances. It is a 
 shame that Mozart has to work for such a man ; but he must live, 
 you know, with his wife and children; and I heard Haydn say his 
 place here has only brought him in eight hundred guilders for the 
 last year." 
 
 They went several times, in fact, to Mozart's house before they 
 found him at home. At last, on a rainy day, one that suited not 
 for an excursion with the Impressario, they were so fortunate as 
 to find him. They heard him from the street, playiDg ; our 
 young hero's heart beat wildly as they went up the steps, for he 
 looked on that dwelling as the temple of art. 
 
 When they were in the hall, they saw through a side door that 
 stood open, Mozart sitting playing the piano ; close by him sat a 
 short, fat man, with a shining red face ; and at the window 
 Madame Mozart, holding her youngest son, Wolfgang, on her lap, 
 while the eldest was sitting on the floor at her feet. 
 
 " Stop, my good sir," cried the fat man, seizing Mozart's hand, 
 " I do not altogether like the last ! You must alter it, you must 
 indeed ! Look you, this is what occurs to me : that slow adagio 
 may stand, if you like ; the people do not care about listening to 
 it ; they lean back in their seats and gaze at the doors swinging ; 
 but that allegro, it does not suit — " 
 
222 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 " I believe you are a fool outright, besides having no eon- 
 science !" interrupted Mozart, rising angrily from the piano. " I 
 have yielded you far too much, but the overture you have nothing 
 to do with ; and I wish I may be hanged if I alter a single note in 
 it for you ! I would rather take back the whole opera and throw 
 it into the fire !" 
 
 " If you will not write popular music," grunted the other, " you 
 cannot expect me to have your pieces represented." 
 
 " Very well," said the master, decidedly, " then we owe each 
 other nothing, and I need plague myself no more about it." 
 
 " Nay, nay," pursued the fat man, who changed his ground 
 when he saw the composer was really in earnest, " you may leave 
 the overture as it is ; it is all the same to me ; I only wanted to 
 give you my ideas on the subject." 
 
 " I would not give much for your ideas," muttered the master ; 
 and he turned to receive his new visitors. His face soon bright- 
 ened up ; he greeted Albreehtsberger cordially, and looked in- 
 quiringly on his young companion. 
 
 " Herr von Beethoven from Bonn," said Albreehtsberger, pre- 
 senting his friend ; " an excellent composer and skilful musician, 
 who is desirous of making your acquaintance." 
 
 " You are heartily welcome, both of you, and I shall expect 
 you to remain and dine with me to day," said Mozart ; and taking 
 Louis by the hand he led him to the window where his wife sat. 
 " This is my Constance," he continued ; " and these are my boys ; 
 this little fellow is but three months old" — and throwing his arm 
 round Constance's neck, he stooped and kissed the smiling infant. 
 
 Louis looked with surprise on the great artist ! He had fancied 
 him quite different in his exterior ; a tall man, of powerful frame, 
 like Handel. He saw a slight, low figure, wrapped in a furred 
 coat, notwithstanding the warmth of the season ; his pale face 
 showed the evidences of long continued ill health ; his large, 
 bright, speaking eyes alone reminded one of the genius that had 
 created Idomeneus and Don Giovanni. 
 
 " So you, too, are a composer ?" asked the fat man, coming up 
 
BEETHOVEN. 223 
 
 to Beethoven ; " Look you, sir, I will tell you what to do ; lay 
 yourself out for the opera ; the opera is the great thing !" 
 
 Louis looked at him in surprise and silence. 
 
 " Master Emanuel Schickaneder, the famous Impressario," said 
 Albrechtsberger, scarcely controlling his disposition to laugh. 
 
 " Yes," continued the fat man, assuming an air of importance, 
 '■' I tell you I know the public, and know how to get the weak side 
 of it ; if Mozart would only be led by me he could do well ! I say, 
 if you will compose me something, — (I have written half-a-dozen 
 operas myself) — by the way, here is a season ticket ; I shall be 
 happy if you will visit my theatre ; to-morrow night we shall per- 
 form the Magic Flute; it is an admirable piece, some of the 
 music is first rate, some not so good, and I myself play the 
 Papageno." 
 
 " You ought to do something in that line," said Mozart, laugh- 
 ing, "Your singing puts one in mind of an unoiled door -hinge." 
 
 The Impressario took a pinch of snuff, and answered with an 
 important air, " I can tell you, sir, the singing is quite a secon- 
 dary thing in the opera, for I know the public ; however, I have 
 some good singers ; and as for myself, even you, Mozart, will 
 acknowledge my merit one of these days." And he went on to 
 tell them of an ingenious and comical.arrangement he had devised 
 in the dress of the new part. 
 
 They were all much amused with it ; and the Impressario con- 
 tinued to repeat, " I can tell you, I know the public." 
 
 Here several persons, invited guests of the composer, came in ; 
 among them Mozart's pupils, Sutzmayr and Wolfl, with the Abbe 
 Stadler and the excellent tenorist, Peyerl. After an hour or so 
 spent in agreeable conversation, enlivened by an air from Mozart, 
 they went to the dinner table. Schickaneder here played his part 
 well, doing ample justice to. the viands and wine. The dinner 
 was really excellent ; and the host, notwithstanding his appear- 
 ance of feeble health, was in first rate spirits, abounding in gay- 
 ety, which soon communicated itself to the rest of the company. 
 
 After they had dined, and the coffee had been brought in, 
 
224 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 L 
 
 Mozart took his new acquaintance to the window, apart from the 
 others, and asked, " Did you come through Leipzig ?" 
 
 Beethoven replied in the affirmative. 
 
 " Did you remain long there ?" 
 
 " I merely passed through." 
 
 " That is a pity ! I love Leipzig ; I have many dear friends 
 there ; the dearest, my good old Doles, is dead some time since ; 
 yet I have others, and when you return thither you may stay 
 longer ; I will give you letters to them. But now, I beg of you, 
 tell me how it stands with yourself, and what you have learned ? 
 If I can he of any service to you, command me." 
 
 Louis pressed the master's hand, which was cordially extended 
 to him, and without hesitation gave his history, and informed him 
 of his plans ; concluding by asking his advice. 
 
 Mozart listened with a benevolent smile ; and when he had 
 ended, said, " Come, you must let me hear you play." With 
 that he led him to an admirable instrument in another apartment ; 
 opened it, and invited him to select a piece of music. 
 
 " Will you give me a thema ?" asked Louis. 
 
 The master looked surprised ; but without reply wrote some 
 lines on a leaf of paper and handed it to the young man. Bee- 
 thoven looked over it ; it was a difficult chromatic fuguetheme, 
 the intricacy of which demanded much skill and experience. 
 But without being discouraged, he collected all his powers and 
 began to execute it. 
 
 Mozart did not conceal the surprise and pleasure he felt when 
 Louis first began to play. The youth perceived the impression 
 he had made, and was stimulated to more spirited efforts. As he 
 proceeded the master's pale cheeks flushed ; his eyes sparkled ; 
 and stepping on tiptoe to the open door, he whispered to his 
 guests, " Listen, I beg of you ! you shall have something worth 
 hearing." 
 
 That moment rewarded all the pains, and banished the appre- 
 hensions of the young aspirant after excellence. Louis went 
 through his trial piece with admirable spirit, sprang up, and went 
 
BEETHOVEN. 225 
 
 to Mozart ; seizing both Lis hands and pressing them to his throb- 
 bing heart, he murmured, " I also am an artist !" 
 
 " You are, indeed !" cried Mozart, " and no common one ! 
 And what may be wanting, you will not fail to find, and make your 
 own. The grand thing, the living spirit, you bore within you 
 from the beginning, as all do who possess it. Come back soon to 
 Vienna, my young friend — very soon ! Father Haydn, Albrechts- 
 berger, friend Stadler and I will receive you with open arms ; 
 and if you need advice or assistance, we will give it you to the best 
 of our ability." 
 
 The other guests crowded round Beethovgn, and hailed him as 
 a worthy pupil of art ! even the silly Impressario looked at him 
 with vastly increased respect, and said, " I can tell you, I know 
 the public, — well, we will talk more of the matter this evening 
 over a glass of wine." 
 
 "I also am an artist!" repeated Louis to himself, when he 
 returned late to his lodgings. Much improved in spirits, and re- 
 inspired with confidence in himself, he returned to Bonn ; and 
 ere long put in practice his scheme of paying Vienna a second 
 visit. 
 
 This he accomplished at the Elector's expense, being sent by 
 him. He did not, indeed, see Mozart again, nor could he even 
 find the grave of his deceased friend. But the spirit of the illus- 
 trious master was with him ; and the world knows well, how Father 
 Haydn honored the last request of his friend. 
 
 And thus I close this brief account of the early years of the 
 greatest master of modern times. His boyhood was not free from 
 care and suiFering ; his youth was troubled ; and we who are 
 familiar with the events of his life, know how much he endured as 
 a man, even while his hours were passed in preparing " joy, pure, 
 spiritual joy" for us all. But he was a true artist ; he fulfilled 
 his noble mission ; and that consciousness, and his earnest long- 
 ings after the pure and the good, gave him strength to bear the 
 woes of life, strength to pass through the dark valley of death, 
 whither he went down rejoicing, as a conqueror to victory. 
 
U26 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 His first disappointment is immortalized in his song of " Ade- 
 laide." In his opera " Leonore," he has loved to remember Truth, 
 while forgetting the deserts of Faithlessness ; and while his great 
 symphonies paint the strifes of humanity, does not his " Egmont" 
 proclaim the victory of the falling hero ? But to still deeper and 
 higher feelings has he appealed — exalted devotion, joy heaven- 
 born ; hope eternal ; faith in Infinite Love. Never shall his 
 sacred compositions cease to awaken the purest and loftiest emo- 
 tions that can sway the human heart. 
 
THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 227 
 
 £HB MX §§20 1 G£ G SHIFTS, 
 
 It was a lovely summer afternoon about 1787 ; one of those 
 days late in the season, when the luxuriant beauty of summer is 
 the more precious, because it must soon depart. The serenity of 
 the skies, the blandness of the atmosphere, deepening to a refresh- 
 ing coolness as the day drew near its close, the bright green of the 
 foliage, and the clear blue of the waters, added joyousness to the 
 wonted cheerfulness of a holiday in the fan- city of Bonn and its 
 neighborhood. Numerous boats, with parties of pleasure on board 
 were passing up and down the Rhine ; numerous companies of 
 old and young were assembled under the trees in the public 
 gardens, or along the banks of the river, enjoying the scene and 
 each other's conversation, or partaking of the rural banquet. But 
 we have nought to do with any of these. 
 
 At some distance from the city, a wood bordered the river ; 
 this wood was threaded by a small sparkling stream, that flung 
 itself over a ledge of rocks, and tumbled into the most romantic 
 and quiet dell imaginable, for it was too narrow to be called a 
 valley. The sides, almost precipitous, were richly lined with 
 verdure ; the trees overhung it so closely that at noon-day this 
 sweet nook was dark as twilight ; and the profound silence was 
 only broken by the monotonous murmur of the stream. A winding 
 path led down to the secluded spot. 
 
 Close by the stream half sat, half reclined, a youth just emerging 
 from childhood. In fact, he could hardly be called more than a 
 boy ; for his frame showed but little development of strength, and 
 his regular features, combined with an excessive paleness, the 
 
228 THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 
 
 result of confinement, gave the impression that he was even of 
 tender years. His eyes would alone have given him the credit 
 of uncommon beauty ; they were large, dark, and so bright that 
 it seemed the effect of disease, especially in a face that rarely or 
 never smiled. 
 
 A most unusual thing was a holiday for the melancholy lad. 
 His home was an unhappy one. He had been treated from 
 infancy with harshness by his father. His brothers received 
 hourly indulgences ; Louis had none. They were praised for 
 their application to study, or pardoned when they played truant ; 
 Louis was called a dunce, and punished severely for the slightest 
 neglect. His brothers jeered and rallied him continually ; he 
 responded by sullen silence. The father boasted of them as his 
 pride, and denounced Louis as an ungrateful blockhead, who had 
 no aptitude nor taste for learning. 
 
 Besides that this cruel partiality sank deep into the boy's 
 heart, and nourished a feeling of jealousy and discontent, Louis 
 felt within himself that he in some degree deserved the charge of 
 neglecting his lessons. His general studies were utterly distasteful 
 and disgusting to him : and he found application to them impos- 
 sible. His whole soul was given up to one passion — the love of 
 music. 
 
 Oh, how precious to him were the moments of solitude ! He 
 loved for this — even his poor garret room, meanly furnished, but 
 rich in the possession of one or two musical instruments, whither 
 he would retire at night when released from irksome labor, and 
 spend hours of delight stolen from slumber, till nature yielded 
 to exhaustion. But to be alone with nature — in her grand woods 
 — under the blue sky — with no human voice to mar the infinite 
 harmony ! how did his heart pant for this communion ! Welcome, 
 thrice welcome, the permission given to spend this holiday as he 
 pleased ; and while others of his age joined lively parties of their 
 friends, he stole forth from the busy city, and wandered far as he 
 dared, in search of solitude. — His breast seemed to expand, and 
 fill with the grandeur, the beauty, of all around him. The light 
 
THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 229 
 
 breeze rustling in the leaves earne to bis ear laden with a thousand 
 melodies ; the very grass and flowers under his feet had a language 
 for him. His spirit, long depressed and saddened, sprang into 
 new life, and rejoiced with unutterable joy. Yes — the lonely — 
 friendless boy, to whom no father's heart was open, was happy — 
 beyond measure happy ! 
 
 Blessed is the poet ; for him there is an inner life, more glowing, 
 more radiant, more intense than the life of other men ! For him 
 there is a voice in nature, mute to others, that whispers of peace 
 and love, and immortal joy. To him the visible enshrines the in- 
 visible : the earthly is but the shell of the god-like, with which his 
 spirit claims kindred. Wo to him, if he, the appointed interpreter 
 of Heaven, do not reveal to men less favored the utterings of that 
 mysterious voice ; if he suffer not the light within him to radiate 
 a glory, that it may enlighten the earth ! 
 
 The hours wore on, a dusky shadow fell over foliage and 
 stream, and the solitary lad rose to leave his chosen retreat. As 
 he ascended the narrow winding path, he was startled by hearing 
 his own name ; and presently a man apparently middle-aged, and 
 dressed plainly, stood just in front of him. 
 
 " Come back, Louis," said the stranger ; " it is not so dark as 
 it seems here : you have time enough this hour, to return to the 
 city." 
 
 The stranger's voice had a thrilling, though melancholy sweet- 
 ness ; and Louis suffered him to take his hand and lead him back. 
 They seated themselves in the shade beside the water. 
 
 " I have watched you for a long while," said the stranger. 
 
 " You might have done better," returned the lad, reddening at 
 the thought of having been subjected to espionage. 
 
 " Peace — boy," said his companion : " I love you, and have 
 done all for your good." 
 
 t " You love me ?" repeated Louis, surprised. " I have never 
 met you before." 
 
 " Yet I know you well. Does that surprise you ? I know your 
 thoughts also. You love music better than aught else in the 
 
230 THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 
 
 world ; but you despair of excellence — because you cannot follow 
 the rules prescribed." 
 
 Louis looked at the speaker with open eyes. 
 
 " Your masters, also, despair of you. The court organist 
 accuses you of conceit and obstinacy ; your father reproaches you ; 
 and all your acquaintance pronounce you a boy of tolerable abili- 
 ties, spoiled by an ill disposition." 
 
 The lad sighed. 
 
 " The gloom of your condition increases your distaste to all 
 studies not directly connected with music, for you feel the need of 
 her consolations. Your compositions, wild, melancholy as they 
 are, embody your own feelings, and are understood by none of 
 the connoisseurs." 
 
 " Who are you ?" cried Louis — in deep emotion. 
 
 " No matter who I am ; I come to give you a little advice, 
 my boy. I compassionate, yet I revere you. I revere your 
 heaven-imparted genius ; I commisserate the woes those very gifts 
 must bring upon you through life !" 
 
 The boy lifted his eyes again ; those of the speaker seemed so 
 bright, yet withal so melancholy, that he was possessed with a 
 strange fear. " I see you," continued the unknown solemnly, 
 " exalted above homage, but lonely and unblessed in your eleva- 
 tion. Yet the lot of such is fixed by fate ; and 'tis better, per- 
 haps, that one should consume in the sacred fire, than that the 
 many should lack illumination." 
 
 " I do not understand you ;" said Louis — wishing to put an 
 end to the interview. 
 
 " That is not strange, since you do not understand yourself," 
 said the stranger. " As for me — I pay homage to a future sov- 
 ereign !" and he suddenly snatched up the boy's hand and kissed 
 it. Louis was convinced of his insanity. 
 
 "A sovereign in art" — continued the unknown. " Tb,e 
 sceptre that Haydn and Mozart have held, shall pass without 
 interregnum to your hands. When you are acknowledged in all 
 Germany for the worthy successor of these great masters — when 
 
THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 231 
 
 all Europe wonders at the name of Beethoven — remember 
 me." 
 
 What a prediction to the obscure lad, whom his father, a tenor 
 singer in the Elector's chapel, almost daily called a blockhead ! 
 
 " But you have much ground to pass over," resumed the stran- 
 ger, " ere you reach that glorious summit. Reject not the aid of 
 science ; of literature ; there are studies now disagreeable, that 
 still may prove serious helps to you in the cultivation of music. 
 Contemn not any learning ; for Art is a coy damsel, and would 
 have her votaries all-accomplished ! Above all — trust yourself. 
 Whatever may happen, give no place to despondency. They 
 blame you for your disregard of rules ; make for yourself higher 
 and vaster rules ! You will not be appreciated here ; but there 
 are other places in the world : in Vienna" — 
 
 " Oh, if I could only go to Vienna ;" sighed the lad. 
 
 "You shall go there, and remain ;" said the' stranger, " and 
 there too you shall see me, or hear from me. Adieu now — auf 
 'uoie.d&rsehen.'''' (" To meet again.") 
 
 And before the boy could recover from his astonishment, the 
 stranger was gone. It was nearly dark, and he could see nothing 
 of him as he walked through the wood. He could not, however, 
 spend much time in search ; for he dreaded the reproaches of his 
 father for having stayed out so late. 
 
 All the way home he was trying to remember where he had 
 seen the unknown, whose features, though he could not say to 
 whom they belonged, were not unfamiliar to him. It occurred to 
 him at last, that while playing before the Elector one day, a 
 countenance similar in benevolent expression, had looked upon 
 him from the circle surrounding the sovereign. But known or 
 unknown, the " auf wiedersehen" of his late companion rang in 
 his ears, while the friendly counsel sank deep in his heart. 
 
 Traversing rapidly the streets of Bonn, young Beethoven was 
 soon at his own door. An unusual bustle within attracted his 
 attention. To his eager questions the servants replied that their 
 master was dying. Louis had ever loved his father, notwithstand- 
 
232 THE MISSION Or GENIUS. 
 
 ing his harshness ; and shocked to hear of his danger, he flew to 
 his apartment. His brothers were there, also his mother, weeping ; 
 and the physician supported his father, who seemed in great pain. 
 The elder Beethoven lingered long enough to know, and to be 
 touched by, the filial attentions of his son ; when he died, it was 
 with affectionate regret that Louis closed his eyes. 
 
 Much needed, and of incalculable use, were the counsel and 
 comfort of the unknown friend. They sustained the youthful 
 composer amid the railleries, the reproaches, the anger of all who 
 knew him in his native city, excited by what they termed his 
 scorn of the laws of harmony ; they sustained him against dis- 
 couragement and self-distrust, nourished by continual censure in a 
 character naturally gloomy and eccentric ; against temptations to 
 gain popularity by humoring the prevalent taste ; against the 
 desire of triumphing at once over his enemies by showing them 
 that he could be great, even on their own ground. Still more — 
 they sustained him amidst the anguish of a first and unhappy 
 love ; the only passion that ever divided with Art the empire over 
 his soul. Most of all, they sustained him under the want of 
 appreciation where he had confidently looked for it. When the 
 Elector, having promised him after Neefe the place of court 
 organist, sent him to Vienna to complete his studies under the 
 direction of Haydn, that great man failed to perceive how fine a 
 genius had been entrusted to him. Nature had endowed them 
 with opposite qualities ; the inspiration of Haydn was under the 
 dominion of order and method ; that of Beethoven sported with 
 both, and set both at defiance. When Haydn was questioned of 
 the merits of his pupil he would answer with a shrug of the shoul- 
 ders — " He executes extremely well." If his early productions 
 were cited as giving evidence of talent and fire, he would reply — 
 "He touches the instrument admirably." To Mozart belonged 
 the praise of having recognized at once, and proclaimed to his 
 friends, the wonderful powers of the young composer. 
 
THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 233 
 
 Years passed on, and Beethoven continued to reside at Vienna 
 with his two brothers, who had followed him thither, and took the 
 charge of his domestic establishment, so as to leave him entirely 
 at leisure for composition. His reputation had advanced gradu- 
 ally but surely, and he now stood high, if not highest, among 
 living masters. The prediction was beginning to be accom- 
 plished. 
 
 It was a mild evening in the latter part of September, and 
 a large company was assembled at the charming villa of the 
 Baron Raimond von Wetzlar, situated near Schoenbrunn. They 
 had been invited to be present at a musical contest between 
 the celebrated Wolff and Beethoven. The part of Wolff was 
 espoused with great enthusiasm by the Baron ; that of Beethoven 
 by the Prince de Lichnowsky ; and, as in all such matters, par- 
 tisans swarmed on either side. The popular talk among the 
 music-loving Viennese was everywhere discussion of the merits 
 of the rival candidates for fame. 
 
 Our hero was walking in one of the avenues of the illuminated 
 garden, accompanied by his pupil, Ferdinand Kies. The melan- 
 choly that marked the composer's temperament, seemed more 
 than ever to have the ascendency over him. 
 
 " I confess to you, Ferdinand," said he — apparently in con- 
 tinuation of some previous conversation, " I regret my engage- 
 ment with Sonnleithner." 
 
 " And yet you have written the opera ?" 
 
 " I have completed it, but not to my own satisfaction. And I 
 shall object to its being produced first at Vienna." 
 
 " Why so ? The Viennese are your friends." 
 
 " For that very reason I will not appeal to their judgment ; I 
 want an impartial one. I distrust my genius for the opera." 
 
 " How can that be possible ?" 
 
 " It is my intimacy with Salieri that has inclined me that way ; 
 nature did not suggest it : I can never feel at home there. Fer- 
 
234 THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 
 
 dinand, I am self-upbraided, and should be, were the applause of 
 a thousand spectators sounding in my ears." 
 
 " Nay," said the student, " the artist assumes too much who 
 judges himself." 
 
 " But I have not judged myself." 
 
 " Who then has dared insinuate a doubt of your success ?" 
 
 Beethoven hesitated ; his impressions, his convictions, would 
 seem superstition to his companion, and he was not prepared to 
 encounter either raillery or ridicule. Just then, the host with a 
 party of the guests met them, exclaiming that they had been 
 everywhere sought ; that the company was all assembled in the 
 saloon, and everything ready for the exhibition. 
 
 " You are bent on making a gladiator of me, dear Baron," cried 
 the composer, " in order that I may be mangled and torn to pieces 
 for the popular amusement by your favorite Wolff." 
 
 " Heaven forbid that I should prejudge either combatant," cried 
 von Wetzlar. " The lists are open ; the prize is to be awarded 
 not by me." 
 
 " But your good wishes — your hopes — " 
 
 " Oh, as to that, I must frankly own, I prefer the good old 
 school to your new-fangled conceits and innovations. But come 
 — the audience waits." 
 
 Eaoh in turn the two rivals played a piece composed by himself, 
 accompanied by select performers. Then each improvised a short 
 piece. The delight of the spectators was called forth in different 
 ways. In the production of Wolff, a sustained elevation, clearness 
 and brilliancy recalled the glories of Mozart's school, and moved 
 the audience to repeated bursts of admiration. In that of Bee- 
 thoven there was a startling boldness, an impetuous rush of emo- 
 tion, a frequency of abrupt contrasts — and withal a certain wildness 
 and mystery — that irresistibly enthralled the feelings, while it out- 
 raged at the same time their sense of musical propriety. There 
 was little applause, but the deep silence, prolonged even after the 
 notes had ceased, told how intensely all had been interested. 
 
 The victory remained undecided. There was a clamor of eager 
 
THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 235 
 
 voices among the spectators, but no one could collect the suf- 
 frages, nor determine which was the successful champion in the 
 contest. The Prince Lichnowsky, however, stood up, and boldly- 
 claimed it for his favorite. 
 
 " Nay," interrupted Beethoven, advancing, " my dear Prince, 
 there has been no contest." He offered his hand to his opponent. 
 " We may still esteem each other, Wolff, for we are not rivals. 
 Our style is essentially different ; I yield to you the palm of 
 excellence in the qualities that distinguish you." 
 
 " You are right, my friend !" cried Wolf; " henceforth let 
 there be no more talk of championship between us. I will hold 
 him for my enemy who ventures to compare me with you ; you, 
 so superior in the path you have chosen. It is a higher path 
 than mine, an original one ; I follow contentedly in the course 
 marked out by others." 
 
 " But our paths lead to the same goal," said Beethoven. " We 
 will speed each other with good wishes ; and embrace cordially 
 when we meet there at last." 
 
 There was unusual solemnity in the composer's last words, and 
 it put an end at once to the discussion. All responded warmly 
 to his sentiment. But amidst the general murmur of approbation 
 one voice was heard, that seemed strangely to startle Beethoven. 
 His face grew pale, then flushed deeply ; and the next moment 
 he pressed his way hastily through the crowd, and seized by the 
 arm a retreating figure. 
 
 " You shall see me in Vienna," whispered the stranger in his 
 ear. 
 
 " Yet a word with you. You shall not escape me thus." 
 
 " Axif wiederschcn .'" And shaking off the grasp, the stranger 
 disappeared. 
 
 No one had observed his entrance : the host knew him not, and 
 though most of the company remarked the composer's singular 
 emotion, none could inform him whither the unbidden guest had 
 gone. Beethoven remained abstracted during the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
236 THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 
 
 The opera of "Leonore" was represented at Prague ; it met 
 with but indifferent success. At Vienna, however, it commanded 
 unbounded applause. Several alterations had been made in it ; 
 the composer had written a new overture, and the finale of the 
 first act ; he had suppressed a duo and trio of some importance, 
 and made other improvements and retrenchments. Not small 
 was his triumph at the favorable decision of the Viennese public. 
 A new turn seemed to be given to his mind ; he revolved thoughts 
 of future conquests over the same portion of the realm of art ; he 
 no longer questioned his own spirit. It was a crisis in the artist's 
 life, and might have resulted in his choice of a different career 
 from that in which he has won undying fame. 
 
 Beethoven sat alone in his study ; there was a light knock at 
 the door. He replied with a careless " come in," without looking 
 up from his work. He was engaged in revising the last scenes of 
 his opera. 
 
 The visitor walked to the table, and stood there a few minutes 
 unobserved. Probably the artist mistook him for one of his 
 brothers ; but on looking up, he started with indescribable sur- 
 prise. The unknown friend of his youth stood beside him. 
 
 " So, you have kept your word," said the composer, when he 
 had recovered from his first astonishment ; " and now, I pray you, 
 sit down, and tell me with whom I have the honor of having 
 formed acquaintance in so remarkable a manner." 
 
 " My name is of no importance, as it may or may not prove 
 known to you," replied the stranger. " I am your good genius, 
 if my counsel does you good ; if not, I would prefer to take an 
 obscure place among your disappointed friends." 
 
 There was a tone of grave rebuke in what his visitor said, that 
 perplexed and annoyed the artist. It struck him that there was 
 affectation in this assumption of mystery ; and he observed coldly — 
 
 " I shall not attempt, of course, to deprive you of your incog- 
 nito : but if you assume it for the sake of effect, I would merely 
 give you to understand that I am not prone to listen to anonymous 
 advice." 
 
THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 237 
 
 " Oh that you would listen," said the stranger, sorrowfully 
 shaking his head, " to the pleadings of your better nature !" 
 
 " What do you mean ?" demanded Beethoven, starting up. 
 
 " Ask your own heart. If that acquit you, I have nothing to 
 say. I leave you then, to the glories of your new career ; to the 
 popular applause — to your triumphs — to your remorse." 
 
 The composer was silent a few moments, and appeared agitated. 
 At last he said ; " I know not your reasons for this mystery ; but 
 whatever they may be, I will honor them. I entreat you to speak 
 frankly. You do not approve my present undertaking ?" 
 
 " Frankly, I do not. Your genius lies not this way ;" and he 
 raised some of the leaves of the opera music. 
 
 " How know you that ?" asked the artist, a little mortified. 
 " You, perhaps, despise the opera ?" 
 
 " I do not. I love it ; I honor it ; I honor the noble creations 
 of those great masters who have excelled in it. But you, my 
 friend, are beckoned to a higher, a holier path." 
 
 " How know you that ?" repeated Beethoven ; and this time 
 his voice faltered. 
 
 " Because I know you ; because I know the aspirations of your 
 genius ; because I know the misgivings that pursue you in the 
 midst of success ; the self-reproach that you suffer to be stifled in 
 the clamor of popular praise. Even now, in the midst of your 
 triumph, you are haunted by the consciousness that you are not 
 fulfilling the true mission of the artist." 
 
 His piercing words were winged with truth itself. Beethoven 
 buried his face in his hands. 
 
 " Wo to you," cried the unknown, " if you suppress, till they 
 are wholly dead, your once earnest longings after the pure and the 
 good ! Wo to you, if, charmed by the siren song of vanity, you 
 close your ears against the cry of a despairing world ! Wo to 
 you, if you resign unfulfilled the trust God committed to your 
 hands ; to sustain the weak and faltering soul, to give it strength 
 to bear the ills of life, strength to battle against evil, to face the 
 last enemy !" 
 
238 THE MISSION OP GENIUS. 
 
 " You are right — you are right ?" exclaimed Beethoven, clasp- 
 ing his hands. 
 
 " I once predicted your elevation, your world-wide fame," con- 
 tinued the stranger, " for I saw you sunk in despondency, and 
 knew that your spirit must be aroused — to bear up against trial. 
 You stand now on the verge of a more dreadful abyss. You are 
 in danger of making the gratification of your own pride, instead 
 of the fulfilment of Heaven's will, the aim — the goal of your life's 
 efforts." 
 
 " Oh, never !" cried the artist ; " with you to guide me " 
 
 " We shall meet no more. I watched over you in boyhood ; I 
 have now come from retirement to give you my last warning ; 
 henceforth I shall observe your course in silence. And I shall 
 not go unrewarded. I know too well the noble spirit that burns 
 in your breast ! You will — yes — you will fulfil your mission ; 
 your glory from this time shall rest on a basis of immortality. 
 You shall be hailed the benefactor of humanity ; and the spiritual 
 joy you prepare for others shall return to you in full measure, 
 pressed down, and running over !" 
 
 The artist's kindling features showed that he responded to the 
 enthusiasm of his visitor ; but he answered not. 
 
 " And now farewell. But remember, before you can accom- 
 plish this lofty mission, you must be baptised with a baptism of 
 fire. The tones that are to agitate and stir up to revolution the 
 powers of the human soul, come not forth from an unruffled breast, 
 but from the depths of a sorely wrung and tried spirit. You 
 must steal the triple flame from heaven ; and it will first consume 
 the peace of your own being. Remember this — and droop not 
 when the hour of trial comes ! Farewell !" 
 
 The stranger crossed his hands over Beethoven's head, as if 
 mentally invoking a blessing — folded him in his embrace, and 
 departed. The artist made no effort to follow him. Deep and 
 bitter were the thoughts that moved within him ; and he remained 
 leaning his head on the table in silent revery, or walking the room 
 with rapid and irregular steps, for many hours. At length the 
 
THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 239 
 
 struggle was over ; pale, but composed, he took up the sheets of 
 his opera and threw them carelessly into his desk. His next 
 work, " Christ in the. Mount of Olives," attested the high and firm 
 resolve of his mind, sustained by its self-reliance, and indepen- 
 dent of popular applause or disapprobation. His great sympho- 
 nies, which carried the fame of the composer to its highest point, 
 displayed the same triumph of religious principle. 
 
 Once more we find Beethoven, in the extreme decline of life. 
 In one of the most obscure and narrow streets of Vienna, on the 
 third floor of a gloomy-looking house, was now the abode of the 
 gifted artist. For many weary and wasting years he had been 
 the prey of a cruel malady, that defied the power of medicine for 
 its cure, and had reduced him to a state of utter helplessness. 
 His ears had been long closed to the music that owed its birth to 
 his genius ; it was long since he had heard the sound of a human 
 voice. 
 
 In the melancholy solitude to which he now condemned himself, 
 he received visits from but few of his friends, and those at rare 
 intervals. Society seemed a burthen to him. Yet he persisted 
 in his labors, and continued to compose, notwithstanding his deaf- 
 ness, those undying works which commanded for him the homage 
 of Europe. 
 
 Proofs of this feeling, and of the unforgotten affection of those 
 who knew his worth, reached him in his retreat from time to time. 
 Now it was a medal struck at Paris, and bearing his features ; 
 now it was a new piano, the gift of some amateurs in London ; at 
 another time, some honorary title decreed him by the authorities 
 of Vienna, or a diploma of membership of some distinguished 
 musical society. All these moved him not, for he had quite out- 
 lived his taste for the honors of man's bestowing. What could 
 they — what could even the certainty that he had won immortal • 
 fame, do to soften the anguish of his malady, from which he 
 looked alone to death as a relief ? 
 
240 THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 
 
 " They wrong me who call me stern or misanthropic," said he 
 to his brother, who came in March, 1827, to pay him a visit. 
 " Cod knoweth how I love my fellow-men ! Has not my life 
 been theirs ? Have 1 not struggled with temptation, trial and 
 suffering from my boyhood till now, for their sakes ? and now, if 
 I no longer mingle among them, is it not because my cruel 
 infirmity unfits me for their companionship ? When my fearful 
 doom of separation from the rest of the human race is forced on 
 my heart, do I not writhe with terrible agony, and wish that my 
 end were come ? And why, brother, have I lived, to drag out 
 so wretched an existence ? Why have I not succumbed ere 
 now ? 
 
 " I will tell you, brother. A soft and gentle hand — it was that 
 of Art — held me back from the abyss. I could not quit the world 
 before I had produced all — had done all that I was appointed to do ! 
 When my mission is accomplished, then thrice welcome death ! I 
 have been guided through life by Patience, the handmaid of 
 Truth ; I will go with her even to the footstool of the Eternal." 
 
 The servant of the house entered, and gave Beethoven a large 
 sealed package directed to himself. He opened it ; it contained 
 a magnificent collection of the works of Handel, with a few lines 
 stating that it was a dying bequest to the composer, from the 
 Count di N . He it was who had been the unknown counsel- 
 lor of Beethoven's youth and manhood ; and the arrival of this 
 posthumous present seemed to assure the artist that his own close 
 of life was crowned with the approval of his friend. It was as if a 
 seal had been set on that approbation, and the friendship of two 
 noble spirits. It seemed like the dismissal of Beethoven from all 
 further toil. Could it be that nothing more remained for him to 
 accomplish on earth ? 
 
 The old man stooped his face over the papers ; tears fell upon 
 them, and he breathed a silent prayer. After a few moments he 
 •arose, and said, somewhat wildly, " We have not walked to-day, 
 Carl. Let us go forth. This confined air suffocates me." 
 
 The wind was howling violently without ; the rain beat in gusts 
 
THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 241 
 
 against the windows ; it was a bitter night. The brother wrote 
 on a slip of paper, and handed it to Beethoven. 
 
 " A storm ? — well — I have walked in many a storm, and I 
 like it better than the biting melancholy that preys upon me 
 here in my solitary room. Oh, how I loved the storm once ; 
 my spirit danced with jpy when the winds blew fiercely, and the 
 tall trees rocked, and the sea lashed itself into fury. It was all 
 music to me. Alas ! there is no music now so loud that I can 
 hear it. 
 
 " Do you remember the last time I led the orchestra in the 
 
 concert at Von 's ? Ah ! you were not there ; but I heard 
 
 — yes — by leaning my breast against the instrument. When some 
 one asked' me how I heaVd, I replied, ' J'entends avec mes en- 
 tr allies. ' "* 
 
 Disturbed by his nervotfs restlessness, the aged composer went 
 to the window, and opened it with trembling hands. The wind 
 blew aside his white locks, and cooled his feverish forehead. 
 
 " I have one fear," he said, turning to his brother, and slightly 
 shuddering, " that haunts me at times. It is the fear of poverty. 
 Look at this meanly-furnished room, that single lamp, my meager 
 fare ; and yet, all these cost money, and my little wealth is daily 
 consumed. Think of the misery of an old man, helpless and deaf, 
 without the means of subsistence !" 
 
 " Have you not your pension secure ?" 
 
 " It depends on the bounty of those who bestowed it ; and the 
 favor of princes is capricious. Then, again, it was given on con- 
 dition I remained in the territory of Austria, at the. time the King 
 of Westphalia offered me the place of chapel-master at Cassel. 
 Alas ! I cannot bear the restriction. I must travel, brother ; I 
 must leave this city." 
 
 " You — leave Vienna ? f " exclaimed his brother in utter amaze- 
 ment, looking at the feeble old man whose limbs could scarcely 
 bear him from one street to another. Then recollecting himself, 
 he wrote down his question. 
 
 * Fact. ,/ 
 
242 THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 
 
 " Why ? Because I am restless and unhappy. I have no 
 peace, Carl ! is it not the chafing of the unchained spirit, that 
 pants to be free, and to wander through God's limitless universe ? 
 Alas ! she is built up in a wall of clay, and not a sound can pene- 
 trate her gloomy dungeon !" 
 
 Overcome by his feelings, the old man bowed his head on his 
 brother's shoulder, and wept bitterly. Carl saw that the delirium 
 which sometimes accompanied his paroxysms of illness had clouded 
 his faculties. 
 
 The malady increased. The sufferer's eyes were glazed ; he 
 grasped his brother's hand with a tremulous pressure. 
 
 " Carl ! Carl ! I pardon you the evil you did me in childhood ; 
 I have pardoned all. Pray for me, brother !" cried the failing 
 voice of the artist. 
 
 His brother supported him to the sofa, and called for assistance. 
 In an hour the room was filled with the neighbors and friends of 
 the dying man. He seemed gradually sinking into insensibility. 
 
 Suddenly he revived ; a bright smile illumined his whole face ; 
 his sunken eyes sparkled. " I shall hear in heaven !" he murmured 
 softly, and then sang in a low but distinct voice the lines from a 
 hymn of his own : — 
 
 " Brilder ! — ilber 'm Sternenzelt, 
 Muss em lieber Vater wohnen." 
 
 In the last faint tone of the music his gentle spirit passed away. 
 
 Thus died Beethoven, a true artist, a good and generous man. 
 Simple, frank, loyal to his principles, his life was spent in working 
 out what he conceived his duty ; and though his task was wrought 
 in privation, in solitude and distress, though happiness was not 
 his lot in this world, doth there not remain for him an eternal 
 reward ? 
 
 The Viennese gave him a magnificent funeral. More than 
 thirty thousand persons attended ; the first musicians of the city 
 executed the celebrated funeral march composed by him, and 
 
THE MISSION OF GENIUS. 243 
 
 placed in his heroic symphony ; the most famous poets and artists 
 were pall-bearers, or carried the torches ; Hummel, who had 
 come from Weimar expressly to see him, placed a laurel crown 
 upon his tomb. Prague, Berlin, and all the principal cities of 
 Germany paid honors to his memory, and solemnized with pomp 
 the anniversary of his death. Such was the distinction heaped on 
 the dust of him whose life had been one of suffering, and whose 
 last years had been solitary, because he felt that his infirmities 
 excluded him from human brotherhood. 
 
244 . PALESTRINA. 
 
 i A ,& a * £ .11 1 JM A ( 
 
 " Ha !" cried Alexander, as he entered the apartment of his 
 friend Johann, and found him in a melancholy mood, sitting at 
 his table, " ha, my dear fellow ! what is the matter ? Depending 
 on your promise, if the weather was fair, to walk with me in the 
 country, I have been sitting all the morning in best dandy trim — 
 in my new-fashioned uncomfortable coat, waiting for. you ! but in 
 vain ; so I got up, at last, and came in search of you ; and lo ! 
 find you undressed, pr, at least, not in holiday trim as I am — at 
 your desk, studying Jold yellow music, and not, as it seems, in 
 humor exactly couleur de rose .'" I 
 
 " Yes, I am out of tune !" replied Johann, "and all I do to 
 get the better of my humor, goes ill with me. So, at last, as 
 always when all other means fail, I betake me to some good old 
 master in music. To-day, however, my study has only made me 
 more melancholy, instead of bettering my spirits. The excel- 
 lence of old times serves but to remind me of the present low 
 state of our art, ami the mediocrity of our artists !" 
 
 " Hold, friend ; go not too far ! Think upon the old proverb 
 — ' All is not gold that glitters.' All are not artists who please 
 to call themselves such^' f - 
 
 " Sound advice !" exclaimed Johann, " as if it occurred not of 
 itself to every reasonable man who visited Leipzig after a few 
 years' absence ! One I sought here — Mendelsohn Bartholdy ! 
 He is absent. The others, with their insufferable pretension, and 
 their worthlessness, onljsl&iggust me." 
 
 " Yet I know one, .who could do well, if he would only 
 
PALESTKIHA. 245 
 
 endeavor earnestly — our little fat friend, Stegmayer ; a nature 
 truly Mozartesque ! Pity only lie is not really enthusiastic in his 
 art — but on the contrary, too much devoted to gay living !" 
 
 " Truly, a pity ! he is the only one I can think on with satis- 
 faction, for his really noble talents ! all the rest, I repeat it, 
 disgust me with their labored ingeniousness — their extraordinary 
 self-complacency — their current coin of praise — paid from hand to 
 hand." 
 
 " You should not take it so tragically ! It is too much the 
 case now, from the highest to the lowest, that art is shockingly 
 abused." 
 
 " My friend, it would be melancholy, indeed, if better spirits 
 could look on calmly ; it is my firm conviction, that indifference 
 towards the good and the beautiful, is more worthy of condem- 
 nation than open hostility. I should be ashamed to be ignorant 
 of bad authors, and bad works ; because I hold it my duty to 
 battle for the good, against the common and the mean, with all the 
 weapons at my command. Chide me for a Don Quixotte — I care 
 not ! I fight, like him, not alone against windmills ! and spite of 
 his craziness, I esteem the Knight of the Rueful Countenance an 
 honest, worthy — yea, an admirable character." 
 
 Alexander laughed at his friend's singular notion ; but said, 
 good-humoredly — " No, my dear fellow, I do not compare you to 
 the Knight of the Rueful Countenance ; though sooth, as I 
 observed a while ago, you show little, to-day, of your wonted 
 cheerfulness. For the rest, I entirely agree with you as to the 
 arrogance of our composers. I read, for example, some time 
 ago, in the Mitternaehtsblatt, an essay of a Mr. T., in Berlin. 
 Mr. T., himself a composer, liberally plasters his friend, C.B., 
 and forgets not himself at the end. This might pass, and his 
 praise — for somewhat is allowed to friendship — and as a composer 
 of songs, C.B. has real merit, even though he cannot equal, much 
 less rival a Schubert, a B. Klein, a Spohr, or a Lowe ! But Mr. 
 T. repeats some very silly remark of B's upon Peter von 
 Winter, and particularly his ' Opferfest,' and calls it a just, solid, 
 
246 PALESTRINA, 
 
 spirited judgment ! Now neither T. nor B. have ever written 
 any thing which could come nigh that cavatina of Myrrha, ' Ich 
 war, wenn ich erwachte,' or the duet, ' Wenn mir dein Auge 
 strahlet.' To a quartette like the droll, pathetic one, ' Kind, 
 willst du ruhig schlafen,' neither of the two gentlemen can aspire. 
 But they believe they can do better. I would give them simply 
 this advice ; to write off the dramatic text of the opera, and then 
 compose it. All Germany will thank them if they make it better 
 than good old departed Winter." 
 
 " Of such vanity my old master knows nothing," observed 
 Johann, as he showed his friend the title-page of the music lying 
 before him ; " the good Giovanni Pierluigi was as simple and 
 excellent a man as a great and admirable artist. He confirmed 
 the old truth, that to be a worthy artist, one must first be a 
 worthy man. This saying has been oft repeated ; but, to my 
 mind, can never be repeated often enough ! If it cannot help the 
 ordinary and the mean to self-knowledge and improvement, it will 
 sustain the good, when outward circumstances threaten to over- 
 power them ; for he who means most honestly with art, has ever 
 the most opposition from without to struggle against. 
 
 " It was not easy for Giovanni Pierluigi to come forth as the 
 creator of a new style in church music. Born in Palestrina, 
 1524, he found no contemporary exemplar in his art, who could 
 have guided him in the right way. Music — I mean church 
 music — was near utter extinction ! Soft tinklings — not unfre- 
 quently pieces from operas, and amorous canzonets joined 
 together, were heard in the sanctuaries. Consequently, it was 
 music the most remote from sacred, which, from his childhood 
 Palestrina not only heard, but helped to produce, for he had been 
 sent to Rome as chorister, to study music. 
 
 " But in his youthful breast glowed a spark of the god-like, 
 which soon rose to a flame that illumined the night around him ! 
 Palestrina discovered what, in a time of universal degeneration, 
 may not be taught ; he discovered what was wanting — what must 
 be done ; and yet more — the means to remove the evil ! In 
 
PALESTRINA. 247 
 
 himself he bore from the beginning, the good and the beautiful, 
 which he was to set up in place of the corrupt and the repulsive. 
 Thus equipped, courageous, but without presumption, conscious, 
 but void of self-complacent vanity — he entered the arena of 
 contest ; thus he ventured to gainsay Pope Marcellus II. and 
 his cardinals, who wished all music banished from the church ; 
 and through his Missa Papae Marcdli, he not only reformed 
 music, but gave the first inducement to make it a substantial part 
 of the Romish service. 
 
 " His efforts, his work found appreciation ; yet for a long and 
 melancholy time, the reward seemed uncertain. Palestrina had 
 been singer in the Popish chapel ; he lost this place ; for, fol- 
 lowing his human, honorable heart — he married. His marriage, 
 as appears from his letters, was so displeasing to the Holy Father, 
 that Palestrina was on the point of quitting Rome, having lost, 
 with his place, the means of subsistence. Fortunately, some 
 true friends of art espoused his cause ; he obtained another 
 situation in Saint John Lateran ; at a later period he was chapel- 
 master at Santa Maria Maggiore. He founded an excellent 
 school, produced immortal works, and ended the fair labor of a 
 useful life as chapel-master at Saint Peter's, the second of 
 February, 1594. 
 
 " The simple, quiet life of this great man, has always pos- 
 sessed deep interest for me ; and it has often occurred to me to 
 represent to the public, in the form of a Tale of Art, that 
 important period in which he saved Music from the ban which 
 hung over her. But I have relinquished the idea ; for in Pales- 
 trina's life, as in his works, there seems nothing made up. All 
 lies before us so simple, so noble, so sun-like clear, that it would 
 be quite impossible by aid of the most ingenious fiction, to paint 
 it more lovely and elevated than is the plain reality. The 
 greatest poets, Goethe particularly, have felt this at times 
 powerfully ; and have often given unadorned, the simple relation 
 of facts, touching enough, indeed, to dispute the pre-eminence 
 with all their fictions. 
 
PALEST E.IN A. 
 
 " In Palestrina's works, reigns the purest church-style ; no 
 other master has come nigh him, in this respect. Loftiness, 
 strength, and wildness, form the character of his music, which 
 fills the heart with devotion, and bears it upward to God, free, 
 from the chains of earth, and all that claims earthly emotion. 
 
 " It is undeniable that all church-music should have this only 
 aim — to lift the spirit to devotion — to God ; according to the word 
 of holy writ — which commands all those who come into the 
 presence of the Lord, to come with a pure heart and holy 
 thoughts. 
 
 " The more recent church-composers have not followed this 
 noble aim ! Latterly, even in Italy, the pure style has declined, 
 and how much may be shown by the circumstance, that- the 
 Italians, even towards the close of the last century, admired 
 Jomelli as a great church-composer ! The German style was 
 never so pure as Palestrina's, because it was not so natural 
 and unconstrained. Palestrina's simplicity was harshness with 
 Sebastian Bach ; the strict German rules point out, now and then, 
 by far more what is prohibited, than what is permitted, and even 
 demanded. Handel, in his Messiah, Mozart, in his Requiem, 
 broke the fetters, and soared upward, powerful eagles, towards the 
 sun ; yet without losing sight of the laws they acknowledged as 
 just and necessary. Haydn, in his Messen, is less conscientious ; 
 his creation belongs, beyond dispute, only to the concert hall. 
 But in the most recent times, what appears written for the 
 church, can only fulfil the smallest part of those claims justly 
 advanced by the restorer of church music. And in this point of 
 view, I regard, as quite objectionable, those oratorios of Friedrich 
 Schneider, ,in which the l God be with us,' has the principal part, 
 and is accompanied by flageolet, .kettle-drum, trumpet, and 
 bass trumpet.", 
 
 " They will cry out against this judgment of yours, my dear 
 Johann," said Alexander, " but you are right ! and it is 
 abominable, that in our most stirring, grand, spiritual music, 
 Satan has the word! But that is the mischief of imitation 
 
PALESTRINA. 249 
 
 among the Germans ! I am sure Priedrieh Schneider would, in 
 every respect, have done something excellent, as he has really 
 done in so many respects, had not his first appearance been at 
 the time when the people were all enthusiasm about Weber's 
 ' Volks Oper.'' As highly as I honor Schneider's great talent, 
 much as I esteem him for a worthy man, I must blame him 
 severely, that he has suffered himself to be carried away by the 
 intoxication of a theatrical public, and led to produce works 
 which, in spite of splendid things in them, can yet be regarded 
 on the whole, (as well in an artistical view, as if we look upon 
 their tendency,) only as chamgdings ! Nay, I scarce suppress the 
 wish — unkind enough ! that Schneider might be, for once, con- 
 demned to hear, from beginning to end, the oratorio of a certain 
 
 Mr. H , ' Christus der Erloser.' This H , inspired by 
 
 the laudable wish of becoming, in the shortest possible time, a 
 rich man and a famous composer, set himself to work and 
 patched together this affair ; in which he not only pilfered to his 
 heart's content from poor Schneider, but imitated and twisted 
 him so after his fashion, that his oratorio seems a horrible 
 caricature of all Schneider's oratorios. Where Schneider em- 
 ployed one bass trumpet, master H would have three ! Satan 
 
 tunes up — the flageolets fall screeching in, and the tutti of the 
 infernal chorus follows with frightful clamor. In 1833 the com- 
 poser brought his astonishing work to Leipzig to be represented, 
 to the great delight of the assembled auditory !" 
 
 " No more," said Johann ; " no more of the man and his 
 pitiful efforts ! let us turn to nobler, more exalted objects ! How 
 much I regret that I could not be present at the representation 
 of the ' Paulus ' of Mendelsohn Bartholdy ! I am assured by a 
 connoisseur, that Felix has here followed the path by which 
 Handel reached the crown of immortality ; nor could he praise 
 sufficiently the wise moderation with which the youthful master, 
 spite of his enthusiasm, has shunned all exaggeration in his work. 
 Mendelsohn Bartholdy," concluded he, " is able and sound to 
 the core ; so that we have ground to hope that a true man shall 
 
250 PALESTRINA. 
 
 arise in him, to show us the path by which we may return, 
 through the ancient simplicity, to the ancient glory !" 
 
 " Heaven grant it !" cried Alexander, fervently ; " it cannot 
 well be worse with us ! Yet a life-impulse, too fresh and glad, is 
 stirring in Art, for us to fear her death. She will not die ! and 
 let it only happen that the young aftergrowth may find a model 
 not too far removed from them ; for youth ever joins himself most 
 willingly to the nearest. 
 
 " Will Felix become this model ? I know not ; but I hope so, 
 as I wish it ; and wish, also, that no young artist may ever forget 
 — ' That he who would lecome a great artist, must first be a pure 
 and true man.' " 
 
 Alexander shook his friend cordially by the hand, and they 
 parted. 
 
THEEE LEAVES FROM, ETC. 251 
 
 i. 
 
 Milan, 4<A ik%/1811. 
 
 Am I dreaming ? — or do I still tread the earth ? Scarce two 
 days have passed, and yet I have lived through events that might 
 occupy a year. On the second of May, at eight in the evening, I 
 arrived at this place. My road brought me first to the cathedral. 
 The slender sickle of the new moon hung in the violet expanse ; 
 the western sky was yet crimson with the last rays of the sun ; a 
 range of lamps just lighted, threw a red glare on the streets. The 
 lofty obelisk of the Gothic temple, surmounted with its bronze 
 statue, rose in the clear blue ether ; a holy silence seemed to 
 wrap its summit, that contrasted with the crowd and excitement 
 below, of people hastening to the theatre. I stood long absorbed 
 in mute admiration. Suddenly two figures stepped out from the 
 shadow of a large pillar ; they were, like myself, in traveling 
 gear. As they were passing, I heard familiar voices, and sprang 
 forward to greet Hermann and Adolph, two intimate friends, whom 
 I had not seen for several. years. How joyful this unexpected 
 meeting ! 
 
 We repaired to the nearest cafe and took seats at a table near 
 the door, to enjoy the fresh breath of evening. While the lights 
 flared in the breeze, and flasks of the Lombard champagne — the 
 foaming wine of Asti — stood before us, each told what had befallen 
 him since the current of time had carried us in different directions 
 after our last separation. Necessity had sundered us, not only 
 from each other, but from our fatherland. My friends were just 
 
252 THREE LEAVES FROM 
 
 from the Tyrol ; they had visited the ever-memorable scene of 
 that holy strife which those true-hearted sons of the mountains, 
 trusting in justice human and divine, maintained against the over- 
 bearing power of France. Our conversation, more earnest than 
 was altogether prudent, naturally turned to these events, so 
 interesting to the heart of the patriot. " We visited, also," said 
 Adolph, " the dwelling of Hofer — that noble hero. Let me read 
 you" — here he drew out his tablets, and turned to me — " a poem 
 which I composed on this sacred spot." Here he read me some 
 verses on Andreas Hofer's dwelling, a copy of which I took, and 
 have placed in my journal. 
 
 We remained in conversation till midnight, when the people 
 came back from the theatre ; then separated with promises of 
 seeing each other again. I had gone but a few hundred steps on 
 the way to my lodgings, when I became aware that the heavy 
 jingling tread of a French gend'arme was closely following me. 
 To see if I was the object of his pursuit, I suddenly turned and 
 crossed towards a side street. He followed. I glanced at him ; 
 he seized me by the arm. " Monsieur, votre portefeuille," said 
 he. I gave it up. "Vcmsmesuivrez." I obeyed. I now under- 
 stood all. 
 
 He led me to a lofty old building, which I had never before 
 seen ; a huge door, fastened with heavy bolts, was opened : within 
 were French soldiers on guard. My conductor spoke a few words 
 to the officer, apart. I was then led away by two soldiers, pre- 
 ceded by a turnkey with a lamp. We mounted some steps, then 
 passed through a dark gallery. The turnkey stopped at a door 
 strongly secured with iron bars, and I found myself in a narrow 
 cell, ventilated only by a small grated window, through which 
 glimmered a ray of starlight. The gend'arme entered after me, 
 and I was subjected to a rigorous search. My papers were all 
 taken away, but my watch and purse were courteously handed 
 back. The jailer asked if I wanted anything ; I laughed bitterly. 
 " Well, to-morrow morning," said he, and went out. I remained 
 alone in the darkness. 
 
THE DIARY OF A TRAVELER. 253 
 
 For an hour or more I lay on the straw matting, and pictured 
 to myself the horrors of my fate. Only twenty-one, and full of 
 hope — ready to serve and save my country, to perform great 
 deeds ! What was now before me ? Was I ever again to see 
 my parents, my sisters, my beloved ? A prisoner, perhaps to be 
 led forth to-morrow to kneel on the ground and receive the bullets 
 of the soldiers — for my love to my native land. Thoughts on 
 these subjects filled my tortured brain. But suddenly my atten- 
 tion was arrested ; the stillness of night was broken by a tone of 
 melody so soft, so exquisite, so melancholy, that it pierced my 
 inmost heart, and tears sprang to my eyes. Was it a song ? 
 No ; there was no voice, but a melody such as was never heard 
 before — such as Orpheus might have drawn forth ! It was — yes, 
 let the cold-hearted laugh — it was the sound of a violin ! 
 
 How shall I describe that music ? Sunk in despair as I was — 
 the dungeon, the galleys, death before my eyes — it raised me to 
 the height of rapture ; it filled me with the joy of freedom, and 
 yet, strangest of all, with feelings solemn and profound ! On the 
 silence of night it stole like magic ; the light breeze wafted it 
 through the bars of my window ; clear, softly swelling like the sigh 
 of the mourner's breast — plaintive and imploring, like the accents 
 of love — gently yielding, like the timid bride — that wondrous 
 harmony took possession of my care-fraught soul. Then the 
 player, as it seemed, improvised airs on his instrument ; now 
 glided the tones along ; now he rose into energy and power, now 
 melted in the most seducing melody ; yet the notes were ever 
 clear, as if they had been drops <5f pearl. After these rhapsodical 
 strains, he passed, by a,, strange but charming transition, into a..- 
 melody of wonderful pathos. Never can I forget the effect of 
 this music, so sweet and exquisite, yet lull of sadness ; now swell- 
 ing into silvery richness, now dying gently away. It was like the 
 noble, melancholy plaint of an imprisoned king. The thought 
 entered my bosom — how much have those who are better than 
 we oft to suffer ! — and in the midst of misfortune I felt a calmness 
 and a trust which I could never have obtained through the pleadings 
 
2$4 THREE LEAVES FROM 
 
 of reason. The player continued his music, and I knew not 
 whether to wonder most at his compositions or his execution. 
 He seemed at length under the influence of inspiration ; his music 
 was full of fire ; he passed into stranger combinations, into bolder 
 and wilder flights, yet surpassing harmony was in all ; and he 
 appeared to create difficulties only to triumph over them. Friends 
 who read my journal, you will say, perhaps, the imagination of 
 the prisoner deceived him. No, I have myself played the violin, 
 (I do it now no more,) and could never have conceived aught like 
 what I heard. The music at last ceased, but it lingered unfor- 
 gotten in my soul — ay, I longed more to hear it again than to 
 recover freedom. 
 
 It was day ; I heard the beating of a drum : I climbed to my 
 window and looked out. A company of soldiers marched into the 
 court ; three prisoners stood in front of them. At a sign from 
 the officer, they marched away. The jailer opened my door ; I 
 asked him about them. " In an hour," he replied, " they are to 
 die ; they are suspected of treason — of having favored the insur- 
 rection among the Tyrolese." 
 
 These words were my death-warrant. I heard them shuddering, 
 but with composure. The jailer continued — " It is now the hour 
 when the prisoners are allowed to take the air in the court. Will 
 you go down ?" 
 
 We went. I saw in the court a rough, vagabond crowd, ruffians 
 whom the energy of the French government had collected out of 
 all Lombardy, to shut them up here. Leaning against a pillar, 
 his eyes fixed on the sun, which had just risen, I observed a young 
 man about twenty-five, who seemed worn out with suffering. He 
 was pale and emaciated ; his eyes were sunken ; a prominent, bent 
 nose, a high forehead, black masses of hair, and a long beard, 
 gave him a wild appearance. But the expression of deep sorrow 
 in the sharp lines of his chiseled mouth, and his pale, attenuated 
 cheeks, imparted a touching interest to his face. I looked long at 
 this singular person ; he seemed not to see any one, but continued 
 to gaze upwards towards the sun. 
 
DIARY OF A TRAVELER. 255 
 
 All at once he perceived the jailer, and hastily went to him. 
 " I entreat you," he said, speaking earnestly, in Italian ; " can I 
 not move you ?" 
 
 " No," replied the old man, sternly, " you cannot ; and if you 
 are not quiet o' nights, I will even cut your last string for you." 
 
 This, then, is the player, thought I ; and I was hastening to 
 speak to him when I heard my name pronounced behind me. It 
 was the gend'arme who had arrested me. " Suivez moi, monsieur," 
 he said, sternly. I was compelled to obey. Before the door 
 stood a coach ; we entered, drove off and stopped before a hand- 
 some house. My companion was silent as the grave. We alighted, 
 and he led me up the steps and into the house. We waited some 
 time in the hall. At last the door of a side room opened, and a 
 voice cried, "Entrez." Joyful surprise ! I stood before General 
 
 K , who, four years before, had been brought wounded to the 
 
 house of my parents in Berlin ; and although an enemy, had 
 received generous attention and nursing. 
 
 " My young friend," he cried, grasping my hand, " how impru- 
 dent you have been ! Had I not, by mere chance, occupied this 
 post, nothing could have saved you. You are free." 
 
 " And my friends ?" 
 
 " They are also at liberty." 
 
 " A thousand thanks — " 
 
 " Silence ; I am yet in your debt. Be my guest to-day, with 
 your friends. To-morrow you must depart, for I leave Milan 
 with my troops, and your adventure here might still have serious 
 consequences for you. Your passports to Germany are already 
 made out." 
 
 ii. 
 
 Paris, 13th April, 1814. 
 
 I received from M. the following note : — 
 
 " Your story of the musician in the dungeon, and your longing 
 to hear him again, form a pretty romance ; but, like other romances, 
 
256 THREE LEAVES FROM THE 
 
 it savors strongly of imagination. I told it to Lafont to-day ; 
 he laughed, and said, ' I pledge myself to cure this feverish 
 enthusiasm : I must give him a violin concert.' I have taken 
 him at his word. This evening his promise is to be fulfilled; 
 and, to put you down completely, Baillot, Kreuzer and Rode are 
 also invited ! Can you desire more ? I shall expect you this 
 evening." 
 
 I cannot describe what I felt at this invitation. For the last 
 four years I had heard all the violin players in the different cities 
 where I had been, yet nothing in the smallest degree approached 
 what I remembered. Now I was to hear the four most famous 
 masters the world knew. I trembled for my ideal. 
 
 With a beating heart, I found myself in the brilliantly lighted 
 saloon. Ah, the splendor of the scene, the elegant dresses of the 
 ladies, were displeasing to me ; I thought of my dungeon in 
 Milan, and the melody that seemed wafted from another sphere. 
 
 The concert began. Lafont played first. The most perfect 
 polish, a tone of silvery clearness — in andante, as in allegro, grace 
 itself — were his ; but it was as a finely wrought miniature beside 
 the nameless charm of that glorious picture before my mind's 
 vision. 
 
 Next I heard Kreuzer. Brilliant as a string of diamonds 
 were his passages, full and clear were his tones, and of surpassing 
 boldness and strength ; but his was the brilliancy of pure metal, 
 or of jewels- 1 — not the living beam that penetrates the soul. 
 ',, Baillot now came forward. The full, energetic harmony 
 he drew from the instrument, roused memory in my breast. A 
 noble fire glowed in his work ; he ruled like a monarch over the 
 realm of sound. But my prisoner ruled like a god ! 
 
 At last appeared Rode. His noble, expressive features, his 
 ai* of graceful, manly dignity, influenced me in his favor. He 
 began, I started involuntarily ; he braught back to me power- 
 fully the recollection of the player who nad so deeply moved my 
 heart. His representation appeared like the sculptured image 
 that pictures forth the very form of a loved being. The same 
 
 k = 
 
DIARY OF A TRAVELER. 257 
 
 fervor breathed in his music, the same fire, restrained by kindred 
 power. At the moment, I almost fancied he equaled the mys- 
 terious stranger ; but as he proceeded, I felt that what seemed in 
 him so wonderful, so finished an effort, would have been accom- 
 plished at once and with ease by my prisoner. His chainless 
 spirit would have soared upward and onward still, seeking more 
 distant heights, more fathomless depths ; — him the bounds of 
 earth could never have contained. He swept the empyrean 
 towards the confines of other worlds, and the harmonies heard 
 there he gave back to men in tones of unrivaled melody. 
 
 Thus I felt during the remainder of the concert. After it was 
 
 over, M. introduced me to the celebrated artists. Courtesy 
 
 required that I should praise their performance — and who would 
 not have praised it ? Of my prisoner I was silent ; but Lafont, 
 
 to whom M. had told the story, began himself to question 
 
 me. I endeavored to avoid speaking on the subject, in vain ; at 
 last I related the occurrence. All except Rode smiled ; and 
 when I mentioned and described some peculiar difficulties which 
 I had heard overcome in a wonderful manner, Lafont exclaimed, 
 " Oh, you are joking with us !" In short, it was plain they did 
 not believe me. I was vexed, and soon after took my leave. 
 Hardly was I out of the door when I perceived some one following 
 me hastily ; it was Rode. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " your narration has deeply affected me. Is it 
 true — upon your honor ?" 
 
 I assured him it was. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I believe you ; but I am convinced 
 there lives only one man on earth who can be your mysterious 
 prisoner. Fifteen years since, when I was a young man, I chanced 
 to be in Genoa. Going home late one evening, I heard the sound 
 of a violin. The playing filled me with astonishment. At first I 
 could not perceive whence came this enchanting music ; but I soon 
 discovered the performer to be a youth hardly grown out of boy- 
 hood,, who stood on a garden wall not very high, and, looking 
 towards a dimly-lighted window, drew from his instrument those 
 
258 THREE LEAVES FROM 
 
 heavenly sounds. I stood rooted to the ground. At that time I 
 was myself a performer ; but never had I dreamed of such mys- 
 teries in music as were here revealed to me. Hidden in the 
 shadow, I remained listening. The moon came from behind a 
 cloud, and shone full on the figure of the youthful player. His 
 features were like those you have described, but softened, probably, 
 from his extreme youth. 
 
 " He ended his playing ; the window opened, and a female 
 figure appeared and threw something down. An instant after, a 
 harsh voice cried, ' Tradztore, pel diavolo !' At this outcry, the 
 boy sprang down from the wall into the street, plunged into a 
 side alley, and disappeared before I could recover from my sur- 
 prise. At the same time I perceived a head peering over the 
 wall, and oaths and menaces were poured forth without stint. The 
 light in the window was extinguished. Evidently it was some love 
 affair. After some minutes, I came out from my concealment, 
 and as I passed along the wall, I trod upon something which 
 proved a violin bow. The lad must have lost it as he leaped 
 from the wall. I have this bow yet : it is marked with a P. I 
 hoped by means of it to discover the young musician, but the 
 troubled state of the times compelled me in a day or two to leave 
 the city. Since then I have heard nothing of my unknown artist. 
 But I owe him much The impression his magical performance 
 left with me was deeper than I could express ; by it I have 
 modeled and improved my own. Yes, I am indebted to this 
 strange appearance — this revelation, I might call it — for perhaps 
 the greatest part of my fame !" 
 
 I heard this relation of the great artist with astonishment. 
 Then I owned to him that I had found in his playing some 
 resemblance to that of the unfortunate stranger. It seemed as 
 if Rode had apprehended and followed the first flights of that 
 wild spirit. 
 
 We parted. I have hope still so mighty a genius must one 
 day sway the world. If tyrant fate have not already crushed him, 
 that spirit must one day be crowned sovereign over all hearts ! 
 
THE DIARY OF A TRAVELER. 259 
 
 III. 
 
 Berlin, 30th March, 1829. 
 
 After long residence in the north, I arrived here at half-past 
 eight in the evening. 
 
 " What is there at the theatre to-night ?" said I to the butler. 
 
 " Nothing of consequence. But you should go to the concert, 
 mein Herr. A violin player — " 
 
 " I have had enough of violin players." 
 
 " But this one is a wonder. The critic, Kellstab, writes his 
 pen to the stump in praises of him. Look here, in the paper." 
 
 " Very well. What is the name of the wonderful performer 
 so praised by the critic ?" 
 
 " His name ? I will tell you in a moment. It has just escaped 
 me. An Italian — " 
 
 " An Italian ?" 
 
 " Yes. It begins with a P." 
 
 " A P ? I must go instantly to the concert. Where will I 
 find a ticket ?" 
 
 " Over the way. I do not think you can procure any now 
 elsewhere." 
 
 I hastened to get one. 
 
 The concert hall was so crowded that I could not get in, but 
 was forced to remain outside with many others. The tutti of the 
 last composition was ended ; the solo — a pollacca — began. 
 
 " 'Tis he, or none !" cried I. " I have heard those tones 
 before ; they are unforgotten, deep in my heart. But what 
 a miracle ! Do two play, or three ? That I have never heard. 
 I will not trust my ear. If I might but see him — only one look ! 
 In vain : the crowd presses the door too closely. I will, at least, 
 lose not one note." 
 
 The performer ceased. A thunderburst of applause shook the 
 building. I pressed forward and strove to get a sight of him ; 
 others, equally eager, pushed before me : I was again disappointed. 
 What thoughts swelled in my heart ! I waited with impatience 
 
260 
 
 THREE LEAVES FROM, ETC. 
 
 to hear him begin once more. At last . " Now he plays on 
 
 the Gr string," said some one near me. He began. Is it pos- 
 sible ? That was the very melody I heard in prison ! Those 
 were the self-same tones that once — calming, elevating, faith- 
 inspiring, as if sent down from heaven — shed light into my gloomy 
 soul ! 
 
 I forced my way forward through the multitude. I saw once 
 more the pale, melancholy brow, the sunken eyes, the long dark 
 hair, the same feeble aspect of the whole person. It was he ! 
 The mystery of nineteen years was at length solved. The stranger 
 who had filled my youthful breast with feelings wonderful, unut- 
 terable, who had ceaselessly accompanied me since, like a veiled 
 apparition, familiar, yet from which I could not tear the covering, 
 stood before me. I heard, I saw Paganini ! 
 
THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 261 
 
 SHS YGF1G SBAeBMAH. 
 
 One morning in the summer of 1812, the busy manager of an 
 Italian theatrical company returned to his lodgings in a hotel in 
 one of the principal streets of Naples. His brow was contracted, 
 and an air of disquietude spread over his whole countenance. He 
 announced to the landlord that he was in an hour to leave the 
 city with his company. Mine host divined that he would not 
 depart in the sunniest of humors. 
 
 " So, you have not been successful in your search, Master Bene- 
 volo," he asked. 
 
 " Mille diavoli ! there never was such luck !" was the petulant 
 reply. " Here I have stayed three days beyond my time, in the 
 hope of finding what Naples, it seems, does not afford ; and now 
 I must begone to play at Salerno, without an actor of tragedy in 
 my company !" 
 
 " And such a company !" echoed Boniface. 
 
 " Such a one, indeed ! though I say it, it is the pride of Italy ! 
 a magnificent princess ! Did not the Duke of Anhalt — swear she 
 was as ravishing in beauty as exquisite in performance — with 
 eyes like diamonds, and a figure superb as that of Juno herself !" 
 
 " Enough to make the fortune of a whole troop !" cried the 
 landlord. 
 
 " Well — and then such an admirable comic actor ; with a figure 
 that is all one laugh, and a wit like Sancho Panza's ! A genius, 
 too, for the pathetic ; he will make you sigh an instant after a 
 convulsion of mirth ; and he weeps to enchantment. He is 
 Heraclitus and Democritus in one." 
 
262 THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 
 
 " He is an angel !" cried the landlord with enthusiasm. 
 
 " An unrivalled troop — a perfect coronet of gems — with but 
 one wanting : — the tragic. Ah, me ! what shall I do without a 
 Greronimo, or a Ealerio ?" and the Impressario wrung his hands. 
 
 " Do not despair, maestro," said the good-natured host ; " you 
 may find one yet to your mind." 
 
 " And whence is he to come ? from the clouds ! He must fall 
 directly ; for in two hours I must be on my way to Salerno. 
 Some of my friends are there already ; and the performance has 
 .been twice postponed, waiting for me. I might have made such 
 sums of money ! Saint Antonio ! how provoking to think of 
 it!" 
 
 " You are disturbed, Signor Impressario," said the fat hostess, 
 who had stood in the door during the preceding conversation, 
 and now waddled forward, her hands placed on her hips, with an 
 air of importance, — "because you have not been able to find a 
 tragedian for your excellent company ?" 
 
 "Assuredly, buona mia donna." 
 
 " And you have tired yourself out with running about the city 
 in search of one ; and now are going to leave us disappointed, in 
 hopes that one will drop from the clouds for you on the way !" 
 
 " Ah ! there is no hope of that." 
 
 " No — for the heavens do not rain such good things at Salerno. 
 But here — Signore — here is one already fallen for you ; and a 
 capital fellow he is." 
 
 " Who ! — what do you mean ?" exclaimed both manager and 
 landlord in a breath. 
 
 " Ah, there is a secret about it that I know, but shall tell no 
 one !" cried the hostess, with looks of triumph. " You must not 
 even know his name. But you shall have your tragedian." 
 
 " My tragedian ?" 
 
 " Yes. He is a young man of prodigious genius. He came to 
 us last night. Oh, if you had but heard and seen him ! All the 
 maids were in tears. If he had only a robe and poignard, he 
 would be absolutely terrific. Then he sang droll songs, and made 
 
THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 263 
 
 us laugh till my sides ached. I should have brought him to you 
 before, but you went out so early." 
 
 " Whence did he come ? — at what theatres has he appeared . : " 
 
 " Oh, as to practice, he has had none of it ; he has never been 
 on the stage ; but he has a genius and passion for it. He has left 
 his home and friends to become an actor." 
 
 " Hem" — mused the Impressario. " Let us see him. Per- 
 haps — " 
 
 The landlady had already quitted the room. She returned in 
 a few minutes, leading, or rather pulling forward a lad apparently 
 sixteen or seventeen years of age. He was tall and stout for his 
 years ; but his beardless face and boyish features, together with a 
 shuffling bashfulness in his gait, caused the hopes of the manager 
 to fall to the ground more rapidly than they had risen. 
 
 " Him !" he exclaimed in utter astonishment ; " him ! — why, 
 he is a child !" 
 
 " A child !" repeated the landlady ; — " and must not every- 
 thing have a beginning ? He is a child that will make his own 
 way in the world, I promise you." 
 
 " But he is not fit for an actor," said the director, surveying, 
 with a look of disappointment, the youth who aspired to represent 
 the Emperors of Home and the Tribunes of the Italian republics. 
 
 " Have a little patience," persisted the dame. " When you see 
 his gestures — his action, you will sing another song. Come for- 
 ward, Louis, my boy, and show the Signore what you can do." 
 
 The overgrown lad cast his great eyes to the ground, and hung 
 his head ; but on further urging from his patroness, he advanced 
 a pace or two, threw over his arms the somewhat frayed skirt of 
 his great coat to serve as a drapery, and recited some tragic 
 verses of Dante. 
 
 " That is not bad !" — cried the Impressario, drawing his breath. 
 " What is your name, my lad ?" 
 
 " Luigi," was the reply, with a not ungraceful bow. 
 
 " What else ?" 
 
 " He is called simply Luigi," interposed the hostess, with an 
 
264 THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 
 
 air of mystery ; " he has reasons at present for concealing his 
 family name ; for you see — he has broken bounds — " 
 
 " Exactly, I comprehend ; and the runaway would fare hardly, 
 if he were caught again. But I should like to hear him in 
 Otello." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Luigi recited a brilliant tragic scene from 
 Otello. The eyes of the director kindled; he followed with hands 
 and head the motions of the youthful performer, as if carried 
 away by sympathetic emotion, and applauded loudly when he had 
 ended. 
 
 " Bravo — bravissimo !" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands ; 
 " that is something like — it is just the thing ! You will make 
 a capital Moor, when you are set in shape a little. Come, my fine 
 fellow, I will engage you at once, and you shall not find me a bad 
 master. I will give you fifteen ducats a month, and here is the 
 first month's pay in advance, to furnish your outfit. You must 
 appear like a gentleman, and your clothes are shabby. Go now, 
 make your purchases, pack up, and let us be gone. I will have 
 a mule ready for you." 
 
 The hostess led off her protegi in triumph, while the Impres- 
 sario busied himself in preparations for immediate departure. 
 Poor Luigi, being new to the city and its pleasures, had contracted 
 sundry debts the day before, which honor bade him pay before he 
 made other use of his money. By the time these demands were 
 satisfied, a round bill paid to the hostess, and a new coat, with 
 change of linen, provided for himself, not a fraction was remain- 
 ing of his fifteen ducats. But it was no less with a light heart 
 and smiling face that he joined his employer, and the whole troop 
 was soon on the road out of Naples. 
 
 On their arrival at Salerno, the Impressario had advertisements 
 struck off, announcing that a young tragic actor would appear in 
 an extremely popular part. He presented him to the public as a 
 phenomenon — as an example of the most wonderful genius, devel- 
 oped at a tender age. 
 
 The Impressario was walking briskly about giving directions, in 
 
THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 265 
 
 the happiest mood imaginable, rubbing his hands, and congratu- 
 lating himself on the possession of such a prize. Visions of wealth 
 in prospect rose before his eyes, as he saw the treasurer counting 
 out the piles of gold just received. But alas, for the deceptions 
 of the world, his present joy and bright anticipations for the 
 future ! Fate breathed on his magic castle, and the fabric melted 
 into thin air. 
 
 Luigi was behind the scenes, arrayed in an imperial costume of 
 the middle ages, endeavoring, by the practice of action and ges- 
 ture, to habituate himself to the feeling that he was sustaining the 
 part of a sovereign. He was partly encouraged, partly abashed 
 by the comments of one of the chorus, a young and lovely crea- 
 ture, whose expanding talents gave promise of future eminence. 
 The name of Rosina, though not her own, will suit here as well 
 as any other. 
 
 " That will not do, your majesty !" she cried, correcting an awk- 
 ward movement Luigi had just made. " Only think of such an 
 Emperor !" and she began to mimic his gestures with the prettiest 
 air of mock dignity in the world — so saucy and provoking at the 
 same time, that the lad vowed he would have his revenge in a 
 kiss ; and presently the little maid was chased around the scenes 
 by Luigi, to the great disorder of his imperial robes and the dis- 
 comfiture of his dignity. 
 
 Suddenly there was an unusual bustle, and the sound of steps 
 and voices without. " The curtain is going to rise !" cried Luigi 
 in consternation. " Give me my sword, quick !" But the noise 
 came nearer, and was in the direction opposite to the audience. 
 What was his astonishment and dismay when he saw advancing 
 towards him the vice-rector, followed by six sbirri, with the 
 manager giving expression to the utmost grief and despair. The 
 young debutant stood petrified, till the vice-rector advanced, and 
 laying his hand on his shoulder, arrested him by virtue of an order 
 from His Majesty the King of Naples. It was his business — so he 
 proclaimed to the astonished bystanders — the whole company hav- 
 ing rushed together at the news of this intrusion — to secure the 
 
266 THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 
 
 person of the fugitive Luigi, and carry him back to the Conserva- 
 tory delta Pietd d£ Turchini, where he would be remanded to his 
 musical studies under the direction of the famous master, Mar- 
 cello Perrino. 
 
 The disappointment was too much for the dignity of the Em- 
 peror in petto. Luigi burst into tears, and blubbered sadly ; the 
 pretty Bosina cried out of sympathy, and there was a general 
 murmur of dissatisfaction. 
 
 " Signore, — Signore — " remonstrated the Impressario, — " such 
 a genius — he must not be restrained ; tragedy is his vocation !" 
 
 " His vocation just now is to go back to school," returned the 
 vice-rector, gruffly. 
 
 "But, Signore, you are robbing the public; you are robbing 
 me!" 
 
 "Has not the worthless boy been robbing His Majesty, who 
 was graciously pleased to send him to the Conservatorio after his 
 father's death ? How has he repaid His Majesty's protection ?" 
 
 " He is engaged in my service. I have advanced him a month's 
 pay." 
 
 " You should have thought twice before employing a raw 
 youth, whom you knew to have run away from his guardians. 
 Come, boy." 
 
 The sbirri laid hold of Luigi, and somewhat roughly disencum- 
 bered him of his imperial robes. The audience without the cur- 
 tain at the same time manifested unequivocal symptoms of impa- 
 tience. The manager was in absolute despair. 
 
 " Let him only remain, and play in this piece." 
 
 " Not a moment," said the vice-rector ; " we have no time to 
 lose." 
 
 " Dear Master Benevolo," entreated Luigi, who had dried his 
 tears : " be not troubled about me ; I will have my revenge yet. 
 I will be a tragedian in spite of them." 
 
 " But my losses ?" 
 
 " I will make them up — I pledge you my word." 
 
 " My fifteen ducats paid in advance ?" 
 
THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 267 
 
 " You shall have them again." 
 
 " If not in this world" — added the vice-rector, with a sullen 
 laugh — " you may keep your account open for another." 
 
 " Stay, Luigi ;" cried little Rosina, as the men led him off, 
 " here is your handkerchief," and she put hers into his hands. 
 The lad understood her, and pressed the keepsake to his lips. 
 
 " At least," said the manager, recovering a little from his dis- 
 appointment, " I have not lost everything. The vagabond has 
 left his trunk behind," and he went to make his peace with his 
 impatient audience. 
 
 Next morning he ordered the trunk brought to him. It was 
 very large, and so heavy that the servants who carried it imagined 
 it to be filled with gold. The Impressario, having called together 
 some of his friends to make an inventory of its contents, caused 
 the lock to be broken. It was found filled with — sand. The 
 young debutant, anxious to make a favorable impression, and not 
 being in possession of a wardrobe, had had recourse to this piece of 
 deception in order to command respect and attention at the inns 
 where they stopped on the way from Naples. 
 
 Words cannot describe the rage of the manager. He vented it 
 in execrations against Luigi, whom he denounced as a cheat, an 
 impostor, and a thief. And his fifteen ducats — they had been 
 thrown away ! The only retaliation in his power was to write 
 a letter full of violent abuse to the shameless offender, ending his 
 invectives with the assurance that so base a fellow need never 
 aspire to the honors of tragedy. Luigi said not a word when 
 he read this missive. From that time he applied himself with 
 so much diligence to his studies, that his masters had no reason 
 to eomplain of him. He bade fair, they all said, to rival Bohrer 
 on the violoncello, and Tulon on the flute. And for his encour- 
 agement and that of his comrades, a hall of representation was 
 constructed in the interior of the Conservatorio, where those who 
 desired might gratify a passion for the stage. 
 
 Late in the autumn of 1830, it was announced that a new artist, 
 
THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 
 
 of great reputation in Italy, would appear at the TMatre Italien 
 in Paris. Grreat expectation was excited ; as his progress through 
 the cities beyond the Alps had been a continued triumph. The 
 immense audience was hushed in suspense. Even after the cur- 
 tain had risen, the connoisseurs seemed resolved that their 
 applause should not be bestowed till it was fairly earned. But 
 when the debutant appeared, there was a hum of admiration at 
 sight of his majestic, imposing figure and noble countenance, ex- 
 pressive not only of power, but of frank good humor ; and the first 
 tones of that magnificent voice, swelling above the orchestra in 
 lordly music, " like thunder amid a tempest," yet piercing to the 
 very depths of pathos, called forth a burst of rapturous applause. 
 At the close of the piece the spectators vied with each other in 
 his praises, and voted him by acclamation the first bassetaile of the 
 age. 
 
 The tragic opera of Otello was announced for representation, 
 amidst the shouts of admiring thousands. 
 
 " I will go to hear Otello, since you bid me, madonna," said 
 the ex-manager of an Italian opera company to the fair Kosina, 
 now an admired singer, but in the midst of fortune and fame 
 retaining the same excellent heart ; " but I have no pleasure in 
 listening to these French actors. They do not fill my idea of 
 tragedy. Ah ! the best days of the art are gone by !" 
 
 " But, Master Benevolo, you have not seen the new artist ?" 
 
 " No, nor do I care to see him. I should not like what pleases 
 these fantastical Parisians." 
 
 " But you must hear him. He is an Italian. I have an invi- 
 tation for you, written in his own hand." 
 
 " Ah ! that is courteous and attentive, seeing I am a stranger in 
 Paris. How came he to send it to me ?" 
 
 " He knew you to be a friend of mine," answered the lady 
 rather embarrassed. 
 
 " Ebbene, I will attend you, my lady." And at the appointed 
 time the ex-manager escorted the fair singer to the theatre. 
 
 " There is a figure for tragedy !" cried he in involuntary admira- 
 
THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 269 
 
 tion, as the colossal form of the actor moved across the stage, and 
 he bowed in dignified acknowledgement of the applause of the 
 audience. " Ha ! I should like him for the tyrant in Anna 
 Bolena !" But when his powerful voice was heard in the part — 
 when its superb tones, terrible yet exquisitely harmonious, carried 
 the senses, as it were, captive, the Italian gave up his preju- 
 dices, and joined in the general enthusiasm. And at the point 
 where the father of Desdemona curses his daughter, Benevolo 
 uttered a cry, into which the very soul of emotion seemed to have 
 passed. 
 
 " Wonderful ! stupendo ! tragico .'" he exclaimed, wiping his 
 eyes, when the curtain had fallen, and he rose to offer his arm to 
 his fair companion. 
 
 " But you must see him," persisted she, and led the ex-impres- 
 sario behind the scenes. 
 
 The wonder of the Parisian connoisseurs advanced to meet 
 them. Benevolo gazed in awe on the person whose performance 
 had moved him so deeply, and thought he saw the impress of 
 majesty in his features. Clasping his hands, he saluted him as 
 the king of tragedy ! 
 
 " Ah, my good Master Benevolo ! I am rejoiced to see you at 
 last ! It has been my evil fortune that we have not met before ! 
 Now, tell me if you have been pleased. Think you I will ever 
 make a tragic actor ?" 
 
 " You are the first in the world !" cried the Italian. " I am 
 proud of my countryman." 
 
 " Ah, mio fratello ! but you had once not so good an opinion 
 of me. Ha ! you do not recognize your old acquaintance — the 
 runaway Luigi !" 
 
 The ex-impressario stared, in silent astonishment. 
 
 " I have grown somewhat larger since the affair at Salerno ;" 
 said the artist, laughing and clapping his sides. But I forgot ; I 
 was under a cloud when we parted. Ah ! I see you have a heavy 
 recollection of that trunk of mine, and the fifteen ducats. I 
 always meant to ransom that unlucky trunk ; but only, you under- 
 
270 THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN. 
 
 stand, with my pay as a tragedian, to make you unsay your pre- 
 diction. Here is an order for twelve hundred francs." 
 
 The ex-manager drew back. " I cannot receive so much," he 
 said. 
 
 " Nonsense, friend ; you are too scrupulous. Bethink you ; 
 my fortune has grown apace with my embonpoint." 
 
 " Benevolo grasped his hand. " You are a noble fellow !" 
 cried he ; " and now, as a last favor, you must tell me your name. 
 You act under an assumed one, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Not at all ; the same Lablache." 
 
 " Lablache ! are you, then, a Frenchman ?" 
 
 " My father was one ; he fled from Marseilles at the time of 
 the Bevolution ; but I was born in Naples. Does that satisfy 
 you ?" 
 
 " I always took you for a nobleman in disguise," said Bene- 
 volo ; " but now I know you for one of the nobility of artists." 
 
 " That is better than the first," said Lablache ; " and now you 
 must come home and sup with me, in the Rue Eichelieu. I shall 
 have a few friends there, and la belle Rosina will honor us." 
 

FRANCIS 1ISZT. 271 
 
 3: & Ji, H G X § 3* X * £ T, 
 
 It is especially desirable that the materials for the biography 
 of a man of genius — a great artist, poet or scholar, should be 
 ample, embracing even the most trivial details. We often remain 
 in ignorance of the real character of a celebrated person, because 
 we cannot possess ourselves of any faithful history of those circum- 
 stances of his life, which always exert a vast influence, and have 
 perhaps chiefly contributed to render him what he is. 
 
 The position now occupied by Liszt, makes a notice of his life 
 particularly interesting. In the prime of manhood, he is already 
 acknowledged to be the first pianist of the age. Europe, in all its 
 length and breadth, is filled with his fame. He belongs to the 
 whole world. Who takes so little interest in the progress of art, 
 in our day, as to be inattentive to the note of triumph borne on 
 the winds through Germany, France, and England ? But it is 
 not enough for the heedful listener that all is now light and 
 enthusiasm ; he would look back into years past, and catch the 
 dull echo of the murmurings of envy and jealousy. He would 
 admire and bless the artist's firmness and constancy, the energy 
 of soul that persevered against all discouragements — that bore 
 with the toil of study — and struggled onward, though burdened 
 and weary, till the goal at last was reached, and labor crowned by 
 success. To all who sympathize with him, it will be interesting 
 briefly to observe his progress. 
 
 Francis Liszt was born on the twenty-second of October, 1811, 
 in Reiding, a village not far from Oedenburg, in Hungary. The 
 
272 FRANCIS LISZT. 
 
 year of his birth was remarkable for the appearance of a comet ; 
 a fact which did not fail to impress the mind of his father, Adam 
 Liszt. He looked upon the phenomenon as a sign of his son's 
 future eminence. This superstition of a fond parent may meet 
 with some indulgence, when it is recollected how Goethe himself, 
 who seemed in general most at home on earth, commenced his 
 confessions of "Poetry and Truth." 
 
 Adam Liszt was in the service of Prince Esterhazy ; and was 
 so excellent a musician, that he could rank high as a virtuoso 
 among the connoisseurs. His instrument also was the piano : and 
 with his splendid execution, had he come forward, he might have 
 obtained no small reputation. But he preferred to remain un- 
 known, having no desire to acquire celebrity for himself. All his 
 ambition and his hopes centered in his son. Often, when he had 
 been playing, while the boy listened, absorbed profoundly, to the 
 melody he drew from the instrument, he would seize the happy 
 moment to impress the young listener with his counsels. " My 
 son," he would say, " you are destined to realize the glorious 
 ideal that has shone in vain before my youth. In you that is to 
 reach its fulfilment, which I have myself but faintly conceived. 
 In you shall my genius grow up, and bear fruit ; I shall renew my 
 youth in you, even after I am laid in the grave." 
 
 Such prophetic words call to recollection the poor woman in 
 Grenoa, who held her son upon her knees, and talked to him of 
 heavenly visions. " Nicolo," said she to the boy, " an angel came 
 to me last night, and told me thou should't be one of the greatest 
 performers of thy time." That boy was Paganini. How won- 
 derfully has the prophecy been fulfilled — both in Paganini and 
 Liszt ! 
 
 Before it bursts forth in its full splendor, genius shows itself in 
 gleams and at intervals, revealed often by a word or look. The 
 observing father, the tender mother, are usually first to discern it 
 while unrecognized by others ; and to anticipate, from slight inti- 
 mations, the future greatness of the child. 
 
 With more than a parent's joy did Adam Liszt observe the first 
 
FKANCIS LISZT. 273 
 
 germ of his boy's talent. He placed the small fingers on the keys ; 
 played simple tunes — which were readily imitated ; he saw that all 
 would be according to his wish ! These exercises were commenced 
 when the little Francis was six years old ; at the age of nine he 
 played for the first time in public at Oedenburg, Ries' Concerto, in 
 three flats ; and at the conclusion extemporized afantaisie. The 
 boy improvised without difficulty the most striking rhythmtn, the 
 most surprising cadences. The spectators were struck with sur- 
 prise and admiration, and tears of joy bedewed the happy father's 
 cheeks. All wondered at the genius of the young performer ; 
 his friends embraced and praised him ; Prince Esterhazy put fifty 
 ducats into his little hand, and gave him a warm recommendation to 
 all the noble patrons of music in Hungary. This was the first step 
 in his career ; but one so important that he could no more go back. 
 The high commendations he received, were far from encouraging 
 idleness in the young artist. On the contrary, they caused him to 
 look into himself, and to contemplate earnestly the steep height 
 he had to climb, if he would justify all these large expectations. 
 The youth of Francis, therefore, was laborious and full of trouble. 
 That noble ambition, which fills every great soul, was often a 
 torment to him. The struggles of the spirit weakened the body ; 
 and sickness interrupted his exertions. This state of things brought 
 about in him that delicate, nervous sensibility which renders the 
 artist susceptible to all impressions ; so that his excitable fancy is 
 wrought upon by every idea or object. Vague religious feelings, 
 sometimes pleasing, sometimes melancholy, took possession of 
 him ; his soul was divided between study and prayer. As the 
 boy Goethe, in his naive devotion, kindled pastilles on his father's 
 desk, and watched the incense rise heavenward, the boy Liszt was 
 absorbed in the mystical philosophy of a Jacob Bohme, and walked 
 with his imagination among apocalyptical visions. He thought he 
 grew thereby stronger for his art, and more susceptible to the 
 impression and power of dreams. He wandered, uncertain in 
 religion as in art, often starting back shudderingly as he hovered 
 over the infinite abyss. 
 
274 FRANCIS LISZT, 
 
 These boyish visions — he was then from ten to twelve years old 
 — were not without influence upon his genius in after life. Let 
 us trace in some measure the poetry of his progress, striving to 
 throw the torch of fancy over his moments of romance. It is a 
 task of importance, to analyze such a mind ! 
 
 After the concert in Oedenburg, Adam Liszt proceeded with 
 his son to Presburg. His success was the same, or even greater ; 
 for by means of the Counts Amaden and Zapary, the father ob- 
 tained for six years a salary of six hundred florins, to enable him 
 to give the boy suitable instruction and cultivation. A journey to 
 Vienna, and a residence there for the purpose of study, were now 
 in his power. This was soon accomplished. Both father and son 
 went to Vienna ; and Carl Czerny conducted the boy's lessons on 
 the piano. Nothing better could have been done to perfect him 
 in the Uchnik. Those who know what skilful pianists have come 
 forth from that school, and that a Liszt was now the pupil, if they 
 bear in mind the merits of the teacher and those of the scholar, 
 will know how to estimate the result. 
 
 Here were added also his higher studies under Salieri ; his 
 diligent exercise in counterpoint ; in the strict compositions of 
 church music ; of partition and reading. Eighteen months passed 
 in such labors. Francis often knew not if it was night or day, so 
 absorbed was he in his studies. He never shrank from the most 
 tedious labors, nor from any task requiring the most intense appli- 
 cation : ever anxious to win a smile of pleasure from his grave 
 though gentle master, though he could not satisfy himself. It 
 might indeed be said that he pursued music with a species of 
 obstinacy. By way of recreation and encouragement amidst such 
 exertions, his father arranged in Vienna a concert, in which the 
 product, as it were, of eighteen toilsome months was to be ex- 
 hibited. 
 
 At this concert, all the nobility and the musical (Lite, of Vienna 
 were present; among them Beethoven. For that hour, Beethoven 
 forgot his own sad lot, his own abiding sorrow, and in his earnest, 
 laconic manner gave his encouragement and applause to the 
 
FHANCIS IISZT. 275 
 
 youthful artist. How happy would the great man have felt, with 
 what delight would he have pressed that young artist to his wildly 
 throbbing heart, could he have foreseen that Francis Liszt would 
 be the most earnest worshipper of his lofty genius, the most ad- 
 mirable and judicious interpreter of his ideas ! 
 
 In truth, the deep veneration Liszt now cherishes for Beethoven 
 and his works, is the best and most certain evidence of his own 
 spiritual depth. The history of all time has proved that a great 
 mind can only be discerned and estimated at its full value by a 
 kindred one. Liszt's appreciation of Beethoven is an indication 
 of his own superiority as an artist. It may truly be said, this 
 admiration and love are without parallel. Where is to be found 
 one like him, whose whole being, productive, creative, combining 
 — forming — expansive — has so passed into that of his exemplar, 
 and lives on, not in slavish imitation, but with free and kindred 
 impulse — working with the same will ? 
 
 But to return to Vienna. We see our young artist for the first 
 time in this old imperial musical capital ; we hear repeated and 
 stunning applauses poured in his ears, and see him return modest 
 and astonished to the quiet chamber where he pursues his studies. 
 For him an important period had come ; and he looked abroad on 
 the new world that opened upon him, not in hope of gaining praise 
 or gold, but amidst incitements to strive after the full development 
 of his genius. At last he tore himself from the arms of his kind, 
 parental friend, Salieri ; closed in his loving heart a solemn, mel- 
 ancholy farewell look from Beethoven, and hastened to his father 
 at Paris. 
 
 It was to be expected, the Conservatoire would receive one 
 so gifted with open arms ; would rejoice to number him among 
 its pupils. But Francis Liszt was a stranger : Cherubini there- 
 fore treated him with chilling neglect, though he himself had been 
 received in a foreign land ! While the Conservatoire shut the 
 door against the wonderful boy, all the saloons of Paris opened 
 theirs to him with enthusiastic welcome. Everywhere he was 
 feted, caressed, applauded. All the world was mad about the 
 
276 FRANCIS LISZT. 
 
 fair blue-eyed lad, on whose high forehead already began to appear 
 the impress of inspiration. He played in the Palais Royal before 
 the Duke of Orleans, and became the rage ! A dangerous rock 
 was before the youthful adventurer ; ask we if he sailed safely 
 past it, in spite of the storms of court-favor, and the shoals of 
 self-love ? Scholars, artists, wealth, beauty, aristocracy, all did 
 homage to him ; no soiree was complete without him ; the gifted, 
 proud boy was the idol of the day. The world nattered ; his 
 father admonished; and Francis obeyed the warning parental 
 voice. He pursued the path his own energy had opened, with 
 unwearied zeal. After a year's residence in Paris, he went over 
 to London, where he was received with the same enthusiasm, 
 expressed according to the national temperament of the English. 
 
 In the year 1824, both father and son returned to Paris, and 
 the energies of Francis were particularly employed upon an opera 
 — " Don Sancho, or the Palace of Love," which was produced 
 in 1825 in the Eoyal Academy of music, with great applause, and 
 highly esteemed by the connoisseurs. Our artist was then fourteen 
 years old. Adolph Nourrit led him upon the stage, at the call 
 for his appearance, amid thunders of applause. Rudolph Kreutzer, 
 then director of the orchestra, embraced him with transport. 
 
 After these exertions and excitements, a time came again when 
 Francis gave himself up to religious enthusiasm. In order to 
 divert his thoughts by new objects, his father resolved upon short 
 excursions into the Departments, and even a longer one to Eng- 
 land ; but the lad's indisposition gained the upper hand, and they 
 were obliged to take refuge in Boulogne for the sea-bathing. 
 Here Francis lost his father. This mournful event, which caused 
 the affectionate boy such deep affliction, naturally had a depressing 
 influence upon his genius. He indulged freely his melancholy 
 visions and sad fancies, which now presented themselves under 
 the solemn aspect of religion, now assumed the colors of romance. 
 He longed continually for some remote solitude, in which without 
 interruption he might nurse his fantastic musings. 
 
 Probably never poet or artist was called upon thus to suffer. 
 
FRANCIS LISZT. 277 
 
 But the vigor of his mind was shown in his gradual self-recovery 
 even after such wanderings ; only by much discipline could he be 
 restored to repose and serenity. And by an acquaintance with 
 literature, and the philosophical sciences of the day, his views in 
 art were enlarged, no less than those of life and the world. New 
 wants, new claims, new inquiries opened upon him. He sought 
 as it were a back-ground, against which he could appoint the true 
 place and dimensions of art. 
 
 While his mind thus improved, and his conceptions enlarged — 
 while step by step he advanced — his spirit more and more cleared 
 — purified — exalted — the worst that can happen to a man earnest 
 to fulfil his duty befel him also ; enemies rose up ; he became the 
 object of envy ; and their hate began to work its purposes in 
 secret. But of this we will be silent. The murmurs of enmity 
 have long been hushed, and an artist, particularly, is born to endure 
 such things. Let us turn rather to those other days which exer- 
 cised a singular influence on his excitable mind. 
 
 When absorbed in his religious enthusiasm, Liszt composed only 
 Masses ; being unable, in the tumult of his feelings, to attain to 
 anything like self-possession or a calm activity. From the do- 
 minion of this kind of madness he was delivered by another 
 
 love. He loved a lady of high rank — loved with the same ardor 
 with which his soul embraced everything, and yielded himself 
 wholly to the new passion. His love was unhappy ; what suffering 
 must it not have caused him ! He became misanthropical. He 
 shut himself up for weeks together, confiding his complaints and 
 his pains only to the keys of his instrument. Those only who 
 have thus suffered, can fully understand his condition at this time. 
 
 His personal history at this period is almost as obscure and 
 involved as his genius itself; but it is said that he composed 
 nothing except plans of Masses. Ere long, however, the elas- 
 ticity of his temperament not only bore him out of his depression, 
 but carried him to the opposite extreme ; and he became for a 
 time the votary of sense. St. Simonian sentiments took root and 
 budded in his breast ; to ripen all — came the Revolution. Liszt 
 
278 FRANCIS LISZT. 
 
 was carried away by the excitement of the people ; by the visions 
 of Freedom. He was animated by enthusiastic admiration of what 
 he beheld ; he felt an impulse musico-political, if so it might be 
 called. He longed to produce in art all that he saw of stirring 
 importance in the world ; to fix the experience of those tumultuous 
 days in the expression of music ; to concentrate the feelings of 
 many hearts, and give the people a Revolutionary Symphony, in 
 the same manner as Beethoven had conceived and represented his 
 battle of Vittoria. Does some narrow mind ask why he did not 
 execute this grand thought ? Those who know what were the 
 circumstances — what repose, and abstraction from exciting scenes 
 without, were necessary for the conception and creation of such a 
 work, will wonder at the artist for having imagined it ; will admire 
 him for the thought, and not condemn him because it was not 
 completed. Had the requisite rest and leisure been his, he would 
 then also, undoubtedly, have realized the lofty ideal at which he 
 aimed. 
 
 After this, the writings of George Sand, or Madame Dudevant, 
 took complete hold of his fancy. Not less wholly did he yield his 
 soul to Paganini, by whom he was quite carried into enthusiasm. 
 He used to say to Madame Sand, as to his other intimate friends, 
 that he found in Paganini's playing on the violin something in- 
 definite, inexpressible, which he always sought to attain on the 
 piano. 
 
 We must take occasion here to speak of Liszt's relations to 
 some modern pianists ; and for this purpose avail ourselves of 
 the criticism of the celebrated Petis, in the " Eevue Musicale 
 Beige." As an illustration of some remarks on the subject of 
 art and artists, he mentions Clementi, the first who introduced an 
 elegant and brilliant style on the piano, the model of a thoroughly 
 cultivated techwik, — of natural and spirited combination ; of 
 rounded periods. We see that he drew the attention of his con- 
 temporaries upon himself, that he exhibited himself to them as an 
 exemplar, and prescribed the classic form of the bravour sonata, as 
 Joseph Haydn had invented that of the harmonious sonata. If 
 
FRANCIS LISZT. 279 
 
 we view him in this splendor, when his fame spread everywhere 
 without bounds, and the best pianists of his time were laid under 
 the necessity of imitating him, we must regard him as the in- 
 ventor ; and yet he only perfected the ideas of others, and has 
 displayed taste rather than genius. The proper inventor was 
 Emanuel Bach, who presented Germany with sixty concertos. 
 He gave to the sonata a harmonious as well as a brilliant side, 
 which was particularly cultivated by Haydn and Clementi. 
 Emanuel Bach appeared with this accomplishment before 1740 ; 
 sixty years later it was exercised, not originated, by Dussek, 
 Cramer, and Steibelt ; and Clementi's manner improved it while 
 he added modifications of his own. 
 
 The art of those worthy men exercised itself in the circle of 
 the softer feelings. Their only aim was to please the ear and 
 move the heart. They sought not to paint the vehement emo- 
 tions ; the forms of art were to possess rather a soothing and 
 restraining power. 
 
 These ideas took another direction, when Mozart gave to in- 
 strumental music a character of passionate, dramatic expression. 
 The ultimate object of this new path was not understood at first, 
 and it met the disapprobation of those accustomed to the old way, 
 who saw in this mingling of changeful feelings more matter for 
 blame than praise. Mozart's composition for the piano, full of 
 expression, energy, and harmony, had to struggle long in rivalship 
 with the light and elegant style of Clementi ; then came to his 
 aid the passionate fiery imagination — owning no rule but that of 
 genius— of Beethoven, and the adherents of the new school in- 
 creased from day to day. This powerful imaginajion^for, the first 
 time, showed the untenableness of stereotype forms in -the new 
 path. Beethoven, full of deep admiration for the glorious crea- 
 tions of Mozart, at first followed in the steps of that great master ; 
 but he soon indulged himself in freer and bolder flights. He gave 
 new turns to the accustomed passages, bestowing much care on 
 the completeness of harmony ; greatly increased the dissonances, 
 and hesitated not to introduce unions of accords and transitions 
 
280 FRANCIS LISZT. 
 
 till then unheard of, yet which at this day appear to us so simple 
 and natural. 
 
 The issue of these combinations was an entire change in the 
 fingering, which was many times assailed by the scholars of Cramer 
 and Clementi. Only the Viennese school adopted the alteration, 
 and therefore took, in this respect, the first place in art. To this 
 we owe the progress and the present elevation of piano music. 
 Beethoven's works were still regarded by the pianists as too grave 
 for a large and mixed public, and were given up to professed con- 
 noisseurs. They — the players — attained their end more readily 
 by pleasing compositions, in the execution of which Hummel gave 
 them a new study. A virtuoso of the first rank in that day, he 
 stood also high as a composer ; yet can he in no way be compared 
 with Beethoven, either in boldness or originality ; he was only a 
 man of taste and of solid attainment. Under his hands a certain 
 fine manner was cultivated, in which he knew how to introduce 
 brilliant figures with singular effect. 
 
 We find it necessary to explain the history and progress of piano 
 music as early as 1807, to enable us to determine the position 
 and work of Liszt. Fifteen years had passed since Mozart's 
 death, and already we see his form and method three times 
 changed. For ten years Hummel governed the manner of 
 playing. In the course of this time, CM. von Weber gave new 
 movements of dramatic expression. In his piano music, he showed 
 a glowing but wild and ill-regulated genius. Both artists and 
 publishers were afraid to produce his compositions. Only his 
 " Freischutz" snatched his name from the oblivion into which it 
 had fallen. 
 
 In 1817, arose a new composer for the piano, of great merit, a 
 virtuoso, who seemed born to give piano-playing a new direction. 
 It was Moscheles. Bolder and more brilliant, more general and 
 energetic in passages and figures than Hummel, he introduced 
 new and tasteful embellishments ; his variations on the " Alex- 
 ander March" were examples in this kind for many skilful pianists. 
 Afterwards he enlarged his style, and gave it more scope and 
 
rKANCIS LISZT. 281 
 
 elevation ; for example, in his " Fantasies" upon Irish songs. 
 Not less praise did he win in his graver compositions ; his concertos 
 showed a deep knowledge of harmony, as well as of dramatic 
 feeling. These gradually rose to his " Concert Fantastque" and 
 " Pathetique," two works as remarkable for groundwork as for 
 expression. The " Etudes" begun with Cramer, were enlarged 
 with Moscheles. He gave them a higher and more refined form, 
 and may therefore be regarded as having given in those " Etudes" 
 the first impulse of importance. Moscheles was at this height of 
 his fame, when, as has been mentioned, the boy Francis Liszt 
 came to Paris, and was received with so much enthusiasm in all 
 circles. He stood, indeed, remarks Fetis, beyond gainsaying, 
 high in his technical cultivation ; but he wanted that, which, 
 besides his remarkable and interesting personnel, could be pro- 
 duced to the world as an abiding and decisive mark ; in a word, 
 his wild, fiery, eccentric genius wanted the peculiar school which 
 exhibited itself and him as a definite epoch in the history of art. 
 His early compositions were full of difficulties ; from all the figures 
 shone the fire that blazed around the productions of the youthful 
 artist. Those who asked for schools and industry in this wildly 
 luxuriant natural garden, were sure to be disappointed. 
 
 At this time suddenly appeared Thalberg in Paris, and produced 
 such an impression as no pianist had before him. Not that in 
 playing he could have surpassed, or even equalled Liszt ; but he 
 had the tact to seize upon a happy idea, which was at once under- 
 stood. This related to the filling up of the keys in the space 
 between the hands. ( See Revue, etc. ) 
 
 This innovation was not altogether suffered to pass as such ; it 
 was asserted that Beethoven had already availed himself of these 
 means in his sonatas ; and blame was now cast upon the very 
 exaggeration which gave a certain uniformity, perhaps more, to 
 the structure and effect of his compositions. This view is only 
 made prominent in order to obtain for Liszt the proper point of 
 sight, from which to measure his reaction, and the gigantic height 
 he gained. 
 
282 FKANCIS LISZT. 
 
 Liszt had already left Paris, when Thalberg appeared there, 
 but the rumor of his success and triumph reached his ears. It 
 caused him sleepless nights. Let us imagine the feelings of an 
 artist, conscious of his own power, knowing himself without a rival, 
 yet seeing another suddenly elevated in popular opinion to an 
 equality with him — perhaps generally judged to be his superior ! 
 Liszt felt that wrong had been done him, and hastened back to 
 Paris. Thalberg was no longer there ; but there was a division 
 of opinion and judgment among the Parisians, as once there had 
 been between the Grluckists and Piccinists. The talk was now of 
 Lisztians and Thalbergians ; strife ran high between the parties ; 
 and to observe it and hear their disputes was the most interesting 
 amusement of the fashionable world. Liszt did not this time go 
 before the public, to become acquainted, perhaps, only with his 
 own enthusiastic partisans ; but indulged his speculations in soli- 
 tude. His clear spirit could discover the folly and worthlessness 
 of popular idolatry, and scorn to win it by means he felt to be 
 unworthy his genius. 
 
 Three years passed, in which the name of Liszt was but seldom, 
 and at intervals, heard. The lives of gifted men seem to need 
 such pauses to prepare for a full development of what is within 
 them. The electric fluid must be gathered in secret, before the 
 lightning of genius can break on the dazzled eyes of men, and its 
 thunder amaze the world. 
 
 What he did during this interval, says Fetis, few know, notwith- 
 standing the enthusiasm he everywhere excited. The charming 
 "iitciffi /awtome," and the wonderful combination of fantasies 
 upon " Robert the Devil" — give but incomplete evidence of his 
 employment. Even those who heard him improvise at the concert 
 at Liege an admirable capriccio on a thema to all appearance 
 barren, given him by the audience ; those who heard his per- 
 formance, prima vista, of the most difficult passages in accumu- 
 lated pieces from illegible manuscripts, which he executed with 
 so much readiness as to astonish the authors themselves, and with 
 infinite ease ; those who know how many great compositions are 
 
FRANCIS LISZT. 283 
 
 impressed on his memory, so that he can execute any one of them 
 at any moment ; those who know him for the most complete musi- 
 cian of our time, and the most gifted in his way ; even they have 
 no idea of the thorough change which took place in his creative 
 power during the three years spent by him in retirement. 
 
 Fetis goes on, in his philosophical manner, to explain how the 
 doings of Thalberg, suggesting new combinations to the mind of 
 our artist, already busy with improvements, wrought a change in 
 him, and impelled him upon a path that was quite his own. The 
 victory was accomplished ; and triumphantly could the question 
 now be answered — " Is Liszt also distinguished as a composer ?" 
 
 Liszt has recorded his new views, and the forms invented by 
 him, in an immense work, entitled " Three years of wandering." 
 The first part contains recollections of Switzerland, the second 
 recollections of Italy, the third of Germany. Fetis says, " I was 
 indulged by the artist with a hearing of some portions of it ; and 
 must do him the justice to say, that these displayed most un- 
 common attainments in art. Perhaps it will be said, when the 
 work appears, that the composer has had the orchestra more in 
 view than the piano — yet I know not if this objection is not praise 
 rather than blame. However it may be, I will not forestall the 
 judgment of competent critics by recording my simple impressions. 
 I merely quote the 'Etudes ^execution transcendante,'' which have 
 particularly led me to this long exposition," &c. 
 
 We have found it necessary to follow this writer so far, because 
 his remarks help to develop the personal history of Liszt, and to 
 place his individuality with regard to art in a strong light. Fetis 
 is, besides, such a well known and universally respected authority 
 in the higher musical studies, that he will be gladly listened to in 
 his observations on a genius so remarkable. 
 
 Those who venture to deny Liszt a general talent for composi- 
 tion, will find they have measured him by false and inapplicable 
 rules. The foundation of composition is Imagination, the living, 
 powerful creative faculty. Let us take only those works which 
 show most clearly Liszt's art, and the subtlety of his spirit — the 
 
284 FRANCIS LISZT. 
 
 Transpositions* of Beethoven's symphonies, and the songs of 
 Schubert. It cannot be doubted that a power of imagination has 
 here been displayed by him, such as would not be needed for 
 another original work. 
 
 Liszt in these has not merely copied ; he has emulated with 
 creative power ; and so successfully that there is a second birth. 
 These transpositions, grand in the symphonies, tender in the songs 
 — are the culminating point of musical plastic power. It is im- 
 possible to particularize the expression with more subtlety ; to 
 express the spirit more accurately and fully. Therein lies a 
 brilliant conception of harmonious completeness, that fills the 
 heart and soul alike, when those spiritual graces press upon 
 them. In truth, one should only hear that genesis of pastoral 
 symphony — those wonderful pictures, called into life by the 
 powerful and magic touch of Liszt. Any other virtuoso, were 
 he the most accomplished and excellent of players, would have 
 given us, instead of divine poetry, only massive, or at best, tasteful 
 prose ! 
 
 In 1837, Liszt felt the earnest desire of poetical spirits, to visit 
 the great world The swan also spreads her silver wings, and 
 sails southward, towards the land of beauty and song ; of art and 
 antiquity — towards Italy > That is peculiarly the land of song ; 
 it is well known how the heart there opens to, and welcomes all 
 that bears the name of music. From Milan to Venice, from 
 Florence to Naples, a dazzling flame of enthusiasm surrounded 
 the artist. In all these places Liszt gave concerts, which were 
 attended by crowded audiences. He abode some time in Rome, 
 to the delight of the people ; and the walls of the Engelsburgh 
 resounded to the echo of his renown. External nature seemed to 
 smile upon him : he himself says, he was wonderfully benefited 
 by the pure air and the cloudless sky. He had not in a long 
 time enjoyed such health and serenity. And his compositions 
 
 * Uebertragungen. 
 
FKANCIS LISZT. 285 
 
 have the aame purity and clearness as the atmosphere. There 
 originated those grand and marvellous transpositions, of which 
 mention is made above ; there were written his " Nuits de Pausi- 
 lippe.." One may ask himself, if out of all these does not breathe 
 a kind of classic repose — elevating the feelings and inspiring a 
 calm delight, like the pure beauty of a moonlight heaven in that 
 lovely land ! Our artist confesses that he, at this period, passed 
 beyond the time of wild exuberance in feeling — of stormy rest- 
 lessness, of mystical fantasy ; and that he owed the clearing up 
 of his spirit to the country and nature around him. Thus com- 
 posed, he went to Germany, Carlsruhe, Munich, Stuttgart ; in 
 short, all the principal cities of southern Germany heard his 
 magical performance with astonishment. All the journals and 
 papers held but one language respecting him — that of enthusiastic 
 admiration. But in the midst of this appreciation and these 
 honors, the longing to revisit home was awakened in his breast. 
 One morning he sprang suddenly out of bed, and ordered his 
 horse to be got ready. What to him was the applause, the 
 homage of strangers ! he longed to be again where he had been 
 first seen and heard. " For Hungary !" This impatience was 
 the pure desire of a grateful heart. 
 
 Liszt did not deceive himself. How he was received, how he 
 was valued, all Hungary can witness. It is impossible to describe 
 the joy with which he was welcomed by old and young, high and 
 low ; by artists and critics, even to the highest in the land. He 
 was the loved theme of all tongues. Mothers told their children 
 how the " little Francis" had become another Emperor Francis 
 in the kingdom of art ; how he had made himself so great and 
 famous ; and how he could play a whole book full of strange and 
 beautiful stories on the piano. He gave concerts — first in Vienna, 
 then in Pesth — not to promote his own interest, but for the ben- 
 efit of the poor, who had met with severe losses by the inundation ; 
 and for young artists, to enable them to prosecute their studies. 
 
 The noble and generous philanthropy of this conduct made a 
 proper impression upon his countrymen. Two cities, Pesth and 
 
286 FRANCIS LISZT. 
 
 Oedenburg, created him an honorary citizen ; a patent of nobility 
 was solicited for him by the Comitat of Oedenburg ; and the 
 " Sword of Honor," according to Hungarian custom, was pre- 
 sented to him with due solemnities. This episode deserves par- 
 ticularly to be noticed. The following account is taken from an 
 authentic journal : 
 
 " The national feeling of the Magyars is well known ; and 
 proud are they of that star of the first magnitude, which arose out 
 of their nation. Over the countries of Germany the fame of the 
 Hungarian Liszt came to them, before they had as yet an oppor- 
 tunity of admiring him. The Danube was swelled by rains ; Pesth 
 was inundated ; thousands were mourning the loss of friends and 
 relations, or of all their property. During his absence in Milan, 
 Liszt learned that many of his countrymen were suffering from 
 want. His resolution was taken. The smiling heaven of Italy 
 — the dolcc far niente of southern life — could not detain him. 
 The following morning he had quitted Milan, and was on his way 
 to Vienna. He performed for the benefit of those who had suf- 
 fered by the inundation of Pesth. His art was the horn of plenty, 
 from which streamed blessings for the unfortunate. Eighteen 
 months afterwards he came to Pesth — not as the artist in search 
 of pecuniary advantage — but as a Magyar. He played for the 
 Hungarian National Theatre ; for the Musical Society ; for the 
 poor of Pesth, and the poor in Oedenburg ; always before crowded 
 houses ; and the proceeds, full 100,000 francs, were appropriated 
 to those purposes and those institutions. Who can wonder that 
 admiration and pride should rise to enthusiasm in the breasts of 
 his grateful countrymen ? The distinguished artist — the noble- 
 hearted man — deserved it all ! In the theatre, in the street — 
 Liszt was everywhere greeted with acclamations and vivats. He 
 was complimented by serenades ; garlands were thrown to him ; 
 in short, the population of Pesth neglected nothing to manifest 
 their respect, gratitude, and affection. 
 
 " But these honors, which might have been paid to any other 
 artist of high distinction, did not satisfy them. They resolved to 
 
FRANCIS 1ISZT. 287 
 
 bind him forever to the Hungarian nation, from which he had 
 sprung. He was therefore made an honorary citizen of Pesth 
 and Oedenburg, and a deputation of persons of consideration 
 • informed him that a patent of nobility had been asked for him 
 from the Emperor and King. A still closer bond, however, was 
 desired. The token of manly honor in Hungary is the sword ; 
 every Magyar has the right to wear a sword, and avails himself 
 of that right. It was determined that their celebrated country- 
 man should be presented with the Hungarian sword of honor. 
 The noblemen appeared at the theatre in the rich costume they 
 usually wear before the Emperor, and presented Liszt, amid 
 thunders of applause from the whole assembled people, with a 
 costly sword of honor. In receiving this, he was expected to 
 enter into a solemn engagement to bind himself forever to the 
 Hungarian people, and to reside in Hungary.'''' 
 
 In the autumn of 1840, Liszt went from Paris, where he had 
 been for some time, to the north of Germany, and particularly to 
 Hamburg. Here also, where the people are colder and less im- 
 pulsive, his reception was the same as it had been elsewhere, 
 wherever his admirable performance had been heard. He saw 
 even adversaries silenced and ashamed ; and enemies converted 
 into the warmest friends, who were loudest in his praise. To show 
 Liszt's power of memory and his intimate knowledge of the best 
 pieces of music, it is only necessary to mention one instance among 
 many. One evening in public he was requested to select and 
 perform one of Beethoven's sonatas. He announced his willing- 
 ness to play, and desired that the piece might be chosen. " Sonata 
 quasi fantasia," cried some one. Liszt consented ; did he go to 
 fetch the work ? No — he played it at once from memory ! 
 
 From Hamburg Liszt went to London. Enthusiasm, applause, 
 sympathy, met him everywhere ; he was courted by all. In four- 
 teen days he gave nine concerts. He spared no exertion to fulfil 
 expectation and satisfy his friends. Here a misfortune overtook 
 him ; he lost, through the carelessness of an agent, the proceeds 
 of three hundred concerts. Imagine the feelings of the artist, 
 
288 FRANCIS LISZT. 
 
 exhausted both in mind and body, at the receipt of this disastrous 
 news ! But he knew that his true riches lay in his art ; and that 
 it was his best support. With a cheerful spirit, notwithstanding 
 his reverses, he left the British Islands, to return to the banks of 
 the Seine. From Paris, where he played for the Beethoven 
 monument, and won universal applause by his Robert-fcmtaisies, 
 he went a second time to Hamburg, to shine the brightest star in 
 the north German firmament. The deepest admiration, the silent 
 throb of heartfelt enjoyment, greeted his appearance. Thence he 
 went to Kiel ; where, immediately on his arrival, and as it were 
 on the wing, he gave a concert, proceeding to embark for Copen- 
 hagen. He played not less than seven times before the court : 
 and here, as among the Parisians, commanded unbounded admira- 
 tion. The citizens thronged to the concerts, impelled by curiosity, 
 and returned home full of enthusiasm for the great performer. 
 Once more he went back to Hamburg, and thence to the Rhine. 
 What an agreeable entertainment was prepared for him, under 
 the purple clusters of those vineyards, the reader may presently 
 judge. 
 
 After Liszt, with his wonted kindness, had offered to give a 
 concert in Cologne, the proceeds of which were to be appropriated 
 to the completion of the Cathedral, the Ehenish " Lhdertafd,"* 
 resolved to bring him with due pomp from the island of Nonnen- 
 werth, near Bonn, where he had been for some days. This was 
 on the twenty-second of August, 1841. A steamboat was hired 
 expressly for this purpose, and conveyed a numerous company to 
 Nonnenwerth at eleven in the morning. The " Liedertafel" then 
 greeted the artist, who stood on the shore, by singing a morning 
 salute, accompanied by the firing of cannon, and loud huzzas. 
 They then marched, with wind instruments in advance, to the 
 now empty chapel of the cloister of Nonnenwerth, where again 
 they sang ; and thence to Bolandseck, where an elegant dinner 
 was prepared for the company. All eyes were fixed upon Liszt ; 
 all hearts were turned to him. He proposed a toast in honor of 
 
 * A musical club. 
 
FRANCIS LISZT. 289 
 
 his entertainers, and at the conclusion of his speech observed 
 with justice that nowhere in the world could any club be found 
 like the " Liedertafel" in Germany. When the banquet was 
 over they returned to Nonnenwerth, where a crowd of people 
 from the surrounding country was assembled. The universal 
 wish to hear Liszt was so evident that he was induced to send for 
 a piano, to be brought into the chapel : and to gratify the assem- 
 bly — listening, and rapt with delight — by a display of his tran- 
 scendant powers. The desolate halls of the chapel once more 
 resounded with the stir and voices of life. Not even the nuns, 
 we will venture to say, who in former times used here to send up 
 prayers to heaven, were impressed with a deeper sense of the 
 heavenly, than was this somewhat worldly assembly by the mag- 
 nificent music of Liszt, that seemed indeed to disclose things beyond 
 this earth. At seven o'clock, the " Liedertafel," with Liszt at 
 their head, marched on their return, and went on board the steam- 
 boat, which was decorated with colored flags, amid peals of cannon. 
 It was nine, and quite dark, when they approached their landing. 
 Rockets were sent up from the boat, and a continual stream of 
 colored fireworks ; so that as the city rose before them from the 
 bosom of the Ehine, the boat seemed enveloped in a circle of 
 brilliant flame, which threw its reflection far over the waters. 
 Music and huzzas greeted our artist on shore ; and all Cologne 
 was assembled to give him the splendid welcome, which in other 
 times only monarchs received. Slowly the procession of the " Lie- 
 dertafel" moved through the multitude to the hotel, where again 
 and again, shouts and cheers testified the joy of the people at the 
 arrival of their distinguished guest. 
 
 With the above illustration of the enthusiasm with which Liszt 
 is received among those who know how to appreciate him, we end 
 this brief sketch of his life. 
 
 In the personal conversation of Liszt, there is nothing eccen- 
 tric or bizarre, as is often found with celebrated artists. He is 
 
290 FRANCIS LISZT. 
 
 attentive, cordial, takes an interest in general subjects of conver- 
 sation, and is affable to all. Only where bis dignity as an artist 
 is concerned, does be show that imposing manner, of earnestness 
 bordering on severity or gloom, wbicb has been noticed as belong- 
 ing to him. He speaks with a measured propriety of his own 
 performances ; bears every opinion respecting it with careful 
 attention, but will never depart from what tends to the develop- 
 ment of his own ideas in art. He yields as much as justice re- 
 quires to the critics, but will never permit them to mould him by 
 their judgment. " As I have begun, and carried on thus far, I 
 will complete," said he once. The original artist must live out 
 his own system. 
 
 Liszt commonly speaks quickly, rapidly, and abruptly ; be often 
 hesitates in his speech, from the want of words. His mind is so 
 active, his perceptions so quick, that it is difficult to find ready 
 expression ; and while thus embarrassed, his countenance assumes 
 a fixed, stern look, the brow contracted as if in anger. But when 
 any one helps him out with a word, he smiles, and nodding his 
 head, replies " yes — yes" — moving his head while listening, and 
 waiting for what the other will say. In social intercourse he is 
 thoroughly at his ease, and seems to forget that he is at all dis- 
 tinguished. He always shows himself ready to comply with the 
 most timidly expressed wish that he should play for a dance ; but 
 it pleases him well when his wild, original Galoppe chromatique 
 cannot be danced by. "It will not do ;" he will say. " It will 
 not give up the place where it belongs." 
 
 Liszt's whole physiognomy is of the Hungarian character ; his 
 thick fair brown hair falls in masses on his neck, where it is cut 
 off short ; bis features are all strongly marked ; his eyes rather 
 long than large, bright and deepset, shadowed by dark eyebrows. 
 His look is penetrating, and has something in it of conscious su- 
 periority ; yet though it may occasion uneasiness to the object, it 
 has too much mildness to inspire fear. All the portraits represent 
 him too strong and stout. Liszt is of a slight and thin figure ; his 
 shoulders are drawn up from constant playing, but his hands are 
 
FRANCIS LISZT. 291 
 
 delicate and well proportioned ; seeing them, one can hardly 
 understand how he can play such things as the Symphonies and 
 the Kobert-Fantaisies. In this respect, he has something that 
 might be called Paganinish ; unbounded energy of spirit, and 
 indomitable strength of will — developed in the most delicate phys- 
 ical organization. In short, the whole appearance of Liszt be- 
 tokens, to the most casual observer, the indwelling of that high 
 and wonderful genius, before which the world has bowed in rev- 
 erential acknowledgment. His entrance into the concert-room 
 generally draws from the assembly — particularly from the ladies — 
 the exclamation, " Ah ! what an interesting man ! What an 
 interesting figure !" 
 
292 TAMBUKINI. 
 
 TAMSFS1!!, 
 
 It was rather late in the evening of a day in autumn, 182-, 
 that two well dressed persons were seen standing before a small 
 house in one of the principal streets of Milan. They leaned 
 against the railing at the foot of the steps, and were listening 
 with such apparent attention, that their attitude and employ- 
 ment might have excited observation, but that a certain high- 
 bred air indicated them to be above suspicion, and the deli- 
 cious music heard from the house fully justified them in pausing 
 to listen. 
 
 The music was low, plaintive and touching, and accompanied 
 by a clear and melodious male voice. Now and then it swelled 
 into deeper pathos, the voice being evidently interrupted by sobs ; 
 and one of the listeners, deeply moved, turned aside to brush a 
 tear from his eyes. After it had continued some time with these 
 alternations of harmonious complaint, it was suddenly broken off, 
 and a dead silence succeeded. 
 
 " Poor Antonio !" said one of the gentlemen, with a deep sigh ; 
 " this affliction will kill him." 
 
 " Nay," answered his companion, " I have no fear. He has 
 youth, health, ambition, to sustain him ; and though I know he 
 feels " 
 
 " But you know not Antonio as I do, Konza," rejoined the 
 other. " It is the exquisite sensibility of his nature, the deep 
 and passionate feeling hid under his graceful and composed ex- 
 terior, that, even more than qualities merely professional, has 
 contributed to his fame as the first of modern singers. And this 
 
TAHBURINI. 293 
 
 exquisitely toned instrument, that yields such melody to the lightest 
 touch, may be as easily shattered." 
 
 " He loved his mother devotedly ; but — ado — did he expect to 
 survive her ?" 
 
 " Ah ! she was more than mother to him ; he owed her his 
 intellectual, his spiritual being. She directed his pure soul to the 
 enjoyments alone fitted for him ; she led him to the shrine of Art. 
 No, Ronza, do not blame his grief." 
 
 " I do not blame it. I only say that the deepest wound, even 
 in natures like his, may the sooner be healed ! But let us go in." 
 
 The two friends ascended the steps, and knocked. They were 
 admitted, and as they anticipated, found the person they had 
 come to seek, plunged in a grief that defied all consolation — the 
 more to be dreaded, as his outward manner was cold and calm. 
 It was the snow upon the mountain, whose breast was consuming 
 in volcanic fires. 
 
 " And yet I am grateful for your coming," he said, after every 
 commonplace source of consolation had been exhausted in their kind 
 efforts to divert his mind from the contemplation of the calamity 
 that had crushed him. " I cannot now say how grateful, but 
 you will forgive my lack of words. Will you pardon, also, Count 
 Albert, my entreating you to take charge of these papers ?" 
 
 And opening a drawer, he took out several letters and handed 
 them to the count. 
 
 " How — you do not now think of leaving Milan ?" 
 
 " No — but I retire from the world. To-morrow I enter the 
 Convent di ." 
 
 Count Albert di G-aeta and the Marchese di Ronza exchanged 
 looks of dismay. 
 
 " So sudden a project ." 
 
 " It is not sudden. My resolution has been formed since the 
 day of my mother's death, and my application was forwarded im- 
 mediately. I expect a reply to it every hour." 
 
 " You have been imprudent, my friend," said the Marchese. 
 " You will regret the precipitation of this step." 
 
294 TAMBUB.INI. 
 
 " And what have I now to live for ?" asked the mourner, 
 bitterly. 
 
 " For fame," replied di Konza. 
 
 " For art," said Count Albert. 
 
 The bereaved artist shook his head. 
 
 " When, at eighteen years of age," he said, " I met with my 
 first triumph at Bologna ; when the public far and near were 
 pleased to applaud me, what, think you, was my joy in the enthusi- 
 asm I awakened ? That she rejoiced in my success ; that she 
 encouraged me to persevering effort ; that I was earning honor and 
 competence for her enjoyment in old age. Now I have lost my 
 only stimulus to exertion ; I have lost my love of art ; my facul- 
 ties are paralyzed." 
 
 " This is not natural," observed the Marchese, gravely. 
 
 " But it is truth. The world is a desert to me ; I leave it. 
 The church offers me an asylum. I accept it as a refuge where I 
 can bear with me her memory for whom alone I wished to live !" 
 
 " Your friends," said di Ronza, somewhat haughtily, " may 
 not thank you for your exclusion of them. You have many to 
 whom your success is a part of their daily joy. And yet, gifted 
 with health, beauty, genius, not yet twenty-five, you would hide 
 yourself in the cowl and scapulary from the admiration of men — 
 the love of woman ." 
 
 The mourner gave an involuntary and impatient gesture. The 
 Marchese saw that his brow was crimson, and a new light seemed 
 to break on Ronza's mind, for a meaning smile played for an 
 instant on his lip. It was gone before either of his companions 
 perceived it. 
 
 " Before we part," asked he, " will you sing us this air from 
 the Cenerentola ?" and he took up a leaf of music. 
 
 " Nay," interposed Count Albert, " it is wrong to ask this. 
 How unsuitable this song to the gloom of his feelings !" 
 
 " The better, that the power of music may for an instant dis- 
 pel his melancholy thoughts. Come, Antonio, I will join you." 
 
 Antonio complied, and seated himself at the piano to sing. 
 
TAMBUHINI. 295 
 
 Ronza accompanied him, watching him closely all the while, and 
 nodded his head with an expression of satisfaction when the air 
 was concluded. 
 
 There was a knock at the door ; Antonio arose from the instru- 
 ment. The portiere entered, and handed him a letter. He 
 begged pardon of his friends, and broke the seal ; glanced over 
 the contents, and buried his face in his hands. 
 
 The friends sat in silent sympathy. At length, in obedience to 
 a sign from the mourner, Count Albert took the letter up and 
 read it. It was an answer from the superiors of the Convent 
 
 di . His application was rejected ; their doors were closed 
 
 against " an actor." 
 
 Courteously as the denial was expressed, it was evident that 
 Antonio felt the implied insult to his profession ; and indignation 
 for the moment rose above his grief. 
 
 " The creed is indeed exclusive," he said, bitterly, " that 
 refuses an actor space for repentance and preparation for 
 death." 
 
 " They are right," said the Marchese, somewhat abruptly. 
 " What sort of a monk would you make, Antonio mio ? Your 
 sorrow is profound, but it must in time abate ; your heart will 
 rise from its depression ; you will feel once again the impulse of 
 genius and ambition." 
 
 " Never !" interrupted the artist. 
 
 " I tell you, you will. I am old in the world, and therefore a 
 true prophet. You will, and the time is not far distant. In the 
 convent, your eyes would be opened, only that you might see the 
 gloom surrounding you ; your wings would expand, only that you 
 might feel the weight that chained them to earth — forever ! For 
 I know you well enough to know that once fettered by the vows, 
 you would die ere fling them off ! They are right ; they foresee 
 the result. Be warned in time !" 
 
 " My resolution is unalterable," said Antonio. " Milan is not 
 the world. In four days I shall leave it, and seek elsewhere the 
 asylum I cannot obtain here. I am heart-broken and wretched; 
 
296 T A M i U R I N I . 
 
 I cannot live among the scenes and associations of my past life. 
 Better for me the grave of the suicide !" 
 
 " This must be remedied, and speedily," said Count Albert to 
 his companion, after they had quitted their friend, whose sufferings 
 seemed in no degree alleviated by their sympathy, " or nature 
 ■will give way. That wild look of anguish ; that fevered flush ; 
 the hurried and abrupt movement ; the visible emaciation of his 
 whole frame ; all these make me shudder. An organization so 
 susceptible, so delicate, cannot withstand so mighty a shock. 
 Suffer this grief to prey upon him, and in three months he will 
 fall its victim." 
 
 " You are right," replied di Eonza. " There is danger, and it 
 must be averted. The world has no overplus of genius and worth, 
 that we can afford to lose a Tamburini." 
 
 " But the means ." 
 
 " I have thought, and still think of them. Join me at my lodg- 
 ings at ten. For the present I have an engagement. A rivederci." 
 
 And the friends separated. 
 
 The scene was a handsomely furnished drawing-room in the 
 house of Madame Gioja. This lady — French by birth, celebrated 
 for her many graces and accomplishments, — was the daughter of 
 the Count Gaetani, and wedded in early youth to the Marquis de 
 Miriallia. His jealous love for the beautiful creature he had 
 espoused prompted his last will, which made the forfeiture of his 
 fortune the penalty of her secorfd marriage. Surrounded by 
 luxury and admiration, moving in the most exalted circles, the 
 lovely widow cast her eyes upon a young artist, dependent on his 
 profession for support. Love proved stronger than ambition, and 
 she gave up splendor to share the lot of the poor man whom her 
 heart had chosen. Her friends were indignant ; she was deprived 
 of her liberty ; but being afterwards released from imprisonment, 
 she left her native country to lead a wandering life, consoled for 
 all her sacrifices by the love of her husband and children. 
 
TAMBUKINI. 297 
 
 Madame Gioja was reading by a small table in the centre of the 
 room. A young girl of exquisite beauty was playing at the piano, 
 sometimes accompanying the music with her voice ; and ever and 
 anon the elder lady would look up from her book with a glance so 
 full of tenderness and pride, that the spectator needed not to have 
 observed the striking resemblance between the two to be certain 
 of their relationship. The looks were such as only beam from a 
 mother's eyes upon a beloved and only daughter. 
 
 " The Marchese di Ronza," said the portiere, throwing open 
 the door. 
 
 Madame Gioja rose to receive her guest. The visit was unusual 
 for one of rank so high ; for the lady, be it remembered, had 
 descended in marrying to the condition of her husband, and he was 
 no associate of nobles. But she had in youth been familiar with 
 courts and princes, and in grace and dignity she was not changed ; 
 so that though surprised at the visit, no princess could have 
 received it with greater self-possession and composure. 
 
 The Marchese paid his respects to the lady, then turned to her 
 daughter, who had risen from the piano, and fixed on her so pro- 
 longed a gaze, that the mother was startled and somewhat offended. 
 She replied very gravely to some casual remark of her guest, 
 and the young girl, who seemed aware that there was an embar- 
 rassment, blushed deeply. Ronza saw he had committed an error, 
 and said with a serious air to Madame Gioja — 
 
 " May I crave the favor, madam, of a few moments' conversa- 
 tion with you on business ?" 
 
 " Certainly," answered the lady ; and turning to her daughter, 
 " You may retire, my dear Marietta." 
 
 The young lady left the room. The Marchese remained a few 
 moments silent, as if considering how he should introduce what he 
 had to say. At length he said, abruptly — 
 
 " My business concerns the Signorina, as well as yourself. It is 
 for your permission for her to sing in part of a new piece by 
 Mercadante, to be immediately produced." 
 
 Madame Gioja hesitated. 
 
298 TAMBURINI. 
 
 " I have cultivated my daughter's talent for music to the ut- 
 most," said she, " and yet I tremble to decide on her choice of 
 the art as a profession. She is so young, so sensitive, so ill able 
 to sustain herself against the many trials of an artiste " 
 
 " And is it you who talk thus ?" asked the Marchese, surprised. 
 " You, who sacrificed opulence, rank, friends, for the love of art 
 — to share the fortunes of a votary of music !" 
 
 " I am the better able," said the lady, smiling, " to judge of 
 its consolations. Of its triumphs I say nothing ; for I would not 
 have Marietta influenced by the least whisper of vanity in her 
 choice for life !" 
 
 " You are then undetermined as to your daughter's embracing 
 the profession of music ?" cried Ronza, astonished. " You have 
 perhaps, other views — other designs for her ?" 
 
 " Signore ?" said the mother, evidently not understanding the 
 drift of the question. 
 
 " Nay," said the Marchese, recovering himself, " it is not right 
 to ask such questions, at least, without confiding our whole pro- 
 ject to you, madam. And first, have no fears as to granting my 
 request. It is only before a select audience that I wish your 
 daughter to sing." 
 
 " Then my permission is freely granted," replied the lady. 
 
 " A word more. You are aware, madam, of the recent mis- 
 fortune of our friend Tamburini ?" 
 
 " The death of his mother ? Ah ! it was a terrible blow. I 
 am told he bears it not with resignation." 
 
 " Alas ! madam, the blow may cost him his life. Driven by 
 grief to despair, he has already applied for admission into the 
 Convent ." 
 
 " This is dreadful !" exclaimed the lady ; and Ronza saw that 
 her cheek grew pale. 
 
 " His application," he continued, " has been refused, as it 
 ought to be, and he is now resolved on quitting Milan. You know 
 Antonio ; you know him to be one of those fiery spirits, impatient 
 of suffering, ready to plunge into imprudence, and obstinate 
 
TAMBURINI. 299 
 
 against opposition. The only hope of saving him is to re-awaken 
 his ambition — his impulse for art." 
 
 " And how can that be done ?" 
 
 " By a master stroke, if at all ; and in this I crave your aid. 
 Your daughter — I have seen it — has much influence over our 
 spoiled artist. I have seen his emotion when she sang, at your 
 private concerts." 
 
 " You overrate her powers," said the mother, reservedly. 
 " But her aid and mine shall be cheerfully given to any enterprise 
 that promises to divert the grief of our valued friend. Your wish 
 is " 
 
 " Simply, that she will take a part in the Posto Abandanato, 
 in an act of which he will appear. A few select friends are to be 
 the audience. I will have the piece sent to her immediately." 
 
 " I promise for her." 
 
 " I thank you, madam, and the world will thank you," cried 
 the Marchese, as he paid his parting salutations and hastened to 
 his rendezvous with the count. 
 
 But the mother found opposition where she had not counted 
 upon it — from the young lady herself. Marietta seemed the more 
 averse to the proposition, the more she was reasoned with about 
 it ; and her own reasons for her reluctance were, as a petted 
 young girl's are sometimes apt to be, so frivolous, that they vexed 
 Madame Gioja. Was it obstinacy or coquetry ? thought she ; but 
 her daughter was ever wont to be complying, and above all arti- 
 fice. She told Marietta there was no receding from her word 
 pledged for her compliance ; and then, though with not a little 
 pouting, the young lady set about learning the part assigned to 
 her. 
 
 The preparations of Tamburini for leaving Milan were com- 
 plete. The amateurs of the city were in despair ; but no entrea- 
 
300 TAMBURINI. 
 
 ties could move his determination. Count Albert passed with him 
 the afternoon of the last day, to be crowned, according to the 
 earnest solicitation of numerous friends, by a private concert, in 
 which the already famous singer was to gratify them for the last 
 time. It was to be his adieu to them, to music and the world. 
 
 " You will have the goodness also, dear count, to have this 
 package delivered after my departure. It is a selection of the 
 best pieces of opera music in my collection, with the great works 
 of Grluck. Ah ! he was once my favorite master." 
 
 " Have you lost your taste for his compositions ?" 
 
 " No ; but I can no longer do them justice. I am an ingrate, 
 for if I ever had aught of energy, fire or force, I owe it to him. 
 What strength, what soul there is in his creations ! how they task 
 the noblest faculties ! Passion they have, but more than passion ; 
 it is the very mind, the genius of tragedy." 
 
 The count read the direction on the package — it was addressed 
 " To Mademoiselle Marietta Grioja." 
 
 " There is another of my lost divinities," said Antonio, with a 
 melancholy smile. " I might" — and his face flushed deeply as he 
 spoke — " had I risen to the summit I once hoped to attain, to an 
 eminence that would have conferred distinction on those I loved, 
 I might have dared to offer her the homage of my heart. Beauti- 
 ful as she is, the perfections of her person are surpassed by her 
 mental loveliness, and oh, what angelic goodness ! But I must 
 not speak of her ; it makes me bitter to think in what a delu- 
 sion I have indulged." 
 
 " Believe it, believe it yet!" cried Albert, grasping his friend's 
 hand. 
 
 " No ; I am now fully awakened. What a mockery to think 
 of one elevated so far above me ! Her aristocratic descent, the 
 pride of her mother's family, — the claims of these might have 
 been satisfied, had I lived to realize my lofty visions ! But they 
 are dispelled, and I have resigned this sweetest hope of all ; 
 cherishing only the thought that she will not perhaps disdain my 
 last gift ; that these noble and glorious works may sometimes 
 
TAMBUB.INI. 301 
 
 recall to her mind the memory of one who, had he proved worthy, 
 would have dared to love her." 
 
 " This is folly !" exclaimed the count. " You are depressed, 
 and the world seems dark to you. With time, the soother of 
 sorrow " 
 
 " You mistake, my dear friend. It is not the pressure of grief 
 alone that weighs me down, and has crushed my energies. I were 
 not a man had I not within me a principle that could bear up 
 against the heaviest calamity. But," and he laid his hand impres- 
 sively on Albert's arm, " heard you never of the death of enthusi- 
 asm V 
 
 His friend sighed deeply. 
 
 " It is thus with me. I have nothing now to offer at the shrine 
 of art. Shall I present her with a cold and soulless votary, 
 rifled of his treasure of youth, and faith, and hope ? Shall I, 
 whose spirit has flagged in the race, long ere the goal was won, 
 pluck at inferior honors ? Shall I cumber the arena to dishearten 
 others, when I can obtain no prize ? How am I to inspire the 
 public with confidence when I have lost it in myself ? How can 
 I kindle passion in others, who am dead to its fires ? No, Count 
 Albert, I have become insensible to the deepest, the highest won- 
 ders of music. I will not insult her by a dragging, desperate 
 mediocrity. I will not impede the advance of better spirits. I 
 have fallen in the battle — the honors of victory are not for me." 
 
 It was melancholy to see this paralysis, this prostration of a 
 noble spirit ! And yet, how to combat it ? Argument was in 
 vain, and the count rejoiced when this painful interview was at 
 an end. It was already evening, and time to go to the concert ; 
 the carriage was at the door. He took his friend's arm and led 
 him down. Not a word was exchanged as they drove on, till they 
 drew up and alighted at their place of destination. 
 
 It was at the house of a distinguished amateur that this final 
 concert was to take place, and the saloon had been fitted up as a 
 small theatre. A select number of auditors — many more, how- 
 ever, than the performers had expected — were seated at the upper 
 
302 TAMBUB.INI. 
 
 end of the room. The stage was brilliantly lighted, and the 
 scenery so well painted and so admirably arranged as almost to 
 bewilder the senses with illusion. All that taste and poetry could 
 devise, lent their enchantment to the scene. 
 
 Those who have observed the effect of sudden excitement on 
 minds long and deeply depressed, — that is, in temperaments highly 
 susceptible, — may conceive the conflict of emotion in the breast 
 of Antonio, as he found himself thus unexpectedly surrounded .by 
 the external splendor and beauty of scenic art. He had antici- 
 pated meeting with a few friends, to sing with them a farewell 
 song. What meant these flowery wreaths, this blaze of light, this 
 luxury of painting ? The orchestra struck up ; their music seemed 
 to penetrate his inmost soul ; the revulsion of feeling kindled a 
 wild energy within him. He felt, and at once, almost the inspira- 
 tion of early youth. Though convinced it was but momentary, he 
 yielded to the impulse and advanced upon the stage. 
 
 His symmetrical and noble figure, the grace and expression of 
 his movements, the mind beaming from his features, would at any 
 time have prepossessed an audience in his favor. Under the pre- 
 sent affecting circumstances, appealing to every heart, the wel- 
 come was tumultuous and long. Tamburini, as he acknowledged 
 it, recovered his melancholy composure. It was destined soon to 
 be overthrown. 
 
 At a little distance from him stood the heroine of the piece ; 
 like him, bewildered at the novelty of her position and the splendor 
 of her reception, and blushing in much confusion. Could Antonio 
 believe his eyes ? It was Marietta Gioja ! 
 
 With an involuntary exclamation of surprise, he hastened 
 towards her. He did not perceive either pride or coquetry in her 
 evident avoidance of him. But there was no time for explana- 
 tions. The music played on, and both performed their parts to 
 the rapturous delight of all who listened. 
 
 At last the curtain fell. The young debutante was standing 
 upon the stage ; she turned to go, but at the instant her hand was 
 clasped by Antonio and cohered with burning kisses. 
 
TAMBURINI. 303 
 
 " Marietta, dear Marietta, how can I thank you for this ?" 
 
 She struggled to withdraw her hand ; she repelled him 
 haughtily. He saw that her face was bathed in tears. 
 
 " For pity's sake, Marietta, tell me how I have offended you !" 
 
 " Let me go, sir ; it is all I ask !" 
 
 But love was stronger than reason or reserve. The torrent had 
 burst its bounds, and it must overflow. In language impassioned 
 as his own heart, irrepressible as the burning lava of a volcano, he 
 poured forth the love so long nourished in secret. He told her 
 of his hopes and fears — all, all swallowed up in earnest, ardent 
 devotion ! The tide of feeling had swept down at once both 
 memory and resolution. 
 
 The hues of the rose and lily chased each other rapidly across 
 the cheek of the beautiful girl. Suddenly, at a rustling in the 
 silken folds that veiled them from a view of the audience, she 
 snatched her hands from her lover and rushed off the stage. 
 
 Antonio was about to follow her, when Madame Gioja appeared. 
 She led by the hand her trembling and blushing daughter. 
 
 " My daughter came hither in obedience to my commands," 
 said she. " And now, Marietta, that your bashful scruples are 
 satisfied, and there is no danger that our friend can charge you 
 with any unmaidenly project for storming his heart, you may as 
 well tell him that you love him in sincerity, though in truth 
 this scene is not the fittest for a real declaration. Since it must 
 be, however, take my blessing, dear children !" 
 
 There was a continued clamor without, and frequent cries of 
 " Tamburini." Presently a corner of the curtain was raised, and 
 the Marchese di Ronza appeared, his face radiant with benevolent 
 
 joy- 
 
 " I have the happiness to announce to you, my friends, that our 
 distinguished and well beloved Antonio has concluded to defer, 
 indefinitely, his departure from Milan. You will dispense, there- 
 fore, with his farewell at present. I have reason to hope that he 
 will ere long favor us with his performance through the whole 
 piece of the Posto Abandanato, and congratulate you, as well as 
 
304 TAMBUB.INI. 
 
 myself, upon the certainty that he has no idea of abandoning his 
 post .'" 
 
 Loud, heartfelt and rapturous was the cheering that greeted 
 this announcement. Tamburini heard, and wondered in his new 
 born happiness how he could ever have yielded to despair. 
 
 Thus was a great artist rescued from self-despondency and re- 
 stored to the world. The disappointment of his first project of 
 turning recluse, was made to bring forth wholesome fruit. But 
 the Marchese, whose plan of a surprise had so admirably succeed- 
 ed, was never willing to give love all the credit it deserved. As 
 to Madame Grioja, she knew the human heart, and wondered not 
 at the result. 
 
 A short time after, the nuptials of Marietta and Antonio were 
 celebrated. Though he cherished with veneration to the end of 
 his life the memory of his mother, yet never again did he yield to 
 that self-distrust and despair, which in the true artist is burying 
 the talent committed to him. 
 
 It was near sunset on a bright and warm day in September, 182-, 
 that a gentleman and lady, dressed in travelling attire, might have 
 been seen descending the steps of a palazzo fronting on one of the 
 principal canals of Venice. They were followed by an attendant, 
 another having gone before with their luggage, and deposited it in 
 a plain looking gondola fastened at the foot of the steps. The 
 travellers took their seats in this gondola, and as they pushed off, 
 observed two gentlemen ascend the steps of the house they had 
 just quitted, and ring at the door. While they were talking with 
 the porter, a turn in the canal carried the gondola out of sight. 
 
 " Who knows what we have escaped, Marietta, cara ?" said the 
 male passenger. " If my eyes inform me rightly, one of yon 
 cavaliers is Signor Bordoni, a friend of the Impressario here, come 
 doubtless to tempt me with some new piece, and urge me to 
 stay." 
 
 " I should not regret an accident that kept us longer in 
 
TAMBURINI. 305 
 
 Venice," observed the lady. " You are, I know, well appreci- 
 ated." 
 
 " We will return ; oh, yes ! We are not bidding a long adieu 
 to the sea-born city. But I must not disappoint our friends at 
 Trieste." 
 
 " How lovely a scene !" exclaimed the lady, after a pause of 
 some length. 
 
 And in truth it was beautiful. The sun had set, but his beams 
 yet lingered on the towers and cupolas of the palaces of Venice, 
 and on the light clouds that overhung them like a canopy of gold. 
 They had passed from the canal, where light boats were shooting 
 to and fro in every direction, and the sound of footsteps and lively 
 voices filled the air, into one of the lagunes, where a complete still- 
 ness prevailed, broken only by the plash of the water as the oars 
 dipped, and the gentle ripple as the boat swept on, and the soft- 
 ened, distant murmur of human life and motion in a great city. 
 The moon rose large, and round, and bright, in the east. There 
 was a delicious mistiness in the atmosphere that mellowed every 
 object ; a dreamy and luxurious softening, like the languor that 
 enhances the charms of an oriental beauty. At no great distance 
 lay the vessel that was to convey the passengers to Trieste, wait- 
 ing for them and the hour appointed to set sail. 
 
 " See that large gondola yonder !" said the lady, laying her 
 hand suddenly on her husband's arm. " How gracefully it glides 
 over the waters ; and it seems to follow straight on our course." 
 
 It came onward, indeed, with almost incredible velocity ; and 
 was now near enough for them to observe that it was painted 
 black, and moreover of a somewhat peculiar construction. 
 
 " It is a government boat," said the man. 
 
 " She has armed men on board," remarked their attendant. 
 " She bears directly upon us." 
 
 " Antonio !" exclaimed the lady, pressing close to her husband 
 with an expression of apprehension. 
 
 " Be not alarmed, Marietta niia ; they mean us no harm — 
 though sooth to say, it is somewhat discourteous to follow us so 
 
306 TAMBURINI. 
 
 closely. Hold there," he cried to the gondolier ; " let us rest a 
 moment and see what they want with us." 
 
 The gondolier backed water with his oars so dexterously, that 
 the course of the light vessel was checked in an instant, and she 
 quivered on the water without making a foot's progress. At the 
 same moment the other boat came along side, and also stopped 
 An officer wearing the imperial uniform stood up and signed to the 
 gondolier as if forbidding him to proceed. 
 
 " May I ask, signore, what this means ?" demanded the gentle- 
 man passenger. " We are in haste." 
 
 " And we also," replied the officer. " I am in search of a per- 
 son called Antonio Tamburini." 
 
 "I am he." 
 
 " It is well. You will please accompany me." 
 
 " That is impossible. I am about to sail for Trieste. We are 
 on our way to the vessel." 
 
 " You must return. I have an order for your arrest." And 
 he exhibited an order, signed by the proper authorities, and made 
 out in due form, for the arrest of Antonio Tamburini. 
 
 The lady uttered a half shriek, and clung to her husband. 
 
 " Here is some mistake, signor. I am the singer Tamburini. 
 I have never, interfered in politics ; I have nothing to do with the 
 government. I am but a chance passenger through Venice." 
 
 " My orders are positive," said the officer, with some appearance 
 of impatience. " Make way there ;" and while his armed attend- 
 ants moved so as to allow seats for the prisoners, he offered his 
 hand to the lady to assist her into the other boat. 
 
 Our hero was sufficiently vexed at this unexpected delay, but 
 saw that it was inevitable. Offering his arm to his wife, he helped 
 her to change her place, and gave directions for the transfer of 
 his luggage. In a few minutes they were retracing their course 
 across the lagune. 
 
 Not a word was spoken by any of the party, except that once 
 the officer inquired if the lady's seat was eommodious. Notwith- 
 standing the silence, however, his manner and that of his men was 
 
TAMBURINI. 307 
 
 respectful in the highest degree ; and this circumstance somewhat 
 encouraged the hopes of his prisoners that their unpleasant deten- 
 tion might be followed by no serious misfortune. But who could 
 penetrate the mysteries of governmental policy, or the involutions 
 of its suspicion ? 
 
 Thus it was not without misgiving that Tamburini entered 
 Venice on his compulsory return ; and these apprehensions were 
 strengthened when he saw it was not the intention of his guards to 
 conduct him to his late residence. They passed the Palazzo 
 
 di ; the arcades of San Marco. They were not far from the 
 
 ancient ducal palace. Thoughts of a prison, of secret denuncia- 
 tions, of unknown accusers, of trial and sentence, were busy in 
 Antonio's brain, and caused him to move uneasily. As for the 
 lady, she was pale as death, and hardly able to support herself 
 upright. The more inexplicable seemed the danger the greater 
 was her dread. Once she leaned towards her husband and whis- 
 pered, in a touching tone of distress — " My mother — how will she 
 feel when she knows what has befallen us !" 
 
 Gentle and generous instinct of woman ! Her first thought 
 under the severest pressure of calamity is always for the dear 
 ones whom the blow that crushes her perchance may bruise ! 
 
 At length the gondola stopped. The moon was shining so 
 brightly, that the marble steps seemed almost to radiate light. 
 There was a hum of voices at a distance, and tones of music at 
 intervals floated on the air ; but all was still immediately around 
 them. Two of the guard took their places on either side of the 
 prisoners ; two followed ; the officer walked before and led the 
 way up a dark flight of steps that terminated in a wide corridor. 
 This, too, was only lighted by a torch carried in the hand of one 
 of the attendants. 
 
 " Antonio, whither are we going ?" asked Madame Tamburini, 
 in a feeble voice, and leaning heavily on her husband's arm, half 
 fainting with affright. 
 
 " Courage, my beloved !" answered he, supporting her with his 
 arm : " we shall soon know the worst." 
 
308 TAMBURINI. 
 
 Crossing the corridor, they entered another long gallery, and 
 walked its whole length in silence, stopping before a massive door 
 at the lower end. The officer directed the door to be opened. It 
 swung on its hinges with a most dungeon-like grating, and the 
 prisoners were ushered into the next apartment. 
 
 The sudden light, combined with the effect of overpowering 
 surprise, nearly completed the work of terror on the lady's 
 trembling frame ; she would have fallen to the earth had not the 
 officer supported her. Several persons came crowding round to 
 offer their assistance. Tamburini thought himself fallen into a 
 trance, and rubbed his eyes. They stood in the green-room of 
 the opera house ! 
 
 This, then, was their dungeon ! And what meant this bold 
 invasion of their liberty ? — this marching them back as prisoners, 
 under guard, and in fear of their lives ? Was it the work of the 
 Impressario ? Apparently not — for he stood with open eyes and 
 mouth, as much astonished as the rest at the unexpected appari- 
 tion of the distinguished singer. He turned an inquiring look 
 towards the officer. 
 
 " I know what you would ask, Signor Tamburini," replied the 
 cool official, " and will give you all the satisfaction in my power. 
 I have the honor to announce to you the commands of His Ma- 
 jesty the Emperor. It is his imperial will that you perform this 
 night in the Marriage of Figaro. The Emperor himself, with 
 His Majesty the Emperor of Kussia, will honor the performance 
 with his presence." 
 
 Who is there that had the happiness of being present on that 
 memorable occasion, of witnessing the brilliant and graceful per- 
 formance of Tamburini, that can forget it ? The splendor of the 
 scene, the countless number of spectators, comprising the beauty 
 and aristocracy of the most aristocratic of Italian cities, assembled 
 in the presence of two of the most powerful monarchs in Europe ; 
 the pomp of royalty ; the enthusiasm of a people eager to do 
 homage to genius ; the gorgeous decorations of the theatre ; the 
 admirable aid of a well chosen orchestra — all these were but 
 
TAMBURINI. 309 
 
 accessories to the triumph of the young and distinguished artist. 
 It was for him this glorious pageant was devised — he was the 
 power that set in motion this vast machinery ! What wonder that 
 human pride failed to withstand a tribute so splendid, and that 
 Tamburini, as he trod the stage, and listened to the bursts of 
 rapturous applause that shook the house like peals of thunder, 
 and knew himself the cynosure of all eyes, — the idol of beauty, 
 nobility and royalty, — felt within his breast an inspiration almost 
 superhuman ! 
 
 When the opera was over, he was called out to receive the 
 bravos of the audience, and the wreaths that fell in showers at his 
 feet. When, flushed with triumph, yet filled with gratitude, he 
 returned behind the curtain, he was surprised to find himself still 
 a prisoner. The guard was ready to conduct him accompanied by 
 his wife to the lodging assigned them. They were treated, indeed, 
 with courtesy and respect, like prisoners of state ; but our hero 
 felt uneasy under the restraint, of which he could obtain no expla- 
 nation further than " he would know on the morrow." 
 
 The next day, a little after noon, Tamburini was conducted to 
 the imperial presence. Surrounded by his court, by foreign nobles 
 and visitors of distinction, the emperor entertained his illustrious 
 guest, the Emperor of Eussia, who sat at his right hand. There 
 was silence throughout the courtly assembly when the artist was led 
 in. He made a suitable obeisance when his name was announced, 
 and stood with a respectful air to await the monarch's commands. 
 
 " Signor Tamburini," said the Emperor of Austria, " you stand 
 before us a prisoner, and, we understand, plead ignorance as to 
 the cause of your arrest." 
 
 " I am, indeed, ignorant, sire," replied the artist, " in what 
 respect I have been so unfortunate as to transgress the laws or 
 offend your majesty." 
 
 " We will tell you, then," said the emperor, gravely. " It was 
 your treasonous design to pass through this noble city without 
 stopping to perform at the opera house. Your plan was detected 
 — you were taken in the very act of departure." 
 
310 TAMBURINI. 
 
 " Your majesty ," began the artist. 
 
 " Silence, sir ; it is in vain to defend yourself. You are proved 
 guilty not only of a conspiracy to defraud our good Venetians of 
 their rights in refusing them the privilege of hearing you, but of 
 Itsc majestd against ourself and our illustrious brother, the Em- 
 peror of Kussia. You lie at our mercy ; but you have many 
 friends, and at their intercession we remit you other punishment 
 than a few days' imprisonment. Meanwhile, we have ordered a 
 sum to be paid you, in testimony of our approval of your last 
 night's performance ; and in addition, ask of us any favor you 
 choose." 
 
 " Sire, my gratitude — your gracious condescension " 
 
 Tamburini's voice faltered from emotion. 
 
 " Your boon, if you please !" cried the emperor, impatiently. 
 
 " Sire, it is simply this — permission to keep my word, pledged 
 to my friends at Trieste, who are expecting me." 
 
 There was a murmur of surprise among the spectators. The 
 monarch, after a pause, replied, with a gracious smile — 
 
 " You are a noble fellew, Tamburini, and your request shall 
 be granted. Only to-night we must have you in Lucia di La/m- 
 mermoor. We are told you are inimitable in that last adagio 
 And now, come nearer." 
 
 The artist knelt at the monarch's feet. 
 
 " Keceive from our hands this medal di nostra Sahatore,"* 
 and the emperor flung the chain around his neck. " Learn thus 
 how much we love to do honor to genius." 
 
 Thus loaded with distinction, the artist was presented to the 
 Russian emperor, and received the compliments and congratula- 
 tions of the nobility present. He was destined ere long to 
 receive in other lands honors almost equal to those bestowed in 
 his own ; and to show how boundless and how absolute is the 
 dominion Heaven has given the true artist over the human heart. 
 
 * Wellington was the only foreigner who had received this compliment previously 
 to Tamburini. 
 
BELLINI. 311 
 
 & &S &S i, $i i, , 
 
 The hunting-castle of Moritzburg, in Saxony, a place noted 
 as the locality of the tradition of the " Freischutzen," is situated 
 a few hours' ride from Dresden. It was my custom to pass a 
 week or two there in the harvesting season, with the worthy 
 forester. He was always glad to see me, because I took pleasure 
 in his pursuits ; drew sketches of forest scenes, and composed 
 hunting songs such as were sung in Saxony and Bohemia. There 
 were jovial meetings, too, occasionally at the public house in the 
 neighboring village of Eisenberg ; where we had sometimes a 
 dance with the merry country damsels, to the tunes played by the 
 Bohemian fiddlers. 
 
 One afternoon in September of 1835, 1 was present at one of 
 these gatherings, and had mingled freely in the sports. I was 
 leading off my partner for a waltz, when the post-boy from Dres- 
 den came in, and distributed his letters among the guests. He 
 recognized me at once, and coming forward with a " 'Tis lucky, 
 sir, I find you here," handed me a letter. 
 
 I broke the seal ; it ran as follows : 
 
 " La Somnambula is performed to-morrow night ; and Francilla ap- 
 pears as Amina. She sends you her compliments. Come and see her ! 
 " Your friend, 
 
 "J. P. Pixis." 
 
 I called one of the servants and ordered my horse saddled im- 
 mediately. After the waltz was over, I took a hasty leave, threw 
 myself on my horse, and rode with all speed towards Dresden. 
 
812 
 
 BELLINI. 
 
 I arrived in time for the opera ; of which I was glad, for I had 
 determined not to call upon Francilla till after the representation 
 of La Somnambula. The next morning I went to her lodgings in 
 Castle-street, and was admitted. As I entered the parlor, she 
 came to meet me, looking unusually pale, and with eyes red, as 
 with weeping. She held out her hand in silence ; I was startled ; 
 the cheerful welcome died on my lips. I looked anxiously at her, 
 but did not venture to speak. 
 
 At length she asked, with a pensive smile, if I had been the 
 preceding night at the opera. 
 
 " Indeed I was, Francilla," I replied. " I saw you, and hardly 
 know how I got home, so filled were head and heart with the 
 music. I have much — so much to say to you ! But I find you 
 so altered — so " 
 
 " Dejected, you would say," interrupted the singer. " Ah 
 yes ! and well I may be so ; and you too !" 
 
 " Why, Francilla ! what has happened ?" 
 
 " Alas ! Bellini is dead !" she cried, and began to weep 
 bitterly. 
 
 I was amazed. " Bellini dead !" the great master, whose 
 noble creations had enchanted me but a few hours before ! Sad 
 news, indeed ! and grievous it was to think how early he had been 
 called from us ; he, so admirable as an artist — so honored and 
 beloved as a man ! I felt even disposed to murmur at the pain- 
 ful dispensation. 
 
 After a few moments' indulgence of emotion, Francilla endea- 
 vored to compose herself. She pressed her handkerchief to her 
 eyes, rose and went for her album, to show me the drawing I had 
 sent her for the volume. The drawing was a sketch of herself as 
 Romeo, in the moment that Juliet, awakening in the tomb, calls 
 on his name, while he answers with uplifted eyes, thinking it the 
 voice of an angel. 
 
 We turned over the leaves of the album, which she held on her 
 lap, while I knelt beside her. It was a pleasure to observe the 
 play of her expressive features, as this or that name presented 
 
BELLINI. 313 
 
 itself, exhibiting different emotions in turn. When the bold, rude 
 autograph of Judith Pasta was displayed, the soft and languishing 
 eyes of Francilla kindled with a look of haughtiness ; and Son- 
 tag herself never smiled more sweetly than she, pointing to the 
 name of Countess Rossi. 
 
 When she came to the handwriting of her uncle Pixis, in 
 Prague, she stopped to tell me of his wife and mother, and their 
 quiet domestic life ; charging me, in case I went again to Prague, 
 with many messages. While running on thus, and turning over 
 the leaves of the album, she suddenly paused. Two names were 
 recorded, opposite each other, those of Vincenzo Bellini and 
 Maria Malibran. Maria had written a few words of friendship ; 
 Bellini a passage from the Capuletti, — the beginning of Romeo's 
 lamentation over Juliet, when he first discovers her death. 
 
 Without speaking, Francilla took from me a silver pencil she 
 had sent me some time before, drew a cross under Bellini's signa- 
 ture, and gave me back the pencil with a look I shall never forget. 
 
 Al length, to break the painful silence, I said, " Tell me, 
 Francilla, why, in the last act of the Capuletti, do you make use 
 of Vaccai's music — not Bellini's ? No doubt, in detached por- 
 tions, Vaccai is simpler and more expressive ; but as a whole, 
 Bellini's composition is far superior, and the close infinitely more 
 touching. The passage, ' Padre crudel,' etc., in particular, is so 
 moving, and at the same time so calm, I wonder, and so do others, 
 that you have changed it for Vaccai's, which is so much tamer." 
 
 Francilla did not answer immediately, but looked earnestly at 
 me. When she spoke, it was in a strangely solemn tone. " Listen, 
 and I will tell you a history, which is indeed a romance in itself. 
 You will then see what our poor friend has suffered : and why 
 Maria and I could not sing his last act." 
 
 " And with her eyes fixed upon the cross under Bellini's 
 name, she continued : 
 
 " You know, mon ami, that Vincenzo was born at the foot of 
 Etna. He looked not like it, indeed, for he was fair and blue- 
 eyed, like your pretty women of Dresden ; and to say truth, was 
 
314 BELLINI. 
 
 a little effeminate, and rather foppish sometimes in his manners. 
 Poor Vinoenzo ! I used to laugh, when you, in old times, de- 
 scribed him to me as you thought him. In short, he was like 
 any ordinary young gentleman, both in appearance and behavior. 
 I tell my story after a crooked fashion ?" she asked, interrupting 
 herself, with a smile. 
 
 " No, no ! dear Francilla," I cried, " go on, I pray you !" 
 
 " I will, then," she continued. " Though Bellini might have 
 been taken for a fool or a fop at the first glance, it needed but 
 little penetration to discover that he was a genuine son of Sicily ; 
 and that in spite of his gentleness and his weakness, all the warmth 
 of the south glowed in his bosom. I can hardly tell how, in a few 
 words, to give you a just and lively picture of the wonderful 
 nature of Bellini ! It was not like the volcano of his country, 
 where you pass through luxuriant meadows, thick and stately 
 woods, and fields of snow, before you reach — beyond a fearful 
 lava waste, the brink of the fiery abyss ; nor was it like the Hecla 
 of your land, where eternal fire burns under eternal ice. It 
 resembled rather an English garden, laid out with sentimental 
 taste, with pretty shady walks and quiet streams, ornamented with 
 shrubs and flowers, with sloping hills and fountains, and temples 
 of delicate architecture. Ah me ! I see him bodily before me. 
 Such a garden — half-charming — half wearisome — with the abyss 
 of fire beneath — was Bellini ! And the fire burning in his breast 
 was the love of Art — and of Maria." 
 
 " What do you mean, Francilla ?" 
 
 " Yes — it is so ; he loved Maria as he loved art. How could 
 it be otherwise ? Did she not surpass all others ; did she not 
 glorify sound ? Was it not she who, herself inspired with a 
 power that gave a charm irresistible to all she did — inspired the 
 other singers who aided her in the representation of Bellini's 
 works ! With Bellini himself — in producing anything — the ques- 
 tion was always — ' What will Malibran say to it ?' She was his 
 muse, his ideal, his queen of art. He could not live without her ; 
 were I Malibran, I think I should not long survive him." 
 
BELLINI. 316 
 
 " Ah, a pretty romance, Anuria ! But you forget that Mali- 
 bran married M. Beriot." 
 
 " How can I forget that, remembering the effect produced by 
 the information on the good Vincenzo ? He turned pale, trem- 
 bled and faltered, and quitted the company without saying a word. 
 Yet he could not have dreamed that Maria would wed him, for 
 she had always treated him as if he were ten years younger, though 
 he was in reality a year her senior. But he thought not of the 
 possibility of her marrying again, after her divorce from that hate- 
 ful Malibran ; and surely M. Beriot, who was once on the point 
 of shooting himself for the sake of Sontag, but on reflection con- 
 cluded to live a little longer, was the last person he would have 
 imagined likely to be chosen. 
 
 " After that, poor Bellini avoided Malibran as much as possible. 
 If he caught a distant glimpse of M. Beriot, he would go quickly 
 out of the way ; not from fear of his rival, but lest he might be 
 tempted to follow him — and after the good Sicilian fashion" — 
 here Francilla, her eyes flashing, swung her arm with the ges- 
 ture of one who gives a blow with a dagger — " do you compre- 
 hend -v 
 
 " Aye, my pretty Romeo ! The pantomime is expressive 
 enough ; but surely your fancy — " 
 
 " I know a certain somebody," she interrupted, " who would 
 have had no conscience in carrying the matter through, to be rid 
 of a happy rival. May I be kept from such blood-thirsty lovers ! 
 But to my story. No one knows what might have happened, spite 
 of the softness of heart of the good Bellini ; but Malibran left 
 Paris and went to Italy, accompanied by her husband. 
 
 " It is certain that Bellini never confided to any one the secret 
 of his unhappy passion — thus I must call the feeling that swayed 
 him at this time. Notwithstanding it became known ere long 
 among his friends ; and Maria must have guessed it ; for from 
 that hour she sang his pieces with reluctance. Still, she appeared 
 in the part of Romeo ; and it seemed as if she could not give it 
 up. At the last representation of the Capuletti in Milan, it 
 
316 BELLINI. 
 
 happened that, in the final act, when Eomeo takes the poison, 
 such a deathlike shuddering seized Maria's frame, that she could 
 scarcely command herself to go through with her part. When 
 the play was over, she declared no power on earth should compel 
 her to sing again the Romeo of Bellini. From this time she sang 
 that of Vaccai ; but she had counted too much on her own self- 
 denial ; and at a later period returned to poor Vincenzo's music 
 so far as to retain the first acts of his Capuletti, and to sing only 
 the last act of Vaccai. 
 
 " When Vincenzo heard of this cruel conduct of his adored 
 friend, he was so cast down that he would write nothing more — 
 would think nothing more ! He talked idle stuff, and would smile 
 vacantly, if any one addressed him, or when he spoke ; in short, 
 he was quite insufferable. 
 
 " One day the giant, Lablache, entered his apartment. Vin- 
 cenzo lay on the sofa, pale and listless, and only noticed his visitor 
 by fixing upon him his half closed eyes. Lablache cried like a 
 trumpet, opening his immense mouth : ' Holloa ! there ! what are 
 you lying here for, like an idle lout of a lazzaroni on the Molo, 
 wearying yourself to death with doing nothing ? Up, Bellini — up 
 and to work ! Paris, France, all Europe, is full of expectation of 
 what you are to bring forth after your Norma, which your adver- 
 saries silenced. Bellini ! do you hear me ?' 
 
 " ' Indeed I do hear, my dear Lablache !' answered the com- 
 poser in a lachrymose voice ; ' you know my hearing is of the best ; 
 and if it were not, your excellent brazen bass pierces one through 
 and through ! But I pray, caro, think me not UBkind, if I entreat 
 you to leave me to myself ; to tell the truth, I am really now fit 
 for nothing better than the dolcefar niente ! I am indifferent to 
 everything !' 
 
 " Lablache struck his hands together, and cried, in a tone that 
 vibrated through the walls : ' Is it you, Bellini — you — who speak 
 thus ? you, who till now have pressed on towards the noblest goal, 
 nor relaxed your efforts till you reached it ! — Man ! — Master — 
 Friend ! will you suffer yourself to be checked in your career of 
 
BELLINI. 317 
 
 fame — to lose the magnificent prize glittering before you ? Will 
 you demean yourself like some cooing Damon who whines forth 
 complaints of the cruelty of his Doris or Phyllis ? For shame ! 
 away with these womanish pinings ! I tell you — ' 
 
 " ' My good Lablache,' interrupted Bellini, very gently, but 
 visibly embarrassed ; ' you do me injustice. I know not why you 
 suspect me of pining — I utter no complaints — ' 
 
 " 'Hold your tongue !' cried Lablache, much vexed. ' Will 
 you deny it ? I know where the shoe pinches, very well !' 
 
 " Bellini looked down without speaking. 
 
 " ' And you look at this moment,' continued Lablache, ' like an 
 apprehended schoolboy. Bellini ! have you nothing to say ?' 
 
 " ' Since you know all,' said Vincenzo, with a deep sigh, ' you 
 know then that she, sings nothing more of mine.' 
 
 " Lablache came up, laid his powerful grasp on the young 
 master's shoulders, lifted him from the soft cushions of the sofa to 
 his feet, shook him well, and with flashing eyes, exclaimed : ' / 
 will sing something for you !' 
 
 " With stentorian voice, like a martial shout, he began the 
 allegro to that famous duet from ' I Puritani :' — ' Suoni la tromba 
 e intrepido'. Bellini's pale cheeks flushed ; tears started from 
 his eyes ; at length, throwing himself into Lablache's arms, he 
 joined his voice in the song. When it was ended, he pledged 
 his word to his friend that in a few weeks he would finish the 
 composition of the whole opera. 
 
 " Vincenzo did as he promised. Before many weeks had 
 passed, he gave ' I Puritani' complete into the hands of Lablache, 
 who in great delight, promised that the work should be worthily 
 represented. 
 
 " The opera was cast ; the rehearsals began. After the first 
 rehearsal, Bellini went to his country seat at Puteaux, not far 
 from Paris. He could not be present at the second rehearsal, on 
 account of indisposition. It was on the night of its first repre- 
 sentation, just at the time when that famous duet was repeated 
 amidst thunders of applause from the enraptured audience, that 
 
818 BELLINI, 
 
 the news was spread through the theatre : ' Bellini died an hour 
 ago at his country seat.' " 
 
 Francilla closed the album, rose quickly, and went to the win- 
 dow. I thought it best to leave the room quietly ; but she turned 
 as I was going, and saying in a low tone : " Stay, mon ami, I have 
 hot sung you anything to-day !" seated herself at the piano. 
 The song was a melancholy one, and might have been composed 
 for the farewell of him who had so lately gone from earth. She 
 sang with wonderful expression and feeling. 
 
 " The sun's last beam has paled away — 
 
 The quiet night is near ; 
 And stars far off and numberless 
 
 Are shining still and clear. 
 The flowers their leaves in odors steep, 
 Soft whispers on the breezes sleep. 
 So light my bosom's throbbings — I, 
 Too blest, might deem mine angel nigh ! 
 
 " He is — my spirit tells me so, 
 
 That soon shall quit this clay ; 
 Freed from the load of earthly wo, 
 
 He bears my soul away. 
 The wo that pierces here my breast 
 In yonder world shall make me blest ; 
 That for which here in vain I long, 
 In that pure sphere shall swell my song ! 
 
 " Then, O thou Genius bright — draw near, 
 
 And bid me quickly come ; 
 Give me the consecrating kiss — 
 
 I follow to thy home ! 
 And she, to whom myself I gave, 
 Shall seek the singer's lonely grave ; 
 There let the flower that greets her, say — 
 ' He loves thee still — though passed away !' 
 
 When she had ended, Pixis came into the room. " What is all 
 this ?" he cried, as he saw the traces of emotion on her coun- 
 tenance. 
 
BELLINI. 319 
 
 " Francilla," I replied, " has been telling me of Bellini's 
 unhappy love for Malibran." 
 
 " Do not believe a word of it !"* cried Pixis, laughing. " If 
 you get her on that chapter, she will go on romancing like any 
 poet in the world." 
 
 The conversation was broken off by the entrance of the pretty 
 Maschinka Schneider. Francilla welcomed her friend with joy ; 
 and the two ladies talked of the representation of the Capuletti, 
 which was to be repeated in a few days. I was consulted respect- 
 ing the arrangements in the burial vault, and had many thanks for 
 my excellent advice about the Romeo of Francilla and the 
 Griulietta of Maschinka. 
 
 When, in taking leave, I kissed the hand of my little friend, 
 she whispered me earnestly that I must think of what she had told 
 me. I did think of it when, a year afterwards, I read in the 
 newspapers that Malibran had died on the 23d of September at 
 Manchester ; the same day on which, a year before, the death of 
 Bellini had taken place. 
 
 * The reader is advised to follow tne counsel of Pixia. Bellini was always in love, 
 it ia true ; but we have no reason to believe Malibran was ever the object of his 
 passion. — Trans- 
 
320 LOVE VEESUS TASTE. 
 
 S078 ¥B£SnS SAST!.* 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the summer of 1825, it happened that a young man, whom 
 we shall simply call Louis, a musician by profession, arrived in 
 Berlin. He had long wished to visit this city ; its advancement 
 in art, its gifted men, the cultivation and taste of its citizens gen- 
 erally, were no slight attractions for the artist and student. It 
 was his rule to neglect no opportunity of hearing anything good ; 
 so that he usually visited the opera every evening. 
 
 One day soon after his arrival in Berlin, passing the opera 
 house, he saw a man fastening a fresh bill to a column of the 
 building. He waited to read it ; it announced the sudden illness 
 of one of the singers, on which account the evening's entertain- 
 ment was to be changed. Instead of the Otello of Kossini, Don 
 Giovanni was to be performed. 
 
 While Louis stood, attentively reading the bill, he heard a soft 
 female voice close to him say, " Ah ! I am so glad of that !" He 
 turned quickly, and saw a beautiful young girl, who had noticed 
 the bill in passing by. When she caught the young man's look, 
 she blushed, and turning away her head, walked hastily on. Louis 
 stood gazing after her ; the tones of her rich voice had charmed 
 him, but much more her slender, elegant, and graceful figure, and 
 the lovely face of which he had caught a brief glimpse. Unac- 
 quainted with the ways of young men in large cities, he did not 
 
 * The incidents and criticism of this tale are taken from a noveUe of Ludwig Rell- 
 stab, entitled " Julius." 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 321 
 
 follow her, but stood looking till she vanished from his sight, and 
 then went thoughtfully towards his lodgings. 
 
 ' Suddenly the idea struck him, she will of course be at the opera 
 to-night ! and he resolved to do what he had never done before, 
 observe the ladies particularly. 
 
 The hour came for the opera ; carriages rolled along the 
 streets ; Louis sat in the pit where he could see over the house, 
 and looked eagerly around for his unknown fair one. In vain ; she 
 was nowhere to be seen ! 
 
 The magnificent overture began ; Louis was now in despair. 
 She would not be at the opera ; for who would miss the overture 
 to Don Giovanni ! He was disappointed, and felt only half roused 
 to his wonted enthusiasm. The grief of Donna Anna, Elvira's 
 tears, Zerlina's witchery, Don Giovanni's bold wickedness, failed 
 to excite him as they had been used to do. In fact, he only half 
 listened to the music. 
 
 The performance was at an end. Discontented and vexed with 
 himself, Louis stood in the vestibule while the crowd was passing 
 out. Just then he caught the tones of a remembered voice — " To 
 the left, dear father, the carriage is at the other door !" He 
 started, and- pressing forward, saw what appeared to be the same 
 dark silk scarf he had seen in the morning. It was worn by a 
 young lady, who leaned on the arm of an elderly man ; and both 
 were going towards the side door. Louis was about to follow them, 
 when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and at the same moment 
 his arm was grasped by some one in the crowd. " Good evening, 
 friend !" cried a rough voice. " Whither, in such haste ? I 
 have been looking for you everywhere. Quick, come with me ! 
 We shall sup together !" The speaker was Heissenheimer, an 
 old merchant ; an excellent man, and a passionate admirer of 
 music. Louis had brought a letter to him ; and thus he found it 
 impossible to decline his friendly invitation, unwelcome as it was 
 just at this moment. Mechanically he suffered himself to be led 
 away, wishing, however, the old gentleman and his supper at the 
 bottom of the sea, and looking back more than once, to see if he 
 
322 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 could catch a glimpse of his beautiful unknown. Nothing could 
 be seen but a throng of strange faces, and his companion hurried 
 him out of the nearest side door, to escape the confusion. 
 
 ■ While they made their way through the crowd without, Heis- 
 senheimer did not observe the abstraction of his young companion. 
 They soon emerged into a clear space, where the moon shone 
 brightly on noble buildings ; and the old man suddenly cried — 
 " But have you nothing, friend, to say ? I have been waiting 
 for the expression of your delight, and hardly kept my own within 
 bounds. What is the meaning of this ? Is anything the matter ?" 
 
 " Nay, Mr. Heissenhoimer," returned the young man, smiling, 
 " I have felt the beauty of the work none the less, that I have 
 enjoyed it in silence." 
 
 " But," cried the other petulantly, " that is not the way with 
 young people ! I like not this dullness, and grave looks, when 
 the heart should be full of joy. You have youthful spirits, love, 
 fire in your breast, and should give them vent ! Be cheerful, I 
 tell you ; be delighted, be frolicsome, be half mad with enthusiasm ; 
 or I warn you, you have old Heissenheimer for an enemy ! But 
 stop ; here we are at the place already !" 
 
 They stood under some linden trees, in front of a house whose 
 lower story was brilliantly lighted. The light fell full upon the 
 street through the windows. Before they entered, both turned 
 to look at some passers-by. What was the astonishment of Louis 
 to recognize his fair unknown, leaning on the arm of the elderly 
 man he had seen at the opera ! The lamplight shone upon her 
 face ; it was the very same ! He started forward ; nothing now 
 would have withheld him ; but Heissenheimer sprang also towards 
 them, exclaiming — " Ha ! Signor Bicco ! Maestro ! whither away ! 
 Good even to you, pretty Nina !" 
 
 Both stopped at this salutation. While Heissenheimer was 
 speaking with them, Louis stood in some embarrassment ; till his 
 friend recollected himself, and presented him. " Ecco — Maestro 
 —here is a young musician, who will give you something to do : 
 he will dispute with you about Sebastian Bach and Kossini. 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 323 
 
 Master Louis the chapel-master, Signor Ricco, and his 
 
 daughter Nina !" Louis bowed, coloring deeply, and murmured 
 some indefinite words about pleasure and honor. His companion 
 interrupted them with " My good friends, may I beg the favor of 
 your company with us ? "Will you sup in the Cafe Royal, fair 
 Nina ?" Nina declined the invitation gracefully, but begged her 
 father not to lose the pleasure. Their home was only two doors 
 off, and she could go there without escort. " "We will all escort 
 you," said the old merchant, " hurt as I am that you will not go 
 with us." Two or three more gallant speeches passed, and the 
 three accompanied the young lady to the chapel-master's house. 
 After a polite acknowledgment of their courtesy, Nina disappeared ; 
 the gentlemen went to the cafe, where an excellent supper was 
 prepared, with the best wines ; and Heissenheimer played the 
 merry host to his heart's content. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 After Signor Kicco had explained the mystery of his daughter 
 and himself going home on foot, their carriage having disappointed 
 them, the conversation turned on the opera they had just seen. 
 The chapel-master declared, with a half comic distortion of face, 
 that he wished he had stayed away. 
 
 " And why, maestro ?" asked Heissenheimer. 
 
 " I hoped to have heard Rossini's magnificent Otello ; and was 
 compelled to take instead that confounded Don Giovanni. " 
 
 " Ricco," said the old merchant, " you are certainly skilled in 
 the black art, and have wrought magic upon me ; else I know not 
 what prevents me from throwing this empty champagne flask at 
 your head ! Butler — some more wine ! and have done, chapel- 
 master, with your nonsense about Rossini, for whom I know you 
 care as little as I ! and tell us truly, were you not enraptured 
 with the glorious masterpiece of to-night ?" 
 
324 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 " Germans — where are your ears ? Caro Heissenheimer, I 
 will tell you the truth; but shall I criticise as an Italian or a 
 German ?" 
 
 " What do you mean by the distinction ?" asked Louis. 
 
 " What a question ! Young man, can you be so ignorant ? 
 As Italian, I complain that this opera gives me no rest ; that I 
 must be kept on the stretch from beginning to end ; that I forget 
 the singers in the orchestra ; that I feel more fear and horror 
 than delight ; in short, I complain that the devil, instead of Don 
 Giovanni, has not taken the composer, who forces me to labor, 
 where I expected only pleasure. But I can also complain as a 
 German. Do you think I know not what you wish ? Per Bacco ! 
 the misfortune is, you only half wish ! An opera should be a 
 whole ; connected from beginning to end ; each impression on 
 the mind should be a stone added to the dramatic structure, 
 strengthened by the music. Is it not so ?" 
 
 " I should think a reasonable person would desire nothing less," 
 answered Louis. 
 
 " Well then — have you that in Don Giovanni ?" 
 
 " You will drive me crazy !" cried Heissenheimer impatiently. 
 
 " Nay — rather you me — senseless Germans !" returned Ricco. 
 ■' You can devise a theory that leaves nothing to be wished. But 
 place a work of art before you, you have no eyes nor ears — much 
 less a judgment. You fit on your theory ; do they agree in a few 
 points — well ; the work is a masterpiece, though it may differ in 
 all essentials from your own principles ; thenceforth you believe 
 blindly, and each adopts the other's opinion. Do they not agree 
 — you have not independence enough to yield to an impression of 
 nature, and judge thereby that the thing is worthless. If a Ger- 
 man is dying with rapture, he is to blame if not enraptured ac- 
 cording to rule ! Corpo di Bacco ! I have more gall in me than 
 wine ! Fill my glass !" 
 
 " You are leaving the subject — Signor Ricco," said Louis ; 
 " you were to complain of Don Giovanni as a German. I con- 
 fess, I am curious to hear you." 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 325 
 
 " I also," added the merchant. " But it will come to nothing ; 
 for I see he is treating us to one of his accustomed jokes." 
 
 " Nay — it is my ardor that leads me to digression. To return 
 to Don Giovanni. At first — and then the Germans were reason- 
 able, for they had in their theatres chiefly the works of Italian 
 composers or their pupils — at first, I say — the thing was not 
 popular, and with reason." 
 
 " Stupid slanderer !" exclaimed Heissenheimer. 
 
 " There were in it a few good musical touches, and the Germans 
 thought it a pity the work should be lost. They fitted on a skilful 
 theory ; they found that Don Giovanni stabs the commendatore, 
 and commits other crimes, and is finally carried off by the devil : 
 the .thing is complete, and has a capital moral ! Why should it 
 not please ? So its nonsense and folly are passed over. A single 
 wise head has seen through it, who really understands more of 
 the opera than your thirty millions of Germans besides. This 
 was your late Hoffmann. He marked well where the thing 
 halted : but he admired the music, and put a good face on it for 
 his countrymen, quieting the last murmurs of their consciences. 
 How he must have laughed over their fond delusion !" 
 
 " As well as I can gather your meaning," said the young artist, 
 " you seem to think there is a want of unity of idea in the action 
 and music of Don Giovanni ?" 
 
 " I should be blind and deaf if I thought otherwise." 
 
 " And thus, as a German, you would find fault with the work ?" 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 " I entreat you, then, to dispense with your oracular ambiguity, 
 and passing by a few improbabilities and other trifling defects — 
 to show us where is the vulnerable heel of this Achilles." 
 
 " Ha, maestro !" cried the merchant, " you have but shallow 
 water for the war-ship with which you mean to manoeuvre round 
 this walled and fortified citadel of art ! You will be aground 
 presently." 
 
 " On the contrary — I will make you a breach, so that the enemy 
 shall march in with all his forces." 
 
326 LOVE VEE.SUS.-TASTE. 
 
 " Triumph not too soon !"• cried Louis — " for we shall fight to 
 the last man in its defence." 
 
 " Right, my young friend !" added Heissenheimer ; and Eicco 
 proceeded, after a digression or two, from which he was called 
 back by his two challengers — 
 
 " Is it not. true, friends, that in a drama each principal person 
 should contribute substantially to the progress of the action? 
 You assent ; well— in Don Giovanni there are fire — the Com- 
 ■mendatore, Giovanni, Octavio, Donna Anna, and Elvira. I have 
 nothing against the old man, nor Giovanni. Your Hoffmann has 
 cunningly rescued Donna Anna from criticism ; Octavio may be 
 • considered to have a sort of right to his place. He is, so to speak, 
 the earthly hostage for the elevated Anna, or rather the stake to 
 which she is bound. Now for Donna Elvira. Many have felt 
 that this fifth person is the fifth wheel to the wagon ; and in many 
 ways they have sought to justify her appearance. But it has not 
 succeeded. Your Hoffmann does best, who says as good as noth- 
 ing of her." : 
 
 " I thought," observed Louis, " she was to be regarded 
 as an' avenging goddess ; at least, so the great composer con- 
 ceived her, even if the poet assigned her a somewhat doubtful 
 ; place." 
 
 " Excellent !" cried the merchant. " What have you to say to 
 that, Eicco ?" 
 
 " That it is not true. An avenging goddess — who whimpers 
 rather than implores for love, and at last would snatch from justice 
 the object of her revenge ! — The kneeling in the last finale, or 
 -ante-finale (for you would have a battle also about this double 
 close) looks like revenge ! — Look you, this Elvira could be borne, 
 or not observed, if she did not so lower herself in the middle of 
 the piece. And here the composer is even more in fault than the 
 poet. The terzetto in A major I will let pass ; I will believe she 
 can forgive her repentant betrayer, and love him again. But the 
 sestetto ! Have you borne in mind what wickedness has been 
 committed towards her ? I am an Italian, and we look ovej 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 327 
 
 some things more easily than you Germans. But a Chinese, or 
 a barbarian, must revolt at this ! The trusting, confiding, for- 
 giving, loving Elvira is exposed to the deepest disgrace — -the most 
 crushing insult ! Has she a spark of womanly pride or Castilian 
 spirit in her breast, it must burst into a flame that will consume 
 the guilty betrayer, or sweep the wretched victim to destruction. 
 What has she suffered ? The most horrible injury that can be 
 inflicted on a woman ! Why does she not snatch a dagger, to 
 plunge it into the breast of the slave who has been employed 
 against her — or that of the fiend Don Giovanni, the author of the 
 outrage, or those who behold her dishonor — or, Lucretia-like, into 
 her own ? Go — you Germans, and boast of your passion for com- 
 pleteness ! You feel not where a work of art strikes the heart. 
 When Leporello's mask is fallen, and Elvira, who should sink 
 back in despair, or rise in the invincible might of revenge, sings 
 so passionately with the other five voices — as if nothing more had 
 happened to her than Zerlina, — I feel my blood boil ! Would our 
 Rossini have done the like ? In his polonaises you feel the dolor 
 of love : could you only understand the heavenly melodies as the 
 maestro himself conceived them ! The notes are not — indeed — 
 but he. dreamed of a singer such as your wooden German never 
 thought of ; a singer, the charm of whose expression could ennoble 
 the most insignificant passages into a moving plaint of the heart ! 
 Have you never heard that the English Garrick could so repeat 
 the alphabet as to move his audience to tears ? So it is with 
 Rossini's music. He sacrifices himself; he wants not to shine; 
 but that his performers should. But your German hears from 
 paper ; and thus writes tolerably. And you trouble not your- 
 selves, if your singers misrepresent the best your master has 
 furnished. The performance of to-night — but I am speaking 
 only of Don Giovanni. What say you to my criticism on Elvira ? 
 why do I not hear reproaches r" 
 
 " You are a clever critic," answered Louis ; " I know you are 
 wrong, and yet I cannot reply to your objections." 
 
 " Yes — quite wrong — chapel-master !" added the merchant. 
 
328 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 " I will venture you do not believe yourself what you say. Swear 
 that you do — in good faith !" 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" cried Riceo ; " you would have me swear to 
 what I have proved ! My good Heissenheimer, I will read you 
 the riddle. We Italians are more candid than you. We know 
 well what is wanting in our operas, and have judgment enough to 
 understand that it cannot be otherwise. Where two make a 
 work, the whole cannot be cast in one great mould. If we thus 
 discover disproportion betwixt the music and the text, it disturbs 
 not our enjoyment. But the German will smoothe it all away ; 
 he rests not till the faults growing out of the nature of the thing 
 are changed into beauties by some jugglery of the understanding ; 
 and after he has in this way deceived himself, he begins to enjoy. 
 If I loved Don Giovanni ever so much, the part of Elvira would 
 not disturb me. I would easily help myself out of the difficulty ; 
 I would have Elvira fall senseless on the discovery of her error, 
 and a friend of Anna's supply the sixth voice. What have you 
 against that ?" 
 
 " In this manner," replied Louis, " you may banish reason from 
 art altogether. I cannot conceive of a work of art, which shall 
 not proceed from the full consciousness of the artist, and contain 
 only beauties designed by himself. Therefore do I detest Rossini's 
 works, void of meaning " 
 
 " Void of meaning ? Young man, do not depreciate our master. 
 Think you, he was unconscious of that for which you reproach 
 him, and that he could not have bettered it if he had chosen ? 
 But he wished to lead music back to her own natural place ; to 
 make her again a science for the ear, and deliver her from your 
 massive philosophical smoke-cells and pedantic fetters. Turn 
 nothing but counterpoint ; screw only fugues and canons ; write 
 only dissonances, like your Mozart and Beethoven ; drive your 
 anarchy ever so far, nature will still be victorious. And then de- 
 light yourself in the conceit — that your masters look to the whole ! 
 Truly, they may have the will, but the vision fails them, and they 
 see no further than a mole on the top of Mont Blanc. Your be- 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 329 
 
 loved Don Giovanni, of which you believe that it came forth fully 
 armed from the composer's fancy, like Minerva from the head of 
 Jupiter, is an automaton, whose limbs are fastened together with 
 thongs, and secured with hammer strokes ; a thing that has more 
 rents and seams than a clown's jacket ; which you can cut up like 
 an eel, without touching its heart ; — in short, as I have proved, 
 a thing that can neither live nor stand, if more is expected than 
 that it should be the scaffold on which the musician builds his illu- 
 mination of tones." 
 
 " But," cried Louis, " the splendor of that illumination shall 
 light up the gloom of the most distant future ! It shall remain a 
 Sirius, the central sun of stars of the first magnitude, so long as 
 art itself shall exist." 
 
 " Ay, and your torchlight, your will-o'-the-wisp, Rossini, 
 shall be blown out by the first breath of time !" said Heissen- 
 heimer. 
 
 " Friends," replied Ricco, " were it not better that we broke 
 up our conference ? Our discourse grows somewhat warm." 
 
 " You have chilled me completely, at least, towards yourself," 
 returned the merchant. " But I cannot believe you in earnest 
 with your talk, so I will drink a glass with you. If I did not 
 think you have joked with us, I would have had the wine pois- 
 oned for me in which I pledge an enemy of Mozart." 
 
 " Have I called myself his enemy ?" said the chapel-master. 
 " Who would deny the man genius ? I charge him only with a 
 wrong use of it — and of music, which should bring us joy and 
 happiness, not gloom and melancholy. What should I do with 
 wine that did not make me merry like your champagne ?" 
 
 " So merry," grumbled the merchant, " that, truly, you have 
 made yourself merry with us. But, Louis, why so thoughtful ?" 
 
 " Pardon me," answered the young man ; "lam troubled by 
 what I cannot yet make clear to myself. I would reply to the 
 chapel-master's accusation against the part of Elvira. His opinion 
 is plausible, but he is wrong in reference to the work. I believe 
 I can see a way to lead to a right understanding." 
 
330 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 " We cannot reach it to-night," said Rieeo, preparing to depart. 
 " It is midnight, and I must go home. Some other time we will 
 speak on the subject ; and I will convince you that your convic- 
 tion is incorrect. Now, fare you well." 
 
 "Goodnight — incorrigible fellow !" cried Heissenheimer ; and 
 then put it to the choice of his young friend, whether they should 
 empty another flask, or take a walk in the fresh air. Louis pre- 
 ferred a walk, for he was somewhat excited with the conversation. 
 
 chapter in. 
 
 They walked for some time in the open air. The double row 
 of old lindens that shaded the promenade, rustled in the summer 
 breeze ; the moon shone on the tall buildings ; all was silent, as 
 if the city were buried in slumber. As our friends passed the 
 dwelling of the chapel-master, Louis stole a look upward at one 
 'of the windows, which he fancied might be that of the fair daughter 
 of the heterodox musician. li She has a purer taste," said he to 
 himself, and turning to his companion — 
 
 "How is it possible that one can be so insensible to the beautiful 
 as this Italian ?" 
 
 The merchant glanced at the house of Master Kicco, and re- 
 plied : " The heathenish churl ! Yet there is something about 
 him that inclines me to believe he does not express his real 
 opinions. Did you not remark his contradictions ? Now he 
 slashed at Mozart, now at the subject of the piece ; and, after 
 all, only complained of the part of Elvira. What should he care 
 for the subject, if he be really such an admirer of Rossini, and 
 thinks muiic -merely a science for the ear ? His inconsistencies were 
 palpable. Depend upon it, the man has not such wretched taste " 
 
 '" But why should he speak against his own convictions ?" 
 , , "Because he is unwilling to confess that his countrymen are 
 surpassed by the G-ermans in composition. Only one thing stag- 
 
J.OVE VERSUS TASTE. 331 
 
 gered me. He permits his daughter to play no music but Ros- 
 sini's, Mercadante's, Caraffa's, and the like." 
 
 " But she sings it unwillingly, surely ?" cried Louis, quickly. 
 
 " On the contrary ; she knows nothing else." 
 
 "Impossible!" exclaimed the young man. "How can that 
 lovely face — those eyes — so deceive ? How can those features, 
 expressive of a refined soul, be the index of a shallow under- 
 standing ?" 
 
 " Ha, friend ! Have Nina's beautiful eyes shot their beams so 
 deep into your heart ? That is a precious discovery !" And the 
 little man leaped forwards, rubbing his hands, and chuckling for 
 
 joy- 
 Louis colored deeply, and in much embarrassment explained 
 that his acquaintance with the young lady was scarce of two hours 
 standing ; but the merchant continued his expressions of delight 
 till they reached Frederick street, and then took his leave with a 
 wish that the young couple might be happy, humming a love tune 
 till he was out of hearing. 
 
 As Louis walked towards his lodgings, absorbed in. thought, he 
 was startled by the sound of a female voice, singing. In the 
 stillness of night the melody had a magical sweetness. He fol- 
 lowed the sound, retracing his steps, and soon came opposite the 
 chapel-master's house. The music came from the windows, which 
 were open, although the chambers were not lighted. Though he 
 lost not a single note, Louis could not determine exactly in which 
 room was the singer. " It is she," he cried to himself ; " it is her- 
 self: — the beautiful girl !" and leaning against one of the trees, 
 he drank in the melody, never once removing his eyes from the 
 windows. 
 
 It was evidently a German song. The voice was clear and 
 powerful, yet soft and touching ; the melody had a strange min- 
 gling of joy and sorrow, of suffering and repose. The enraptured 
 listener could not distinguish the words, but the music penetrated 
 his very soul. A sigh heaved his breast ; he could not tell if 
 delight or melancholy was the emotion excited ; but felt, if that 
 
332 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 were sorrow, he wished never to be happy ! The song at last 
 ceased ; but another more exquisite, more deeply moving, began. 
 Each verse closed with some words in which seemed to lie a world 
 of feeling. Louis caught the words " DaMn," " Zu dir ;" and 
 at the close distinctly " Nur Du .'" It seemed to him like the 
 voice of fate. Tears streamed from his eyes; once again he 
 heard the words " Nur Du" uttered with a melodious pathos he 
 had never heard before ; and with strained attention, just as it 
 ceased, caught a glimpse of a white figure moving behind some 
 plants near the window. It passed the next window ; he listened 
 for a renewal of the song, but all was silent ; and after waiting 
 some time, he took his way homeward. 
 
 The earliest beams of next morning's sun aroused our friend 
 from an unquiet slumber. The day was fine, and he had many 
 objects of attention ; but the image of the fair songstress alone 
 occupied his mind. He leaned from his window, looking out on a 
 garden opposite, and the scene beyond. A few carriages and foot 
 passengers were in motion, but the bustle of the day had not yet 
 commenced. Only here and there the shutters had been thrown 
 open to admit the sun. 
 
 Louis remained some time in deep thought. At length it 
 occurred to him that it was possible the object of his reflections 
 rmVht also be up, and inhaling the morning air. In a few minutes 
 he was dressed and in the street ; and a brisk walk soon brought 
 him opposite the dwelling of the chapel-master. The windows 
 were open as the night before, but all was still and motionless. 
 Louis walked for some time under the trees, back and forward, 
 keeping his eyes fixed on the house. At length he discerned a 
 white dress moving behind the plants. In a transport of joy he 
 approached, and stood directly opposite. The white robe was 
 there ; the figure rose, turned round, and looked out of the win- 
 dow. It was Signor Ricco himself, in his night-cap and dressing- 
 gown, with a long pipe in his mouth ! He leaned out, as if to 
 look at the weather, and must have thought the sky too clear, by 
 the cloud of smoke he sent whirling over his head ! 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 Our young friend shrunk back, but it was too late ; there was 
 no one besides him in sight, and the glance of the chapel-master 
 unavoidably fell on him. He was immediately recognized. " Good 
 morning, Signor Louis !" cried the Italian. " So early abroad ? 
 or have you been up all night?" Louis bowed in some embar- 
 rassment, and answered that the fine morning had tempted him to 
 a walk. " Right !" cried the signor ; " I also am taking a peep 
 at the weather, to see if it will do for a drive in the country we 
 have been planning for some time. Suppose you accompany us ?" 
 " With the greatest pleasure !" answered the young man promptly. 
 " Come in, then, and breakfast with me," said Ricco ; and Louis 
 hastened up the steps. 
 
 He found the chapel-master in his music room ; the piano stood 
 open ; Rossini's Tancredi lay on the desk. Ricco made some 
 remarks on his favorite opera ; the eyes of Louis wandered rest- 
 lessly to the door. " You wonder," said the Italian, lighting his 
 pipe again, " that my daughter does not appear. Ah ! she is a 
 sad sluggard ! But I shall play her a trick to-day, we will go off 
 without her ; I have already sent for the carriage." 
 
 These words caused no little chagrin to our young artist ; but 
 he was not to endure it long ; they were surprised by a musical 
 laugh, and looking up, saw Nina at the door. " Your scheme 
 has fallen through, papa !" cried she. " But really it is true, 
 that listeners hear no good of themselves. Yet I hoped, sir," 
 turning to Louis, " that you would have said something in my 
 defence." She pouted her pretty lips in affected anger, and a 
 little scene of apologies ensued. " All's well that ends well," 
 said Ricco at length ; " we will have friend Heissenheimer of the 
 party ; now, daughter, let us to breakfast." Nina led the way 
 with a cheerful smile. 
 
 Louis had now opportunity to observe the fair girl whose first 
 appearance had captivated him. She wore a white morning dress, 
 with a colored silk handkerchief tied round her white, slender 
 throat. Her dark brown hair fell in ringlets over her cheeks and 
 neck, contrasting with a complexion fresh as the spring rose. 
 
334 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 Beautiful as she was, he could hardly understand how so much 
 frankness and playfulness of manner could consist with the depth 
 of feeling speaking from her large, dark eyes. 
 
 After several efforts to overcome his diffidence, he said to her, 
 " I was made very happy by your song last night, Mademoiselle 
 Nina. I heard you sing after midnight." 
 
 " Impossible !" she answered in some surprise ; " I did not sing 
 last night. " 
 
 " Nay — that would have been forbidden," said the father, 
 gravely ; " singing late at night is bad for the voice. We are no 
 nightingales ; our business is to sleep o' nights." 
 
 " You need not deny it," cried the young man. " The music 
 I heard came from yonder apartment, and I saw — pardon me — I 
 saw a lady in white dress pass the open window." 
 
 " That could not have been my daughter," repeated Signor 
 Ricco. 
 
 " But," persisted Louis, " I could not have been deceived. I 
 heard the sweetest soprano voice, and saw a female figure, which 
 approached the window, and then passed through the chamber." 
 
 Nina looked very mischievous, and cried — 
 
 " Oh, you are a ghost-seer ! I will have nothing to do with 
 you !" 
 
 And she began to sing an air in a clear, silvery staccato, making 
 gestures of aversion with her pretty hands. Then the lively girl 
 ran to the window, and exclaimed that the carriage was come ; 
 threw on her shawl and bounded down the steps so swiftly, that 
 Louis could hardly keep pace with her. He assisted her into the 
 carriage ? and waited for Signor Ricco, who soon made his appear- 
 ance with a roll of paper. 
 
 They stopped at Heissenheimer's house, to take their old friend 
 along. He was just up, and after he came to them, had to parry 
 a great deal of raillery from the arch Nina. 
 
 The country was arrayed in all the loveliness of early summer. 
 The fields were green with the young grain, the foliage was in its 
 freshest verdure, the morning air was cool and balmy, the sky 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 835 
 
 cloudless ; all things breathed of pleasure and beauty. Little was 
 said by our friends, who each in his own way enjoyed the scenes 
 around, and the motion through the fresh air. It might have 
 been observed, however, that the eyes of Louis rested frequently 
 on the fair Nina, and were withdrawn in some confusion whenever 
 she raised hers to his face. 
 
 At length they left the high road and drove through an avenue 
 bordered with cherry trees, past a little village, and into a wood 
 beyond. On an eminence before them, half hid by foliage, was 
 an old hunting-seat, and at the foot of the slope, the water, bor- 
 dered with trees and bushes. On the other side of the river were 
 situated country-seats. 
 
 The carriage stopped here ; the friends alighted ; and Nina 
 immediately proposed a walk or a sail. The walk was decided 
 upon, as the sun was now high, and the cool shade of the woods 
 particularly inviting. They wandered about for some time, till 
 they came to a knoll shaded by a large, old tree, covered with the 
 softest moss. This served them for a sofa ; and then Heissen- 
 heimer proposed that Nina should give the nightingales a lesson. 
 She complained of being hoarse, and made twenty capricious ex- 
 cuses, till Signor Ricco produced his roll of paper, and handed a 
 leaf to his daughter. 
 
 " What is this, dear father ?" asked the maiden. " A compo- 
 sition ?" inquired the merchant. " Truly," answered Ricco, " I 
 have attempted to arrange something ; it is a cavatina from the 
 l Gazza Ladra, 1 to which I have made an accompaniment." 
 
 Nina was delighted, and declared it was her favorite piece ; 
 Louis looked at her doubtfully. Signor Ricco assigned him the 
 tenor, and the bass to Heissenheimer. Louis hoped to discover 
 by Nina's singing, if she were the songstress of the preceding 
 night. It seemed to him that he was not mistaken ; but he could 
 find in her really charming voice not the least of that fervor and 
 feeling which had so enchanted him with the mysterious song- 
 stress. His disappointment was so great that he went wrong in 
 his own part, and was only recalled by a sharp look from the 
 
336 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 chapel-master. Nina seemed roguishly inclined to laugh. At 
 last the piece was finished, and they rallied him severely on his 
 abstraction. Heissenheimer said candidly he thought the solemn 
 wood a place as unsuitable for such a melody, as a church for a 
 waltz or polonaise ; and thereupon ensued a renewal of the dis- 
 pute about Kossini, Mozart, and Mercadante. Nina took a decided 
 part with her father, who at last put an end to the discussion by 
 proposing that they should go where they could obtain some lunch. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The providence of Nina had prepared for them a little surprise 
 — a table spread with refreshments, under a neighboring tree. 
 They talked of other matters besides music, and Louis recovered 
 spirits enough to enter on a lively conversation with the young 
 lady about the climates of Germany and Italy. While the elder 
 guests were deep in their discourse, she proposed a walk down to 
 the water. 
 
 The day was delicious ; the blue, clear waters reflected the sun- 
 shine and the foliage on their bank. An avenue of chesnut 
 and linden trees followed the windings of the river. Nina stood 
 on the bank, smiling as she looked on the lovely scene ; Louis 
 was beside her, but a strange conflict agitated his bosom. Her 
 evidently superficial apprehension of art, of that which formed the 
 great object of his life, disappointed him so deeply, that his regard 
 for her seemed nipped in the bud. 
 
 After a long silence, he ventured on the question that oppressed 
 his heart. " We are alone ;" he said to her in an earnest tone 
 of entreaty ; " tell me, was it you who sang last night ? I beseech 
 you, answer me truly." 
 
 "Nina looked at him, and burst into a mischievous laugh. 
 " So," she cried, " you are still haunted by the unknown singer ? 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 A strange adventure — in truth ; you must have heard a witch ! 
 Now I understand why you did not praise my singing just now ! 
 And our poor innocent countryman, Rossini, must suffer for it ! 
 A young man hears a singer at midnight, and fancies her perfec- 
 tion ; next day. I sing an air which does not please him, because 
 I have not that good fortune ! I thank you, sir, for your flattering 
 confession !" and she made him a mocking curtesy. 
 
 " But tell me, I conjure you," persisted Louis, " was it not 
 you — " 
 
 " Hold !" cried Nina ; " not so solemn. I think if I say yes, 
 I can win you for an admirer of Rossini ; so I will say, yes ! I 
 am a sort of siren, sir, who entices young artists by her song to 
 worship Rossini even against their will." 
 
 " Nay, then," answered the young man, " last night's song was 
 not such an one. Now I really believe you were not the singer. 
 Heaven knows how I could be mistaken ; but I see such must 
 have been the case." 
 
 " Then," replied the maiden, " blame not me ; I am innocent ; 
 I hope sincerely you will soon find out your mysterious singer, who 
 seems to have so captivated you. Be not unkind, meanwhile, to 
 me, because you did not like my song ; I have a favor to beg ; 
 take me out on the water ; yonder is a boat. The shade of the 
 trees on the bank will protect us from the heat." 
 
 She spoke with so much gentleness and sweetness that Louis 
 felt his growing coldness melt away. He hastened to push off the 
 boat, took up the oars, and gave Nina his hand to help her in. 
 She leaped in gracefully and seated herself opposite him. The 
 boat soon glided swiftly over the smooth waters : Louis looking 
 straight forward, or at his fair companion's shadow on the water ; 
 for a feeling he could not explain, prevented him from looking at 
 herself. 
 
 They went on for half an hour without speaking. The boat now 
 glided into a small inlet, shaded by the foliage on high banks. 
 " Let us stop awhile here," said Nina ; and Louis took up his 
 oars. The young girl laid aside her straw hat, pushed her ringlets 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 from her fair brow, and looked on the sweet picture with an ex- 
 pression of delight. Behind the wooded shore rose the walls of 
 the ancient looking hunting-castle, embosomed in picturesque 
 woods. The inlet was in deep shadow, which contrasted with the 
 gleam of sunshine on the waves beyond ; and the light flashed like 
 jewels in the foliage above. The soft air, the refreshing coolness 
 of the shade, and the fragrance of flowers that filled the wood, 
 completed the effect of this charming scene. The heart of our 
 young artist was full. He looked at Nina ; her head was drooped 
 slightly, but as she raised it with a sudden motion, he saw that 
 tears were in her eyes. " You weep ?" said he, taking her hand 
 sympathizingly. " No," she answered softly, and with a smile, 
 " but there is so much beauty here !" ' After a moment she with- 
 drew her hand ; but not before a light pressure had responded to 
 the expression of her feelings. So passed some minutes, till re- 
 covering her vivacity, she suddenly exclaimed — "Mercy! how 
 late it is growing ! We must make haste back, or my father will 
 be uneasy !" 
 
 They were shortly at the landing-place again ; but found the 
 old people had suffered no uneasiness on their account. Both 
 Ricco and his friend were leaning against the trees, fast asleep. 
 Nina awoke the merchant with a mischievous tickling of his red 
 nose, and he started up from a dream of orchestras and violins. 
 After a walk in the castle garden, they returned to their carriage, 
 and drove back to the city. 
 
 The next night saw Louis walking for two hours in front of the 
 chapel-master's house, in hopes of hearing again the mysterious 
 singer. But all remained silent, and he returned disappointed to 
 his lodgings. 
 
 As soon as he thought it proper, he paid a visit to Signor Ricco. 
 On the steps he met Nina, going to visit a friend. After replying 
 to his polite inquiry how she had been since the excursion into 
 the country, she had already left him, when she suddenly turned 
 back, saying, " While I think of it, I have found out your won- 
 derful singer ; but I cannot approve of your taste !" A flush 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 339 
 
 rushed to the brow of the young artist. " And who is she ?" he 
 cried, eagerly. " Oh, sir," answered Nina, " I can keep a secret, 
 I assure you." 
 
 " I entreat you !" cried Louis, catching her hand. She drew 
 it away — and with mock gravity replied, " do you think I have so 
 little of the vanity of an artist as to favor so dangerous a rival — 
 one, the mention of whom so agitates you ? No, sir, you learn 
 nothing from me ; and no one else can put you on the right 
 track !" With this she walked away, leaving Louis embarrassed 
 and disappointed. He had to betake himself to her father, who 
 received him kindly, and invited him soon to repeat his visit, and 
 join them at their family concerts. 
 
 Our artist was fain to avail himself of this invitation, and became 
 a frequent visitor. He was conscious of a strong partiality for 
 Nina, which she did not, however, seem to return ; at least she 
 treated him with a degree of caprice which he could not help 
 fearing proceeded from levity of mind. Painful was the struggle 
 in his breast ; her beauty, frankness, and goodness of heart charmed 
 him, while her utter want of sympathy with all his tastes and pur- 
 suits, was a perpetual vexation to him. She seemed to regard 
 music only as a science of sounds, and to be insensible to its life 
 and power ; and all his enthusiasm could obtain nothing responsive 
 from her. Louis could not help thinking her, with all her loveli- 
 ness, a frivolous and soulless being. Notwithstanding, when under 
 the spell of her presence, he could not escape from its fascination. 
 This incessant strife of feeling caused him real suffering. 
 
 One evening the conversation chanced to turn again on Don 
 Giovanni, and the chapel-master expressed opinions as strange as 
 before, in the same ironical manner. Nina went even further ; 
 she abused the music altogether, which she thought too grave and 
 tragic, and particularly the airs of Anna and Elvira ; completing 
 the horror of poor Louis, by declaring she would rather sing any- 
 thing from Rossini, and that the opera might be made tolerable, 
 if only Rossini would compose all the music anew ! That was too 
 much ! The artist ventured no reply ; but soon after took his 
 
340 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 leave abruptly — not even hearing, as he rushed from the door, the 
 playful " good night" of the pretty maiden. 
 
 On his way home Louis met his old friend, Heissenheimer, who 
 remarked his ill-humor, and drew from him a confession of his 
 trouble. The merchant, enthusiastic as he was in music, gravely 
 remonstrated with his young friend for indulging such large ex- 
 pectations on the score of taste. Louis mournfully insisted, that 
 it was not so much want of taste he complained of, as an absence 
 of true refinement of feeling and mind. The want of an ear was 
 a defect of nature ; but Nina had a fine ear, and the highest mu- 
 sical cultivation ; hers was a want of soul. He who cannot 
 
 APPREHEND THE BEAUTIFUL, HAS NO HEART FOR THE GOOD. 
 
 " She is lost to me !" was his final exclamation, uttered in such 
 anguish of spirit, that Heissenheimer knew not how to console him. 
 
 They had walked for some time, without giving heed to the 
 direction in which they went, and almost unexpectedly, found 
 themselves nearly opposite the house of Signor Ricco. It was 
 late, and the street was quite still ; but low mutterings of thunder 
 at a distance, and flashes of lightning at intervals, foretold an ap- 
 proaching storm. 
 
 All at once the softest and sweetest melody rose on the silence 
 of night. Louis started, and grasped his friend's arm ; Heissen- 
 heimer cried, in surprise, " Who is singing ? It cannot be Nina ; 
 and it seems to come from that house !" " No, it is not Nina !" 
 answered Louis ; " I once thought it was !" 
 
 " It comes from the upper story," whispered the merchant : 
 " who can it be ?" 
 
 " For two months I have longed to know," cried the artist, 
 much affected, " and now I will know ! Mr alone will I love, 
 whose soul breathes in that music !" 
 
 " Hush !" said Heissenheimer ; " it comes like an air from 
 heaven !" and leaning against the iron railing, he listened, while 
 Louis drank in the delicious sounds with passionate delight, stand- 
 ing motionless, with folded arms, tears chasing each other down 
 his cheeks. 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 341 
 
 The fall, rich tones were accompanied on the piano ; and 
 strangely did the exquisite melody blend, from time to time, 
 with the rolling thunder, that came nearer every moment. But 
 it seemed sweeter from the contrast. 
 
 Meanwhile the clouds were gathering thickly over head. Large 
 drops fell, and the wind rushed hoarsely through the trees. Pres- 
 ently a vivid flash clove the darkness, making the whole street 
 light as day, and half blinding our two friends ; it was followed 
 by a tremendous crash of thunder, and then the rain came down 
 in torrents. 
 
 " Der Teufel !" cried the merchant ; " 'tis time we were gone ! 
 Come, we shall find shelter in the cafi royal!'''' And seizing 
 Louis by the arm, he dragged him away. Both ran down the 
 promenade to the cafe, from the windows of which shone a wel- 
 come light. " Never mind," said Heissenheimer, as they entered, 
 " such a song was worth a drenching. Let us drink the singer's 
 health." 
 
 It is needless to record all that was said between the friends, on 
 this occasion : the result was an appointment to dine together 
 next day, and meanwhile, Heissenheimer pledged himself to do 
 his utmost to unravel the mystery. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 So deeply had the heart of our artist been- impressed by the 
 nocturnal music, that he thought no more of Nina, but only of 
 the mysterious songstress. He waited, with the utmost impa- 
 tience, for the appointed hour next day. His first question, on 
 meeting the merchant, was " Have you discovered the singer ?" 
 Heissenheimer put on an important face, and began to talk mean- 
 ingly of the folly of being too curious, and the wisdom of Provi- 
 dence in concealing some things from us. Prom all this Louis 
 
342 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 divined that his friend had penetrated the secret, but was deter- 
 mined not to impart his knowledge. 
 
 Heissenheimer began to quote Faust ; his friend reminded him 
 of his pledge to disclose what he should find out. " Well, then," 
 replied the merchant, " you shall guess who she is ?" 
 
 " I conjure you, keep me no longer in suspense." 
 
 " I may not name her ; but this much I will say — you have 
 often seen her ; now will you guess ?" 
 
 " I know not," replied Louis ; " perhaps the Countess, who 
 lodges over the chapel-master ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Or Nina's friend, Mademoiselle Louise ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 ' Or the Italian dancer, who comes there sometimes — what is 
 her name — Donna Cerconi ?" 
 
 " No ! — you do not go on. See now, how pure is your love for 
 art ! you have guessed only those who have beauty of person !" 
 
 " Mock me no longer !" cried the young man : " what pleasure 
 is it to you to torment me ?" 
 
 " "Well, then, you shall know ; but first, a question — have you 
 never observed a female in the house of old Ricco ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " Strange — and yet you have seen her frequently." 
 
 " I can assure you " 
 
 " Hold, sir ! no assurances ! I see plainly, the young artist so 
 deeply in love with music, has eyes only for a pretty damsel ! She 
 of whom I speak, is neither handsome nor young. In short, it is 
 no other than the girl who performs the services of maid to Nina." 
 
 " Impossible ! you are joking !" 
 
 " I am in earnest." 
 
 " But how could a person in such a station, acquire such per- 
 fection in an art which, if she chose to exercise it, would place her 
 above dependence ? No — you are in jest !" 
 
 " Your incredulity is but natural, considering the ideal you 
 have formed of your singer. But let me tell you how I made my 
 
LOVE VEESUS TASTE. 343 
 
 discovery. I went at nine this morning to the Signor's, entered 
 without ringing, and passed quietly through the hall, for my object 
 was to surprise him. I heard nothing in his apartment, or his 
 daughter's ; but musical sounds came from a distance. I followed 
 them into a corridor at the end of the hall, and soon found they 
 came from a room above. I went up a narrow flight of stairs, 
 listened, and ascertained that it was really the singer of last night. 
 I held my breath ; the voice was suppressed, but it had the same 
 fervor and depth of feeling ; I could even distinguish the words 
 that closed the song — ' Nur Du.' " 
 
 " It is the same !" cried Louis, passionately. " I have heard 
 that song — " 
 
 " Let me go on. — I could not withstand the impulse of curi- 
 osity ; I peeped through the key-hole — I cunfoss it — but could 
 see only the bust of a female figure, which, however, I saw could 
 not belong to Nina. I then determined to open the door suddenly, 
 and to pretend I was in search of some one. This I did ; the 
 figure turned round quickly, and I recognized Caroline, the maid. 
 She blushed deeply, and seemed much confused ; at length she 
 asked — ' you wish to see Signor Kieco, sir ? He is in his cham- 
 ber.' I recovered my self-possession at these words, and told her 
 all : how I had heard the music, looked through the key-hole, 
 and finally opened the door to surprise her. I then begged her 
 to sing again, and to inform me how and where she had acquired 
 that exquisite cultivation of her rare musical talents. She refused 
 to sing, but after some hesitation, told me her story. Enough ; 
 you know who is your singer : let us go to dinner." 
 
 " No !" cried Louis, " I entreat you to tell me what she said 
 of herself; why she has concealed her precious gift — why she 
 submits to dependence, when she might place herself in a higher 
 sphere !" 
 
 " My friend," returned the merchant, " I feel it would be a 
 breach of faith to repeat her story merely to gratify curiosity. 
 You scarce remembered her existence — how can you be interested 
 in her ?" 
 
344 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 " Indeed," protested the young man, " I have often noticed her 
 quiet, modest manners, and interesting countenance. I would do 
 anything to befriend her." 
 
 The merchant smiled at this late discovery of her merit, and 
 looked very mischievous. At last he said — " I will then com- 
 municate to you all I know — provided you will promise silence — 
 particularly to the chapel-master and his daughter. 
 
 " Caroline is the daughter of a poor musician, who lived in a 
 remote village. He was reduced to poverty by the war, and 
 suffered from a long illness brought upon him by the rough usage 
 of the soldiers. In the time of his greatest need, Ricco and his 
 daughter, being on a journey, happened to pass through the vil- 
 lage. The chapel-master was detained by indisposition ; and to 
 amuse himself, wrote off the parts of an opera he had composed. 
 As he required help in the work, he inquired of the landlord of 
 the mean inn at which they lodged, who bethought himself directly 
 of Caroline's father. But on account of his illness, the poor man 
 would have to do the work at home. Ricco sent Nina, then a 
 girl of fourteen, to his house ; she found him in the utmost pov- 
 erty, with no one but his daughter, who worked to supply his 
 wants. The sick man eagerly undertook the task required ; but 
 his over-exertion brought on a nervous fever, of which he died in 
 a few days. During the time, Nina and her father gave the poor 
 old man all the assistance he needed — they have both excellent 
 hearts ! — and Ricco promised to take care of his daughter. The 
 day of her father's death, Caroline had gone some miles for a 
 physician ; all was over when she returned, but her father had 
 left her a letter, which she showed me with many tears. She 
 accompanied Ricco and his daughter to Berlin, and now occupies 
 a station in his house between maid and house-keeper. Now you 
 know all." 
 
 " But the letter ?" 
 
 " True ! — it would have touched you to see the affection it 
 breathed ; and the style was that of an educated person. Besides 
 the counsels of an affectionate father, with regard to her future 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 345 
 
 life, he gave her sensible advice about music ; alluded to her rare 
 voice, and the cultivation which, to the best of his ability, he had 
 bestowed ; with a delicate reference to the shocks to which her 
 refined taste in music might be exposed in her new situation. 
 Art, he said, was a revelation from God ; and he entreated her 
 not to display to vulgar eyes the jewel she possessed ! Keep it, 
 he said, like a secret treasure ; it may yield you happiness when 
 all other sources are withheld, like the hidden fountain to the 
 pilgrim in the desert ! And she obeyed his counsels in her pru- 
 dence. If she has erred, it has been in the sincerity of a pure 
 and loving heart !" 
 
 To this relation Louis listened with the deepest emotion. He 
 felt that the desolate orphan could not be happy in the house of 
 the good-natured, but frivolous Italians. He half formed a reso- 
 lution in his own mind, but said nothing. During dinner little 
 was said, Heissenheimer leading the conversation to indifferent 
 subjects. When the cloth was removed, he said to his youDg 
 friend — " I see this matter has impressed you as deeply as my- 
 self. But whatever may happen, promise me to take no step 
 with regard either to Caroline or her young mistress, without first 
 consulting me." This was readily promised. 
 
 The evening came, and the hour for his customary visit to Signor 
 Riceo. Louis, as he went, was far from being at his ease. He 
 knew not, in the first place, how he would be received by Nina, 
 after his abrupt departure the preceding night ; nor was he satis- 
 fied what course he should himself pursue. All thoughts of be- 
 coming the fair girl's lover he had of course abandoned. His 
 passion had grown at first out of the belief that she was what a 
 subsequent acquaintance had proved her not to be. His feelings 
 towards Caroline he could not define. He felt the warmest sym- 
 pathy for her misfortunes, and a deep admiration of her talents ; 
 her gentle manners touched him, and he was conscious, not of 
 love, but of a fraternal interest in her. 
 
 He went to the chapel-master's ; Nina received him with even 
 more than usual cordiality and cheerfulness, and seemed to have 
 
346 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 quite forgotten their late misunderstanding. Louis was absent and 
 thoughtful, and even forgot to ask after Riceo, who did not appear, 
 and who, his daughter at length said, had gone to a concert at the 
 ambassador's. How much would he once have given for such an 
 opportunity of tete-a-tete conversation ! As there seemed to bo 
 some constraint, Nina proposed that he should accompany her in 
 some new airs. They began with Mozart's great duet between 
 Anna and Octavio, from Don Giovanni. She sang with readiness, 
 but without that fire of inspiration, that loving sorrow, which 
 breathe in every note. Then they sang a duet from Belmont 
 and Constance ; this also Nina performed with ease, but in as 
 soulless a manner as the first. Louis went on with a species of 
 desperation, and began with a duet from Fidelio ; the young lady 
 smiled, as if she were commending her own patience, and sang 
 with such careless vivacity, that her guest's vexation was com- 
 plete. With a displeasure he could scarcely conceal, he asked, 
 " Had we not better sing a duet from Blangini ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes !" cried Nina, apparently delighted, " we will have 
 my favorite, ' Fra valli fra boschi ." " And springing up, she 
 sought for it in a pile of music. 
 
 Louis struck his head with his hand, and looked fixedly on the 
 keys of the piano ; he could have shed tears, but anger restrained 
 him. Nina had found the notes, and stood looking at him for 
 some time. At last she said gently — " No ; it is better we should 
 not sing ; I see you do it unwillingly. Before you get into such 
 a passion as last night, let us shut the piano, and go up stairs to 
 tea. I have done my best to entertain you to-night, but I see it 
 is in vain ; you are dissatisfied with me !" 
 
 Her tone showed mortification ; it moved our artist deeply, and 
 he would have replied by a confession of his feelings, but was re- 
 strained by the thought that he might find Caroline in the tea- 
 room, where she often sat with her work. He only answered, 
 " Yes, it is better ; I would rather hear no more after that last 
 duet." 
 
 They went up stairs : Caroline was indeed there : he observed 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 347 
 
 her attentively ; she seemed conscious of his looks, and anxious 
 to avoid them. She went to prepare the tea ; Louis congratulated 
 himself on the superior discernment that enabled him to discover 
 in her plain, and at first sight inexpressive features, the trace of 
 that nobility of soul her singing had revealed. What speaking 
 earnestness dwelt, doubtless, in those downcast eyes ! Hi» delight 
 was that of the discoverer of a new land, abounding in unknown 
 treasures. He rejoiced in the thought of offering her his band, 
 and elevating her to the sphere she was so well fitted to adorn. 
 As she returned with the tea, he could not help fancying, from 
 her apparent avoidance of his glances, that she was aware of his 
 interest in her. 
 
 Nina did not complain of his abstraction ; but did her part in 
 the conversation with so much grace and sweetness, that the artist 
 involuntarily sighed, regretting that a form so lovely contained no 
 soul. It cost him a severe pang to give her up forever. 
 
 Some time had passed in their monosyllabic discourse, when 
 Nina suddenly started up, having forgotten to order lights, and 
 quitted the room. Louis walked to the open window. His atten- 
 tion was an instant after arrested ; he heard the voice of his un- 
 seen songstress. The sounds came from Ricco's music room. 
 
 Softly he opened the door, and passed through the room into 
 another, which adjoined the music room. There, in darkness — 
 for the blinds were closed — he drank in the rich melody. It was 
 the air from Mozart's Magic Flute — 
 
 " I feel 'tis gone, 'tis lost for aye, 
 The bliss of love," etc. 
 
 She sang in an under-tone ; but this very suppression of her 
 voice revealed so much, that our artist was deeply moved. He 
 could no longer contain his emotion. Gently he opened the door 
 of the room where she sat singing in darkness ; and as the song 
 ended, he threw himself at her feet, seized her hand, and pressed 
 it to his burning lips. She sprang from the piano, terrified, 
 snatched her hand away, and hurried out of the room. 
 
348 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 Louis stood confused for a moment, then walked up and down 
 the apartment, filled with emotions of delight. Then he seated 
 himself at the piano, and poured forth the feelings of his heart in 
 music. Just at the height of his rapture the hall-door opened, 
 and presently a loud voice eried, " No more of that ; you play 
 dissonances ! Away with your Mozartish stuff!" It was Kicco. 
 The artist rose, and saluted him with some embarrassment. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this Egyptian darkness ?" eried the 
 Italian ; " and why are you playing here all alone ?" He pushed 
 open the doors, and the light shone in from the tea-room, where 
 Nina was seated. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Late as it was, Louis hastened to his friend Heissenheimer, 
 and told him all that had occurred. 
 
 " You do injustice to my fair friend Nina," said the merchant ; 
 " she has kindness of heart, feeling, and" — 
 
 " No more of her !" interrupted the artist : " I have made up 
 my mind what to do, and am determined to offer my hand to 
 Caroline !" 
 
 " Well," said his old friend, " then I will say no more. But 
 the how, and when ? You had better do it in writing ; for you 
 cannot easily find an opportunity of speaking alone with her. I 
 will be the bearer of your letter — your postilion d'amour." 
 
 Louis agreed with joy, and promised to bring the letter next 
 morning. 
 
 After he had returned home, he considered the step he was 
 about to take ; and asked himself earnestly, if he believed a noble 
 apprehension and feeling for a noble art, a sufficient pledge for no- 
 bility and purity of soul ? He thought of instances in which the 
 highest taste in art had seemed to be accompanied by a mean and 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 349 
 
 unworthy spirit ; but further attention convinced him that in all 
 these cases the taste had been perverted or vitiated, or else the 
 world's judgment had mistaken the character of the individuals. 
 
 After some reflection, he wrote a letter containing a formal offer 
 of his hand to Caroline. He confessed his former partiality for 
 Nina, and that his affection had been won by the feeling and soul 
 evinced in her singing. On that security for mind and heart he 
 was willing to rest the happiness of his life ! 
 
 The letter was given next morning to Heissenheimer, who prom- 
 ised to deliver it. About noon, the impatient artist called again 
 on the merchant, who had left for him the following note : 
 
 " Dear Louis : 
 
 " Your letter was delivered ; but I have no answer for you, for I could 
 only slip it into Caroline's hand, her mistress being present. Ricco and 
 his daughter are gone into the country. They sent to invite you to join 
 them ; but you were not at home. Pressing business prevents my seeing 
 you. I send you information, however, as the circumstances may be 
 favorable to you ; it is possible you may find Caroline alone at the house. 
 This evening I shall expect to hear from you. 
 
 " Heissenheimek." 
 
 Our artist lost no time in hastening to the chapel-master's house. 
 He rang, and rang ; but no one admitted him. After several 
 trials with the same success, he resolved to wait till evening, 
 when Ricco and Nina might be expected to return. Caroline 
 would then be certainly at home. Who knows, thought he, that 
 she has not some friend, whom she has gone to consult ? 
 
 He counted the hours impatiently, till it was quite dark ; and 
 stood again among the lindens opposite the house. The windows 
 were open, but the curtains down ; there was no light, a sure sign 
 that the chapel-master had not returned. All at once he heard 
 the sound of a piano. It must be Caroline, taking the opportunity 
 of the absence of her master and mistress, to indulge herself in her 
 beloved art ! 
 
 Quickly, but noiselessly, Louis stole up the steps, entered at 
 the door, and passed through the hall. He listened at the door 
 
350 LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 leading into the room ; she was singing, with her rich, expressive 
 voice, the same song he had first heard. He could distinguish 
 every word, the closing line being repeated with some variations. 
 The whole song was unspeakably touching, and full of life, love, 
 and hope, such as only a poetic spirit could express. It filled the 
 listener, like magic, with a feeling of delicious sadness ; the soft 
 breath of spring, the whisper of love, could alone be compared 
 with it ! 
 
 Louis breathed quickly. Now is the time or never, thought 
 he, and opened the door. There was only sufficient light in the 
 room to show the outline of a female figure, sitting with drooping 
 head before the piano. 
 
 The young man drew nigh, unobserved ; and suddenly seizing 
 her hand, " Caroline !" he cried, in a voice trembling with emo- 
 tion. She started up ; he still held her hand, and whispered, 
 " Caroline, canst thou love me ?" 
 
 The girl trembled, and placed the hand that was at liberty be- 
 fore her eyes. Her lover tried to remove it, and felt her burning 
 tears upon his own. He pressed her to his bosom. 
 
 At last, she whispered softly, " Will you love me, questioning 
 not who I am ?" Louis kissed the lips that uttered these words, 
 and replied, " Forever and ever !" 
 
 Leaning on the arm of the young man, the agitated girl led the 
 way out of the music room, and through two or three apartments, 
 towards Nina's cabinet. As they stood before the door, she whis- 
 pered again, " Grant me my first petition ; close your eyes till 
 the word is given to open them." Louis obeyed, in some sur- 
 prise ; they entered the cabinet ; she drew away her hand ; they 
 stood a moment still. At last, he heard a strange voice say, 
 " Now, Louis !" and opened his eyes. 
 
 The room was lighted up ; directly before him stood Heissen- 
 heimer ; a few paces off, Ricco, supporting the form of a young 
 girl, whose face was hid on his breast. The Italian seemed much 
 moved, but did not utter a word. 
 
 Louis stood mute with surprise and embarrassment ; at length, 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 351 
 
 recollecting himself, he repeated anxiously the name of " Caro- 
 line !" The weeping girl lifted her face from Ricco's bosom, and 
 turned towards him. It was Nina ! 
 
 " Nina !" exclaimed the young man. 
 
 " Nina — Caroline — what you will," answered Heissenheimer ; 
 " but the self-same enchantress, whose song has won your heart." 
 
 " No ! Is it possible ? Oh, can I believe it!" cried Louis, 
 looking bewildered around him. 
 
 " The same !" said Ricoo. And Nina herself confirmed the 
 truth. 
 
 No longer doubting, the artist seized her fair hand, and drew 
 her gently to his breast. Long, long, he held her there in silence ; 
 amazement — love — unspeakable rapture — deprived him of the 
 power of speech. 
 
 At last Ricco, who had been walking up and down the room in 
 great emotion, broke the silence. " Young friend," he cried, 
 il thou hast nobly borne the trial. Art is a divinity — and for the 
 true artist, no sacrifice is too great ! I vowed — and would have 
 kept my vow — to give my daughter to no one who could not value 
 her mind and heart beyond her outward charms ! He who could 
 admire the superficial, frivolous maiden, beautiful as she was, and 
 wish for nothing more — would have been unworthy of her better 
 self. Too often have I heard fair words in praise of art ; too 
 rarely does the action correspond ; and he alone has right to up- 
 braid his opponents with their want of discernment, who not only 
 has better judgment, but suffers that judgment to guide his con- 
 duct. Now, take my girl if you will ! I welcome you as my 
 son !" Louis answered by embracing the kind old man. 
 
 When their feelings were in some measure calmed, Heissen- 
 heimer commenced his explanations. 
 
 " You have much to thank me for, young man ! Till yesterday 
 I was as much deceived as yourself, and was only let behind the 
 scenes after my discovery. I would have you know, all was truth 
 I told you about my hearing the music, and so forth ; except that 
 I surprised, not the maid Caroline, by our sweet friend Nina, while 
 
LOVE VERSUS TASTE. 
 
 her father was accompanying her in the song you heard a few mo"- 
 ments since. There was no escape ; both were brought to con- 
 fession, and having them in my power, I stipulated that you should 
 be kept no longer in suspense, else I know not how many fiery 
 trials awaited you." 
 
 " It was my father's will, not mine !" cried Nina ; " if you only 
 knew how hard it was for me to play such a part !" 
 
 Louis answered by an expressive look ; and Kicco said, depre- 
 catingly, " My art — my child — my all, was at stake ! "We are 
 told to be wise as the serpent." 
 
 " But if the issue had not bee"n fortunate ?" said the young 
 man. 
 
 " Nothing venture — nothing win !" replied the Italian. " We 
 all risked something. Let us rejoice that it has ended so happily." 
 
 " Only the poor village musician," said Heissenheimer, " has 
 reason to complain, that I sent him out of the world so senti- 
 mentally, without asking his leave ! Doubtless he would not be 
 much obliged to me — for to-day is his birth-day, and his daughter 
 Caroline is gone to pay him a visit. But what think you, fair 
 lady, of our friend as a physiognomist ? Here he has been finding 
 out that your features were inexpressive — and those of Caroline 
 very interesting !" 
 
 " Do not make sport of me !" cried Louis, " you were as much 
 in the dark till yesterday as myself." 
 
 " Well !" said the old merchant — " at least I shall claim a kiss 
 for my reward as postilion iPamour .'" 
 
 " Come," interrupted the chapel-master ; " let us adjourn to 
 the little back room, where we may find something to eat !" They 
 went, Nina leading the way, loaning on the arm of her lover. 
 The " little back room" was a private cabinet, the window of 
 which opened on a small garden in the rear of the house. Here 
 was an excellent instrument, by which Eicco was accustomed to 
 compose, and his daughter to sing. A large book-case contained, 
 in rich binding, the works of celebrated composers of the old 
 Italian school, down to the latest. There was Palestrina, Lulli r 
 
LOTE VERSUS TASTE. 853 
 
 &c, and also Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. Portraits of tho 
 great masters hung round the walls ; the bust of Mozart stood 
 on the book-case. 
 
 Louis believed himself in a sanctuary ! The fair priestess stood 
 by his side, and smiled upon him. Her usual frank and lively 
 manner was exchanged for something of timidity and reserve ; 
 but love beamed in her eyes, and kindly regard was expressed in 
 the looks of all present. Heissenheimer was the first to recover 
 his vivacity ; and he brought them back to this world by protesting 
 that he was inordinately hungry and thirsty. He should prefer a 
 flask of good Johannisberger to all the dews of Castaly ! And 
 they would not forget to drink the health of all the divinities of 
 love and music ; yea, the present company included, besides the 
 poor village musician and his daughter Caroline, who certainly 
 ought to have a share in their good wishes ! 
 
 THE END.