Chapter V: Preface (5)

“True, and false, _mon ami_! as we take it. Do you know in what lies your fault and mine? We philosophize too much! Do not laugh; _parole d’honneur_--I speak in earnest! It is true, each of us in his way; we should have done better by acting, instead of thinking so deeply; instead of mocking at, and saying all possible evil of this miserable world--we should have acted. Not the will, but action, removes mountains. There lies a paradox in 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 philosophers. 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, bewitching 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 countenance 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 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 lieutenant, 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? Recollect yourself.”

“Eh!” said Friedemann, smiling; “Eh, M. Scherbitz, who takes a jest so deeply? And you really believe, that I am sometimes 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 God. 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 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! Receive 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 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, gave his arm to his wife, and walked 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 Globig 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 preparations, was not unworthy of the favorite and confidant of the Count von Brühl. 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 particular 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 walks, and gorgeous illuminations were displayed before the entrance. Bands of musicians alternated with each other, and joined in 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 distinguished-looking man, as Philip Emanuel, the second son of the great Sebastian Bach.

The Baroness blushed slightly, and after a few words of salutation had passed, asked--“Where is your elder brother, now?”

“We do not know,” replied Philip, sadly; “Friedemann disappeared 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 servant 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 harmony, now towering into passion, now sinking to a melodious plaint, which the poor unknown musician drew from the instrument. All were touched; but the Baroness and Philip stood, pale as death, and looked inquiringly, yet doubtingly, upon each other. Suddenly, at a bold turn in the music, the Baroness whispered--“’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 himself a way through the crowd, rushed from the house.

THE OLD MUSICIAN.

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 earnestly. 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 melancholy, and his form was even more emaciated than that of his companion.

“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 reading 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, pointing 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 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.

“Gold!” 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, 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 remember, I have had but one passion--for my art! The beauty of woman moved me with but the artist’s rapture! Yet must I degrade 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 madness, 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!”

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 drawing. 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 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.

“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 Saxony.”

“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 apparel, 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 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 Friedemann 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 Bach; “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 collected 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 Friedemann Bach was yet living, and in Berlin. The two made an appointment 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 Friedrichstadt. The landlady opened the door.

“Does M. Friedemann Bach live here yet?” asked Mendelssohn.

“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 friend the painter, whom he loved so well.” Her voice was interrupted by tears.

Mendelssohn and Naumann left the house in silence.

MOZART.]

MOZART.

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. Honoré. 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 Boëmer, 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 reminiscences 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 the Archbishop, who found the small salary he received insufficient 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 children?” 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 influence; I will try what I can do. Let me see you again in a few days.”

With this scanty encouragement, the 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, Manheim, 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 confidence he had before. His first care was to find out the residence 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 secretary, 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 “_Statua Statuæ_.” Very little was necessary, then as now, to bring together 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, 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 departed 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 promised 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 gentleman who had warned them to escape from the crowd in the Place 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 abbé, who was well known to hate French music, observed that the opera ought to be located opposite the place where bull-fights were held--“because your great noises should be heard without the city.”

The Duc 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 generously 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 _Comédie-Italienne_ was offered. One immense hall in the Tuilleries was suitable for the purpose; and the king gave permission that it should be appropriated for the opera. At the first concert, on the 29th of April, a great crowd attended. The female singers were Arnould, Lemiére and Dubois; the chief male performers, Gelin, Larrivé and Magnet. The wags said the concerts were the ointments for the burning. The singers were loudly applauded, and it was observed 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 proportions 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 countenance 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 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.”

“I defy you to remain cold while she is declaiming some great scene. But she has not the grace of Sophie Arnould, and there is something of hardness in her tones. Nevertheless, she has her partisans. 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 enthusiasm 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.

Returning to the hotel of the Trois Turcs, they found an invitation from the Baron d’Holback to a soirée 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.

“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 elegant 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 refreshments; and send a servant to Guardasoni, 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.

“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?”

“He and the whole orchestra say every night after the performance, 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! And 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! You 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 impatient 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 testimony 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 Salieri, 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 uncorked, never once passing, however, the bounds of decorum.

In his festive humor, Mozart was not so reserved to the curiosity 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.

“For example, sing me this air--‘_Fin chan dal vino!_’”

He stepped to the piano; Bassi followed him somewhat unwillingly; 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 _con furio_ 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 landlord, 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 ærial 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 encored 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 fête, 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 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 Emperor 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--O, 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 depends, 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 Burgundy!”

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.

Mozart took the cup, and drank a long draught, and repeated the following lines with a comic air of seriousness, looking the colossal Ganymede in the face:

“Johann von Nepomucken
Musst springen von der Prager Brucken,
Weils dem Wenzel nit wollt glucken,
Der Königin 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, Nepomuck 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 unexpectedly 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:--