Chapter VI (8)

"It chanced that the tower of the Dominican Church at G---- was one night struck by lightning. My friend was in raptures with the grand fire-pillar which arose in the darkness, magically illuminating all the country round; but he soon came to the conclusion that to get the real picturesque effect of it in all its perfection, it would be the right thing to go and look at it from a certain rising ground just outside the town. So he set off as quickly as his carefulness in such matters would permit him, not forgetting to put a packet of macaroons and a flask of wine into certain of his pockets, or to carry a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hand, and a camp stool under his arm. Thus equipped, he paced calmly out of the city gate and up on to the eminence, where he sat himself down to enjoy the spectacle, smelling at his bouquet, munching a macaroon, washing that down with a mouthful of wine, in the most complete, beatific, quiescent state of enjoyment. Really this fellow was--taking him all round----"

"Stop! stop!" cried Lothair, "you were going to tell us the adventure of your own which helped you in writing your 'Gamester's Fortune,' and you cannot get away from a fellow who seems to have been as ludicrous as repulsive to every ordinarily constituted person's feelings."

"You must not blame me," said Theodore, "for lingering over this personage who was so intimately brought into connection with my life. But, to business!--this man whom I have been describing to you invited me to make a trip with him to a certain watering place, and, although I saw quite clearly that I was to play the _rôle_ of soother, calmer, tranquilizer, and _maítre-de-plaisírs_ to him, I was quite satisfied to make this charming excursion amongst the mountains at his expense. At the watering-place there was some high play going on--a bank of several thousand thalers. My companion eyed the heaps of gold with greedy simpers, paced up and down the room, circled nearer and nearer to the play table, dived into his pockets, brought out a Friedrich-d'or between his finger and thumb, dropped it back again--in a word, lusted for money. Only too glad would he have been to pocket a little haul from that heaped-up treasure, but he had no belief in his star. At last he put an end to this droll contest between his longings and his fears, which brought the perspiration in drops on to his forehead, by begging me to stake for him, to which end he put five or six Friedrichs-d'or into my hand. However, I would have nothing to do with the arrangement until he assured me that he had not the least belief that he would have any luck whatever, but looked upon the sum which he staked as so much lost cash. What happened was what I did not in the least degree expect. To me, the unpractised, inexperienced player, fortune was propitious. I won for my friend in a very short time something like thirty Friedrichs-d'or, which he put in his pocket with much glee. Next evening he wanted me to play for him again, but to this hour I cannot explain how the idea came into my head that I should then play on my own account. I had not had the slightest intention of playing any more, nay, rather, I was on the very point of going away, out of the room, to take a walk outside, when my friend came up to me with his request. When I had plainly told him in set terms that I meant to play on my own account (but not till then), I walked calmly up to the table and pulled out of my little waistcoat pocket two Friedrichs-d'or, the only two which I possessed. If fortune had been propitious to me the night before, this time it seemed as if some Spirit of Might, at whose command luck stood, was in covenant with me. Whatever I did, whatever I staked upon, everything turned up in my favour---in fact, just as I said in my story, what happened at first to Baron Siegfried happened to me. My brain reeled! When a fresh haul of money was handed over to me I often felt as if I were in a dream, and should be sure to wake up just as I was pocketing my winnings. When the clock struck two the game came to an end as usual.

"Just as I was leaving the room, an old officer took me by the shoulder, and said, transfixing me with a grave, powerful eye:

"'Young man, if you had known what you were about, you would have broken the banque. But if ever you do know about it, no doubt you will go to the devil, like all the rest.' He left me, without waiting for my answer.

"The day was breaking when I got to my room, and emptied the money out of all my pockets on to the table. Picture to yourselves the feelings of a mere boy, entirely dependent on his relatives, restricted to a miserable mite of an allowance of weekly pocket-money, who suddenly, as if at the wave of a magic wand, finds himself in possession of a sum which is, at all events, considerable enough to appear, in his eyes, a fortune! But, as I gazed at the heaps of coin, all my mind was suddenly filled with an anxiety, a strange, alarmed uneasiness, which put me into a cold perspiration. The words of the old officer came back to me, as they had not struck me before, in the most terrible significance. I felt as though the coin which was blinking at me there on the table was the earnest money of a bargain whereby I had sold my soul to the powers of darkness, so that there was no escape more for it possible, and it was destroyed for evermore. The blossoms of my life seemed to be gnawed upon by a hidden worm, and I sank into inconsolable despair. The morning dawn was flaming up behind the eastern hills. I lay down in the window-seat. I gazed, with the most intense longing, for the rising of the sun which should drive away the darksome spirits of night; and when the woods and plains shone forth in his golden glory, it was day in my soul once more, and there came to me the most inspiriting sense of a power to resist all temptation, and shield my life from that demoniacal impulse, which was full of the power of--somehow and somewhere--impelling it to utter destruction. I made then a most sacred vow that I would never touch a card again, and that vow I have kept most strictly. And the first use I made of my money was to part from my friend, to his immense surprise, and set out on that excursion to Dresden, Prague, and Vienna, of which I have told you."

"I can well imagine," said Sylvester, "the impression which your unexpected, equivocal, most questionable luck must have made upon you. It was greatly to your credit that you resisted the temptation, and that you recognized how it was that the threatening danger lay in the very luck itself. But, allow me to say, your own tale, the manner in which you have, with such accuracy, characterized the real gambler in it, must make it plain to yourself that you never had within you the true love of gambling, and that, if you had, the courage which you displayed would have been very difficult, perhaps impossible. Vincent, who, I believe, knows a great deal more about such matters than the rest of us, will agree with me here, I think."

"As for me," said Vincent, "I was scarcely attending to Theodore's account of his luck at the faro-table, because my mind was so full of that delicious fellow who walked about the hills in silk stockings, and admired burning buildings as if they were so many pictures, enjoying his wine, his macaroons, and his bouquets all the time. In fact, it was a pleasure and satisfaction to me to see one entertaining character at last emerging out of the dark, dreadful background of the stories of this evening, and I should have liked to have seen him as the hero of some comic drama."

"Ought not the mere suggestion of him to have been enough for us?" said Lothair. "We Serapion Brethren ought always to remember that it is our duty to set up, for each other's entertainment and refreshment, unique characters which we may have come across in life, as a means of refreshing us after the tales which may have strained our attention."

"A good idea," said Vincent, "and I thoroughly agree with it. Rough sketches of that description ought to serve as studies for more finished pictures, which whoever chooses may elaborate after his liking. Also, they may be considered as being charitable contributions to the general fund of Serapionish fantasy. And to show that I am in earnest, I shall at once proceed to describe to you a very great 'Curio' of a man whom I came across in the south of Germany. One day, in B----, I chanced to be walking in a wood near the town, when I came upon a number of countrymen hard at work in cutting down a quantity of thick underwood, and snipping off the branches from the trees on either side of it. I do not know what made me inquire of them if they were making a new road, or what. They laughed, and told me that, if I went on my way, I should find, outside the trees, upon a little rising ground, a little gentleman who would answer my questions, and, accordingly, I came there upon a little elderly gentleman, of pale complexion, in a great-coat, and with a travelling-cap on his head and a game-bag at his back, who was gazing fixedly through a telescope in the direction of the men who were cutting down the trees. When he saw me he shut up his telescope in a hurry, and said, eagerly, 'You have come through the wood, sir? Have you observed how the work is getting on?' I told him what I had seen. 'That's right, that's right,' he said; 'I've been here ever since three in the morning, and I was beginning to be afraid that those asses (and I pay them well, too) were leaving me in the lurch. But I have some hopes, now, that the view will come into sight at the expected time.' He drew out his telescope again, and gazed through it towards the wood. After a few minutes, some large branches came rustling down, and, as at the stroke of a magic wand, there opened up a prospect of distant mountains, a beautiful prospect, with the ruins of an old castle glowing in the beams of the setting sun. The gentleman gave expression to his extreme delight and gratification in one or two detached broken phrases; but when he had enjoyed the prospect for a good quarter of an hour, he put away his telescope and set off as fast as he could, without bidding me goodbye or taking the slightest notice of me. I afterwards heard that he was the Baron von B----, one of the most extraordinary fellows in existence, who, like the well-known Baron Grotthus, has been on a continual walking tour for several years, and has a mania for hunting after beautiful views. When he arrives at a place where, to get at a view, he thinks it is necessary to have trees cut down, or openings made in woodlands, he spares no cost to arrange matters with the proprietors, or to employ labourers. In fact, it is said that he once tried his utmost to have a set of farm buildings burned down, because he thought they interfered with the beauty of a prospect, and interrupted the view of the distance. He did not succeed in this particular undertaking. But whenever he did attain his object, he would gaze at his newly-arranged view for half an hour or so, at the outside, and then set off at such a pace that nothing could stop him, never coming back to the place again."

The friends were of one mind in the opinion that there is no possibility of imagining anything more marvellous or out of the common than that which comes before us in actual life, of its own accord.

"I am wonderfully delighted," said Cyprian, "that it chances to be in my power to add to your two oddities a third character, of whom I was told a short time ago by a well-known violinist, whom we all of us know very well. This third character of mine is none other than the Baron von B----, a man who lived in Berlin about the years 1789 and 1790, and was acknowledged to be one of the most extraordinary phenomenons ever met with in the world of music. For the sake of greater vividness, I will tell you the tale in the first person, as if I were the violinist concerned in it, and I hope my worthy Serapion brother Theodore won't take it amiss that I encroach, on this occasion, into his peculiar province.

"At the time when the Baron was living in Berlin," the violinist said, "I was a very young fellow, scarcely sixteen, and absorbed in the most zealous study of my instrument, to which I was devoted with all the powers and faculties of my body and soul. My worthy master, Concert-Meister Haak, who was excessively strict with me, was much content with my progress. He lauded the finish of my bowing, the correctness of my intonation, and he allowed me to play in the orchestra of the opera, and even in the King's chamber-concerts. On those occasions I often heard Haak talking with young Duport, with Ritter, and other great artists belonging to the orchestra, about the musical evenings which Baron von B---- was in the habit of having in his house. Such was the research and the taste connected with those evenings that the King himself often deigned to take part in them. Mention was made of magnificent works of the old, nearly forgotten masters, which were nowhere else to be heard than at the Baron's, who, as regarded music for stringed instruments, possessed, probably, the most complete collection from the most ancient times down to the present day, in existence. Then they spoke of the marvellous hospitality which the Baron extended to artists, and they were all unanimous in concluding that he was the most bright and shining star which had ever risen in the musical horizon of Berlin.

"All this excited my curiosity, and made my teeth water; and all the more that, during these conversations, the artists drew their heads nearer together, and I gathered, from mysterious whispers and detached words and phrases, that there was talk of tuition in music, of giving of lessons. I fancied that, on Duport's face especially, there appeared a sarcastic smile, and that they all attacked Concert-Meister Haak with some piece of chaff, and that he, for his part, only feebly defending himself, could scarcely suppress a smile, until at last, turning quickly away, and taking up his violin to tune, he cried out, 'All the same, he is a first-rate fellow!'

"All this was more than I could withstand, and although I was told, in a pretty decided manner, to mind my own business, I begged Haak to allow me, if in any manner possible, to go with him to the Baron's and play in his concerts.

"Haak surveyed me with great eyes, and I feared that a little thunderstorm was going to burst out upon me. But his seriousness melted into a strange smile, and he said:

"'Well, well; perhaps you're right. There's a great deal to be picked up at the Baron's. I'll talk to him about you, and I think it very likely that he will accord you _les entrées_. He is very much interested in young musicians.'

"A short time afterwards, I had been playing some very difficult duetts with Haak. As he laid his fiddle down, he said, 'Now, Carl, put your Sunday coat on to-night, and your silk stockings. We will go together to the Baron's. There won't be many there, and it will be a good opportunity to introduce you to him.'

"My heart throbbed with delight, for I expected to meet with things unheard-of and extraordinary, though I did not know why this was my expectation.

"We arrived there. The Baron, a rather small gentleman, advanced in age, wearing an old Frankish embroidered gala dress, came to meet us as we entered the room, and shook my master cordially by the hand. Never had I felt, at the sight of a man of rank, more sincere reverence, a more infelt, sincere, pleasant attraction. His face expressed the most genuine kindliness, whilst from his eyes flashed that darksome fire which so often indicates the artist who is, in verity, penetrated by his art. All that diffidence with which I, as an inexperienced neophyte, would otherwise have had to contend, fled from me instantly.

"'How are you, my dear Haak?' the Baron said. 'How are you getting on? Have you been having a right good study at my concerto? Good, good; we shall hear tomorrow. Oh, I suppose this is the young virtuoso you were telling me about?'

"I cast my eyes down bashfully. I felt that I blushed over and over again.

"Haak mentioned my name, praised my natural talent, and lauded the rapid progress which I had made in a short time.

"'And so you have chosen the violin as your instrument,' said the Baron. 'Have you considered, my son, that the violin is the most difficult of all instruments ever invented, and that it is one which, whilst it seems, in its extreme simplicity, to comprehend in itself the most luxuriant richness of music, is, in reality, an extraordinary mystery, which only discloses itself to a rare few, specially organized by nature to comprehend it? Do you know of a certainty, does your spirit tell you with distinctness, that you will be the master of that marvellous mystery? Many a one has thought this, and has remained a miserable bungler all his days. I should not wish, my son, that you should swell the ranks of those wretched creatures. However, at all events, you can play me something, and then I will tell you what you are like, what state you are in as regards this matter, and you will follow my counsel. Perhaps it is with you as it was with Carl Staunitz, who thought he was going to turn out a marvellous virtuoso. When I opened his eyes, he threw his fiddle behind the stove, and took to the Tenor and Viol d'Amour, and a very good job he made of them. On them he could stamp about with those broad stretching fingers of his, and play quite fairly well. But, however, just now I want to hear _you_, my little son.'

"This first somewhat extraordinary speech of the Baron's to me was calculated to render me somewhat anxious and abashed. What he said went deep into my soul, and I felt, not without inward sorrow, that in devoting my life to the most difficult of all instruments I had, perhaps undertaken a task beyond my powers.

"Just then, four of the artists then present sat down to play the last three quartettes of Haydn, which had just appeared in print. My master took his violin out of its case; but scarcely had he passed his bow over the strings, in tuning, when the Baron, stopping his ears with both hands, cried out, like a man possessed, 'Haak, Haak, tell me, for God's sake! how can you annihilate all your skill in playing by making use of a miserable screaking, caterwauling fiddle like that?'

"Now it happened that my master's violin was one of the most splendid and glorious ever to be met with. It was a genuine Antonio Stradivari, and nothing could enrage him more than when any one failed to render due homage to this darling of his. However, knowing pretty well what was going to happen, he put it back into its case with a smile.

"Just as he was taking the key out of the lock of his fiddle-case, the Baron, who had left the room for a moment, came in, bearing in both arms (as if it had been a babe going to be baptized) a violin-case, covered with scarlet velvet, and bound with gold cords.

"'I wish to do you an honour, Haak,' he said; 'tonight you shall play on my oldest, most precious violin. This is a genuine Granuelo. Your Stradivarius, his pupil, is only a bungler in comparison with him. Tartini would never put his fingers on any violin but a Granuelo. So please to collect yourself, and pull yourself together, so that the Granuelo may be pleased to allow itself to unfold all the gloriousness which dwells within it.'

"The Baron opened the violin-case, and I beheld an instrument whose build bore witness to its immense antiquity. Beside it lay a most marvellous-looking bow, whose exaggerated curvature seemed to indicate rather that it was intended for shooting arrows from than for bringing tone out of violin strings. With solemn carefulness the Baron took the instrument out of its case and handed it to my master, who received it with equal solemnity.

"'I'm not going to give you the bow,' said the Baron, tapping my master on the shoulder with a pleasant smile, 'you haven't the slightest idea how to manage it; and that is why you will never, in all your life, attain to a proper style of bowing.

"'This was the sort of bow,' continued the Baron, taking it from the case, and contemplating it with a gleaming glance of inspiration, 'which the grand, immortal Tartini made use of; and now that he is gone there are only two of his pupils left in the whole wide world who were fortunate enough to possess themselves of the secret of his magnificent, marrowy, toneful manner of bowing, which affects the whole being of people, and can only be accomplished with a bow of this kind. One of those pupils is Narbini, who is now an old man of seventy, capable only of inward music; and the other, as I think, gentlemen, you are aware, is myself. Consequently, I am now the sole individual in whom the true art of violin-playing survives; and my zealous endeavours will, I trust and believe, not fail to perpetuate that art which found its creator in Tartini. However, let us set to work, gentlemen.'

"The Haydn quartettes were then played through, and with a degree of perfection which, it need not be said, left nothing to be desired. The Baron sat with closed eyes, swaying backwards and forwards; occasionally he would get up from his chair, go closer to the players, peer at the music with wrinkled brow, and then go very gently back to his seat, lean his head on his hand, sigh, groan--

"'Stop, stop!' he cried suddenly at a melodious passage in one of the adagios, 'by all the gods! that was Tartini-ish melody, or I know nothing about it. Play it again, please.'

"And the masters, smiling, repeated the passage, with a more sostenuto and cantabile effect of bowing, while the Baron wept and sobbed like a child.

"When the quartettes were ended, the Baron said, 'A heavenly fellow, this Haydn; he knows how to touch the heart; but he has not an idea of writing for the violin. Perhaps he does not wish to do it; for if he did, and wrote in the only true manner, as Tartini did, you would never be able to play it.'

"It was now my turn to play some variations which Haak had written for me.

"The Baron stood close behind me, looking at the notes. You may imagine the agitation with which I commenced, having this severe critic at my elbow. Presently, however, a stirring allegro movement carried me away. I forgot all about the Baron, and managed to move about with all freedom within the sphere of skill and power which stood then at my command.

"When I had finished, the Baron patted me on the shoulder, and said, 'You may stick to the violin, my son; but as yet you have not an idea of bowing or expression, probably because, up to this time, you haven't had a proper master.'

"We then sat down to table, in another room, where there was a repast laid out and served, which, especially as regarded the rare and marvellous wines, was to be characterized as very extravagant. The musicians dipped deeply into everything set before them. The talk, which waxed more and more animated, was almost entirely on the subject of music. The Baron emitted complete treasures of the most marvellous information. His opinions and views, most keen and penetrating, proved him to be not only the most instructed of connoisseurs, but also the most accomplished, talented, and tasteful of artists. What was specially striking to me was a sort of portrait gallery of violinists which he went through to us in description. So much of it as I remember I will tell you.

"'Corelli,' said the Baron, 'was the first to break out the path. His compositions can only be played in the real Tartini manner, and that is sufficient to prove how well he knew the true art of violin-playing. Pugnani is a passable player. He has tone, and plenty of brains, but, although he has a tolerable amount of appogiamento, his bowing is too feeble altogether. What have not people told me of Geminiani! and yet, when I heard him last, some thirty years ago in Paris, he played like a somnambulist striding about in a dream, and one felt as if one were in a dream one's self. It was all mere tempo rubato; no sort of style or delivery. That infernal tempo rubato is the ruin of the very best players; they neglect their bowing over it. I played him my sonatas; he saw his error, and asked me to give him some lessons, which I was very glad to do. But he was too far sunk into his old method. He had grown too old in it--he was ninety-one. May God forgive Giardini, and not punish him for it in eternity; but he it was who first ate the apple of the tree of knowledge, and brought sin upon all subsequent players. He was the first of your tremolandoists and flourishers. All he thinks about is his left hand, and those fingers of his that have the power of jumping hither and thither. He has no idea of the important fact that it is in the _right_ hand that the soul of melody lies--that from every throb of its pulses stream forth the powers that awaken the feelings of the heart. Oh! that every one of those "flourishers" had a stout old Jomelli at his elbow to rouse him out of his craziness by a good sound box on the ear--as Jomelli actually did--when Giardini, in his presence, spoilt a glorious passage of melody by jumps, trills, and "mordenti." Lulli, too, conducts himself in a preposterous way. He is one of your damnable perpetrators of jumps. An adagio he can't play, and his sole quality is that for which ignoramuses, without sense or understanding, admire him with their stupid mouths agape. I say it again: with Narbini and me will die the true art of the violinist. Young Viotti is a fine fellow, full of promise. He is indebted to me for what he knows, for he was a most industrious pupil of mine. But what does it all amount to? No endurance! No patience! He wouldn't go on studying with me. Now, Kreutzer I still hope to get hold of and make something of. He has availed himself assiduously of my lessons, and will again, when I get back to Paris. That concerto of mine which you are studying, Haak, he played not at all badly a short time since. But he hasn't the hand, yet, to wield my bow. Giarnovichi shall never cross my doorstep again. There's a stupid coxcomb for you! A fellow who has the effrontery to turn up his nose at the grand Tartini--master of all masters--and despises my lessons. What I should like to know is, what that boy Rhode will turn out after he has had lessons from me? He promises well, and I have an idea that he will master my bow.'

"The Baron turned to me, saying, 'He is about your age, little son, but of a more serious, deep-thoughted nature. You appear to me--don't take it ill if I say so--to be a little bit of a--well, I mean, you lack purpose. However, no matter. Now you, dear Haak, I have great hopes of. Since I have been teaching you you have become quite another man. Keep up your unresting zeal and industry. Never waste a single hour. You know that is what distresses me.'

"I was turned to stone with amazement and admiration at what I heard. I could not wait the necessary time to ask the concert-meister if it was all true---if the Baron was, really, the greatest violinist of the day--if he, my master himself, did actually take lessons from him.

"'Undoubtedly,' Haak said, 'he had no hesitation in accepting the profitable instruction which the Baron placed at his disposal; and he told me that I should do well if I went, some morning, to him myself, and asked him to let me have some lessons from him too.'

"To all the questions which I then put to him concerning the Baron and his artistic talent, Haak would give me no direct reply, but kept on telling me that I ought to do as he advised me, and I should then find out all about it myself.

"The peculiar smile which passed over Haak's face as he said this did not escape me. I did not understand the meaning of it, and it excited my curiosity to the highest point.

"When I bashfully made my request to the Baron, assuring him that the most unbounded zeal, the most glowing enthusiasm for my art inspired me, he looked at me seriously and fixedly. But soon his face put on an expression of the most benevolent kindliness. 'Little son! little son!' he said, 'that you have betaken yourself to me--the only real violin-player now living--proves that you possess the true artistic spirit, and that the ideal of the genuine violin-player has come into existence within you. I should be delighted to give you lessons; but the time--the time! where to find it? Haak occupies me a great deal, and then I have got this young man Durand here just now, he wants to be heard in public, and knows that he need not try that till he has had a good course of lessons from me. However, wait a moment, between breakfast and lunch, or at lunch time--yes. I have still an hour at liberty then. Little son, come to me at twelve exactly every day, and I will fiddle with you for an hour until one; then Durand comes.'

"You can imagine how I hastened, with a throbbing heart, to the Baron's the next forenoon at the appointed hour.

"He would not let me play a single note on my own violin, which I had brought with me, but placed in my hands a very old instrument by Antonio Amati. Never had I had any experience of a violin like this. The celestial tone which streamed from its strings altogether inspired me. I let myself go, and abandoned myself to a stream of ingenious 'passages,' suffering the river of music to surge and swell, higher and higher, in mighty waves and billows of sound, and then die down and expire in murmuring whispers. My own belief is that I was playing exceedingly well; much better than I often did afterwards.

"When I had done, the Baron shook his head impatiently, and said: 'My little son! my little son! you must forget all that. In the first place, you hold your bow most abominably,' and he showed to me, practically, how the bow ought to be held, according to the manner of Tartini. I thought I should never be able to bring out a single tone whilst so holding it; but great was my astonishment when I found that, on repeating my 'passages' at the Baron's desire, the amazing advantage of holding the bow as he told me to hold it was strikingly manifest, after two or three seconds.

"'Good!' said the Baron. 'Little son, let us begin the lesson. Commence upon the note G, above the line, and hold out that note as long as you can possibly hold it. Economize your bow; make the very utmost of it that you possibly can. What the breath is to the singer, the bow is to the violinist.'

"I did as I was directed, and was greatly delighted to find that, in this manner of dealing with matters, I was enabled to bring out a tone of exceptional powerfulness; to swell it out to a marvellous fortissimo, and make it die down to a very soft pianissimo, with an excessively long stroke of the bow.

"'You see, do you not, little son?' cried the Baron. 'You can play all kinds of "passages," jumps, and new-fangled nonsense of that sort, but you can't properly sustain a note as it ought to be done.'

"He took the instrument from my hands, and laid the bow across the strings, near the bridge--and the simple truth is, that words completely fail me to describe to you what then came to pass.

"Laying that trembling bow of his close to the bridge, he went sliding with it up and down on the strings, as it quivered in his hands, jarringly, whistlingly, squeakingly, mewingly; the tone he produced was to be likened to that of some old woman, with spectacles on nose, vainly attempting to hit the tune of a hymn.

"And all the time he raised enraptured eyes to heaven, like a man lost in the most celestial blissfulness; and when at length he left off scraping with his bow up and down between the bridge and the finger-board, and laid the violin down, his eyes were shining, and he said, in deep emotion: 'That is tone! that is tone!'

"I felt in a most extraordinary condition: although the inward impulse to laugh was present with me, it was killed by the aspect of that venerable man, glorified by his inspiration. At the same time the whole affair had a most eery effect upon me, and I felt very much affected by it, and could not utter a syllable.

"'Don't you find, little son,' asked the Baron, 'that that goes to your heart? Had you ever any idea that such magic could be conjured out of that little thing there, with its four simple strings? Well, well! take a glass of wine, little son.' He poured me out a glass of Madeira. I had to drink it, and also to take some of the pastry and cakes which were upon the table. Just then the clock struck one.

"'This will have to do for to-day,' said the Baron. 'Go, go, little son! Here, here! put that in your pocket.'

"And he placed in my hand a little paper packet, in which I found a beautiful, shining ducat.

"In my amazement I ran to the concert-meister and told him all that had happened. He, however, laughed aloud, and said: 'Now you know all about our Baron and his violin lessons. He looks upon you as a mere beginner, so that you only get a ducat per lesson; but as the mastership, in his opinion, increases, so does the pay. He gives me a Louis, and I think Durand gets a couple of ducats.'

"I could not help expressing my opinion that it was anything but an honourable style of going to work, to mystify this kind gentleman in such a fashion, and pocket his money into the bargain.

"'You ought to be told,' said Haak, 'that his whole enjoyment consists in giving lessons--in the way which you now comprehend; and that if I and the other artists were to show any symptoms of under-valuing him or his lessons, he would proclaim to the whole artistic world, in which he is looked upon as a most competent and valuable critic, that we were nothing but a set of wretched scrapers; that, in fact, apart from his craze of being a marvellous player, the Baron is a man whose vast knowledge of music, and most cultivated judgment thereon, are matters from which even a master can derive great benefit. So judge for yourself whether I am to be blamed if I hold on to him, and now and then pocket a few of his Louis. I advise you to go to him as often as you can. Don't listen to the cracky nonsense he talks about his own execution; but do listen to, and profit by, what this man--who is most exceptionally versed in the musical art, and has immense and valuable experience in it--has to say about it. It will be greatly to your advantage to do so.'

"I took his advice; but it was often hard to repress laughter when the Baron would tap about with his fingers upon the belly of the fiddle instead of on the finger-board, stroking his bow diagonally over the strings the while, and asseverating that he was playing the most beautiful of all Tartini's solos, and that he was the only person in the world who could play it.

"But soon he would lay the violin down, and pour forth sayings which enriched me with the profoundest knowledge, and enflamed my heart towards the most glorious of all arts.

"If I then played something from one of his concertos with my utmost _verve_, and happened to interpret this or the other passage of it better than usual, the Baron would look round with a smile of complacence, or of pride, and say: 'The boy has to thank me for that; me, pupil of the great Tartini!'

"Thus, you perceive, I derived both profit and pleasure from the Baron's lessons; and from his ducats into the bargain."

"Well, really," said Theodore, laughing, "I should think that the greater part of the virtuosos of the present day--although they do consider themselves far beyond any description of instruction or advice--would be glad enough to have a few lessons such as the Baron von S---- was in the habit of giving."

"I render thanks to Heaven," said Vincenz, "that this meeting of our Club has ended so happily. I never dared to hope that it would; and I would fain entreat my worthy Serapion Brethren to see that proper measures are taken, in future, that there be a due alternation between the terrifying and the entertaining, which on this occasion has by no means been the case."

"This admonition of yours," Ottmar said, "is right and proper; but it rested with yourself to rectify the error into which we have fallen to-night by contributing something of your own, in your special style of humour."

"The truth is," said Lothair, "that you, my very fine fellow--and at the same time my very lazy-as-to-writing fellow--have never yet paid your entrance-money into the Serapion Guild, and the only mode of payment is a Serapiontic story."

"Hush!" cried Vincenz. "You don't know what has come glowing forth from my heart, and is nestling in this breast-pocket of mine here; a quite remarkable little creature of a story, which I specially commend to the favour of our Lothair. I should have read it to you to-night. But don't you see the landlord's pale face peeping in at the window every now and then, just in the style in which the uncle Kuehleborn, in Fouqué's 'Undine,' used to 'keek' in at the window of the fisherman's hut. Haven't you noticed the irritated 'Oh, Jemini!' countenance of the waiter? Was there not written on his forehead, legibly and distinctly (when he snuffed the candles), 'Are you going to sit here for ever? Are you never going to let an honest man get to his well-earned bed?' Those people are right. It is past twelve: our parting hour has struck some time ago."

The friends agreed to have another Serapiontic meeting at an early date, and dispersed.