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—

“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:

“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:—

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

THE DISTRIBUTION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MOZART’S SPEECH.

“Honored ladies and gentlemen—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE REHEARSAL.

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

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

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

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

“No.” I answer, “the bass-trumpet!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nepomuck promised, and they parted in friendship.

THE OVERTURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LAST VISIT TO DOLES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is this, Wolfgang—can you tell?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nay, Hiller,” remonstrated Mozart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You certainly do, Wolfgang?”

The composer shook his head with a melancholy smile—“You are mistaken, my dear friend, I do not. But I am satisfied that some few appreciate and are faithful to me, and I can depend upon them; you for example, father, and my fair friends here!”

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

Here Friedrich joined them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very badly.”

“How was that?”

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

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

“Cruel indeed!” echoed Mozart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he had finished, he tore the paper into five pieces, and keeping one part for himself, divided the others; to Doles, basso primo, to Hiller, basso secondo; Friedrich, tenore primo, Weisse, tenore secondo.

“Now,” he cried, “we have no time to lose; allons—begin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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