The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07

Just then the Countess, pleased and excited, entered the room with the open note in her hand. "Do you know who is downstairs?" she exclaimed.

"For goodness' sake, read that note! Mozart from Vienna, the composer!

Some body must go at once and invite him in! I'm afraid he will be gone!

What will he think of me? You treated him very politely, I hope, Velten.

What was it that happened?"

"What happened?" interrupted the Count, whose wrath was not immediately assuaged by the prospect of a visit from a famous man. "The madman pulled one of the nine oranges from the tree which was for Eugenie. Monster! So the point of our joke is gone, and Max may as well tear up his poem."

"Oh, no!" she answered, earnestly; "the gap can easily be filled. Leave that to me. But go, both of you, release the good man, and persuade him to come in, if you possibly can. He shall not go further today if we can coax him to stay. If you do not find him in the garden, go to the inn and bring him and his wife too. Fate could not have provided a greater gift or a finer surprise for Eugenie today."

"No, indeed," answered Max, "that was my first thought, too. Come, Papa! And"—as they descended the staircase—"you may be quite easy about the verses. The ninth Muse will not desert me; instead, I can use the accident to especial advantage."

"Impossible!"

"Not at all!"

"Well, if that is so—I take your word for it—we will do the lunatic all possible honor."

While all this was going on in the palace, our quasi-prisoner, not very anxious over the outcome of the affair, had busied himself some time in writing. Then, as no one appeared, he began to walk uneasily up and down. Presently came an urgent message from the inn, that dinner was ready long ago and the postilion was anxious to start; would he please come at once. So he packed up his papers and was just about to leave, when the two men appeared before the arbor.

The Count greeted him in his jovial, rather noisy fashion, and would hear not a word of apology, but insisted that Mozart should accompany him to the house, for the afternoon and evening at least.

"You are so well known to us, my dear Maestro, that I doubt if you could find a family where your name is spoken more often, or with greater enthusiasm. My niece sings and plays, she spends almost the whole day at her piano, knows your works by heart, and has had the greatest desire to meet you, particularly since the last of your concerts. She had been promised an invitation from Princess Gallizin, in Vienna, in a few weeks—a house where you often play, I hear. But now you are going to Prague, and no one knows whether you will ever come back to us. Take today and tomorrow for rest; let us send away your traveling carriage and be responsible for the remainder of your journey."

The composer, who would willingly have sacrificed upon the altar of friendship or of pleasure ten times as much as was asked of him now, did not hesitate long. He insisted, however, that very early next morning they must continue their journey. Count Max craved the pleasure of bringing Frau Mozart and of attending to all necessary matters at the inn; he would walk over, and a carriage should follow immediately.

Count Max inherited from both father and mother a lively imagination, and had, besides, talent and inclination for belles lettres. As an officer he was distinguished rather for his learning and culture than because of fondness for military life. He was well read in French literature, and at a time when German verse was of small account in the higher circles had won appreciation for uncommon ease of style—writing after such models as Hagedorn and Götz. The betrothal had offered him, as we already learned, a particularly happy occasion for the exercise of his gifts.

He found Madame Mozart seated at the table, where she had already begun the meal, talking with the inn-keeper's daughter. She was too well used to Mozart's habits of forming acquaintances and accepting impromptu invitations to be greatly surprised at the appearance and message of the young officer. With undisguised pleasure she prepared to accompany him, and thoughtfully and quickly gave all necessary orders. Satchels were repacked, the inn-keeper was paid, the postilion dismissed, and, without too great anxiety over her toilet, she herself made ready, and drove off in high spirits to the palace, never guessing in what a strange fashion her spouse had introduced himself there.

He, meanwhile, was most comfortably and delightfully entertained. He had met Eugenie, a most lovely creature, fair and slender, gay in shining crimson silk and costly lace, with a white ribbon studded with pearls in her hair. The Baron, too, was presented, a man of gentle and frank disposition, but little older than his fiancée and seemingly well suited to her.

The jovial host, almost too generous with his jests and stories, led the conversation; refreshments were offered, which our traveler did not refuse. Then some one opened the piano, upon which Figaro was lying, and Eugenie began to sing, to the Baron's accompaniment, Susanne's passionate aria in the garden scene. The embarrassment which for a moment made her bright color come and go, fled with the first notes from her lips, and she sang as if inspired.

Mozart was evidently surprised. As she finished he went to her with unaffected pleasure. "How can one praise you, dear child," he said. "Such singing is like the sunshine, which praises itself best because it does every one good. It is to the soul like a refreshing bath to a child; he laughs, and wonders, and is content. Not every day, I assure you, do we composers hear ourselves sung with such purity and simplicity—with such perfection!" and he seized her hand and kissed it heartily. Mozart's amiability and kindness, no less than his high appreciation of her talent, touched Eugenie deeply, and her eyes filled with tears of pleasure.

At that moment Madame Mozart entered, and immediately after appeared other guests who had been expected—a family of distant relatives, of whom one, Franziska, had been from childhood Eugenie's intimate friend.

When all the greetings and congratulations were over, Mozart seated himself at the piano. He played a part of one of his concertos, which Eugenie happened to be learning. It was a great delight to have the artist and his genius so near—within one's own walls. The composition was one of those brilliant ones in which pure Beauty, in a fit of caprice, seems to have lent herself to the service of Elegance, but, only half disguised in changing forms and dazzling lights, betrays in every movement her own nobility and pours out lavishly her glorious pathos.

The Countess noticed that most of the listeners, even Eugenie herself, were divided between seeing and hearing, although they gave the close attention and kept the perfect silence which were due to such enchanting playing. Indeed it was not easy to resist a throng of distracting and wondering thoughts as one watched the composer—his erect, almost stiff position, his good-natured face, the graceful movements of his small hands and curved fingers.

Turning to Madame Mozart, as the playing ceased, the Count began: "When it is necessary to give a compliment to a composer—not everybody's business—how easy it is for kings and emperors. All words are equally good and equally extraordinary in their mouths; they dare to say whatever they please. And how comfortable it must be, for instance, to sit close behind Herr Mozart's chair, and, at the final chord of a brilliant Fantasia, to clap the modest and learned man on the shoulder and say: 'My dear Mozart, you are a Jack-at-all-trades!' And the word goes like wild-fire through the hall: 'What did he say?' 'He said Mozart was a Jack-at-all-trades!' and everybody who fiddles or pipes a song or composes is enraptured over the expression. In short, that is the way of the great, the familiar manner of the emperors, and quite inimitable. I have always envied the Friedrichs and the Josefs that faculty, but never more than now when I quite despair of finding in my mind's pockets the suitable coin!"

The Count's jest provoked a laugh, as usual, and the guests followed their hostess toward the dining-hall, where the fragrance of flowers and refreshingly cool air greeted them. They took their places at the table, Mozart opposite Eugenie and the Baron. His neighbor on one side was a little elderly lady, an unmarried aunt of Franziska's; on the other side was the charming young niece who soon commended herself to him by her wit and gaiety. Frau Constanze sat between the host and her friendly guide, the Lieutenant. The lower end of the table was empty. In the centre stood two large epergnes, heaped with fruits and flowers. The walls were hung with rich festoons, and all the appointments indicated an extensive banquet. Upon tables and side-boards were the choicest wines, from the deepest red to the pale yellow, whose sparkling foam crowns the second half of the feast. For some time the conversation, carried on from all sides, had been general. But when the Count, who, from the first, had been hinting at Mozart's adventure in the garden, came mysteriously nearer and nearer to it, so that some were smiling, others puzzling their brains to know what it all meant, Mozart at last took the cue.

"I will truthfully confess," he began, "how I came to have the honor of an acquaintance with this noble house. I do not play a very dignified rôle in the tale; in fact, I came within a hair's breadth of sitting, not here at this bountiful table, but hungry and alone in the most remote dungeon of the palace, watching the spider-webs on the wall."

"It must, indeed, be a pretty story," cried Madame Mozart.

Then Mozart related minutely all that we already know, to the great entertainment of his audience. There was no end to the merriment, even the gentle Eugenie shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

"Well," he went on, "according to the proverb I need not mind your laughter, for I have made my small profit out of the affair, as you will soon see. But first hear how it happened that an old fellow could so forget himself. A reminiscence of my childhood was to blame for it.

"In the spring of 1770, a thirteen-year-old boy, I traveled with my father in Italy. We went from Rome to Naples, where I had already played twice in the conservatory and several times in other places.

"The nobility and clergy had shown us many attentions, but especially attracted to us was a certain Abbé, who flattered himself that he was a connoisseur, and who, moreover, had some influence at court. The day before we left he conducted us, with some other acquaintances, into a royal garden, the Villa Reale, situated upon a beautiful street, close to the sea. A company of Sicilian comedians were performing there—'Sons of Neptune' was one of the many names they gave themselves.

"With many distinguished spectators, among whom were the young and lovely Queen Carolina and two princesses, we sat on benches ranged in long rows in a gallery shaded with awnings, while the waves splashed against the wall below. The many-colored sea reflected the glorious heavens; directly before us rose Vesuvius; on the left gleamed the gentle curve of the shore.

"The first part of the entertainment was rather uninteresting. A float which lay on the water had served as a stage. But the second part consisted of rowing, swimming, and diving, and every detail has always remained fresh in my memory.

"From opposite sides of the water two graceful light boats approached each other, bent, as it seemed, upon a pleasure-trip. The larger one, gorgeously painted, with a gilded prow, was provided with a quarter-deck, and had, besides the rowers' seats, a slender mast and a sail. Five youths, ideally handsome, with bared shoulders and limbs, were busy about the boat, or were amusing themselves with a like number of maidens, their sweethearts. One of these, who was sitting in the centre of the deck twining wreaths of flowers, was noticeable as well for her beauty as for her dress. The others waited upon her, stretched an awning to shield her from the sun, and passed her flowers from the basket. One, a flute player, sat at her feet, and accompanied with her clear tones the singing of the others. The beauty in the centre had her own particular admirer; yet the pair seemed rather indifferent to each other, and I thought the youth almost rude.

"Meanwhile the other boat had come nearer. It was more simply fashioned, and carried youths only. The colors of the first boat were red, but the crew of this one wore green. They stopped at sight of the others, nodded greetings to the maidens, and made signs that they wished to become better acquainted. Thereupon the liveliest of the girls took a rose from her bosom, and roguishly held it on high, as if to ask whether such a gift would be welcome. She was answered with enthusiasm. The red youths looked on, sullen and contemptuous, but could not object when several of the maidens proposed to throw to the poor strangers at least enough to keep them from starving. A basket of oranges—probably only yellow balls—stood on deck; and now began a charming display, accompanied by music from the quay.

"One of the girls tossed from light fingers a couple of oranges; back they came from fingers in the other boat, as light. On they went, back and forth, and as one girl after another joined in the sport dozens of oranges were soon flying through the air. Only one, the beauty in the middle of the boat, took no part, except to look on, curiously, from her comfortable couch. We could not sufficiently admire the skill on both sides. The boats circled slowly about, turning now the prow, now the sides, toward each other. There were about two dozen balls continually in the air, yet they seemed many more, sometimes falling in regular figures, sometimes rising high in lofty curves, almost never going astray, but seeming to be attracted by some mysterious power in the outstretched hands.

"The ear was quite as well entertained as the eye—with charming melodies, Sicilian airs, dances, Saltorelli, Canzoni a ballo—a long medley woven together like a garland. The youngest princess, an impulsive little creature, about my own age, kept nodding her head in time to the music. Her smile and her eyes with their long lashes I can see to this day.

"Now let me briefly describe the rest of the entertainment, though it has nothing to do with my affair in the garden. You could hardly imagine anything prettier. The play with the balls gradually ceased, and then, all of a sudden, one of the youths of the green colors drew out of the water a net with which he seemed to have been playing. To the general surprise, a huge shining fish lay in it. The boy's companions sprang to seize it, but it slipped from their hands to the sea, as if it had really been alive. This was only a ruse, however, to lure the red youths from their boat; and they fell into the trap. They, as well as those of the green, threw themselves into the water after the fish. So began a lively and most amusing chase. At last the green swimmers, seeing their opportunity, boarded the red boat, which now had only the maidens to defend it. The noblest of the enemy, as handsome as a god, hastened joyfully to the beautiful maiden, who received him with rapture, heedless of the despairing shrieks of the others. All efforts of the red to recover their boat were vain; they were beaten back with oars and weapons. Their futile rage and struggles, the cries and prayers of the maidens, the music—now changed in tone—the waters—all made a scene beyond description, and the audience applauded wildly. Then suddenly the sail was loosed, and out of it sprang to the bowsprit a rosy, silver-winged boy, with bow and arrows and quiver; the oars began to move, the sail filled, and the boat glided away, as if under the guidance of the god, to a little island. Thither, after signals of truce had been exchanged, the red youths hastened after boarding the deserted boat. The unhappy maidens were released, but the fairest one of all sailed away, of her own free will, with her lover. And that was the end of the comedy."

"I think," whispered Eugenie to the Baron, in the pause that followed, "that we had there a complete symphony in the true Mozart spirit. Am I not right? Hasn't it just the grace of Figaro?"

But just as the Baron would have repeated this remark to Mozart, the composer continued: "It is seventeen years since I was in Italy. But who that has once seen Italy, Naples especially, even with the eyes of a child, will ever forget it? Yet I have never recalled that last beautiful day more vividly than today in your garden. When I closed my eyes the last veil vanished, and I saw the lovely spot—sea and shore, mountain and city, the gay throng of people, and the wonderful game of ball. I seemed to hear the same music—a stream of joyful melodies, old and new, strange and familiar, one after another. Presently a little dance-song came along, in six-eighth measure, something quite new to me. Hold on, I thought, that is a devilishly cute little tune! I listened more closely. Good Heavens! That is Masetto, that is Zerlina!" He smiled and nodded at Madame Mozart, who guessed what was coming.

"It was this way," he went on; "there was a little, simple number of my first act unfinished—the duet and chorus of a country wedding. Two months ago, when in composing my score I came to this number, the right theme did not present itself at the first attempt. It should be a simple child-like melody, sparkling with joy—a fresh bunch of flowers tucked in among a maiden's fluttering ribbons. So, because one should not force such a thing, and because such trifles often come of themselves, I left that number, and was so engrossed in the rest of the work that I almost forgot it. Today, while we were driving along, just outside the village, the text came into my head; but I cannot remember that I thought much about it. Yet, only an hour later, in the arbor by the fountain, I caught just the right motif, more happily than I could have found it in any other way, at any other time. An artist has strange experiences now and then, but such a thing never happened to me be fore. For to find a melody exactly fitted to the verse—but I must not anticipate. The bird had only his head out of the shell, and I proceeded to pull off the rest of it! Meantime Zerlina's dance floated before my eyes, and, somehow, too, the view on the Gulf of Naples. I heard the voices of the bridal couple, and the chorus of peasants, men and girls." Here Mozart gayly hummed the beginning of the song. "Meantime my hands had done the mischief, Nemesis was lurking near, and suddenly appeared in the shape of the dreadful man in livery. Had an eruption of Vesuvius suddenly destroyed and buried with its rain of ashes audience and actors, the whole majesty of Parthenope, on that heavenly day by the sea, I could not have been more surprised or horrified. The fiend! People do not easily make me so hot! His face was as hard as bronze—and very like the terrible Emperor Tiberius, too! If the servant looks like that, thought I, what must His Grace the Count be! But to tell the truth I counted—and not without reason—on the protection of the ladies. For I overheard the fat hostess of the inn telling my wife, Constanze there, who is somewhat curious in disposition, all the most interesting facts about the family, and so I knew—"

Here Madame Mozart had to interrupt him and give them most positive assurance that he was the one who asked the questions, and a lively and amusing discussion followed.

"However that may be," he said at last, "I heard something about a favorite foster-daughter who, besides being beautiful, was goodness itself, and sang like an angel. 'Per Dio!' I said to myself, as I remembered that, 'that will help you out of your scrape! Sit down and write out the song as far as you can, explain your behavior truthfully, and they will think it all a good joke.' No sooner said than done! I had time enough, and found a blank piece of paper—and here is the result! I place it in these fair hands, an impromptu wedding-song, if you will accept it!"

He held out the neatly written manuscript toward Eugenie, but the Count anticipated her, and quickly taking it himself, said: "Have patience a moment longer, my dear!"

At his signal the folding-doors of the salon opened, and servants appeared, bringing in the fateful orange-tree, which they put at the foot of the table, placing on each side a slender myrtle-tree. An inscription fastened to the orange-tree proclaimed it the property of Eugenie; but in front of it, upon a porcelain plate, was seen, as the napkin which covered it was lifted, an orange, cut in pieces, and beside it the count placed Mozart's autograph note.

"I believe," said the Countess, after the mirth had subsided, "that Eugenie does not know what that tree really is. She does not recognize her old friend with all its fruit and blossoms."

Incredulous, Eugenie looked first at the tree, then at her uncle. "It isn't possible," she said; "I knew very well that it couldn't be saved."

"And so you think that we have found another to take its place? That would have been worth while! No! I shall have to do as they do in the play, when the long-lost son or brother proves his identity by his moles and scars! Look at that knot, and at this crack, which you must have noticed a hundred times. Is it your tree or isn't it?"

Eugenie could doubt no longer, and her surprise and delight knew no bounds. To the Count's family this tree always suggested the story of a most excellent woman, who lived more than a hundred years before their day, and who well deserves a word in passing.

The Count's grandfather—a statesman of such repute in Vienna that he had been honored with the confidence of two successive rulers—was as happy in his private life as in his public life; for he possessed a most excellent wife, Renate Leonore. During her repeated visits to France she came in contact with the brilliant court of Louis XIV., and with the most distinguished men and women of the day. She sympathized with the ever-varying intellectual pleasures of the court without sacrificing in the least her strong, inborn sense of honor and propriety. On this very account, perhaps, she was the leader of a certain naïve opposition, and her correspondence gives many a hint of the courage and independence with which she could defend her sound principles and firm opinions, and could attack her adversary in his weakest spot, all without giving offense.