"'There dwelt amongst us, at this period, a certain "court-singer,"

retired on pension, whose name was Mademoiselle Meibel. She was a

demoiselle of some five-and-fifty summers, but my uncle thought it

would be only a proper thing if she could be induced to emerge

occasionally from her pensioned retirement, so far as to sing a solo

now and then at our concerts. After giving herself the proper amount of

airs, and saying "no" a sufficient number of times, she graciously

yielded, so that we got the length of including an occasional "_Aria di

Bravura_" in our programmes. She was an extraordinary-looking creature,

Mademoiselle Meibel. I can see her little wizened figure at this moment

as if she were here before my eyes. She used to come forward on to the

platform, very grave and dignified, her music in her hand, dressed in

nearly all the colours of the rainbow, and make a ceremonious dip of

the upper part of her body to the audience. She used to have on a

miraculous sort of head-gear, with Italian porcelain flowers stuck on

the front of it; and, as she sung, these flowers used to nod and quiver

in the oddest fashion. When she ended her solo--received always by the

audience with boundless applause--she would hand her music, with a

glance of pride, to my master, who was accorded the privilege of

dipping his forefinger and thumb into the little box, in the shape of a

pug dog, which she at such times produced, and took snuff from with a

courtly air. She had a most disagreeable, quavering voice, and

introduced all kinds of horrible, vulgar grace-notes and flourishes;

and you can imagine the ludicrous effect which this, in combination

with her external appearance, produced on me. My uncle was loud in

encomiums, but this was incomprehensible to me, and I sided all the

more with my organist, who despised all vocal music, and used to mimic

old Mademoiselle Meibel in the most entertaining style.

"'The more I coincided with my master in considering all singing to be

an inferior province of the musical art, the higher waxed his estimate

of my musical endowments. He taught me counterpoint with untiring,

indefatigable pains and zeal, and ere long I was able to write the

correctest of _fugues_ and _toccatas_.

"'On my nineteenth birthday, I was playing one of those compositions of

mine to my uncle, when the waiter of our principal hotel came in, and

announced that two foreign ladies, who had just arrived in the town,

were coming to see us.

"Before my uncle had time to throw off his large-flowered dressing-gown

and dress himself, the ladies were in upon us.

"You know the electrical effect which any unusual apparition of this

sort has upon people who live in small provincial places, but the one

which now appeared to me was really such as to produce on me the effect

of the wave of some enchanter's wand.

"'Picture to yourself two tall, handsome Italian girls, dressed in the

latest fashions, walking up to my uncle, with a combination of artistic

ease and charming courtesy of manner, and talking away to him in voices

which were extremely loud, and yet remarkably beautiful in tone. What

was the curious language they were speaking? Now and then but only now

and then it sounded something like German.

"'My uncle didn't understand a word of it. He stepped back, completely

nonplussed, and pointed in silence to the sofa; they sat down there and

talked to each other. _That_ was real music. Ultimately they managed to

explain to my uncle that they were singers on a tour, intended giving

some concerts, and had been recommended to apply to him as a person who

could assist them in the necessary arrangements. While they had been

talking to each other I had gathered their names; Lauretta, who seemed

to be the elder of the two, kept talking away to my bewildered uncle,

with immense energy and eager gesticulation, glancing about her with

beaming eyes the while. Without being to be called "stout," she was

luxuriant of figure to a degree which was at that time something wholly

novel to my inexperienced--and admiring--eyes. Teresina, taller and

slighter, with a long earnest face, spoke, in the intervals, very

little, but much more comprehensibly. Every now and then she would

smile, in a curious way, as if a good deal amused at the aspect of my

poor uncle, who kept shrinking into his flowered dressing-gown as a

snail does into its shell, vainly trying to stick away a certain string

belonging to his nether garments, which would keep fluttering out every

now and then, to the length of an ell or so.

"'At last they rose to go. My uncle had promised to arrange a concert

for the next day but one, and he and I (whom he had presented to them

as a young _virtuoso_) were invited to go and take chocolate with the

sisters that evening.

"'When the time came, we walked slowly and solemnly up the stairs

accordingly. We both felt very queer: somewhat as if we were going

forward to undertake some rather perilous adventure, for which we were

by no means adequately prepared.

"After my uncle, who had carefully prepared himself beforehand, had

spoken much and learnedly about music--(nobody understood a word he

said, neither he himself, nor we others)--after I had burnt my tongue,

three times, terribly with the scalding chocolate smiling at my

tortures with the stoicism of a Scaevola--Lauretta said she would sing

something. Teresina took the guitar tuned it, and struck two or three

handfuls of chords. I had never heard the instrument before, and was

much impressed by the strange, mysterious effect of its hollow

vibrations.

"'Lauretta commenced a note, very _piano_, swelled it out to a ringing

_fortissimo_, and then broke out into a bold warbling _cadenza_,

extending over an octave and a half. I remember the words of the

beginning of her aria:--

"Sento l'amica speme."

"'My blood seemed to pause in my veins! I never had had an idea that

there could be anything like this, and as Lauretta soared on her

bright pinions of song, higher and higher, and as the beams of those

beautiful tones shone brighter and brighter upon me, all the music within

me--dead and dormant hitherto--caught fire, and blazed on high in

glorious and mighty flames.

"'Ah! that was the first time in my life that I ever heard _music_!

Next the sisters sang together, some of those earnest, quiet,

deep-drawn duets of Abbate Steffani'e. Teresina's rich, exquisitely

beautiful contralto stirred the depths of my soul. I could not keep

back my tears, they rolled down my cheeks. My uncle blew his nose a

great deal, and cast reproachful looks at me. It was no use; I couldn't

control myself. This seemed to please the sisters; they asked about my

musical studies. I felt utterly disgusted with all I had done, and

declared, in my enthusiasm, that I had never heard music before.

"'"_Il buon fanciullo!_" said Lauretta, very sweetly and tenderly.

"'When I got home I felt almost out of my mind. I seized all the

_toccatas_ and _fugues_ which I had so laboriously carpentered together

(as well as forty-five Variations on a Thema in Canon, which the

organist had composed for me, and presented to me in a beautifully

written MS.), and shied the whole boiling of them into the fire. I

laughed sardonically as this mass of double counterpoint crackled and

blazed, and went sparkling out into ashes. Then I sat down to the

instrument, and tried, first to imitate the guitar, and then to play,

and next to sing, the melodies which I had heard the sisters execute.

At last, about midnight, my uncle came out of his bedroom crying, "For

the love of heaven stop that caterwauling, be off to your bed, and

let's try to get some sleep," with which he blew out the lights and

left me in the dark. I had nothing for it but obey; but in my dreams I

thought I had solved the secret of song, and was singing the "Sento

l'Amica Speme" in the most exquisite style myself.

"'Next morning my uncle had got together everybody who could play on

string or wind instruments, to a rehearsal in the concert-room, and a

proud man he felt himself to be able to turn out such a fine show of

performers. The rehearsal was anything but a success, however. Lauretta

essayed a grand scena, but we had not got many bars into the recitative

when everything was at sixes and sevens; none of the players had the

slightest idea of accompanying. Lauretta screamed, stormed, wept, with

rage and disgust. The organist was at the piano, and him she attacked

with her bitterest objurgations. He rose from his seat, and walked

slowly, and with much composure, out at the door. The band-master, at

whom she had hurled an "_asino tedesco_" put his violin under his arm,

and cocked his cap martially over one ear; he, too, was making for the

door, his men, unscrewing their mouthpieces, and sticking their bows in

among their strings, preparing to follow him. Only the amateurs were

left, looking at each other, almost with tears in their eyes, the

exciseman saying, "Oh, dear me! how very much I do feel a thing of this

sort!"

"'But all my natural bashfulness had abandoned me. I stopped the

band-master; I entreated and implored him; in the anguish of the moment

I promised I would write him six minuets, with double trios each, for

the county-ball. I succeeded in pacifying him. He went back to his

music-stand; the bandsmen followed his example, and the orchestra was

ready to commence operations once more. All except the organist; his place

at the piano was vacant. I found him strolling--a calm, contemplative

man--up and down in the market-place, by no process whatever to be

prevailed upon to cross the threshold of the concert-room any more.

"'Teresina had been looking on at all this, biting her lips to keep

back her laughter. Lauretta was now just as conciliatory as she had

previously been the contrary. She thanked me most warmly for all I had

done. She asked if I could play the piano, and, ere I knew where I was,

I found myself occupying the organist's vacant place, with the score

before me. Up to this time I had never accompanied a singer, or

directed an orchestra. Teresina sat down beside me, and indicated the

various _tempi_ to me. Lauretta gave me an encouraging "bravo!" now and

then; the orchestra began to understand, and things went better. At the

second rehearsal all was clear, and the sensation the sisters produced

at the concert was indescribable.

"'There were going to be great doings at the Residenz, on the occasion

of the prince's return from abroad, and the sisters were engaged to

sing there; in the meantime they decided on remaining in our little

town, and giving one or two more concerts. The admiration of the

towns-folk for them amounted to a species of insanity. Only old Mdlle.

Meibel would take a reflective pinch out of her pug-dog snuff-box, and

remark that screeching of that sort was not singing. My organist was no

more to be seen, and I by no means regretted his absence. I was the

happiest creature on earth. I sat with the sisters all day long, playing

their accompaniments, and writing out the parts from the scores for the

concerts at the Residenz. Lauretta was my ideal; all her naughty

tempers, her artistic outbreaks of fury, impatience with her

accompanyist, and so forth, I bore like a lamb. I began to learn

Italian, and wrote a _canzonetta_ or two. How I rose to the empyrean

when Lauretta sang my compositions, and even praised them! I often felt

as if I had never thought and written those things, but as if the ideas

streamed out for the first time when she sang them. With Teresina I did

not get on so well. She sang very seldom; didn't seem to take much

interest in me or my doings, and sometimes gave me the impression of

laughing at me behind my back.

"'The time arrived at last when they had to leave us: then it was that

I fully realized what Lauretta had become to me, and how impossible it

was for me to be parted from her. After she had been unusually

_smorfiosa_ with me, she would be kind and caressing, but always in

such a fashion that, although my blood would seethe, the coldness which

I could feel that she brought to bear upon me was sufficient to prevent

me from throwing myself at her feet with passionate avowals of love.

"'I had a pretty fair tenor voice then: it had never had any

cultivation, but it was beginning to improve, and I used to sing, with

Lauretta, numbers of those tender Italian duets whose name is legion.

We were singing one of those duets one day; the time of her departure

was at hand--

"Senza di te, ben mio!

Vivere non poss' io."

"'Who could have resisted this? I threw myself at Lauretta's feet, wild

with despair.

"'She helped me to rise. "Why should we part, dear friend?" she said. I

listened in delighted amazement. She said I had much better go with her

and Teresina to the Residenz. If I meant to devote myself to music

altogether, I should have to quit my little native town some day or

other.

"'Picture to yourself a person who has bidden good-bye to life and

hope, and is falling down some black, fathomless abyss; but, at the

very instant when he expects the crash which is to dash him in pieces,

lo and behold! he is in a beautiful bower of roses, with hundreds of

little many-tinted lights dancing round him, and saying, "Darling!

you're still alive, you see!" These were my sensations at that moment.

To go with them to the Residenz was the one prominent, tangible idea of

my life.

"'I shan't weary you by describing how I set about proving to my uncle

the absolute necessity of my going to the Residenz--no such very great

distance, when all was said. He agreed at last, and said he would go

with me! Here was an unexpected baulk to my little plans. I dared not

tell him I was going with the ladies; but luckily one of his attacks of

bronchitis came to my rescue.

"'I started off in the stage-coach, but got out at the first change of

horses, and waited there for the coming of my goddesses. I had plenty

of money in my pocket, so that I was able to make all my arrangements.

My idea was to escort the ladies on horseback, like a paladin of

Romance; so I managed to hire a steed--not particularly grand to look

at, but, as his owner assured me, a good serviceable animal,--and at

the appointed time I mounted him, and rode out to meet the two

_cantatrices_. Ere long, their little double-seated phaeton was seen

coming quietly along. The two sisters were on the front seat, and

behind sat their maid, little fat Gianna, a brown Neapolitan. The

carriage was crammed with all sorts of boxes, band-boxes, portmanteaus,

and so forth, and two pug-dogs, on Gianna's lap, yapped at me as I rode

up.

"Everything went swimmingly till we got to the last stage from the

Residenz, but there my horse was seized with the remarkable idea that

he ought to go home to his stable. A conviction that severe measures

are seldom effectual in such conjunctures induced me to try every

description of mild persuasion that I could think of. The perverse

animal was proof against all my gentle remonstrances. I wanted to go

forward; he wanted to go back. All that I could accomplish in the

circumstances was that, instead of retrograding, he kept describing

circles. Teresina leant out of the carriage, laughing most heartily;

whilst Lauretta put her hands before her eyes and screamed, as if I

were in the utmost danger. I jammed my spurs into the brute's sides,

and, ere I could say Jack Robinson, found myself on the broad of my

back on the turnpike road, with the horse standing over me, his long

neck stretched out, surveying me with an expression of calm derision.

"'I could not get up till the driver got off and helped me. Lauretta,

too, got out, and was weeping and screaming. I had twisted one of my

feet, and couldn't ride any further. What was to be done? The horse was

made fast to the back of the carriage, and I had to squeeze myself

inside, as best I could. Just picture to yourself two well-grown

young women, a fat maid, a couple of dogs, a dozen or so of baskets,

band-boxes, etc., and me in addition, squeezed up in a little two-seated

phaeton! Think of Lauretta's lamentations about the want of room; the

dogs' yapping; the Neapolitan's chattering, and the horrible pain of my

foot, and you will have some idea what a charming position I was in.

Teresina declared she could bear it no longer; the driver pulled up,

and with one bound she was out of the carriage. She loosed my horse,

got on his back, and trotted and curvetted down the road before us. She

certainly looked splendid; the grace and distinction which she

possessed in an eminent degree were more especially conspicuous on

horseback. She made us hand her out her guitar, and, slinging her

bridle over her left arm, she sang Spanish ballads as she rode along,

striking handfuls of chords in accompaniment. Her silk dress fluttered

in shimmering folds, and the white plumes in her hat nodded and

quivered, like airy sprites, in time to the music. Her whole effect was

romantic beyond expression, and I could not take my eyes away from her;

although Lauretta called her absurd, and said she was a silly, forward

girl, and had better take care she didn't meet with an accident.

However, the horse seemed to have altered his tactics--or perhaps he

preferred the lady-singer to the Paladin; at all events, it was not

till we were close to the gates of the Residenz that Teresina clambered

back into the carriage again.

"'Imagine me now deliciously up to my eyes in concerts, operas, and

music of every description, passing my days and hours at the piano,

whilst arias, duets, and I don't know all what, are being studied and

rehearsed. From the total change in my outward man you gather that I am

permeated and inspired by a spirit of might. All the provincial

bashfulness is gone. I sit at the piano, a _maestro_, with the score

before me, conducting my donna's _scenas_. My whole soul and existence

is centred in melody. With the utmost contempt for counterpoint,

I write quantities of _canzonettas_ and _arias_, which Lauretta

sings--only in private, however. Why won't she ever sing anything of mine

at a concert? I can't make this out. Teresina sometimes dawns on my

memory, curvetting with her lyre on her charger, like some incarnation of

music; and, spite of myself, I write loftier and more serious strains

when I think of this. Lauretta, no doubt, sports and plays with the

notes like some fairy-queen. What does she ever attempt in which she

does not succeed? Teresina never attempts a _roulade_; a simple

_appoggiatura_ or so, in the antique style, is the utmost that she

ventures upon; but those long, sustained notes of hers shine through

the dim background, and wonderful spirits arise, and gaze, with their

earnest eyes, deep into the breast. I don't know why mine was so long

before it opened to them.

"'The sisters' benefit-concert came off at length. Lauretta was singing

a great _scena_ of Anfossi's. I was, of course, at the piano as usual.

We had arrived at her final "pause," where her grand _cadenza ad

libitum_ had to come in. It was a question of showing what she really

_could_ do. Nightingale trills went warbling up and down; then came

long holding-notes; then all kinds of florid passages--a regular

_solfeggio_; even _I_ thought the affair was being kept up too long.

Suddenly I felt a breath. Teresina was standing close behind me;

Lauretta was just pulling herself together to begin her long, swelling

harmonica shake, which was to lead back to the _a-tempo_. Some demon

took possession of me. I crashed down the chord of the dominant with

both hands; the orchestra followed me; and there was an end of

Lauretta's _trillo_, just at the supreme moment when it ought to have

set the audience _in furore_.

"'Lauretta, with a glare of fury at me, which went through me like a

two-edged sword, tore her music in pieces, and sent it flying about my

ears; then rushed away like a mad creature, through the orchestra, into

the ante-room. As soon as the _tutti_ was finished, I hastened after

her. She was sobbing and raving. "Don't come near me, you malignant

fiend!" she screamed: "you have blasted my career for ever; how can I

ever look an audience in the face again? You have robbed me of my name,

and fame, and, oh, of my _trillo_! Out of my sight;" she made a rush at

me, but I slipped deftly out of the door. During the _concerto_--which

somebody or other played--Teresina and the Kapellmeister succeeded in

so far pacifying her as to induce her to appear again--but not with me

at the piano--and in the concluding duet, which the sisters sung,

Lauretta did actually introduce the harmonica shake, was tremendously

applauded, and got into the most delightful temper imaginable.

"'I, however, couldn't get over the style in which I had been treated

before so many strangers; and I had quite made up my mind to be off

back to my native town again the following morning. In fact I was

packing up, when Teresina came into my room. When she saw what was

going on, she was thunderstruck. "_You_ going to leave us?" she cried.

I said that after the way in which Lauretta had behaved to me, I could

not possibly stay.

"'"Then the hasty, petulant outburst of a foolish girl, which she is

heartily ashamed of and sorry for, is going to drive you away; where

else could you carry on your artistic life so happily? It rests

entirely with you to cure Lauretta of those tempers of hers. You are

too good to her, and let her have her own way far too much. You have

too high an opinion of her altogether. She has a very fair voice, and

an enormous compass, no doubt. But all those _fioriture_, those

everlasting scales and passages, and nightingale trills of hers, what

are they but dazzling tricks, more like what an acrobat does on the

tight-rope than anything else? Can such things possibly touch the

heart? The harmonica shake, which you wouldn't let her bring in, is a

thing which I detest! it makes me feel quite ill. Then all that

clambering up among the ledger-line notes, isn't it a mere, unnatural

forcing of the proper voice--the real voice--the only voice that

touches the listener? What I admire are the middle and lower registers.

A tone which goes to the heart, a genuine _portamento di voce_, I

prefer to everything else. None of those meaningless _embellimenti_--a

firm, steady, full utterance of the note--something like decision and

accuracy of intonation; that is real singing, and that is how I sing

myself. If you can't bear Lauretta longer, don't forget that there is

Teresina, who is your devoted friend: and you can be my _maestro_ and

composer quite in your own special style. Don't be vexed with me, but

all your florid _canzonettas_ and _arias_ are nothing in comparison

with _the_ one."

"'Teresina sang, in her rich pathetic tones, a simple _canzone_ in

church style which I had written a few days before. Never could I have

imagined that it could ever possibly have sounded like that. Tears of

rapture rolled down my cheeks: I seized her hand, and pressed it to my

lips a thousand times: I vowed that nothing on earth should ever part

us.

"'Lauretta looked upon my alliance with Teresina with angry jealousy,

which she concealed as best she could. I was indispensable to her at

the time; because, clever as her singing was, she couldn't learn

anything new without assistance. She was a wretched hand at reading,

and extremely shaky over her time. Teresina could read everything at

sight, and the accuracy of her time was incomparable. Lauretta's

tempers and caprices never came out in such full force as when she was

being accompanied. The accompaniment never pleased her. She looked upon

it in the light of a necessary evil, she wanted the piano to be barely

audible, always _pianissimo_. She was always dragging and altering the

time, every bar different, just as she happened to take it in her head

at the moment. I set to work to resist this firmly. I combatted those

evil habits of hers; I showed her that there must be a certain energy

about an accompaniment, that breadth of phrasing was one thing, and

meaningless dragging quite another. Teresina backed me up staunchly. I

gave up writing everything but the church style, and gave all the solos

to the contralto voice. Teresina dragooned me pretty smartly, too; but

I didn't mind that. She knew more than Lauretta, and I thought she had

more feeling for German music.

"'When we were in a certain little town in the south of Germany, we met

with an Italian tenor on his way from Milan to Vienna. My ladies were

charmed to meet with a fellow-countryman. He was continually with them.

Teresina was the one whom he chiefly devoted himself to, and, to my no

small disgust, I found myself quite playing second fiddle. One morning,

as I was just going into their room, with a score under my arm, I heard

an animated conversation going on between my ladies and the tenor. My

own name struck my ear, and I listened with might and main. I knew

enough Italian to catch every word that was said. Lauretta was relating

the terrible story of the concert when I cut her out of her shake by

striking my chord too soon.

"'"_Asino tedesco!_" cried the tenor. I felt inclined to go and chuck

the vapouring stage-hero out of the window; but I restrained myself.

Lauretta went on to say that she would have got rid of me on the spot,

but that I had implored her to let me stay, and she had done so, out of

compassion, as I was going to take singing-lessons from her. Teresina

confirmed this, to my no small amazement. "He is a nice boy, enough,"

she added. "He is in love with _me_ just now, and writes all his solos

for the contralto. There is a certain amount of talent in him, if he

could get rid of the stiffness and awkwardness which all Germans have.

I am in hopes I may make a composer of him who may write some good

things for the contralto: there is so little written for it that is

worth very much. He is dreadfully wearisome with his everlasting

sighings and devotion, and torments me fearfully with his compositions,

which are poor enough as yet."

"'"Thank goodness, I am quit of him," cried Lauretta, "You know,

Teresina, how he used to torture me with his _arias_ and _duettos_,"

and she began a duet of mine, which she had highly praised formerly.

Teresina took the second voice, and they both caricatured me most

unmercifully. The tenor laughed till the room re-echoed. I felt a

stream of icy water running down my back, my mind was thoroughly made

up. I slipped back to my own room as quietly as I could. Its windows

looked out into the side-street--the post-office was just over the

way, and the Bamberg coach was drawing up to take in the mail-bags.

The passengers were collecting at the gate, but I had still the best

part of an hour before me. I got my things together as quickly as I

could--magnanimously paid the whole of the hotel bill, and was off to

the coach. As I went along the High Street, I saw my ladies looking out

at the window, with the tenor, at the sound of the horn. But I kept well

out of sight in the background, and pictured to myself, with deep

delight, the crushing effect of the scathing letter which I had left

for them.

"'Here Theodore slowly savoured, with intense gusto, the last drops of

the glowing Eleatic which Edward had poured out for him.

"'"I shouldn't have expected Teresina to have behaved as she did," said

Edward, opening a fresh bottle, and shaking away the drop or two of oil

on the surface like one accustomed to that operation. "I can't forget

the pretty picture of her caracoling along on horseback, singing

Spanish songs."

"'That was her culminating point,' said Theodore. 'I remember as

distinctly as possible the impression that made upon me. I forgot the

pain of my foot. She looked like some creature of a higher sphere. A

moment of that sort makes a tremendous impression upon one sometimes.

Things sometimes put on a form, in an instant, which no lapse of time

can change. If ever, since then, I have been unusually happy in the

subject of some bold, spirited _romanza_, you may be sure I had that

scene, and Teresina, vividly before my mind.'

"'"We mustn't forget the clever Lauretta, either," said Edward. "I vote

that we let bygones be bygones, and drink to both the sisters." Which

they did.

"'Ah!' said Theodore, 'how the perfumes of exquisite Italy breathe upon

one out of this wine. One's blood seems to course through one's veins

with threefold vigour. Oh, why had I to leave that glorious country so

soon!'

"'"So far, though," said Edward, "I see no connection between what you

have been telling me and the picture; so I suppose there is more about

the sisters yet to come. Of course I see that the ladies in the picture

are no other than Lauretta and Teresina."

"'Yes,' said Theodore. 'And my longing sighs for Italy form a

good-enough introduction to what there remains for me to say. A short

time before I had to leave Rome, the year before last, I went for a

little excursion into the country, on horseback. I came to a _locanda_,

where I saw a nice-looking girl, and I thought it would be a good thing

to get her to bring me a flagon of good wine. I drew up at the door in

the shaded alley, the bright sunlight breaking athwart it through the

branches. I heard singing, and a guitar, somewhere near. I listened

attentively, for the voices of the singers affected me strangely; dim

reminiscences stirred within me, but were slow to take definite form. I

got off my horse, and slowly drew nearer to the vine-covered arbour

where the music was going on. The second voice had stopped; the first

was singing a _canzonetta_ alone; the singer was in the middle of an

elaborate _cadenza_, it went warbling up and down, till at last she

began a long holding-note, and then, all at once, a woman's voice broke

out in a fury, with curses, execrations and reproaches. A man was heard

protesting, another man laughing, whilst a second woman's voice joined

in the _melee_. Wilder and wilder raged the storm, with true Italian

_rabbia_. At last, just as I came up to the arbour, out flew an

_abbate_, nearly knocking me down. He looked up at me, and I saw that

he was none other than my good friend Signor Ludovico, my regular

news-purveyor, from Rome. "What, in the name of Heaven----" I cried.

"Ah, Signor Maestro! Signor Maestro!" he cried, "save me! rescue me!

protect me from this mad creature--this crocodile, this tiger, this

hyena--this devil of a girl! It is true I was beating the time to that

_canzonetta_ of Anfossi's, and I came in too soon with my down-beat, right

in the middle of her pause-note, and cut her out of her _trillo_. Why did

I look at her eyes, goddess of the infernal regions that she is? The

devil take all pause-notes!"

"'In most unusual excitement I hastened into the arbour, and at the

first glance, recognised Lauretta and Teresina. Lauretta was still

screaming and raging, Teresina talking violently into her face; the

landlord was looking on with a face of amusement, whilst a girl was

putting fresh flasks of wine on the table.

"'The moment that the singers set eyes on me they threw themselves

about my neck and overwhelmed me with the affectionateness of their

reception. "Ah, Signor Teodoro, Signor Teodoro," all our little

differences were forgotten. "This," said Lauretta to the _Abbate_, "is

a composer who has all the grace and melody of the Italians combined

with the science of the Germans." And both the sisters, taking the

words out of each other's mouths, told him all about the happy days we

had spent together, my profound musical knowledge, even as a boy, our

practisings, and the excellence of my compositions. Never had they

really cared to sing anything but works of mine. Presently Teresina

told me she had got an engagement at an important theatre for the next

Carnival, but meant to make it a condition that _I_ should be

commissioned to write at least one tragic opera; since, of course,

_opera seria_ was my real line, etc., etc. Lauretta, again, said it

would be too bad if I didn't follow my special bent for the florid and

sparkling style--for _opera buffa_, in fact: that she had got an

engagement as prima donna in that line, and that, as a matter of

course, nobody but I should write the operas in which she should

appear. You can imagine how strange it felt to be with them again; and

you see, now, that the scene and all the circumstances are exactly

those of Hummel's picture.

"'"But didn't they say anything about the circumstances of your

parting, or that scathing letter of yours?" asked Edward.

"Not a syllable,' said Theodore. 'Neither did I. I had long forgotten

my annoyance, and remembered my affair with the sisters as a mere piece

of fun nothing more. The only thing I did was to tell the _Abbate_ how,

many years ago, a similar misadventure had befallen me, and that in an

aria of Anfossi's too. I incorporated in my story an account of all

that had happened during the time that the sisters and I had spent

together, delivering a swashing side-blow, now and then, just to show

the considerable increment of "calibre" which a few years of artistic

experience had endowed me with. "And," said I in conclusion, "it was a

very lucky thing that I did come in too soon with that down-beat of

mine. No doubt it was fore-ordained from all eternity; and I have

little doubt that, if I hadn't interrupted Lauretta as I did then, I

should have been sitting playing pianoforte accompaniments to this

hour."

"'"But, Signer," said the _Abbate_, "what _maestro_ can lay down laws

to a prima donna? And then, your crime was far more heinous than mine.

You were in a concert-room. I was only in this arbour here, merely

_playing_ the _maestro_. What did it matter about my down-beat? If

those beautiful eyes of hers hadn't bewitched me, I shouldn't have made

an ass of myself as I did." The _Abbate's_ last words worked like

magic. Lauretta's eyes, which had begun to dart angry lightnings,

beamed softly again.

"'We spent that evening together. It was fourteen years since we had

met, and fourteen years cause many changes. Lauretta was by no means as

young as she had been, but she had not lost all her attractiveness.

Teresina had worn better, and still retained her beautiful figure. They

dressed in much the same style as of old, and had all their former

ways: that's to say, their dress and manners were fourteen years

younger than themselves. At my request, Teresina sang some of those

earnest, serious _arias_ which had impressed me so much in early days,

but they did not seem to be quite what my memory had represented them.

And it was the same with Lauretta's singing: though her voice had

fallen off little, either in power or in compass, still it was

different from the singing which lived in my memory as hers; and this

attempt to compare a mental idea with the not altogether satisfactory

reality, untuned me even more than the sisters' behaviour--their

pretended ecstasy, their coarse admiration (which at the same time took

the form of a generous patronage) had done at the beginning. But the

droll little _Abbate_--who was playing the _amoroso_ to both the

sisters at once, in the most sugary manner--and the good wine (of which

we had a fair share) gave me my good humour back at length, so that we

all enjoyed our evening. The sisters invited me, in the most pressing

manner, to go and see them, so that we might talk over the parts I was

to compose for them; however I left Rome without ever seeing them

again.

"'"Still," said Edward, "you have to thank them for awaking the music

within you."

"'Undoubtedly,' answered Theodore, 'and for a quantity of good melodies

into the bargain; but that is exactly the reason why I never should

have seen them again. No doubt every composer can remember some

particular occasion when some powerful impression was made on him,

which time never effaces. The spirit which dwells in music spoke, and

the spirit _en rapport_ with it within the composer awoke at that

creative fiat; it flamed up with might, and could never be extinguished

again. It is certain that all the melodies which we produce under an

impulse of this sort seem to belong only to the singer who cast the

first spark into us. We hear her, and merely write down what she has

sung; but it is the lot of us feeble earthly creatures, clamped to the

dust as we are, to long and strive to bring down whatever we can of the

super-earthly into the wretched little bit of earthly life in which we

are cribbed up. And thus the singer becomes our beloved--perhaps our

wife! The spell is broken; our inward melody, with its message, or

gospel of glory, turns to a squabble about a broken soup-plate, or a

row about an ink-mark on one's new shirt. That composer is a happy man

who never again, in this earthly life, sees Her who, with mystic power,

kindled the music within him. He may rage, and mourn, poor boy! when

his beautiful enchantress has left him; but she has been transformed to

everlasting Music, glorious and divine, which lives on in eternal

beauty and youth; and out of it are born the melodies which are Her

only, and Her again and again. What is she but his highest ideal,

reflected from him on to herself?

"'"Curious, but pretty plausible," said Edward, as the friends,

arm-in-arm, walked out of the Sala Tarone into the street.'"

It was admitted that, if Theodore's story might not satisfy all the

necessary conditions, it came near enough to be passed as

"Serapiontic." Ottmar said, "Your story, dear Theodore, has this

effect, that it brings vividly to mind all your devoted labours at

music. Each of us wished to draw you into a different province of it.

While Lothair thought your instrumental writings your best, I thought

your _forte_ was comic opera. Cyprian wanted you to do 'things

unattempted yet,' by putting music to (what he will now admit were)

poems completely beyond all recognised forms and rules; and you

yourself cared only for the serious ecclesiastical style. Well, as

things stand at present, the _opera tragica_ may probably be

considered, the highest goal at which a composer can aim, and I can't

understand why you haven't set to work at one long ago; you would

surely have turned out something very superior in that line."

"And whose fault is it that I have not?" said Theodore, "but your own,

and Cyprian's, and Lothair's? Could I ever succeed in inducing either

of you to write me a libretto, with all my entreaties?"

"Marvellous fellow!" said Cyprian, "haven't I argued for hours and days

with you about opera-texts? Haven't you rejected the finest ideas, on

the ground that they were not adapted for music? Didn't you insist, at

last, like an extraordinary fellow as you are, that I should regularly

set to work to study music, so as to be able to understand, and comply

with your requirements? So that I should have had to say good-bye to

all idea of writing poetry, seeing that, like all professional writers,

Kapellmeisters, and music-directors, you cleave to the established

musical forms, and won't abandon them by so much as a hair's breadth."

"What I can't understand," said Lothair, "is, why Theodore, with his

command of language and poetical expression, doesn't write librettos

for himself? Why should we have to learn to be musicians, and expend

our poetical powers, merely to produce a sort of block, or lay figure,

for him to give life and motion to? Is it not principally because

composers are usually one-sided people, without enough _general_

education, that they require other folks to help them to do their own

work? Are perfect unity of text and music conceivable, except when poet

and composer are one and the same person?"

"All that sounds astonishingly plausible," said Theodore, "and yet it

is utterly and completely untrue. I maintain that it is wholly

impossible that any one person can write a work, the words and the

music of which shall both be excellent."

"You composers," said Lothair, "get that idea into your heads either

because you are absurdly unenergetic, or constitutionally indolent. The

notion of having to go through the labour of writing the words before

you can set to work at the music is so disagreeable to you that you

can't bring yourselves to face it; but my belief is that, to a really

inspired composer, the words and the music would occur simultaneously."

"You are rather driving me into a corner," said Theodore, "so instead

of carrying on this argument, I shall ask you to let me read you a

dialogue about the necessary conditions, or essentials of opera, which

I wrote several years ago that eventful period which we have passed

through was then only beginning. I thought my artistic existence

seriously menaced, and I fell into a state of despondency, which was

probably partly the result of bad health. At this time I made a

Serapiontic friend, who had abandoned the pen for the sword. He cheered

me in my despondency, and forced me to throw myself into the full

current of the events of that stirring time." Without further

introduction, Theodore at once began:--

"THE POET AND THE COMPOSER.

"The enemy was before the gates. Heavy guns were thundering in every

direction, and shells were hurtling through the air; the people of the

town were running, with white faces, into their houses, and the empty

streets rang to the tramp of the cavalry patrols that were cantering

along through them, and driving, with threats and curses, such of the

soldiers as were loitering, or had fallen out of the ranks from any

cause, forward into the trenches. But Ludwig sat on, in his back room,

sunk and lost in the lovely, glorious vision-world which had opened

upon him at his piano. For he had just completed a symphony, in which

he had tried to write down, in notes to be seen and read, what he had

heard and seen within him; a work which, like Beethoven's colossal ones

in that kind, should tell, in heavenly language, of the glorious

wonders of that far-off, romantic realm where life is all unspeakable,

blissful, longing. Like _his_ marvellous creations, it was to

come from that far-off realm, into this little, arid, thirsty world of

ours, and, with beautiful, syren-accents, lure away from it those who

should list, and give ear to its charming. But the landlady came in and

rated him for sitting at his piano in that time of danger and distress;

asking him if he meant to stay in his garret and be shot. At first he

didn't understand what the woman was talking about, till a fragment of

a shell knocked a piece of the roof off, and the broken panes of the

window went clattering down upon the floor. Then the landlady ran

down-stairs weeping and screaming; and Ludwig, taking his most precious

possession, the score of his symphony, under his arm, hastened after

her to the cellar. The inhabitants of the house were all assembled

there. In an access of liberality very unusual with him, the wine-shop

keeper, who occupied the lower story, had 'stood' a dozen or so of his

best wine; whilst the women, in fear and trembling, brought numerous

tit-bits in their work-baskets. People ate and drank, and quickly

passed from their condition of exaltation and excitement to that

confidential frame of mind in which neighbour, drawing close to

neighbour, seeks, and thinks he finds security; and, so to say, all the

petty, artificial _pas_ which we have been taught by conventionality

are whelmed and merged in the great colossal waltz-whirl, to which the

iron hand of destiny beats the resistless measure. The trouble and

danger--the risk to life and limb--were forgotten; cheerful

conversation was the order of the day; animated lips uttered brilliant

speeches, and fellow-lodgers, who barely touched a hat to each other at

ordinary times as they met on the stairs, were seated side by side,

confiding to each other their most confidential affairs.

"The firing began to slacken a good deal, and there was talk of going

up-stairs again, as the streets seemed to be getting pretty safe. An

ex-Militaire, who was present, went further; and, after a few

instructive observations concerning the system of fortification

practised by the Romans, and the effect of the catapult (with a passing

allusion or two to Vauban, and more modern times), was just proving to

us that we had no cause for the slightest uneasiness, because the house

was completely out of the line of fire, when a shot sent the bricks of

the cellar-ventilator rattling down about our ears. No one was hurt,

however; and, as the Militaire jumped, with a brimming bumper in his

hand, on to the table (which the falling bricks had cleared of the

bottles), and defied any other shot to trouble us, we were all quite

reassured at once; and this proved to be our last scare. The night

passed away quietly, and, in the morning, we found that the troops had

moved off to occupy another position, abandoning the town to the enemy.

On leaving the cellar, we found the enemy's cavalry scouring the

streets, and a placard posted up guaranteeing that the townsfolk and

their property should not be molested.

"Ludwig joined the throng, eager to see the new spectacle, which was

watching the arrival of the enemy's commander-in-chief, who was coming

in at the gate, with a pompous fanfare of trumpets, surrounded by a

brilliant escort. Scarcely could he believe his eyes when he saw his

old college-friend Ferdinand among the staff, in a quiet-looking

uniform, with his left arm in a sling, curvetting close past him on a

beautiful sorrel charger. 'It was he--it was really and truly himself

and no other!' Ludwig cried involuntarily. He couldn't overtake him,

his horse was going too fast, and Ludwig hastened, full of thought,

back to his room. But he couldn't get on with any work; he could think

of nothing but his old friend, whom he had not seen for years; and the

happy days of youth which they had spent together rose to his memory

bright and clear. At that time Ferdinand had never shown any turn for

soldiering: he was devoted to the Muses, and had evinced his poetic

vocation in many a striking poem; so that this transformation was all

the more incomprehensible; and Ludwig burned with anxiety to speak with

him, though he had no notion where or how he should find him. The

bustle and movement in the streets increased; a considerable portion of

the enemy's forces, with the Allied Princes at their head, passed

through the town, as a halt was to be made in the neighbourhood for a

day or two; and the greater the crowd about headquarters the less

chance there seemed of encountering Ferdinand. But suddenly, in an

out-of-the-way _cafe_, where Ludwig was in the habit of going for his

frugal dinner, Ferdinand came up to him with a cry of delight.

"Ludwig was silent, for a certain feeling of discomfort embittered, for

him, this longed-for meeting. It was, as it often is in dreams, when,

just as we are going to put our arms about people whom we love, they

suddenly change into something else, and the whole thing becomes a

mockery, Here was the gentle son of the Muses, the writer of many a

romantic lay which Ludwig had clothed in music, in a nodding plume,

with a clanking sword at his side, and even his voice transformed to a

harsh, rough tone of command. Ludwig's gloomy glance rested on the

wounded arm, and upon the decoration, the cross of honour, on his

breast. But Ferdinand put his arm round him and pressed him to his

side.

"'I know what you are thinking,' he said; 'I understand what you feel

at this meeting of ours. But the Fatherland called me; I could not

hesitate to obey. My hand, which had only wielded the pen, took up the

sword, with the joy, with the enthusiasm, which the holy cause has

kindled in every breast which is not stamped with the seal of

cowardice. I have given some of my blood already; and the mere accident

that this happened under the Prince's eyes has gained me this cross.

But, believe me, Ludwig, the strings which vibrated in me of old, and

whose tones have so often spoken to you, are all whole and uninjured

still; and many a night, when, after some fierce engagement, the

troopers have been sleeping round the fire of the bivouac on some

lonely picquet, I have written poems which have elevated me and

inspired me in my glorious duty of fighting for Honour and Freedom.'

"Ludwig's heart opened at these words; and when Ferdinand went with him

into a small private room, and took off his sword and helmet, he felt

as if his friend had only been dressed to act a part, and had taken off

his stage-costume.

"As they dined and talked over the old days they began to feel as if

they had only parted yesterday. Ferdinand asked what Ludwig had been

composing lately, and was much astonished to learn that he had never

written an opera, because he never had been able to meet with a

libretto to his satisfaction--one that could inspire him with music.

"'I can't understand,' said Ferdinand, 'why you haven't written a

Libretto long ago yourself. You have a very vivid imagination, and a

fine command of language.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Yes, I have imagination enough to invent plenty of good

plots. Indeed, often, when at night a slight headache keeps me in that

dreamy condition which is like a struggle between sleeping and waking,

I not only think of splendid subjects for operas, but see and hear them

being performed, to my own music. But, so far as the faculty of

retaining them and writing them down is concerned, my belief is that I

am wholly without it. And in fact it is scarcely to be expected of us

composers that we should acquire that technical, mechanical skill

(which is necessary to success in every art, and only comes by constant

perseverance and long practice) which would enable us to write our own

librettos. But even if I had the skill to write out a plot, properly

arranged in lines, scenes, etc., I scarcely think I should set to work

to do it for myself.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'But then nobody could so thoroughly understand your

special musical tendencies as yourself.'

"_Ludwig_. 'That, I daresay, may be true enough. Still, I can't help

thinking that a composer who should sit down to put the idea of a plot,

which had occurred to him, into the words would be something like a

painter who should be called upon to make a minute etching, or a

line-engraving, of his picture before setting to work to draw it and

colour it.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'You mean that the necessary fire would smoulder out

during the process of versifying?'

"_Ludwig_. 'I think it would. My poetry would seem trashy, to myself;

something like the cases of rockets which had fallen down, charred and

empty, after rushing all resplendent up to the skies. To me it appears

that in no art so much as in music is it so essential that the entirety

of the subject involved, with all its parts, down to the minutest

detail, should be grasped by the mind at _first_, in its earliest,

glowing outburst; because in no other is subsequent polishing and

altering so hurtful. I am convinced, by my own experience, that the

melody which comes to you, as at the wave of an enchanter's wand, the

first time you read the words of a poem, is always the best--nay,

probably the only really _right_ one (for that particular composer at

all events), to put to it. It would be impossible for a composer not to

think of the music called for by the situation, while he was writing

down the words. Indeed he would be thinking so much of _it_ that he

could not give the necessary attention to the words, and if he forced

himself to do so the river of the music would soon dry up, as if sucked

in by thirsty sands. Nay, to express my meaning more clearly, I will

say that, at the moment of his musical inspiration, all _words_, all

verbal expressions, would appear insufficient to him, nay flat, and

miserably inadequate; and it would be necessary for him to come down to

a lower level, to go, like a beggar asking for alms, in quest of those

words, necessities of the lower requirements of his existence. Would

not his wings soon be paralysed, like a caged eagle's, so that he would

try to soar sunwards in vain?'

"_Ferdinand_. 'One listens to all this, of course; but do you know, my

dear friend, that what you say does not so much convince me as it seems

to indicate your own _personal_ repugnance to working your way,

laboriously, through all the necessary _scenas_, _arias_, _duettos_,

etc., till you get to the point of composing the music.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Perhaps; but I renew an old reproach. Why, in the days when

you and I were living in such constant intimacy, would you never write

me a libretto, eagerly as I begged you to do so?'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Because I think it the most thankless labour imaginable.

You must allow that no demands could be more exacting than those which

you composers make upon us; and if you say that a musician can't be

expected to acquire the technical skill which the mechanical part of

poetry-writing demands, I, again, think that it is too much to expect

of a poet that he should be continually harassing himself about the

precise structure of your _terzettes_, _quartettes_, _finales_, etc.,

so as not to run the risk of transgressing against some of those forms,

which you look upon--Heaven knows why--as so many matters fixed and

established for ever and ever, like the laws of the Medes and Persians.

After we have expended our best efforts with extremity of mental

tension, in trying to apprehend all the situations of our story in a

true poetical spirit, and to express them in the most eloquent

language, and the smoothest and most finished versification, it is

quite terrible how you run your pens through our finest lines, in the

most relentless manner, and spoil our happiest ideas and expressions,

by inverting them, or altering them, or drowning them in the music. I

say this merely with reference to the uselessness of spending time and

labour on elaborate finish. But then, many admirable plots, which have

occurred to us in our poetic inspiration, and which we bring to you,

all pride, expecting you to be delighted with them, you reject in a

moment, as being unsuitable, and unworthy to be clothed in music. But

this must often be sheer caprice, or I don't know what else it can be;

because you often set to work upon texts which are absolutely wretched

and----'

"_Ludwig_. 'Stop a moment, my dear friend! Of course there are

composers who have as little idea of music as many rhyme-spinners have

of poetry, and _they_ have often put notes to plots which really are

wretched, in all respects. But real composers, who live and move and

have their being in true, glorious, heavenly _Music_, always choose

poetic texts.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Do you say so of Mozart?'

"_Ludwig_. 'Mozart--however paradoxical it may appear to you--never

chose any but poetic texts for his classical operas. But, leaving that

on one side for the moment, my opinion is that it is always quite easy

to know what sort of plot is adapted for an opera, so that the poet

need never be in any danger of making any mistake about it.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I must confess I never have really gone into this: and

indeed I know so little about music that I don't suppose it would have

been of much consequence if I had.'

"_Ludwig_. 'If by the expression "knowing about music" you mean being

thoroughly versed in the so-called "school routine" of music, there is

no necessity for your being that, to be able to know what composers

require. It is quite easy, altogether apart from the school routine, so

to comprehend, and have within one, the true essence of music as to be,

in this sense, a much better musician than a person who, after studying

the whole, extensive school-routine in the sweat of his forehead, and

labouring through all its manifold, intricate mazes and labyrinths,

worships its lifeless rules and regulations as a self-manufactured

Fetish, in place of the living Spirit: and whom this Idol-cult excludes

from the happiness of the higher realm of bliss.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Then you think the poet might enter into this inner

sanctum without the preliminary initiation of the "school"?'

"_Ludwig_. 'I do, certainly. And I say that, in that far-off realm

which we often feel,--so dimly, but so unmistakeably,--to be so close

about us, whence marvellous voices sound to us, awakening all the tones

which are sleeping in our hearts, cabined, cribbed, confined, so that

those tones, awakened and set free, dart aloft in fiery streams,

gladsome and happy, and we taste of the bliss of that paradise whence

the voices come--I say that, in that far-off realm, the Poet and the

Musician are intimately-allied members of one and the same Church: for

the "secret" of poetry and of music is one and the same, and opens to

both the portals of the Inner Sanctuary.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I hear my dear old Ludwig trying to formulate the laws

of art in dim and mystic phrases; and I must say, that the gulf which

seemed to lie between poet and composer, begins to look much narrower

than it did.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Let me try to express my idea about the true essentials of

Opera in as few words as possible. A proper opera, in my opinion, is

one in which the music springs directly out of the poem, as a necessary

sequence, or consequence.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I don't quite understand that, as yet.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Is not music the mysterious language of a higher

spirit-realm, whose wondrous accents make their way into our souls,

awaking in them a higher Intensivity of life? All passions contend

together, shimmering in bright armour, and then merge and sink into an

ineffable longing which fills our being. This is the effect (not, perhaps,

to be more clearly expressed in words) of _Instrumental_ music. But Music,

to enter wholly into our lives, must take those visions of hers which she

thus brings with her, and, clothing them in words and actions, speak to

us of _particular_ passions and events. Very well! Can the vulgar and

the common-place be spoken of in those accents of glory? Can Music tell

us of anything other than the wonders and the mysteries of that realm

from whence she comes to us with those magic tones of hers? Let the

poet equip himself for a bold flight into the land of romance. There

he will find the Marvellous, which it is for him to bring into this

work-a-day world, so living and glowing in brilliant colouring that we

accept it as true without hesitation. So that--as if carried out of

this arid every-day life in some blissful dream--we go wandering along

the flowery paths of that happy country, and, forgetting everything

else for the time, understand its language--which is what the mighty

voice of Music speaks.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Then it is the Romantic Opera, with its fairies and

spirits, its prodigies and transformations, that you would adhere to,

exclusively?'

"_Ludwig_. 'I certainly think the Romantic Opera the only perfect kind,

because it is only in the realm of the Romantic that music is at home.

Of course you will understand that I profoundly despise that miserable

class of productions in which silly, _un_spiritual spirits appear, and

where wonders are heaped upon wonders, without rhyme or reason, merely

for the delectation of the _eyes_ of the musical groundlings. It is

only a poet of true genius who can write the book of a proper Romantic

Opera; for none other can bring the wonders of the Spirits-World into

this life of ours. On his wings we soar across the gulf which divides

us from it. We grow to feel at home in that strange land; we give

belief to the marvels which, as necessary results of the influence of

higher natures on our personality, we see taking place; and we

comprehend all the powerful incidents and situations which fill us with

awe and horror, and also with the highest rapture. It is, in one word,

the magical power of Poetical Truth which the poet who would represent

those marvels must have at his command; for it is that alone which can

carry us away: and a mere collection of meaningless fairies, who (as is

the case in so many productions of the kind) are introduced only to

dance about the _pagliasso_ in flesh-coloured skin-tights,--foolish

absurdities as they are,--will always leave us indifferent and

uninterested. In an opera the effect produced upon us by the influence

of higher beings should take place _visibly_, so as to display before

our eyes a romantic life, or condition of existence, in which the

_language_, too, is more highly potentiated; or rather, is derived from

that distant realm: in other words, is _sung music_: ay! where the

scenes and incidents, too, hovering and soaring about in grand and

beautiful tones, and masses of tones, seize us and carry us away with

irresistible might. It is in this way that, as I said before, the music

ought to take its rise and origin straight out of the poem, as a

necessary sequence, or consequence.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Now I quite understand you; and I think, at once, of

Tasso and Ariosto. Still, it seems to me, it would be no easy matter to

write a musical drama as you would postulate it.'

"_Ludwig_. 'It is work for a real romantic poet, of true genius. Think

of the splendid Gozzi! in his dramatic legends he has completely

fulfilled the conditions which I have laid down as essential for the

poet of opera, and I cannot understand why this rich mine of

magnificent opera-plots has been so little drawn upon, hitherto.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I remember being greatly delighted with Gozzi, when I

read him some years ago; though, of course, I did not then look at him

from your point of view.'

"_Ludwig_. 'One of the best of his tales is "The Raven." A certain King

Millo, of Frattombrosa, cares for nothing but the chase. One day in the

forest he sees a splendid raven, and he sends an arrow through its

heart. The raven falls upon a monumental tomb of the whitest marble,

which there is there under the trees, besprinkling it with his blood.

On this, the forest is shaken, as if by an earthquake; and a terrible

monster comes stalking out of a cave, and thunders forth a curse upon

Millo, in the following terms:--

"Findest thou not a fair woman,

White as this monument's marble,

Red as the raven's heart's blood,

Black as the night of his plumes,

Perish in raving madness."

"'All attempts to discover such a woman are fruitless. But the king's

brother, Gennaro, who is devoted to him, vows that he will never rest

till he finds this woman, who is to restore his brother's reason. He

traverses land and sea; till at last, counselled by an old man versed

in necromancy, he discovers Armilla, daughter of the mighty sorcerer

Norand. White is her skin like the monument's marble, red like the

raven's blood; and black as his plumes are her hair and eyebrows. He

succeeds in carrying her off, and after many adventures, they reach the

shores of Frattombrosa in safety. As he lands on the beach, chance

places in his possession a magnificent charger, and a falcon endowed

with extraordinary powers. He is filled with joy that he is enabled to

restore his brother's reason, and also to have two such acceptable

gifts to offer him. He lies down to rest in a pavilion which has been

prepared for him under a tree. Then two doves come and sit in the

branches, and begin to talk:--

"'"Woe! Woe to Gennaro! Well had he never been born; the falcon will

peck out his brother's eyes--but if he giveth it not, or if he telleth

what he hath heard, he will turn to stone; if his brother mounteth the

horse, it will instantly kill him--but if he giveth it not, or telleth

what he hath heard, he will turn to stone; if his brother weddeth

Armilla, a monster will come on the wedding-night, and tear him limb

from limb but if Gennaro withholdeth Armilla, or telleth what he hath

heard, he will turn to stone!

"'"Woe! Woe to Gennaro! Well had he never been born!"

"'Norand appears, and confirms what the doves have said. It is the

punishment--the penalty, for having carried Armilla away.

"'As soon as Millo sets eyes on Armilla, his madness departs. The horse

and the hawk are brought, and the king is charmed with his brother's

affection in bringing him presents so much to his mind. Gennaro brings

the hawk, but ere his brother can take it, he cuts off its head. Thus

Millo's eyes are saved; and just as Millo is setting foot in the

stirrup to mount the horse, Gennaro draws his sword and hews off its

fore-legs with one stroke. Millo thinks it is love-madness which causes

Gennaro's conduct, and Armilla confirms this opinion, as Gennaro's

sighs and tears, and his confusion and inexplicable behaviour have for

some time made her suspect him of being secretly in love with her. She

assures the king of her entire devotion to him; of which Gennaro had

laid the foundation, by his warm and touching accounts of his brother

on the journey. To cast aside all suspicion, she begs that the marriage

may be hurried on as much as possible; and that is accordingly done.

Gennaro, who sees his brother's last hours at hand, is in despair at

being so misjudged; and yet, a terrible fate awaits him if a word of

explanation crosses his lips. But he determines to save his brother, at

whatever cost, and makes his way in the night, by a subterranean

passage, to his sleeping chamber. A terrible dragon appears, breathing

flames and fire. Gennaro attacks it; but his blows have no effect; the

monster is nearing the sleeping chamber. In his desperation he delivers

a tremendous two-handed stroke at the creature, and this cleaves

through the door of the chamber. Millo comes out, and, as the monster

has disappeared, he sees in his brother a traitor urged to fratricide

by the madness of unhallowed passion. Gennaro cannot vindicate himself.

The guards are summoned, and he is disarmed and thrown into a dungeon.

He is doomed to die, but begs that he may speak with his brother first.

Millo consents. Gennaro recalls to his memory the tender affection

which has always subsisted between them; but when he asks if his

brother can truly suppose him capable of his murder, Millo calls for

proofs of his innocence; and then, in his agony, Gennaro divulges the

terrible prophecies of the doves and Norand. But no sooner have the

words been spoken than Gennaro is turned to a marble statue. On this

Millo, in his grief and remorse, determines that he never will leave

the statue's side, and will die at its feet in contrition and sorrow.

At this juncture Norand appears, and says, "In the eternal Book of

Destiny were written the raven's death, the curse on you, and the

carrying away of Armilla. One thing, and one alone, will bring your

brother back to life--but it is a terrible deed. Let Armilla be slain

at the statue's side, by this dagger; and when the cold marble is

besprinkled with her heart's blood, it will warm into life. If you have

courage to kill her, do it. Weep, weep, and lament! even as do I!" He

vanishes. Armilla wrings from the unfortunate Millo the purport of

Norand's terrible disclosure. Millo quits her in despair, and, filled

with horror and grief, careless of living longer, she stabs herself

with the dagger. As soon as her blood besprinkles the statue Gennaro

comes back to life. Millo comes: he sees his brother alive, and his

bride lying slain. In his despair he is going to stab himself with the

dagger; but the gloomy dungeon changes to a great, illuminated hall;

Norand appears: all the mysterious decrees of fate are accomplished,

all the sorrow is past. Norand touches Armilla. She comes back to life,

and everything ends happily.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Yes; I remember this fine, imaginative tale quite well,

and the impression it made upon me. You are quite right; this is an

instance in which the Marvellous takes the form of an essential

element, and has so much poetical verity that we believe it without

hesitation. Millo's killing of the raven is what knocks at the brazen

gates of the Spirit-Realm; on that they fly open with a clash, and the

spirits come swooping in upon the human life, and immesh the mortals in

the web of strange, mysterious destiny which impends over them.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly; and notice the grand, powerful situations which

the poet has evolved from this contest with the spirit-world. Gennaro's

self-sacrifice; Armilla's deed of heroism; there is a grandeur in them

which our "moral" playwrights, in their rummagings among the

paltrinesses of every-day life (like sweepings of drawing-rooms thrown

out into the dust-bin) haven't the slightest idea of; and then the

comic parts for the masks are must effectively woven in.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Yes it is only in the Romantic Drama that the comic

element blends on such perfectly equal terms with the tragic that they

contribute with equality to the general effect.'

"_Ludwig_. Even common opera-manufacturers have got hold of some dim

notion of that, for it is thence that the so-called Comic-Heroic operas

take their origin--productions in which the Heroic is often exceedingly

Comic, and the Comic is so far Heroic that it most heroically ignores

all the requirements of taste and propriety.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'According to your notion of the essentials of opera, we

can't congratulate ourselves on possessing very many.'

"_Ludwig_. 'No; most so-called operas are only plays with singing

added; and the utter absence of dramatic effect, which is ascribed

sometimes to the music, sometimes to the plot or to the words, is

really due to the lifelessness of the mass of scenes, tacked together

without inward connection or poetical truthfulness, and incapable of

kindling music into life. The composer has often to work between the

lines, as it were, on his own account, and the wretched words meander

along in a side-channel, not to be brought into the musical current by

any conceivable means. In such a case the music may be good enough;

that is,--without having depth enough to carry away the listener with

magic power, it may give a certain amount of pleasure, like a

glittering play of gay colours. Then the opera is merely a concert,

given on a stage, with dresses and scenery.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'As it is the Romantic Opera, in its strictest sense,

which is the only species that you recognise as opera, properly

so-called, how about musical Tragedies, and Comic Operas in modern

costume?--you repudiate them altogether, I presume.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Oh, no; not at all. In most of the older Tragic

Operas--such as are not written nowadays, unfortunately (either as

regards plots or music)--what so powerfully sways the audience is the

heroic nature of the action, and the inward strength of the characters

and situations. That dark mysterious power which rules, controls, and

disposes of Gods and Men, we see stalking along visibly before our

eyes; we hear the eternal, irreversible, immutable decrees of Fate, to

which the Gods themselves have to submit, pronounced and formulated

aloud, in awful and mysterious tones. From Tragic matter of this sort

the Fantastic element is perforce excluded; but a loftier language--in

the wondrous accents of Music--has to be employed to depict that

intercourse with the Gods which stirs the Mortals to a higher life, and

to God-like achievements. Were not the ancient tragedies musically

declaimed, by the way?--and did not that prove clearly the necessity

for a higher medium of expression than ordinary language? The musical

tragedies have inspired composers of genius in a quite special

way--with a lofty, I might almost say, a _saintly_ style of writing. It

is as if we mortals were wafted upwards, in some condition of mystic

consecration, on the pinions of the tones of the golden harps of the

Cherubim and Seraphim, to the realms of light, where we learn the

mystery of our existence. What I would say, Ferdinand, is to point out

the close relationship that there is between the old Church Style and

the Tragic Opera, whence the old writers have framed a glorious style

of their own, of which modern composers have no idea--not even

excepting Spontini, with all his wealth and exuberance of fancy. The

glorious Gluck, who stands apart by himself, a hero, I need say nothing

about; but as an instance how the grand tragic style has influenced far

inferior talents, think of the chorus of the Priests of Night in

Piccini's "Dido."'

"_Ferdinand_. 'This is just as it used to be in the golden old days

when we were together. As you talk in that inspired sort of way of your

Art, you raise me up to the level of ideas which otherwise I never

should have dreamt of; and, I assure you, at this moment I consider

that I really know a good deal about music. In fact, I think no

passable line of poetry would occur to me without its appropriate

clothing of music.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Is not this the true inspiration of the poet of opera? I

maintain that he should "think" the music belonging to his lines just

as much>as the composer does; and that the only thing which

differentiates the one from the other is the distinct recognition of

particular melodies, and of particular qualities and peculiarities of

the Bounds of instruments which are co-operating and involved in the

effects; in fact, the easy, habitual command over the "Inner Kingdom"

of Music. But I have still to tell you my ideas about _Opera Buffa_.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'You will scarcely have a good word to say for that,

particularly if it is in modern costume.'

"_Ludwig_. 'On the contrary, I consider that it is just when it is in

the costume of the day that not only is it at its best, but that it is

the only genuine form of _opera buffa_ in the sense in which the

mobile, mercurial, excitable Italians have understood it and written

it. In this case it is the Fantastic element which is _paramount_,

proceeding partly from the quips of individual characters, partly from

the _bizarre_ play of chance. The Fantastic element comes pop into our

everyday lives, and turns everything topsy-turvy. One ought to have to

say, "Yes; that really _is_ Brown (or Jones, or Robinson) in that

snuff-coloured Sunday coat of his with the brass buttons, which we all

know so well. And what in the name of fortune 's the fellow going on

like _that_ for?" Picture to yourself some respectable family--uncles,

aunts, and so forth--and a little languishing daughter; throw in two or

three students, be-singing their cousin's eyes and playing the guitar

under the windows. Let the tricksy sprite Puck pop suddenly into the

middle of them! The result you may imagine. All the fat's in the fire;

everything is at sixes and sevens; everybody goes darting in every

direction, gesticulating and grimacing, skipping and posturing, as if a

whole hive of bees were let loose in their bonnets. Some strange planet

rules the ascendant; the nets of haphazard are set, and will catch the

most respectable folk if their noses happen to be just the least bit

longer than the average. I consider that the very essence of _opera

buffa_ lies in this incursion of the Fanciful-Fantastic, the

preposterous and absurd, into actual, everyday life, and the

incongruities that result. And it is just the power of catching hold of

this fanciful-fantastic element--which generally lies rather far off

and out of the way--and bringing it, with vividness, into everyday

life, which makes the acting of Italian buffo actors so inimitable.

They catch the indications given by the author, and their acting

clothes the skeleton which he has sketched with flesh and colour.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I think I follow you quite. What you mean is, that in

the _opera buffa_ the Fantastic element takes the place of the Romantic

(which, in general terms, you consider an essential principle of

opera), and the art of the poet has to consist in this--that the

characters must appear, not only with much finish, and standing out in

_alto-relievo_, as well as being poetically true, but so clearly drawn

as well from everyday life, and so full of individual character, that

the spectator at once says, "Look there! that's my next-door neighbour,

whom I say 'How are you?' to every day. And that's the student who goes

to his lectures every morning, and sighs so tremendously as he passes

his cousin's window," etc., etc. And then all these people are to be

subjected to the spell of some Puck, in such fashion that what they set

to work to do under that influence, and all that happens to them, are

to affect us as if we were there on the spot, sharing their experiences

with them, under the influence of the same spell.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly. And I scarcely need say that, according to my

principle, music adapts itself well to _opera buffa_, and that in so

adapting itself there results a certain special style which makes a

special impression of its own on the hearer.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Do you think music can express all the shades of the

Comic?'

"_Ludwig_. 'I am quite sure it can; clever artists have proved it

scores of times. For instance, music can express the most delicate and

delightful Irony. That is the predominating element in Mozart's

glorious "Cosi fan tutte."'

"_Ferdinand_. That, by the way, leads me to the remark that, according

to your principle, the so-much disparaged text of that work is really

highly suitable for an opera.'

"_Ludwig_. 'That is exactly what I was thinking of when I said, a

little while ago, that for his classic operas Mozart always chose

really suitable texts, for "Le Nozze di Figaro" is more a Comedy in

Music than a true Opera. The nefarious attempt to turn pathetic dramas

into operas can never come to anything; our "Orphan Hospitals,"

"Oculists," and so forth, are sure to be soon forgotten. And what could

have been more miserable and opposed to the true spirit of opera than

all that series of _vaudeilles_ of Dittersdorf's? But on the other hand

I call such works as "The Sunday-Child" and "The Sisters of Prague"

admirable. One might style them true German _opere buffe_.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'They have always amused me greatly, at all events, when

decently given; and I have always thought of what Tieck makes his

"poet" say to the public in his "Puss in Boots": "If you want to enjoy

this thoroughly, you must divest yourself of whatever you may have

attained in the shape of cultivation and learning, and become wholly as

little children, so as to enjoy it as such."'

"_Ludwig_. 'Unfortunately those words, like many others of the kind,

fell upon stony ground, and could take no root. But the _vox populi_,

which is generally the _vox Dei_ in theatrical matters, has drowned the

few isolated sighs and groans which super-delicate and sensitive people

have given vent to over the sad untruthfulness and tastelessness of

those works--"trifling," according to their ideas. And there are

instances on record of some of those very people who, in the height of

their calm, contemptuous, aristocratic impassibility and supercilious

scorn of the whole thing, have been so carried away by the infection of

the roars of laughter of the "baser" folk about them that they have

burst out laughing in the most deplorable way themselves, declaring

that they had no idea what they were laughing at.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Wouldn't Tieck, if he had chosen, have written splendid

opera plots, according to your definition of them?'

"_Ludwig_. 'No doubt, being a true romantic poet; and I remember I did

once think of writing music to a plot of his. But though the subject

was well adapted for music, the work was too diffuse and lengthy; not

concentrated enough. It was called "The Monster of the Enchanted

Forest," if I remember rightly.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'That reminds me of another difficulty which we meet with

in writing for you composers: I mean the extraordinary brevity and

conciseness which you insist upon. All our efforts to portray this or

that situation or burst of passion in properly descriptive language are

so much wasted labour. You will have the whole affair comprised in a

line or two; and even these few lines you twist about and turn

upside-down just as you take it in your heads.'

"_Ludwig_. 'I think the writer of the words of an opera ought to be

something like a scene painter, and paint his picture correctly as

regards the drawing, but in broad, powerful lines; then the music will

be what will make it appear in proper light and shade, and in correct

perspective, so that it shall have a proper effect of life, and what

seemed only meaningless dashes of colour prove to be forms instinct

with meaning, standing out prominently in relief.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'So that what we have to do is to give you a sketch

merely, not a finished poem?'

"_Ludwig_. 'No, no; that is not what I mean at all! It is scarcely

necessary to say that the poet of opera must observe, as regards the

arrangement, the disposition, of the whole, all the rules essential to

dramatic composition; but what he has to take special care for is to so

order his scenes that the subject-matter may unfold itself, clearly and

intelligibly, to the _eyes_ of the spectator: who ought to be able to

understand what is going on from what he sees taking place, almost

without catching any of the words. No dramatic poem so absolutely

demands this sort of distinctness as the opera-text, for not only is it

more difficult to distinguish words when they are sung, (however

distinctly,) than when they are spoken, but the music tends to carry

the audience into distant regions, and it is necessary that the

attention should be kept directed to the particular point whore the

action is concentrated, _pro tempore_. Then as regards the words, the

composer likes them best when they express the passion, or situation,

to which they refer, _vigorously_ and _concisely_. There is no occasion

for flowery diction, and, above all, there should be no imagery, no

similes.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Then how about Metastasio, with his exuberance of

similes?'

"_Ludwig_. 'Yes; he had the strange idea that the composer,

particularly in arias, must always have his imagination stirred up by

some poetical comparison. Hence his oft-repeated openings such as "Come

una Tortorella," etc., or "Come Spume in Tempesta," etc.: and in fact,

the cooing of doves and the roar of the sea have often made their

appearance--in the accompaniment, at all events.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'But, while we avoid flowery language, are we to be

allowed any sort of elaboration of interesting situations? For

instance: the young hero sets off to the battle, and bids adieu to

his aged father, the old king, whose country is trembling in the

grasp of a victorious usurper. Or some terrible fate severs a youth

from his beloved. Are neither of them to say anything but just

"fare-thee-well"?'

"_Ludwig_. 'The hero may add a few words about his courage and the

justice of his cause, and the lover may tell his sweetheart that life

will be nothing but a long, painful dream without her. Still, the

simple "fare-thee-well" will be amply sufficient for the Composer--(who

draws his inspiration, not from the words, but from the business and

the situations)--to represent the mental condition of the hero and the

lover with powerful strokes and touches. To stick to the instance you

have adduced; just think in what thousands of most affecting and

heart-breaking ways the Italians have sung the little word "_addio_."

What thousands--ay, and thousands of thousands--of shades musical

expression is capable of! And of course it is just that that is the

marvellous mystery of the Tone-Art that, just where language comes to

an end, _she_ is only beginning to disclose a perennial fountain of fresh

forms of expression.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Then what the opera-poet has to do is--to strive to

attain the utmost simplicity, as far as the words are concerned; it

will be enough to _suggest_ the situation, in clear and forcible

language.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly: because the composer has to draw his inspiration

from the matter, the business and the situation--not from the words.

And not only is imagery to be avoided, but everything in the shape of a

reflection is a bugbear to the composer.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'After what you have said, I can assure you it seems to

be anything but an easy matter to write an opera text. Now, this

indispensable simpleness of the language; I can't say that I quite see

how to----'

"_Ludwig_. 'How to accomplish it! No! You are so fond of painting with

words, and so accustomed to it. But though Metastasio (as I think) has

exemplified in his librettos how opera texts ought _not_ to be written,

there are quantities of Italian poems which are absolute models of

words for music. For instance take the lines, known to the whole world,

no doubt:

"Almen si non poss' io

Seguir l'amato bene,

Affetti del cor mio

Seguite-lo per me!"

What can be simpler? Yet, in these few, unpretending words lies the

suggestion, or indication, of love and sorrow which the composer

comprehends, and can apply all the resources of musical expression to

represent. The particular situation in which the words are to be sung

will so stir his imagination that he will give the music the most

individual character. And this is why you will often find that a

poetical composer sets words that are wretched enough to admirable

music. In such cases what inspired him was that the matter was

genuinely suitable for opera; and as an instance I merely mention

Mozart's "Zauberfloete."'

"Ferdinand was going to reply, when, outside the windows, down in the

street, the drums were heard beating the _generale_. This seemed to

wake him to the sense of present duty as with an electric shock. Ludwig

shook him warmly by the hand.

"'Ah, Ferdinand,' he cried, 'what is to become of Art in these terrible

times? Won't it die, like some delicate plant lifting its languid head

towards the clouds beyond which the sun has disappeared? Ah! Where are

the golden days when we were lads? All that is good is drowned and

swept away by this torrent that whirls along, devastating the country.

We see bleeding corpses, appearing by glimpses, carried along in its

dark billows; and in the horror which seizes us, we slip and lose our

footing, we have nothing to hold on to; our cry of terror dies away in

the darksome air--victims of inappeasable anger, we sink to earth, and

there is no hope of salvation.' Ludwig paused, sunk in his thoughts.

"Ferdinand stood up, and put on his sword and helmet. He stood before

Ludwig like the God of War armed for the fray. Ludwig looked up at him

admiringly, and a glow came over Ferdinand's face, and he said, in a

calm and reassuring tone:

"'Ludwig, what has happened to you? Has the dungeon air which you have

been breathing here so long debilitated you, so that you are too sick

and faint to feel the warm reviving breath of spring which is blowing,

sweet and gentle, up there among the clouds as they glow with the rose

tints of dawn? The children of Nature were abbrutized and sunk in

sluggish inaction, careless of all her most precious gifts, and

treading them into the mire. Then their angry mother awoke the Genius

of War, who had long been sleeping in gardens heavy with the breath of

flowers--and War came, like some Giant of Adamant, amongst these spoilt

children, who, at the sound of his awful voice, which makes the hills

tremble, fled to their mother's arms for refuge, though they had

forgotten her before. But with remembrance came gratitude. Nothing but

strength brings success. The divine element radiates out from contest

and striving as life does from death. Yes, Ludwig, a time is upon us

which is pregnant with fate, and (as in the awful profundity of the

ancient Sagas, which come rolling over to us like the mysterious

muttering of distant thunder) we can trace, once more, distinctly, the

voice of that Power which rules for Ever more. Nay, marching visibly

into our lives, it awakes in us a faith which enables us to read the

riddle of our Being. The morning light is breaking, and inspired

Singers are soaring up in the sweet fresh morning air, proclaiming the

advent of the Divine, and celebrating it with hymns of praise. The

golden gates are open, and art and knowledge, in one united ray,

are kindling that flame of sacred effort which makes all humanity

one universal Church. Therefore lift up your eyes, dear friend.

Courage--Confidence--Faith.'

"Ferdinand clasped Ludwig's hand; and in a few moments his charger was

bearing him rapidly along with the troops moving on to the attack, the

light and joy of battle on every brow."

The friends were much affected by this; for each of them remembered

days when the clutch of a hostile destiny was at his throat and all

comfort or enjoyment in life seemed to be a thing of the past for ever.

And then, after a time, the first rays of the beautiful Star of Hope

began to pierce the clouds and rose higher and higher, reviving them,

strengthening and invigorating them with newness of life. Then, in the

gladsomeness of contest, everything stirred, and came into activity,

shouting for joy. At last the grandest and most brilliant of victories

rewarded their courage and constancy.

"Each of us," said Lothair, "has said, within himself, very much what

the Serapiontic Ferdinand said; and well is it for us that the menacing

storms which thundered over our heads refreshed us, instead of

annihilating us, and braced us like a fine sulphur bath. In fact, it

seems to me that it is only now, and here among you, that I begin to

feel quite strong and well, and to trace a fresh impulse to begin, now

that the storms are over, to bestir myself again in the paths of

literature and science. I know that Theodore is doing so right

strenuously; he is devoting himself, as of old, to his music, although

he is not neglecting literature neither, so that I am expecting him to

astonish us, one of these days, with an opera altogether his own, both

music and words. All that he has said about the impossibility of the

same person writing the words and the music of an opera may be

plausible enough, but it doesn't convince me."

"I don't agree with you," said Cyprian, "but I don't see much use in

continuing the discussion. It seems all the more a waste of time that

if the thing were possible, which Theodore says it is not, he would be

the first to set about doing it. It would be far better if he would

open his piano and, as he has favoured us with so many interesting

Stories, let us hear some of his Compositions."

"Cyprian," said Theodore, "is always accusing me of sticking too

closely to established forms, and rejecting any poetry which cannot be

fitted to some of them. This I do not admit, and I mean to prove what I

say by producing some music of mine to words which require a setting

differing from any of the hackneyed 'forms' in question. I mean

the Night Hymn in Mueller the painter's 'Genofeva.' All the sweet

sadness,--the pain, longing, and sense of the supernatural,--of a heart

torn by hopeless love are in the words of this beautiful poem. Moreover,

as the verses have a certain touching flavour of the Antique, I have

thought it better that the composition should be without any instrumental

accompaniment, but for voices alone, in the style of old Alessandro

Scarlatti, or the more modern Benedetto Marcello. I have done all the

music for it in my head, but only the beginning of it has been written

down as yet. If you haven't quite forgotten all about singing, and,

especially, if you still feel the benefit of our old practice at

'reading invisible music,' and can strike your notes correctly as of

old, I should like that we sing what I have composed for thebe words."

"Ah yes!" said Ottmar, "I remember about the 'reading invisible music.'

You used to put your fingers on the notes of the chords without

pressing them down, and each of us sang the notes of his part without

previously hearing them on the instrument. People who didn't notice the

process of indicating the notes couldn't imagine how we 'improvised'

part-music so cleverly; and for those who possess the talent of being

easily astonished, it really is a good and interesting musical trick.

For my part, I still sing that mediocre, grumbling old baritone of

mine, and have as little forgotten how to hit my note as Lothair, who

can still, with his fine _basso_, lay firm foundations on which tenors

like you and Cyprian can build skywards with security."

"For Cyprian's beautiful, delicate, tender tenor," said Theodore, "this

thing of mine is exactly suitable. Therefore I shall give him the first

tenor part, and take the second myself. Ottmar, who was always very

accurate in striking his note, shall take the first bass, and Lothair

the second. Only, for Heaven's sake, don't thunder, but keep the whole

thing soft and _sostenuto_, as the character of the composition

requires."

Theodore struck two or three introductory chords on the piano, and then

the voices began, with long, sustained notes, in the key of A flat

major:

"Beauteous Lover's Star,

That gleamest far and far,

In pale blue vault of Heaven!

To thee, this night, our hearts make prayer;

Oh! aid us in our fond despair!

To Love--to Love alone our souls are given."

The two Tenors now went on, in duet; key of F minor:

"Oh! calm and holy night!

Those glowing worlds of light--

Heaven's eyes--begin to tread their mystic measure.

Soar high, like sweet bells far-off chime,

Night Hymn of Love, in silv'ry rhyme--

Beat at Heaven's gate, in rhythmic, pulsant measure."

At the words "soar high," etc., the music had gone into the key of D

flat major, and now Lothair and Ottmar came in, in B flat minor:

"Oh! saintly souls above,

That burn in holy love,

With heart and tongue all pure from earthly tainting,

Drop down some balm on this poor heart,

Which fails, and droops, in bitter smart,

Contending here--in conflict well-nigh fainting."

Then, finally, the four voices ended in F major:

"Knock, knock, and soon the angel's voice will say,

'The gates are open! enter in for aye!'"

All of them--Lothair, Ottmar, and Cyprian--felt much affected by

Theodore's lovely music, which was in the simple, serious style of the

early masters. The tears came to their eyes. They embraced the clever

composer; they pressed him to their hearts. The clocks tolled midnight.

"Blessed be our reunion!" cried Lothair. "Oh! glorious Serapion

Brotherhood, which binds us with an eternal chain! May it ever keep

green and flourish! As we have done to-night, we will continue to

refresh and vivify our minds in the paths of literature and art; and

our next care will be to assemble again here at our Theodore's, at the

same time in the evening, this day week."

SECTION II.

Seven o'clock struck. Theodore was expecting his friends impatiently.

At last Ottmar came in.

"Leander has just been with me," he said; "that was what detained me. I

told him how sorry I was that I was called away by a pressing

engagement. He insisted on walking with me as far as the place I was

going to, but I slipped away from him in the dark--not without some

difficulty. I know he knew quite well I was coming here, and wanted to

come too."

"And you haven't brought him?" said Theodore. "He would have been most

welcome."

"No, no," said Ottmar, "that would never have answered at all. In the

first place, I don't consider that I have any right to bring in a

stranger--or, if Leander is not exactly a stranger, any fifth person

whatever--without the unanimous consent of the Serapion Brethren.

Besides, rather an unfortunate thing happened with regard to Leander,

through Lothair's fault. Lothair told him about our delightful Serapion

Brotherhood, in his usual enthusiastic style. He talked hyperbolically

of the admirable tendency of the Serapiontic principle, and asseverated

nothing less than that we meant--keeping that principle constantly in

view--to incite each other to undertake all sorts of interesting and

important work. On that, Leander said that an opportunity of

associating himself in this way with literary people was what it had

long been his most ardent desire to meet with, and that he hoped, if we

would admit him to our order, to prove himself a highly meritorious

brother of it. He added that he had a great many things _in petto_, and

as he said so, he made an involuntary movement of his hand towards one

of his coat pockets. It was stuffed to fatness; and, to my alarm, I saw

that the other pocket was so too; they were both distended with

manuscripts, and papers of an alarming aspect were sticking out of his

breast pocket as well."

Here Ottmar was interrupted by the somewhat boisterous entry of

Lothair, who was followed by Cyprian.

"A certain little storm cloud," said Theodore, "has been forming,

rather threateningly, in the atmosphere of this Serapion Brotherhood of

ours. However, Ottmar has managed to dispel it cleverly. Leander wanted

to come bothering us, and stuck to poor Ottmar like grim death, till he

managed to give him the slip in the dark."

"Why didn't he bring him?" asked Lothair. "He's a witty, clever,

intelligent fellow: I can't think of a more eligible member of our

society."

"How exactly like you that is," said Ottmar: "you are always the same

old Lothair; always changing your mind; always a member of the

opposition. If I had brought him, you would have been the very first to

find fault with me most bitterly. You say Leander is intelligent,

clever, and witty. Very well; so he is--all that and more. Everything

he writes has a roundness and a finish which evinces soundness of

criticism and clearness of judgment; but, in the first place, I don't

believe there is a man on this earth who is so absolutely devoid of any

trace of the Serapiontic principle. Everything he writes he has most

maturely thought out, weighed, and considered in all its aspects, but

never really _seen_. His reasoning faculty does not control his

imagination; it puts itself in its place. Then he delights in a wordy

prolixity which is unendurable to the hearer, if not to the reader;

works of his which one must admit to possess plenty of talent and

interest, are tedious beyond expression when he reads them aloud."

"There is a curious question there, connected with reading aloud; I

mean as to things _adapted_ for reading aloud," said Cyprian; "it seems

as if not only the most vivid life were essential to them, but that

they should be restricted to a certain definite length."

"The reason, I think," said Theodore, "is that the reader must not

declaim; experience tells us that _that_ is unendurable; he ought

merely to slightly indicate the various feelings that arise in the

course of the action, preserving a quiet tone; and this tone, after a

time, produces an irresistibly narcotic effect."

"What I think," said Ottmar, "is, that a story or poem, to be adapted

for reading aloud, ought to approach very closely to the dramatic, or

be dramatic altogether; but then again, why is it that most comedies

and tragedies are unsatisfactory when read aloud?--that is, become

boring and wearisome?"

"Just because they are quite _un_dramatic, said Lothair; "or because

too much has been left for the effect of the action of the actors on

the stage; or because the poem is so weak and feeble in itself that it

does not call up before the listener's mind any picture in clear,

distinct colours, and with living figures, except with the help of the

actors and the stage. However, we are losing sight of Leander, as to

whom I maintain, notwithstanding what Ottmar says to the contrary, that

he well deserves to be admitted to our circle."

"Well and good," said Ottmar, "but please to remember what your own

experience has been of him already; how he once dogged and pursued you

wherever you went, with a fat--fat dramatic poem; how you always

managed to give him the slip, till he asked you and me to a splendid

dinner, with grand cuisine and first-rate wines, so that we might

swallow the poem, thus washed down, like a dose of medicine; how I

endured two acts of it like a man, and was screwing up my courage for a

third, when you lost patience, and got up, declaring that you were

suddenly taken very unwell, and left poor Leander in the lurch, wines,

dinner, and all. Recollect how he came to your house once when you had

several people with you; how he now and then rustled papers in his

pockets, looking from one to the other with sly, crafty glances, in

hopes that somebody would say, 'You've brought something good, haven't

you, dear Leander?' How you privately implored us all, for God's sake,

to take no notice whatever of this menacing rustling, but to hold our

tongues. Remember how you used to liken old Leander--with a tragedy

always in his breast pocket, always armed and eager for the fray--to

Meros creeping to slay the tyrant, with a dagger in his breast; how

once, when you were obliged to ask him to dinner, he came with a great

fat manuscript in his hand, so that our hearts sunk within us; how he

then announced, with the sweetest smiles, that he could only stay for

an hour or so, because he had promised to go to Madame So-and-so's to

tea, and to read her his last epic poem in twelve cantos; how we then

breathed freely again, like men relieved from a terrible burden;

and when he went away all cried, with one voice, 'Oh, poor Madame

So-and-so!--what an unfortunate woman!'"

"Stop, stop, Ottmar," said Lothair; "what you say is all true enough,

of course, but nothing of that sort could take place amongst Serapion

Brethren. We form a strongly organized opposition to everything that is

not in harmony with our fundamental principle, and I would give odds

that Leander conforms to our rule."

"Don't imagine anything of the kind, dear Lothair," said Ottmar.

"Leander has a fault which many conceited writers have in common with

him--he won't listen; and, just for that reason, he always wants to be

the person who reads or speaks. He would always be trying to occupy the

whole of our evenings with his own interminable compositions; he would

take our efforts to obviate this in the worst possible part, and,

consequently, mar the whole of our enjoyment: he even spoke to-day of

works to be undertaken in common; and with that idea in his head he

would torture us terribly."

"That is a sort of thing which never answers," said Cyprian. "It

doesn't seem practicable for several people to write a work together;

it would require such absolute similarity of mental disposition, such

depth of insight, and such identity of the power to grasp ideas as they

suggest and succeed one another, even if a plot were fully determined

on in concert. I say this from experience, although of course there are

some instances to the contrary."

"At the same time," said Cyprian, "sympathetically-minded friends often

give each other valuable hints and suggestions, which lead to the

production of works."

"For a suggestion of that sort," said Ottmar, "I have to thank our

friend Severin, who, when he comes back here, as I expect him to do

immediately, will make a much better Serapion Brother than Leander. I

was sitting with him in the Thiergarten, Berlin, when there happened,

before our eyes, the incident which suggested the story called 'A

Fragment of the Lives of Three Friends,' which I wrote, and have

brought with me to read to you to-night; for when (as you shall

presently hear) the pretty girl read the letter, which had been

privately handed to her, with tears in her eyes, Severin cast pregnant

glances at me, and whispered, 'There's something for you, Ottmar; let

your fancy move its wings; write at once all about the girl, the

letter, and her tears.' I did so, and here you have the result."

The friends sat down at the round table; Ottmar took a manuscript from

his pocket, and read--

'A FRAGMENT OF THE LIVES OF THREE FRIENDS.

"One Whit Monday the 'Webersche Zelt,' a place of public resort in the

Thiergarten, Berlin, was so densely crowded by people of every sort and

kind that it was only by dint of unremitting and assiduous shouting,

and the most dogged perseverance of pursuit, that Alexander succeeded

in capturing a much-vexed and greatly-badgered waiter, and inducing him

to set out a small table under the trees beside the water, where he,

with his friends Severin and Marzell (who had managed, by the exercise

of fine strategical talent, to possess themselves of a couple of

chairs), sat down in the happiest possible frame of mind. It was only a

few days since they had come back to Berlin. Alexander had arrived from

a distant province to take possession of the heritage of an aunt

deceased, and the two others had come back to resume the duties of

their Government appointments, from which they had been absent for a

considerable time on military duty, during the important campaign which

was just at an end. This was the day when they had arranged to

celebrate their reunion in famous style, and, as it often happens, it

was the Present, with its doings and strivings, more than the eventful

Past, that was occupying their minds.

"'I can assure you,' said Alexander, taking up the steaming coffee-pot

and filling the cups, 'that if you saw me in my aunt's old house--how I

wander pathetically up and down the lofty chambers hung with gloomy

tapestry; how Mistress Anne, my aunt's former housekeeper, a little

spectral-looking creature, comes in wheezing and coughing, carrying the

pewter salver with my breakfast in her trembling arms, putting it down

on the table with a curious backward-sliding curtsey, and then making

her exit without a word, sighing, and scuffling along on slippers too

large for her feet, like the beggar wife of Locarno, while the tom-cat

and the pug, eying me with dubious glances, go out after her; how I

then, with a low-spirited parrot scolding at me, and china mandarins

nodding at me with scornful smiles, swallow cup after cup of the

coffee, scarcely daring to desecrate this virginal chamber, where amber

and mastic have been wont to shed their perfumes, with vulgar tobacco

reek,--I say, if you were to see me in these circumstances, you would

say I was under some spell of enchantment; you would regard me as a

species of Merlin. I can assure you that the easy adaptability to

circumstances which you have so often blamed me for was the sole cause

of my having at once taken up my quarters in my aunt's lonely house,

instead of looking out for some other lodging; for the pedantic

scrupulosity of her executor has rendered it an exceedingly uncanny

place to be in. That strange creature of an aunt of mine (whom I

scarcely ever saw) left directions in her will that everything was to

remain till my arrival exactly as she left it at her death. By the side

of the bed, which is resplendent in snow-white linen and sea-green

silk, still stands the little tabouret, on which, as of yore, is laid

out the maidenly night-dress and the much be-ribboned nightcap; under

it are the embroidered slippers,--and a brightly polished silver

mermaid (the handle of some piece of toilet apparatus or other)

glitters as it projects from beneath the quilt, which is all over

many-tinted flowers. The unfinished piece of embroidery, which she

was working at shortly before her death, is still lying in the

sitting-room, with Arndt's 'True Christianity' open beside it; and

(what for me, at all events, fills up the measure of eeriness) in this

same room there is a life-size portrait of her, taken some thirty-five

or forty years ago, in her wedding-dress; in which wedding-dress, as

Mistress Anne tells me with many tears, just as it is shown in the picture,

she was buried.'

"'What a strange idea!' said Marzell.

"'Yet not so very odd, after all,' said Severin; 'those who die maids

are called the brides of Christ, and I trust nobody would be reprobate

enough to make fun of this pretty old fancy, which well beseems an old

maiden's creed. At the same time I don't quite gather why the aunt had

her portrait taken as a bride forty years ago.'

"'As the tale was told to me,' said Alexander, 'my aunt was engaged to

be married at one time--indeed the wedding-day had arrived, and she was

dressed and waiting for the bridegroom; but he never made his

appearance, having thought proper to leave the place that morning with

a "flame" of his of earlier date. My aunt took this deeply to heart,

and, without being exactly queer in the head, always kept the

anniversary of that marriage-day of hers, that was to have been,

in a curious way. Early in the morning of it she used to put on her

wedding-dress complete, and (as she had done on the day itself) lay out

a little table of walnut-wood with gilt carvings in her dressing-room,

with chocolate, wine, and cake for two people, and then walk slowly up

and down, sighing and softly lamenting, till ten at night, when, after

she had prayed fervently, Mistress Anne would undress her, and she

would go silently to bed, sunk in deep reflection.'

"'I call that exceedingly touching,' said Marzell. 'Woe to the traitor

who caused the poor creature that never-forgotten pain!'

"'But there may be another side to the question,' said Alexander: 'the

man whom you accuse of perfidy--and who was a traitor, no doubt,

whatever may have been his motives--may have had a warning from his

good genius; or, if you prefer to say so, a better feeling may have

come to him. Perhaps it was her money that was the attraction; he may

have found out that she was imperious, quarrelsome, miserly--in short,

a disagreeable person to have much to do with.'

"'Perhaps,' said Severin, laying his pipe on the table, and looking

reflectively before him with his arms crossed; 'but could those silent,

affecting funereal observances--those resigned regrets, heard only

in her own heart, for the unfaithful scoundrel--have existed in any

but a deep and tender nature, which must have been a stranger to the

worldly infirmities which you accuse your aunt of? No doubt the bitter

feeling--(how seldom can we altogether master it, hard beset as we are

in this life of ours?)--may sometimes have manifested itself in her in

various forms, not always very easily recognizable, and having a more or

less unpleasant effect upon the old lady's surroundings; still, that

yearly day of pious sorrow would have atoned, in my eyes, at all events,

for any amount of shortcomings during the rest of the time.'

"'I agree with you, Severin,' said Marzell. 'The old lady can't have

been quite so bad as Alexander--though only from hearsay--makes her out

to have been; at the same time I must confess I don't like to have

anything to do with folks who have had their lives embittered, and it's

better that Alexander should edify himself with the story of the old

lady's way of keeping her wedding-day (that ought to have been), and

rummage in the well-filled boxes and chests she has left him, or gloat

over the valuable "inventory," than that he should see the deserted

bride, dressed for the altar, walking up and down beside her

chocolate-table.'

"Alexander set the coffee-cup which he was raising to his lips down

untasted on the table with a clatter; beat his hands together, and

cried, 'For Heaven's sake don't put ideas of that sort into my head!

Really I feel in that state that it wouldn't astonish me if I were to

see my old aunt in her bride-clothes suddenly peering, in a horrible,

spectral manner, out of the middle of that group of nice-looking girls

there, in the bright sunshine!'

"'That serves you right for having said what you did about your aunt,

who never did you anything but kindness, even in death,' said Severin,

with a quiet laugh, puffing away little blue cloudlets from his pipe,

which he had resumed.

"Do you know, my dear fellows,' said Alexander, 'that the very

atmosphere of that old house of mine seems to be so thoroughly

impregnated with the essence and spirit of the old lady, that one has

only to be in it for a day or two to find one's self imbibing it to a

very appreciable extent?'

"Marzell and Severin chanced to be handing their empty cups to

Alexander as he spoke; he put in the sugar and milk, and poured out the

coffee with a dainty, deliberate care, and said:

"'I daresay you notice how differently I do a thing of this sort from

my old way of doing it; I mean, I do it much more like an old lady; and

you will be more astonished still when I tell you that I find myself

taking a strange pleasure in well-polished pewter and copper, and in

linen and silver plate--in everything relating to a well-ordered

household. In one word, I feel like some old housekeeper. I find myself

looking with a funny satisfaction at household paraphernalia of every

sort, and it has suddenly dawned upon me that it is good to be the

possessor of something besides a bed, a chair, a table, a lamp and an

inkstand. My aunt's executor smiles and tells me I can marry whenever I

choose, and have nothing to do but fix upon the bride and the parson.

What he really means is that the bride's not far to seek. He has a

little bit of a daughter himself; a dressy little thing with great big

eyes, excessively childish and innocent in her ways, always gushing

with artlessness, and hopping about like a water-wagtail. I daresay

this may have been all very well, considering her little elfin

figure, some sixteen years ago or so; but now that she's two- or

three-and-thirty, it gives one rather a queer sensation.'

"'Ay,' said Severin, 'and yet how very natural that kind of

self-mystification is. Where is the precise point where a girl, who

has taken up some particular line, in consequence of some personal

peculiarity or other, is to say to herself, "I am no longer what I was;

the colours I put on are still fresh and youthful, but my face has lost

its bloom; so, patience! what can't be cured must be endured!" The

sight of a poor girl in these circumstances fills me with pity, and,

for that very reason, I could put my arms about her, take her to my

heart, and comfort her.'

"'You see, Alexander,' said Marzell, 'that Severin's in his most

beneficent mood to-day. First, he takes up the cudgels for your aunt,

and now the executor's daughter (I think I know who the executor

is--Falter, the Kriegsrath); Falter's little witch of two- or

three-and-thirty, whom I know very well, inspires him with sentiments

of sad, compassionate sympathy; presently he'll advise you to marry her,

and cure her of that inappropriate _naivete_ of hers; for that she will

lay aside, as far as you are concerned at all events, the moment she says

"Yes!" Don't you do anything of the kind. Experience teaches that naive

little creatures of that kind are sometimes--or rather very often--of

feline nature, and, out of the velvet paws which they stroke you with

before the parson's blessing, can soon stick out sharp enough claws, on

suitable opportunity afterwards.'

"'Heavens and earth!' cried Alexander, 'what nonsense you're talking!

Neither Falter's little witch of thirty-two, nor anybody else, were she

ten times as young and charming, could induce me to go and sacrifice,

of my own free will and accord, the golden years of youthful liberty

and freedom which, now that a slice of the good things of this world

has fallen to my share, I mean to set to work to thoroughly enjoy; and

the fact is that the old bridely aunt has such a ghostly, haunting

effect upon me, that I can't help associating all sorts of eery,

uncanny, shuddery feelings with the very word "bride."'

"I'm sorry for you,' said Marzell; 'for my part, the moment I think of

a girl dressed for her wedding, I feel sweet, secret thrills going all

through me; and if I see such a creature, I feel impelled to clasp her

to me, mentally, with a lofty, pure affection which has nothing in

common with mundane passion.'

"'Oh!' said Alexander, 'I know you always fall in love with every bride

you come across; and often even other people's sweethearts are to be

found set up in that inner sanctuary which you have established in your

imagination.'

"'He loves with them that love,' said Severin; 'that's why I like him

so much.'

"I shall set my aunt at him,' said Alexander, laughing, 'and see if

that will rid me of a species of haunting which is becoming rather a

nuisance to me. You are looking at me with questioning glances, are

you?--very well then; I'll make a clean breast of it. The old-maid

nature is traceable in me in this further respect, that I feel a

perfectly unendurable terror of ghosts, and go on like some little

child whom its nurse has frightened with a bogy. What happens is no

less than this: that often in broad daylight, and particularly about

mid-day, when I'm looking into the chests and boxes, I suddenly seem to

catch a glimpse of my aunt's peaky nose close beside me, and of her

long, lean fingers poking in among the clothes and linen, and rummaging

among them. If I take down a teacup, or a saucepan off the wall, to

look at them with a feeling of satisfaction, all the rest rattle, and I

expect to see a ghostly hand offering me another; then I throw the

things down, and run to the front-room without looking over my

shoulder. There I sing or whistle out of the open window into the

street, at which Mistress Anne is greatly scandalized: and that the

aunt "walks" every night at twelve o'clock is a positive and undoubted

fact.'

"Marzell laughed heartily at this. Severin remained grave, and said,

'Let us hear all about that; it'll probably turn out to be some trick

or other. Fancy a fellow with your enlightened, advanced views, turning

spirit-seer!'

"'Well, Severin,' said Alexander, 'you know quite well, and so does

Marzell, that nobody could be less of a believer in ghosts and

apparitions than I have always been. Never in my life till now have I

ever met with anything in the least out of the common, and I had never

had the slightest experience of that strange, nervous sense of the

proximity of spiritual principles belonging to another state of being

which paralyzes both body and mind; but let me tell you what happened

the very first night I spent in the house.'

"'Not too loud, then,' said Marzell, 'for I think our neighbours here

are doing us the favour of listening to what we are saying.'

"'They shan't hear,' said Alexander; 'indeed I scarcely like to tell

even you; however, here goes, I may as well out with it. Mistress Anne

received me, dissolved in tears, and went before me with a branched

silver candlestick in her trembling hands to the bedroom, groaning and

coughing as she went. The postboy had to bring in my trunk, and as he

pocketed, with profuse thanks, the tip I gave him, he took a survey of

the room with a grin on his face, till he fixed his eyes on the great

towering bed with the sea-green curtains.

"'"My word!" he cried, "the gentleman'll have a better night of it than

he would have had in the old coach!--and the nightgown and nightcap all

ready and waiting!"

"'Mistress Anne, almost fainting with the shock of this irreverent

mention of the maidenly night-gear, was letting the candlestick fall,

but I caught it in time, and lighted the fellow out. He cast a

facetious look at the old woman as he departed. When I came back she

was all in a tremble; she thought I would tell her to go, and proceed

coolly to desecrate the maidenly couch by sleeping in it, but she

revived when I told her I wasn't accustomed to anything so soft, and

should be obliged if she would make me up a shake-down as well as she

could in the sitting-room. Her wrinkles of annoyance vanished, and her

face lighted up, in a way it never has since, into a most gracious

smile. She dipped her long lean arms down to the ground, fingered up

the down-trodden heels of her slippers, and trotted off, half

frightened and half delighted. As I meant to have a fine long sleep, I

told her not to come with my coffee before nine o'clock; so I left the

old woman for the night almost with Wallenstein's words.