Twenty years before, the Councillor had been led into Italy by his
favorite engrossing passion of hunting up and buying the best violins
of the old masters. At that time he had not yet begun to make them
himself, and so of course he had not begun to take to pieces those
which he bought. In Venice he heard the celebrated singer Angela----i,
who at that time was playing with splendid success as prima donna at
St. Benedict's Theatre. His enthusiasm was awakened, not only in her
art--which Signora Angela had indeed brought to a high pitch of
perfection--but in her angelic beauty as well. He sought her
acquaintance; and in spite of all his rugged manners he succeeded in
winning her heart, principally through his bold and yet at the same
time masterly violin-playing. Close intimacy led in a few weeks to
marriage, which, however, was kept a secret, because Angela was
unwilling to sever her connection with the theatre, neither did she
wish to part with her professional name, that by which she was
celebrated, nor to add to it the cacophonous "Krespel." With the most
extravagant irony he described to me what a strange life of worry and
torture Angela led him as soon as she became his wife. Krespel was of
opinion that more capriciousness and waywardness were concentrated in
Angela's little person than in all the rest of the prima donnas in the
world put together. If he now and again presumed to stand up in his own
defence, she let loose a whole army of abbots, musical composers, and
students upon him, who, ignorant of his true connection with Angela,
soundly rated him as a most intolerable, ungallant lover for not
submitting to all the Signora's caprices. It was just after one of
these stormy scenes that Krespel fled to Angela's country seat to try
and forget in playing fantasias on his Cremona violin the annoyances of
the day. But he had not been there long before the Signora, who had
followed hard after him, stepped into the room. She was in an
affectionate humor; she embraced her husband, overwhelmed him with
sweet and languishing glances, and rested her pretty head on his
shoulder. But Krespel, carried away into the world of music; continued
to play on until the walls echoed again; thus he chanced to touch the
Signora somewhat ungently with his arm and the fiddle-bow. She leapt
back full of fury, shrieking that he was a "German brute," snatched the
violin from his hands, and dashed it on the marble table into a
thousand pieces. Krespel stood like a statue of stone before her; but
then, as if awakening out of a dream, he seized her with the strength
of a giant and threw her out of the window of her own house, and,
without troubling himself about anything more, fled back to Venice--to
Germany. It was not, however, until some time had elapsed that he had a
clear recollection of what he had done; although he knew that the
window was scarcely five feet from the ground, and although he was
fully cognizant of the necessity, under the above-mentioned
circumstances, of throwing the Signora out of the window, he yet felt
troubled by a sense of painful uneasiness, and the more so since she
had imparted to him in no ambiguous terms an interesting secret as to
her condition. He hardly dared to make inquiries; and he was not a
little surprised about eight months afterwards at receiving a tender
letter from his beloved wife, in which she made not the slightest
allusion to what had taken place in her country house, only adding to
the intelligence that she had been safely delivered of a sweet little
daughter the heartfelt prayer that her dear husband and now a happy
father would come at once to Venice. That, however, Krespel did not do;
rather he appealed to a confidential friend for a more circumstantial
account of the details, and learned that the Signora had alighted upon
the soft grass as lightly as a bird, and that the sole consequences of
the fall or shock had been psychic. That is to say, after Krespel's
heroic deed she had become completely altered; she never showed a trace
of caprice, of her former freaks, or of her teasing habits; and the
composer who wrote for the next carnival was the happiest fellow under
the sun, since the Signora was willing to sing his music without the
scores and hundreds of changes which she at other times had insisted
upon. "To be sure," added his friend, "there was every reason for
preserving the secret of Angela's cure, else every day would see lady
singers flying through windows." The Councillor was not a little
excited at this news; he engaged horses; he took his seat in the
carriage. "Stop!" he cried suddenly. "Why, there's not a shadow of
doubt," he murmured to himself, "that as soon as Angela sets eyes upon
me again, the evil spirit will recover his power and once more take
possession of her. And since I have already thrown her out of the
window, what could I do if a similar case were to occur again? What
would there be left for me to do?" He got out of the carriage, and
wrote an affectionate letter to his wife, making graceful allusion to
her tenderness in especially dwelling upon the fact that his tiny
daughter had, like him, a little mole behind the ear, and--remained in
Germany. Now ensued an active correspondence between them. Assurances
of unchanged affection--invitations--laments over the absence of the
beloved one--thwarted wishes--hopes, etc.--flew backwards and forwards
from Venice to H----, from H---- to Venice. At length Angela came to
Germany, and, as is well known, sang with brilliant success as prima
donna at the great theatre in F----. Despite the fact that she was no
longer young, she won all hearts by the irresistible charm of her
wonderfully splendid singing. At that time she had not lost her voice
in the least degree. Meanwhile, Antonia had been growing up; and her
mother never tired of writing to tell her father how that a singer of
the first rank was developing in her. Krespel's friends in F---- also
confirmed this intelligence, and urged him to come for once to F---- to
see and admire this uncommon sight of two such glorious singers. They
had not the slightest suspicion of the close relations in which Krespel
stood to the pair. Willingly would he have seen with his own eyes the
daughter who occupied so large a place in his heart, and who moreover
often appeared to him in his dreams; but as often as he thought upon
his wife he felt very uncomfortable, and so he remained at home amongst
his broken violins. There was a certain promising young composer, B----
of F----, who was found to have suddenly disappeared, nobody knew
where. This young man fell so deeply in love with Antonia that, as she
returned his love, he earnestly besought her mother to consent to an
immediate union, sanctified as it would further be by art. Angela had
nothing to urge against his suit; and the Councillor the more readily
gave his consent that the young composer's productions had found favor
before his rigorous critical judgment. Krespel was expecting to hear of
the consummation of the marriage, when he received instead a
black-sealed envelope addressed in a strange hand. Doctor R----
conveyed to the Councillor the sad intelligence that Angela had fallen
seriously ill in consequence of a cold caught at the theatre, and that
during the night immediately preceding what was to have been Antonia's
wedding-day, she had died. To him, the Doctor, Angela had disclosed the
fact that she was Krespel's wife, and that Antonia was his daughter;
he, Krespel, had better hasten therefore to take charge of the orphan.
Notwithstanding that the Councillor was a good deal upset by this news
of Angela's death, he soon began to feel that an antipathetic,
disturbing influence had departed out of his life, and that now for the
first time he could begin to breathe freely. The very same day he set
out for F----. You could not credit how heartrending was the
Councillor's description of the moment when he first saw Antonia. Even
in the fantastic oddities of his expression there was such a marvellous
power of description that I am unable to give even so much as a faint
indication of it. Antonia inherited all her mother's amiability and all
her mother's charms, but not the repellent reverse of the medal. There
was no chronic moral ulcer, which might break out from time to time.
Antonia's betrothed put in an appearance, whilst Antonia herself,
fathoming with happy instinct the deeper-lying character of her
wonderful father, sang one of old Padre Martini's [Footnote:
Giambattista Martini, more commonly called Padre Martini, of Bologna,
formed an influential school of music there in the latter half of the
eighteenth century. He wrote vocal and instrumental pieces both for the
church and for the theatre. He was also a learned historian of music.
He has the merit of having discerned and encouraged the genius of
Mozart when, a boy of fourteen, he visited Bologna in 1770.] motets,
which, she knew, Krespel in the heyday of his courtship had never grown
tired of hearing her mother sing. The tears ran in streams down
Krespel's cheeks; even Angela he had never heard sing like that.
Antonia's voice was of a very remarkable and altogether peculiar
timbre: at one time it was like the sighing of an Aeolian harp, at
another like the warbled gush of the nightingale. It seemed as if there
was not room for such notes in the human breast. Antonia, blushing with
joy and happiness, sang on and on--all her most beautiful songs, B----
playing between whiles as only enthusiasm that is intoxicated with
delight can play. Krespel was at first transported with rapture, then
he grew thoughtful--still--absorbed in reflection. At length he leapt
to his feet, pressed Antonia to his heart, and begged her in a low
husky voice, "Sing no more if you love me--my heart is bursting--I
fear--I fear--don't sing again."
"No!" remarked the Councillor next day to Doctor R----, "when, as she
sang, her blushes gathered into two dark red spots on her pale cheeks,
I knew it had nothing to do with your nonsensical family likenesses, I
knew it was what I dreaded." The Doctor, whose countenance had shown
signs of deep distress from the very beginning of the conversation,
replied, "Whether it arises from a too early taxing of her powers of
song, or whether the fault is Nature's--enough, Antonia labors under an
organic failure in the chest, while it is from it too that her voice
derives its wonderful power and its singular timbre, which I might
almost say transcend the limits of human capabilities of song. But it
bears the announcement of her early death; for, if she continues to
sing, I wouldn't give her at the most more than six months longer to
live." Krespel's heart was lacerated as if by the stabs of hundreds of
stinging knives. It was as though his life had been for the first time
overshadowed by a beautiful tree full of the most magnificent blossoms,
and now it was to be sawn to pieces at the roots, so that it could not
grow green and blossom any more. His resolution was taken. He told
Antonia all; he put the alternatives before her--whether she would
follow her betrothed and yield to his and the world's seductions, but
with the certainty of dying early, or whether she would spread round
her father in his old days that joy and peace which had hitherto been
unknown to him, and so secure a long life. She threw herself sobbing
into his arms, and he, knowing the heartrending trial that was before
her, did not press for a more explicit declaration, He talked the
matter over with her betrothed; but, notwithstanding that the latter
averred that no note should ever cross Antonia's lips, the Councillor
was only too well aware that even B---- could not resist the temptation
of hearing her sing, at any rate arias of his own composition. And the
world, the musical public, even though acquainted with the nature of
the singer's affliction, would certainly not relinquish its claims to
hear her, for in cases where pleasure is concerned people of this class
are very selfish and cruel. The Councillor disappeared from F---- along
with Antonia, and came to H----. B---- was in despair when he learned
that they had gone. He set out on their track, overtook them, and
arrived at H---- at the same time that they did. "Let me see him only
once, and then die!" entreated Antonia. "Die! die!" cried Krespel, wild
with anger, an icy shudder running through him. His daughter, the only
creature in the wide world who had awakened in him the springs of
unknown joy, who alone had reconciled him to life, tore herself away
from his heart, and he--he suffered the terrible trial to take place.
B---- sat down to the piano; Antonia sang; Krespel fiddled away
merrily, until the two red spots showed themselves on Antonia's cheeks.
Then he bade her stop; and as B---- was taking leave of his betrothed,
she suddenly fell to the floor with a loud scream. "I thought,"
continued Krespel in his narration, "I thought that she was, as I had
anticipated, really dead; but as I had prepared myself for the worst,
my calmness did not leave me, nor my self-command desert me. I grasped
B----, who stood like a silly sheep in his dismay, by the shoulders,
and said (here the Councillor fell into his singing tone), 'Now that
you, my estimable pianoforte-player, have, as you wished and desired,
really murdered your betrothed, you may quietly take your departure; at
least have the goodness to make yourself scarce before I run my bright
hanger through your heart. My daughter, who, as you see, is rather
pale, could very well do with some color from your precious blood. Make
haste and run, for I might also hurl a nimble knife or two after you.'
I must, I suppose, have looked rather formidable as I uttered these
words, for, with a cry of the greatest terror, B---- tore himself loose
from my grasp, rushed out of the room, and down the steps." Directly
after B---- was gone, when the Councillor tried to lift up his
daughter, who lay unconscious on the floor, she opened her eyes with a
deep sigh, but soon closed them again as if about to die. Then
Krespel's grief found vent aloud, and would not be comforted. The
doctor, whom the old housekeeper had called in, pronounced Antonia's
case a somewhat serious but by no means dangerous attack; and she did
indeed recover more quickly than her father had dared to hope. She now
clung to him with the most confiding childlike affection; she entered
into his favorite hobbies--into his mad schemes and whims. She helped
him take old violins to pieces and glue new ones together. "I won't
sing again any more, but live for you," she often said, sweetly smiling
upon him, after she had been asked to sing and had refused. Such
appeals, however, the Councillor was anxious to spare her as much as
possible; therefore it was that he was unwilling to take her into
society, and solicitously shunned all music. He well understood how
painful it must be for her to forego altogether the exercise of that
art which she had brought to such a pitch of perfection. When the
Councillor bought the wonderful violin that he had buried with Antonia,
and was about to take it to pieces, she met him with such sadness in
her face and softly breathed the petition, "What! this as well?" By
some power, which he could not explain, he felt impelled to leave this
particular instrument unbroken, and to play upon it. Scarcely had he
drawn the first few notes from it than Antonia cried aloud with joy,
"Why, that's me!--now I shall sing again." And, in truth, there was
something remarkably striking about the clear, silvery, bell-like tones
of the violin; they seemed to have been engendered in the human soul.
Krespel's heart was deeply moved; he played, too, better than ever. As
he ran up and down the scale, playing bold passages with consummate
power and expression, she clapped her hands together and cried with
delight, "I did that well! I did that well."
From this time onwards her life was filled with peace and cheerfulness.
She often said to the Councillor, "I should like to sing something,
father." Then Krespel would take his violin down from the wall and play
her most beautiful songs, and her heart was right glad and happy.
Shortly before my arrival in H----, the Councillor fancied one night
that he heard somebody playing the piano in the adjoining room, and he
soon made out distinctly that B---- was flourishing on the instrument
in his usual style. He wished to get up, but felt himself held down as
if by a dead weight, and lying as if fettered in iron bonds; he was
utterly unable to move an inch. Then Antonia's voice was heard singing
low and soft; soon, however, it began to rise and rise in volume until
it became an ear-splitting fortissimo; and at length she passed over
into a powerfully impressive song which B---had once composed for her
in the devotional style of the old masters. Krespel described his
condition as being incomprehensible, for terrible anguish was mingled
with a delight he had never experienced before. All at once he was
surrounded by a dazzling brightness, in which he beheld B---and Antonia
locked in a close embrace, and gazing at each other in a rapture of
ecstasy. The music of the song and of the pianoforte accompanying it
went on without any visible signs that Antonia sang or that B----
touched the instrument. Then the Councillor fell into a sort of dead
faint, whilst the images vanished away. On awakening he still felt the
terrible anguish of his dream. He rushed into Antonia's room. She lay
on the sofa, her eyes closed, a sweet angelic smile on her face, her
hands devoutly folded, and looking as if asleep and dreaming of the
joys and raptures of heaven. But she was--dead.
ADVENTURES OF A NEW-YEAR'S EVE
BY
HEINRICH ZSCHOKKE
From "Tales by Heinrich Zschokke." Translated by Parke Godwin.
Published by G. P. Putnam's Sons.
Mother Kate, the watchman's wife, at nine o'clock on New Year's Eve,
opened her little window, and put out her head into the night air. The
snow was reddened by the light from the window as it fell in silent,
heavy flakes upon the street. She observed the crowds of happy people,
hurrying to and fro from the brilliantly lighted shops with presents,
or pouring out of the various inns and coffee-houses, and going to the
dances and other entertainments with which the New Year is married to
the Old in joy and pleasure. But when a few cold flakes had lighted on
her nose, she drew back her head, closed the window, and said to her
husband: "Gottlieb, stay at home, and let Philip watch for thee
to-night; for the snow comes as fast as it can from Heaven, and thou
knowest the cold does thy old bones no good. The streets will be gay
to-night. There seems dancing and feasting in every house, masqueraders
are going about, and Philip will enjoy the sport."
Old Gottlieb nodded his assent. "I am willing, Kate," he said. "My
barometer, the old wound above my knee, has given me warning the last
two days of a change of weather. It is only right that my son should
aid me in a service to which he will be my successor."
We must give the reader to understand that old Gottlieb had been a
sergeant of cavalry in one of the king's regiments, until he was made a
cripple for life by a musket-ball, as he was the first mounting the
walls of a hostile fort in a battle for his fatherland. The officer who
commanded the attack received the cross of honor on the battlefield for
his heroism, and was advanced in the service; while Gottlieb was fain
to creep homewards on a pair of crutches. From pity they made him a
schoolmaster, for he was intelligent, liked to read, and wrote a good
hand. But when the school increased they took it away from him to
provide for a young man who could do none of these as well as he,
merely because he was a godson of one of the trustees. However, they
promoted Gottlieb to the post of watchman, with the reversion of it to
his son Philip, who had in the meantime bound himself to a gardener. It
was only the good housewifery of Mistress Katharine, and the extreme
moderation of old Gottlieb, that enabled them to live happily on the
little they possessed. Philip gave his services to the gardener for his
board and lodging, but he occasionally received very fine presents when
he carried home flowers to the rich people of the town. He was a fresh,
handsome young fellow, of six-and-twenty. Noble ladies often gave him
sundry extra dollars for his fine looks, a thing they would never have
thought of doing for an ugly face. Mrs. Kate had already put on her
cloak to go to the gardener's house to fetch her son, when he entered
the apartment.
"Father," said Philip, giving a hand to both father and mother, "it's
snowing, and the snow won't do you much good. I'll take the watch
to-night, and you can get to bed."
"You're a good boy," said old Gottlieb.
"And then I've been thinking," continued Philip, "that as to-morrow is
New Year's Day, I may come and dine with you and make myself happy.
Mother perhaps has no joint in the kitchen, and--"
"No," interrupted the mother, "we've no joint, but then we have a pound
and a and a half of venison; with potatoes for a relish, and a little
rice with laurel leaves for a soup, and two flasks of beer to drink.
Only come, Philip, for we shall live finely to-morrow! Next week we may
do better, for the New Year's gifts will be coming in, and Gottlieb's
share will be something! Oh! we shall live grandly."
"Well, so much the better, dear mother," said Philip; "but have you
paid the rent of the cottage yet?"
Old Gottlieb shrugged his shoulders.
Philip laid a purse upon the table.
"There are two-and-twenty dollars that I have saved. I can do very well
without them; take them for a New Year's gift, and then we can all
three enter on the new year without a debt or a care. God grant that we
may end it in health and happiness! Heaven in its goodness will provide
for both you and me!"
Tears came into Mother Katharine's eyes as she kissed her son; old
Gottlieb said: "Philip, you are the prop and stay of our old age.
Continue to be honest and good, and to love your parents, so will a
blessing rest on you. I can give you nothing for a New Year's gift, but
a prayer that you may keep your heart pure and true--this is in your
power--you will be rich enough--for a clear conscience is a Heaven in
itself."
So said old Gottlieb, and then he wrote down in an account-book the sum
of two-and-twenty dollars that his son had given him.
"All that you have cost me in childhood is now nearly paid up. Your
savings amount to three hundred and seventeen dollars, which I have
received."
"Three hundred and seventeen dollars!" cried Mistress Katharine, in the
greatest amazement; and then turning to Philip with a voice full of
tenderness, "Ah, Philip," she said, "thou grievest me. Child of my
heart! Yes, indeed thou dost. Hadst thou saved that money for thyself
thou might have bought some land with it, and started as gardener on
thy own account, and married Rose. NOW that is impossible. But take
comfort, Philip. We are old, and thou wilt not have to support us long."
"Mother!" exclaimed Philip, and he frowned a little; "what are you
thinking of? Rose is dear to me as my life, but I would give up a
hundred Roses rather than desert you and my father. I should never find
any other parents in this world but you, but there are plenty of Roses,
although I would have none but Mrs. Bittner's Rose, were there even ten
thousand others."
"You are right, Philip," said Gottlieb; "loving and marrying are not in
the commandments--but to honor your father and mother is a duty and
commandment. To give up strong passions and inclinations for the
happiness of your parents is the truest gratitude of a son. It will
gain you the blessing from above:--it will make you rich in your own
heart."
"If it were only not too long for Rose to wait," said Mrs. Katharine,
"or if you could give up the engagement altogether! For Rose is a
pretty girl, that can't be denied; and though she is poor, there will
be no want of wooers. She is virtuous and understands housekeeping."