invited me there from time to time. I have always wished you and I
could take a look at the moon and the man in it. They have a tremendous
telescope up there now; they say it seems as if you could touch the
mountains and valleys and rifts, and on the side where the sun doesn’t
shine the shadows that the mountains cast. It’s two years now that I’ve
wanted to see it, and I don’t manage to get around to it, ridiculous
and shameful though it seems!”
“Ah, well,” said she, “the moon won’t run away. There are many things
we’ll make up for later. I have a presentiment.”
“Out with it!”
“I heard a little bird twitter that ere long the King of Prussia would
need a _Capellmeister_.”
“Oho!”
“General Musical Director, I would say. Let me spin a dream! It is a
weakness I have from my mother.”
“Go ahead! the wilder the better!”
“No, quite natural. First then take the time, a year from date----”
“When the Pope marries Kate----”
“Hush, you clown! I say a year from to-day there must be no such person
as an Imperial composer named Wolf Mozart to be found within the walls
of Vienna.”
“Thank you kindly for that!”
“I hear our old friends talking about us and our fortunes.”
“Give us an example.”
“Well, say one morning, shortly after nine, our exubriant old
neighbour, Frau Volkstett, strutting straight across the cabbage
market. She had been absent for three months; her great journey to
visit her brother-in-law--her constant theme since we knew her--had
at last become a reality; and now she has come back, and her full
heart--bubbling over with the joy of travel and the impatience of
friendship, and all sorts of delightful news--draws her irresistibly
to the Frau Oberst. Upstairs she goes, taps at the door, and, without
waiting to be bidden, walks in; you can imagine the delight and the
embracements from both sides! ‘Now, dearest, best Frau Oberst,’ she
begins, after some preliminaries, taking a fresh breath, ‘I bring
you a bagful of messages! Can you guess from whom?’ ‘What? is it
possible--did you pass through Berlin? Did you see the Mozarts? Ah,
dear, sweet friend, relieve my impatience! How are our good friends? Do
they like it as well as they did at first?’ ‘Yes, indeed! This summer
the king sent him to Karlsbad. When would his beloved majesty, Emperor
Joseph, have thought of doing such a thing? They had both but just come
back when I was there. He is beaming with health and life, is growing
stout and roundish, and is as lively as Mercury.’”
And now the little woman proceeded to elaborate everything in her
assumed _rôle_ in the most glowing colours. Of their home _Unter
den Linden_, of their garden and country-house, of the brilliant
effectiveness of his appearance in public, and of the exclusive
little gatherings at court, where he accompanied the queen’s song
on the piano, her description taking life as she went on. Entire
conversations, the most charming anecdotes, she seemed to shake out
of her sleeve. At the same time she was roguish enough to supply the
person of our hero with a number of brand-new homely virtues, which
had sprouted out of the solid ground of Prussian existence, and among
which the said Frau Volkstett had noted as the highest phenomenon and
proof of the marvellous potence of new surroundings the wee beginnings
of a most praiseworthy little trait of parsimony, which proved a most
graceful acquisition. “Yes, and only think, he has three thousand
thalers secure, and all that for what? For leading a concert once a
week and the opera twice. Ah, I saw him, our dear, little precious
Mozart, in the midst of his _kapelle_. I sat with his wife in her box
right across from their majesties. And what did the handbill say? Here
it is; I brought it for you,--I wrapped it about a little present I
brought you from myself and the Mozarts; here it is in plain letters!
“Heaven help us! _Tarar!_ Ah, dear friend! To think that I should live
to see it! Two years ago, when Mozart was writing his _Don Juan_,
and that confounded villainous Salieri was also making preparations
to repeat the triumph his piece brought him in Paris upon his own
territory, and when he and his boon-companions thought they had plucked
the _Don Juan_ as they had _Figaro_, leaving it neither dead nor alive
to put it upon the stage,--don’t you remember, I then and there took
a vow not to go and see the infamous piece, and I kept my word. When
everybody rushed to the show--you too, dear Frau Oberst--I sat down
quietly by my stove and took my cat upon my lap to spend the evening.
But now, think of it! _Tarar_ on the Berlin stage, the work of his
bitterest enemy, directed by Mozart! ‘You must come,’ he said to me,
‘though it were only to tell them in Vienna that I do not hurt a hair
of his head. I wish he were here himself, the envious knave, to see
that there is no need for _me_ to murder another fellow’s thing to
remain what I am!’”
“Brava! bravissima!” exclaimed Mozart with roaring delight. He took his
little wife by the ears, kissing and tickling her, until this bright
soap-bubble game of a dreamy future--which, alas! never approximated
this happy culmination--ended in mirth and boisterous laughter.
Meanwhile they had reached the valley, and were approaching a village
which they had noticed from the hill-top, and behind which a pleasant
country-house in modern style, the residence of the Count von
Schinzberg, became visible. It was their intention to rest and dine
in the place. The inn where they stopped was quite at the end of the
village, and close beside it a by-road planted with a row of poplars
led to the garden of the Count.
Mozart left the ordering of dinner to his wife, merely signifying his
intention of having a glass of wine in the common room below, while
she asked for a drink of water and for a quiet spot in which to enjoy
a peaceful hour’s sleep. She was shown up a flight of stairs, her
husband following, humming and whistling a tune as he went. In a newly
whitewashed room, just aired, there was, among other old-fashioned
furniture of noble origin,--which had, no doubt, wandered hither out of
the possessions of the Count,--a neat, airy bed, with a painted canopy
resting on slender green posts, the silk curtains of which had long ago
been replaced by some more common fabric. Constanze exacted a promise
from her husband to be waked in time, and bolted the door behind him,
he seeking amusement in the common tap-room. There was not a soul
there, however, except the host; and, finding the conversation of the
latter as little to his taste as the wine, he thought to fill out the
time before dinner with a walk to the Count’s park. He was told that
respectable strangers were allowed to enter, and, moreover, the family
had gone out for a drive.
He went, and ere long he had reached the open gate, and was walking
slowly along under the stately limes until he had the schloss in view.
It was built in the Italian style, light in colour, with a generous
flight of steps lying broadly to the front; the slate roof was
decorated with statues in the usual manner, gods and goddesses, and a
balustrade.
Turning away from the _parterres_ of blooming flowers, the Meister bent
his steps toward the shrubbery, passing groups of beautiful pines, and
gradually approaching sunnier spots once more, attracted by the merry
sound of a splashing fountain which he soon reached.
The large oval basin was set round with orange trees in tubs,
intermingled with laurels and oleanders; there was a small arbour at
one side, and a soft path of sand led around to it. The arbour seemed
a most attractive spot for a rest; there was a seat and small table in
it, and Mozart sat down near the entrance.
Inclining his ear indolently to the gentle plash of the water, his eyes
resting upon an orange tree of medium size standing apart from the
others close by his side and covered with exquisite fruit, our friend,
under the influence of these reminiscences of the South, fell to musing
on a graceful episode of his boyish travels. Smiling thoughtfully,
he put out his hand to touch the fruit and feel its delicious juicy
coolness in his hollow hand. In connection with the youthful scene
arising before him there was a half-forgotten musical memory the
uncertain trail of which he was dreamily following. Now his eyes begin
to shine, they wander restlessly here and there; a thought had seized
him, and he is eagerly following it. Absentmindedly he takes hold of
the orange once more; it breaks from the branch, and he holds it in
his hand. He does not see it; so far is he absorbed in his artistic
preoccupation that he turns and twirls the fragrant fruit under his
nose, moving his lips inaudibly to some newly-caught melody. At last,
without knowing what he does, he takes a small enamelled case out of
a pocket of his coat, pulls out a silver-handled knife, and slowly
cuts the golden ball in two. Perhaps he was led by a vague feeling of
thirst, but the delicious fragrance seemed to satisfy his stimulated
senses. For moments he gazed fixedly at the two inner surfaces, then
gently put them together, very gently separated, and joined them once
more.
Suddenly he heard steps approaching; he started, and the consciousness
of where he was and of what he had done dawned upon him. He was about
to hide the orange, but desisted immediately, impelled by pride or by
the knowledge that it was too late. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a
livery, the Count’s gardener, stood before him. He had evidently seen
the last suspicious motion, and looked at him dubiously. Mozart was
silent also, and felt as if he were nailed to his seat; he glanced
up with a half-laugh and a visible blush, but at the same time there
was a look of undaunted frankness in his large blue eyes; then with a
petulant air of courageous audacity, which would have been absurdly
funny to an unconcerned looker-on, he put the orange, apparently
uninjured, in the middle of the table before him.
“Begging your pardon,” said the gardener, now repressing his
indignation, after having inspected the unpromising garb of the
stranger, “I do not know with whom I have the honour----”
“Kapellmeister Mozart from Vienna.”
“Doubtless you are an acquaintance of the Count?”
“I am a stranger here, passing through the village merely. Is the Count
at home?”
“No.”
“The Countess?”
“Is occupied, and it is unlikely she will see any one.”
Mozart arose and seemed about to go.
“I beg your pardon, sir,--by what right did you help yourself in this
garden?”
“What?” cried Mozart; “help myself? The devil! do you believe I wanted
to steal and eat that thing here?”
“Sir, I believe what I see. These fruits are counted, and I am
responsible. This tree is designed by the Count to figure at an
entertainment; just now it was to be carried away. I cannot let you go
before having made mention of this affair, and before you explain how
this happened.”
“Well, then, I will wait here. You may depend upon it.”
The gardener looked around doubtfully, and Mozart, thinking he might be
manœuvring for a fee, put his hand in his pocket, but there was not a
coin in it.
Two lads came up now, lifted the tree upon a barrow, and carried it
away. Meanwhile our Meister had pulled out his note-book, and while the
gardener did not leave his side, he wrote--
“GNÄDIGSTE FRAU,--Here I sit, a poor unfortunate, in your paradise,
like Adam after having tasted the apple. The evil is done, and I
cannot even seek refuge by throwing the guilt upon the shoulders of
gentle Eve, for the latter is sleeping the sleep of innocence at the
inn guarded by the Graces and Cupids of a four-post bed. You have but
to command, and I will personally give your Grace an account of my
incomprehensible offence. In sincere contrition, your most obedient
servant,
W. A. MOZART (on the way to Prague).”
* * * * *
While this was passing in the schloss, our prisoner, not greatly
concerned about the final result, had occupied himself with waiting.
But as no one appeared, he began to walk up and down uneasily; then
there came an urgent message from the inn to tell him dinner was ready,
and would he please come at once, the postillion was anxious to get
started. He picked up his things, and was about to leave without
further ceremony, when the two gentlemen appeared before the arbour.
The Count greeted him as he would an old acquaintance, with a ringing,
sonorous voice, did not listen to his apologies, but at once expressed
his desire to have the couple for his guests. “You are, my dear
_maistro_, no stranger to us; indeed I may say that the name of Mozart
is heard nowhere more frequently and with greater fervour. My niece
plays and sings, spends nearly the whole day at her piano, knows your
works by heart, and has the greatest desire to approach you personally,
as she could not do in your concerts last winter. As we are going to
Vienna for a few weeks, her relatives had promised her an invitation
from Prince Gallizin, where you are often to be found. But it seems you
are going to Prague, and there is no knowing when you will come back.
Rest with us for a day or two! We will send your carriage back, and you
will have the kindness to permit me to see to the continuation of your
journey.”
The composer, who was always willing to bring friendship or pleasure
any sacrifice ten times as great as was here demanded, gladly complied
for this half-day, at the same time setting his departure most
definitely for the next morning. Count Max asked to be permitted to
escort Frau Mozart from the inn, and to give the necessary orders
there....
_Edward Mörike_ (1804-1875).
_A RABID PHILOSOPHER._
AT last I fell asleep, but it was only to be awakened at dawn by
resounding footsteps passing to and fro in the adjoining room,
intermingled with sounds from which I judged that there was an
impatient searching of drawers or tables, and in every corner of the
apartment. The hurrying and rummaging grew more violent, a soliloquy
which at first softly accompanied the movements grew louder and louder,
and gradually passed into exclamations of rage, and at last into a
volley of oaths, which was not exactly in a Christian spirit, and which
was accompanied by a savage stamping and bellowing. It seemed to me
the man had gone mad. I dressed myself hastily, knocked at the door,
and in my excitement, forgetting all form, I entered the room without
awaiting his call. With flashing eyes the occupant darted at me as if
about to seize me by my throat; suddenly he controlled himself, stood
stock-still before me, gave me a penetrating glance, and said with
quiet severity, “Sir, an unconscious thirst for knowledge has brought
you to this room.” My conscience reproaching me for my breach of good
manners, I was disarmed, and merely said “Yes,” in a dejected tone.
I then asked him what for heaven’s sake was the matter with him. A.
E.--for brevity’s sake I will henceforth call my fellow-traveller
so--falling back into his fit of violence, cried in a voice of thunder,
“My spectacles, my spectacles! They’ve seen fit to go and hide
themselves--to say nothing at present of the key, the little devil!”
“So you are merely looking for your spectacles? Is this an object
worthy of such rage? Don’t you know what it is to be patient?”
He was about to fly at me again, but, controlling himself once more,
he merely looked at me and said: “Screw-drivers? cork-screws?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I dreamed I had a wife--horrible to relate. I laughed at her for
reading papers without cutting the leaves, and for putting up for
years with a drawer that would not go. Thereupon she gave me a sermon
on patience, and required me to exercise myself in that virtue by
wearing screws and screw-drivers on my coat instead of buttons and
button-holes, suggesting that they might be quite ornamental if made
out of oxidised metal; or she said I might have corks, which I would
be obliged to remove by means of a cork-screw every time I wished
to unbutton my coat. Ah, pshaw! a woman is quite capable of putting
a cover upon a dressing-case in such a manner that it will catch
every time the upper drawer is opened and shut. Sir, a woman has
_time_ for the struggle with the villain called matter; she lives
in this struggle, it is her element; a man has no business to have
time for this, he needs his patience for things that are _worthy_ of
patience. It is an imposition to expect him to waste either for what is
worthless, an imposition against which he may, can, and must rage! You
must know that. You must know that these unworthy objects, these hooks
and crooks of matter, never get entangled with your destiny except
when you are in most desperate haste to complete something which is
necessary and reasonable! Miserable gimcrack, worthless button or ball
of twine, or string to my eye-glasses that gets twisted about one of
the buttons of my vest just at the very moment when it is necessary to
look over a time-table in small type at the railway station, I have
no time, no time for ye! And if I were to set a thousand leeches on
eternity, they would not draw out a single moment of time for ye!”
“But what is the use of all this bluster?”
“Oh, insipid! Was it of no use to Luther--if you are going to talk
about use--to rail at the devil? Don’t you know what it is to disburden
your poor soul? Have you never heard of the precious balm that lies in
a good round oath?”
[Illustration: “I TOOK THE EXASPERATED MAN AND POINTED SILENTLY TO THE
SPOT.”]
The evil spirit took possession of him anew; he rushed about the room
in another paroxysm of rage pouring out a volley of abuse upon his poor
innocent spectacles. Meanwhile I looked about the floor; I picked up
a couple of shirts that were clean, but terribly messed, and my eyes
fell upon a mouse-hole in the boards. It seemed to me I saw something
glitter there; I looked closer, and the discovery was made. I took the
exasperated man by his arm and pointed silently to the spot. He gazed
at it, recognised his missing glasses, and remarked: “Look at them
well! Do you notice the sneer, the demoniac triumph in that evil glassy
leer? Out with the entrapped monster!”
It was not easy to pull the spectacles out of the hole; the trouble
was really out of proportion to the value of the object. At last we
succeeded; he held them out at arm’s-length, dropped them from there,
cried in a solemn voice, “Sentence of death! _Supplicium!_” raised his
foot, and crushed them with his heel, shivering them to bits.
“That’s all very well,” I said, after a pause of astonishment; “but now
you have no spectacles.”
“No matter. At any rate this imp has met with a just retribution after
years of indescribable malignity. Look you!” He pulled out his watch;
it was a very common one--in fact, one of the lowest products of the
horological industry. “In place of this honest, faithful creature,” he
continued, “I once had a gold repeater, which, I may truly say, cost
a deal of money. It requited this sacrifice for years and years with
untold malice; it never would go right; it made a point of falling down
and hiding; the crystals broke constantly, thereby nearly reducing me
to pauperism; at last the monster conspired with the hook of my gold
watch-chain, and the two together entered into an intrigue against me.
As for the hook, sir, there is much that might be said on that subject.
The insidiousness of objects in general--I should like to talk to you
about that, sir, but I fear I should discourse at some length--the
insidiousness, I say, is expressed so visibly in the villainous
physiognomy of hooks that one cannot be too much on one’s guard in
having anything to do with these fiendish features. One is apt to
think: ‘I know you, the wicked crookedness of your outer form betrays
you, you shall not get the better of me;’ and then this very sense of
security misleads one into being unwary. It is quite the reverse with
other objects. Who, for instance, would suspect a simple button of any
evil design?”
I begged him to finish the tragic story about his watch and hook.
“Ah, yes! Well, one night the hook crept softly across the small table,
upon which I had carefully laid my watch, and artfully entwined itself
into the seam of my pillow-case. I did not want the pillow. I lifted it
suddenly and flung it to the foot-end of the bed, the watch of course
going with it. In a noble arch it went flying through the air, struck
the wall, and fell to the ground with a broken crystal. This was the
last straw. I crushed it in cold blood like these criminal spectacles;
the imp gave forth a sound, a hiss like a persecuted mouse; I swear to
you that it was a sound quite outside the realm of physical nature. I
then went and bought this modest timepiece for an absurdly low sum.
Look at this faithful creature; note the expression of honesty in these
homely features; for twenty years it has served me with steadfast
fidelity; yes, I may say it has never given me any cause for complaint.
The gold watch-chain I gave to my footman, the hook was condemned to
die a shameful death in the sewer, and I wear my faithful turnip on
this gentle silken cord.”
During this detailed account he had grown quite tranquil, and now
placidly continued----
“Now for the story of this black hour! Look at this key”--he pulled
out a small key, probably belonging to his valise--“and then at this
candlestick!”--he held up the metal candlestick upside down close
before my eyes, so that I could see a hollow place in the foot--“what
do you think, what do you suppose, what do you say?”
“How am I to know?”
“For the space of a good half-hour I have looked for that key this
morning. I nearly lost my senses; at last I found it, like this, do you
see?”
He laid the key upon the little stand by his bed, and set the
candlestick down upon it; the key just fitted the place under the foot.
“Now tell me who would suspect this, who would be capable of such
superhuman circumspection as to foresee and avoid such infernal
tricks on the part of the object! And is this what I live for? Am I
to waste the precious bit of time I have in such a slavish search for
a bagatelle? To search and search, and to search again! One should
never say A. or B. has lived for such and such a time,--not lived, but
searched! And I am very, very punctual, believe me!”
“Ah, yes, life is a perpetual search,” I said, with a sigh which might
be taken to refer to the trials of life, while in truth it was called
forth by the _ennui_ which this detailed occupation with the bagatelle
had caused. This accounted for my flat remark, the sole object of which
was to change the subject at all hazards.
I little knew to whom I was talking. “What, sir, symbolic?” he said.
“And I suppose you think that is deeper! Ah, oh!”
“Well, what now?”