FIRST VISIT TO PARIS.
One morning, in the month of November, 1763, a middle aged man, with two children, was seen standing at the door of a small hotel in the Rue St. Honoré. When the servant in livery opened the door in answer to his knock, he inquired if M. Grimm lived there, and presented a letter to be given to him. By his dress, he was evidently a stranger, and as his accent proved, a German. Some minutes passed, while the valet went to deliver the letter; he then returned, and ushered the visitors into his master’s presence.
M. Grimm, the celebrated critic, was reclining in a large arm-chair, close to the fire-place, in a splendid apartment, occupied in reading a new tragedy. He held in his hands the letter he had just received, and glanced over its contents, while the two younger visitors, although uninvited, drew near the fire and spread out their little hands to feel the warmth.
The letter was from one Frederic Boëmer, a fellow-student of M. Grimm at the University of Leipzig, and Secretary to the Prince Archbishop of Saltzburg; less favored however by the gifts of fortune than M. Grimm, who, having come to Paris as the preceptor of the Count von Schomberg’s sons, had risen to be the oracle of literature and art. The letter was filled with reminiscences of the past life of the two friends; and only at the close did the writer remember the purpose of his missive. This was to introduce M. Mozart, the sub-director of the chapel of the Archbishop, who found the small salary he received insufficient for the support of his family, and had determined to travel with his children, and endeavor to earn a maintenance by the exhibition of their astonishing musical talents. They were recommended to the attentions of M. Grimm, whose good word could not fail to excite interest in their behalf.
“You are M. Mozart, of Saltzburg, and these are your children?” asked the critic of the stranger, when he had finished reading the letter.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“And you are come to Paris to exhibit these young artists? I fear I cannot promise you the success I could wish, and for which you hope. The French, with all their pretensions to taste in music, commonly judge of it as deaf people would do. They are in love with the screaming of their actors, and fancy the more noise the finer harmony. Your only chance of success here is to pique the public curiosity by proving the remarkably precocious genius of your children; moreover, the people of the court give the tone to the rest of society, and it will be necessary to secure their favor. I may do something for you with those I can influence; I will try what I can do. Let me see you again in a few days.”
With this scanty encouragement, the father of Wolfgang Mozart was fain to quit the magnificent dwelling of the correspondent of princes.
Leopold Mozart had some reason, founded on experience, to hope for success in his enterprise. He had been, with his wife and two children, in the principal cities of Germany. At Munich, the first place visited by him, his reception by the Elector was encouraging. At Vienna the children were admitted to play before the Emperor. After their return from this first expedition to Saltzburg, the youthful Wolfgang devoted himself, with more ardor than ever, to his musical studies. It was in the month of July, 1763, that this marvellous child, then eight years old, began his journey to Paris, passing through the cities of Augsburg, Manheim, Frankfort, Coblentz and Brussels, and stopping in all of them to give concerts.
Arrived in Paris, without patrons or friends, and but imperfectly acquainted with the language, the father no longer felt the confidence he had before. His first care was to find out the residence of M. Grimm, and to deliver his letter. The splendor that surrounded that distinguished person, was astonishing to him; and contrasting it with the simple home of the Archbishop’s secretary, he did not wonder at finding himself dismissed with a vague promise of protection.
As the little family walked through the streets, they found everything new and wonderful. The beauty of the buildings, the richness of the equipages, the splendor of the shops, delighted the youthful travellers, accustomed to the quiet and plain exterior of the smaller German cities. Now they stopped to admire some extraordinary display of magnificence in the shops; now to hear the singers, or those who performed on musical instruments in the streets.
“Sister,” said the little Wolfgang, after they had listened for some time to a man playing the violin in the court of a hotel, “if they have no better music than this in Paris, I shall wish we had stayed in Vienna.”
The father smiled on the infant connoisseur, and called their attention to different objects as they walked on. They had now reached the Place Louis XV., between the court and garden of the Tuilleries,—where the new equestrian statue of that monarch, executed by Bouchardon, had just been erected. A great crowd was assembled here. Some one had discovered, affixed to the pedestal of the monument, a placard with the words “Statua Statuæ.” Very little was necessary, then as now, to bring together a crowd among the population of Paris. Considerable excitement was evinced in the multitude. It was by no means allayed when the police arrested several, whom, from their wild behavior, they judged to be disturbers of the public peace.
Leopold, holding his children by the hand, continued to advance, curious to see the cause of the tumult, yet obliged frequently to draw his little ones close to him, to protect them from the rude jostling of the passers by. Suddenly he felt a hand laid in a kindly manner on his arm.
“My friend,” said the person who stopped him, “I perceive you are a stranger here. Let me advise you to go no farther; you may be taken up by the police.”
“Can you tell me,” asked Leopold Mozart, “the cause of all this confusion?”
“Not a whit; but I can do better—advise you to get off while you may,” returned the other. “It would be a pity those pretty children should spend the night in prison! This way—this way!” And giving a hand to the boy, the friendly speaker assisted the Germans to escape from the throng. When they were in safety, he replied to the father’s thanks by a courteous adieu, and departed in another direction from that in which they were going.
Our little party lost no time in hastening to the Hotel des Trois Turcs, Rue Saint Martin, where they had fixed their temporary home. It was already past their customary dinner-hour. As they took their places at the table, a servant handed a small package to the elder Mozart. It contained tickets of admission to the opera, sent by M. Grimm. It was the second representation in the new hall of the Tuilleries. The bills promised an entertainment that would be likely to draw a considerable audience.
Here was delight in store for the inexperienced inhabitants of Saltzburg! They talked of nothing else. They dined in haste, and scarce gave themselves time afterwards to make the requisite change in their dress; so great was their impatience and fear of losing, by delay, the smallest portion of their expected enjoyment. They were soon on the way to the theatre, where they arrived full two hours before the commencement of the performance.
By good fortune, while they were looking about in search of some amusement to occupy the time, they lighted upon the gentleman who had warned them to escape from the crowd in the Place of Louis XV. He appeared to have plenty of leisure and joined their party. The singular circumstance that the opera should be performed in the Hall of the Tuilleries, excited the curiosity of Leopold Mozart. His new acquaintance gave him in detail an account of the removal, its consequences, etc., which in brief were somewhat as follows:
A fire broke out in the theatre of the opera, April 6th, 1763, supposed to have originated from the negligence of the workmen employed there. The alarm was not given till too late to save the building, and the flames spread to the buildings of the Palais Royal, the wing of the first court being soon destroyed. No lives were lost, though about two thousand persons were at work in extinguishing the fire. In Paris the people are always disposed to laugh at the most lamentable occurrences, and there was no lack of jokes on this occasion. When the talk was of choosing a location for the new hall, they spoke of the Carousel, the Louvre, and several other places. An abbé, who was well known to hate French music, observed that the opera ought to be located opposite the place where bull-fights were held—“because your great noises should be heard without the city.”
The Duc d’Orleans was anxious that the opera should remain in his neighborhood. He requested of the king that the building should be reconstructed on the same spot, offering many facilities, as well as promising to provide all the means that could be devised for the future safety of the edifice. Louis consented, and the work was commenced. Meantime the French comedians generously offered to give up their theatre gratuitously three times a week for the performances of the opera. The locality however was not convenient; and the managers could not agree to the conditions on which the theatre occupied by the Comédie-Italienne was offered. One immense hall in the Tuilleries was suitable for the purpose; and the king gave permission that it should be appropriated for the opera. At the first concert, on the 29th of April, a great crowd attended. The female singers were Arnould, Lemiére and Dubois; the chief male performers, Gelin, Larrivé and Magnet. The wags said the concerts were the ointments for the burning. The singers were loudly applauded, and it was observed that the orchestra was fuller and performed better than that of the opera.
While these and other pieces of information were given with true French volubility to M. Mozart, the children listening with great attention, the crowd assembled and before long began to chafe and murmur because the doors were not yet opened. The appointed hour struck from the great clock of the Tuilleries, and the impatient multitude pressed with violence against the barriers erected. Our Germans were beginning to be alarmed for their own safety, when the doors were thrown open, and they were borne with the foremost comers into the theatre. They took seats in the pit; the two rows of boxes being occupied by the aristocratic part of the audience.
The admiration of the youthful Mozart was excited by the proportions and splendor of the hall, the luxury of the decorations, and the magnificence of the ladies in the dress circles. Here were the most gorgeous accompaniments to music. He gazed about him wonder-struck till the overture began.
With more than a father’s interest, Leopold watched the countenance of his son. How would a mere child, whose musical taste was not an acquirement, but a gift—an inspiration—judge of what he heard? This orchestra was celebrated throughout Europe, solely on the faith of French judgment. Leopold saw the shade of disappointment on the boy’s speaking face.
“Father,” whispered he, when there was a pause in the music, “they do better than this in our chapel!”
And so in Leopold’s estimation they did; but he dared not to set his own opinion against that of the Parisians; he dared not speak with the boldness of his son.
The overture seemed a long punishment to Wolfgang; at last the curtain rose, amidst an uproar of applause that for some time prevented the actors from being heard. None of the performers were known to the Mozart family. By good luck, however, their acquaintance of the outside obtained a seat near them, and had something to say about every one.
“That is Sophie Arnould,” he remarked of one of them; “she is a delicious actress; there is none more exquisite upon the stage.”
“And is she the first singer in the opera?” asked Wolfgang, after having heard her grand air.
“Certainly,” replied the complaisant cicerone, “you may see that by the applause she calls forth. She plays better than she sings, I confess; her voice has not power enough for the place; but she makes amends for all that by her spirit in acting—by her gestures, and the expression of her eyes, which I defy you to resist. Our young gentlemen are enchanted with her wit; her conversation furnishes the most piquant sauce to their suppers. If in song she only equalled M’lle. Antier, a great actress who retired from the opera twenty years ago! M’lle. Antier was for twenty years the chief ornament of the first theatre in the world. The queen presented her, on her marriage, with a snuff-box of gold, containing the portrait of her majesty; M. and Mme. de Toulouse also made her beautiful presents. She had the honor of filling the first parts in the ballets danced before the king. M’lle. Arnould has not obtained the like favors; but it must be owned that the court is less liberal than formerly. Meanwhile, she is the idol of the public, and her reign promises to be of long duration.”
The youthful artist could not echo these praises. He shook his head and remained silent.
“Or do you like better M’lle. Chevalier, the actress now on the stage? Her fort, they say, is in the grand, the tragic; you need not say to her with Despreaux—
“To move my tears, your own eyes must be wet.”
“I defy you to remain cold while she is declaiming some great scene. But she has not the grace of Sophie Arnould, and there is something of hardness in her tones. Nevertheless, she has her partisans. One of our poets has written some verses to be put at the base of her portrait, to the effect that she bewitches by her voice the hearts that have stood proof against her face.”
Neither in this instance could young Mozart share the enthusiasm of his neighbor. He had no experience, but he was endowed with an intuitive and delicate apprehension in music, which taught him that with their great voices these artists of the opera were not great singers. He became restless with his discontent. The performance went on. The male singers, Pillot and Zelin, were below mediocrity.
“We should have M. Chasse in this part,” cried the cicerone; “he had a most imposing voice, and noble action; but alas! he retired six years ago! His place has not yet been filled.”
The only part of the representation that pleased little Wolfgang, was the dancing. Vestris was not there, but the celebrated Lany performed a pas de deux with her brother. This actress had also received the homage of poetry. The last ballet was admirably executed. It restored the good humor of the young critic.
“After all, my father,” said Wolfgang, as they returned home, “it was not worth while to come from Vienna to Paris to hear such music.” Leopold pressed his boy’s hand, as he thought that this fresh impulse of genius made him a better judge than all the educated and schooled connoisseurs of Paris.
Returning to the hotel of the Trois Turcs, they found an invitation from the Baron d’Holback to a soirée the next evening. But this, and how young Mozart played the organ in the royal chapel, and by his performance and his sonatas, gave the first intimation of that wonderful genius that was to work a revolution in music, it belongs not to our present task to describe.