LAST VISIT TO DOLES.
It was a holiday in the year 1789; and the venerable cantor of Saint Thomas’ church, Leipzig, after morning service was over, made ready to take a walk about the city, in company with a few of his friends.
The month was May, and the morning was lovely; the old gentleman had smoothed the immaculate ruffles of his shirt-bosom, placed his three-cornered hat on his head a little over the left ear, and taken his Spanish gold-headed walking stick in his hand, ready for his promenade—when a sudden idea darted into his head. The music he had partly composed early that morning, while engaged about the church-service, and which he had thought would turn out nobly, came to him all at once; and fearful of losing it, he turned immediately back, with his customary ejaculation, “To Him alone be the glory!” and entered his own house, where were already arrived his faithful wife and his beloved daughter, Lena.
The good dame asked with some anxiety, wherefore he had returned so soon; and Lena looked as if she feared she would next have to run for the doctor. But Father Doles, (it was no less a person,) soon dissipated their fears by informing them that nothing but a new musical thought had brought him back. The women laughed at this; Lena took his hat and stick, and while her mother helped him to pull off his brown over-coat, and to put on his flowered silk dressing-gown, not forgetting the little black silk cap, she arranged the writing-table, and placed on it some fresh paper for his notes. Next she brought him a bowl of soup, with a bottle of old Rhenish wine, a cask of which had been given her father by the gracious Elector, in token of approbation of his services.
When all was ready, Father Doles embraced his wife, kissed the white forehead of his daughter, and they both left him to his labors. He sat down and commenced his work, not without an inward prayer for success, as was his pious custom.
He had not been writing very long, when the door was opened more hastily than usual, without much ceremony. A tall, stately man strode in, and across the room to where Doles was quietly sitting. It was Jacobus Freigang, a merchant and highly respected magistrate. He came near the table, and struck the floor hard with his cane. Doles looked up from his work, nodded with a cordial smile, and said, reaching his hand to his friend, “Salve!”
His friend did not take his offered hand, but cried rather angrily—“Tell me, I entreat you, are you going to behave like a vain fellow in your old days, and treat your friends as if they were not deserving of civility? There we all are—Weisse, Hiller, and I, and Friedrich, and another person; there we all are, waiting and waiting for you, and running to the door to see if you were coming, and thinking how we should enjoy your surprise at sight of our newly arrived guest. At last, Breitkopf comes to ask after you, and you are not come—though you promised me in the choir you would speedily join us! The company are impatient; Hiller grows surly; I stand there like a fool; at last Friedrich says you must have gone home—so here I come and find you sitting quietly at work! In the name of decency! what are we to make of you?”
Doles laughed heartily at his friend’s comical anger, and then good-naturedly apologised for his neglect. “Do not be angry with me, old friend; I had to write down my thema! Bethink you, I am seventy-two, and any day may be my last. I must use what time I have, and when Heaven sends me a good musical idea, make haste and write down what my old head cannot long retain. Now I have just finished my thema, and if you wish it, I will go with you; though, after all, I am but dull company for younger ones, and they must have dined already.”
“You must not dine at home to-day!” cried his visitor, “our friends are waiting—you must go to Breitkopf’s this moment.”
“Nay, Freigang, now I think of it, ’tis a holiday—and my wife and daughter must not sit down alone to table.”
“They know you are going with me; and as for leaving them alone, I have sent Friedrich to them. He will eat enough for two! So, off with your dressing-gown, and on with your coat.”
“But—”
“But me no buts! I will fetch you a valet who will make you bestir yourself!” so saying, Freigang stepped to the door, opened it, and cried—“Come in!”
A young man, small of stature, and elegantly dressed, of pale complexion, large, dark, flashing eyes, a handsome, aquiline nose, and a mouth that seemed made for music, entered quickly. The voice in which he gave cheerful greeting to Father Doles, as he sprang to his side, was music itself.
Doles started from his seat with an exclamation of joy: his grey eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed, and as he embraced the young man, tears of delight rolled down them.
“My Wolfgang!” he cried, “my dear, good son! I am rejoiced to see you once more!”
Freigang laughed, as much as to say, “See, my point is gained now!”
Lena and her mother came in at that moment, and ran to welcome the stranger. As soon as her father had released him, the lively girl clapped her hands over his eyes, standing behind him, and cried—
“Who is this, Wolfgang—can you tell?”
“A lovely, mischievous little girl!” answered Mozart, laughing, “who calls herself Lena, and shall give me a kiss!” and turning round, he caught her in his arms, and took his revenge.
“Is your wife with you this time?” asked Madame Doles.
“No, I have not brought her with me,” answered Mozart, while he assisted Doles to arrange his dress. “She is not fully recovered from her last winter’s illness. Ah! how often she wishes for you, good mother; you would hardly believe we could feel so lonely and desolate in so large a city as Vienna!”
“Why do you not come and live here?” asked Lena impatiently, “where we all love you so much. We would never let you feel lonely or desolate. Your wife should like us all, and I would keep your boys with me. Be advised, Mozart, and come to live in Leipzig.”
“You are always couleur de rose, Lena,” said the composer, laughing; “but I should find it harder to get away than you imagine. In the first place I could not leave my Emperor, and in the next, as far as art is concerned, one can do in Vienna as he cannot well elsewhere.”
“Hem,” muttered Freigang, “we are not badly off as to music, here.”
“By no means,” said Mozart, earnestly, “and most excellent music. Your church music and your concerts are unrivalled—may I never live to see the day when they shall be talked of as a thing that is past! But you know, father,” he turned to Doles, “while your artists and connoisseurs stand among the first, as regards the public and the popular taste, you cannot compete even with the Viennese, much less with mine excellent friends of Prague and Munich. I hope and trust these matters will change for the better in time; just at present, I at least find it my interest to prefer Vienna, Munich, or Prague.”
“It is as you say, dear Wolfgang,” replied Doles; “they call our Leipzig a little Paris; but we must plead guilty to some northern coldness and caution, and this excessive prudence it is which hinders us from following immediately in the new path you have opened for us.”
“And yet I have reason to quarrel with the Viennese,” interrupted Mozart. “My Giovanni can testify to that.”
“Shall I confess to you,” said Doles, “that as much as I have heard of this opera, though it surprises, astonishes, charms me, it does not, to say the truth, quite satisfy me?”
The composer smiled; his old friend began to criticise, when he interrupted him—
“Why have you heard the opera piecemeal in this way? After Idomeneo, Don Giovanni is my favorite—I might say my masterpiece! But you must not hear it piecemeal; you cannot judge of it except as a whole.”
“For my part, I am delighted with your Figaro,” said Lena; “it is sung and played everywhere here; you may hear it in the streets on every barrel organ. I sing it myself on the piano;” and therewith she began carelessly to sing—
“And my glass still flattering, tells me
That I am not such a fright!”
“Lena! Lena!” said her mother, shaking her head. But Mozart cried—“Bravo! go on, little one!” and going to the piano, he began to play. They went through the duet, and at the end Freigang applauded heartily. Then he took Father Doles under one arm, and the composer, still humming, under the other, and bidding the ladies a friendly “Adieu!” departed.
“What a charming man is Mozart!” exclaimed Lena, and still singing her favorite tune, accompanied her mother to the dining room, where they found Friedrich just arrived.
After a social dinner at the house of the hospitable Breitkopf, Mozart’s publisher, the friends adjourned to the celebrated Rosenthal, where Goëthe, as a student, used to amuse himself. The pretty Swiss cottage was not then built; but on the place where it now stands, was pitched, in the summer months, a tent or pavillion, spacious enough to accommodate a large party of ladies and gentlemen in case of a sudden shower, or when they sought refreshment from the heat.
Madame Doles and Lena, Madame Freigang and her daughter Cecilia, went early to Rosenthal, accompanied by Friedrich, and prepared for the arrival of the gentlemen. It was a pleasant little party; the guests were all in high spirits; even the stern Hiller, who sometimes appeared something of the cynic, was heard to burst into frequent laughter at Mozart’s sallies of humor and impromptu verses. Friedrich, a lad of about eighteen, the favorite pupil of Doles, stood near the composer, and listened smiling, though now and then he looked grave when Mozart’s gayety seemed about to overstep the bounds of decorum.
In the midst of their talk Hiller became suddenly serious, then turned about quickly, as if he had a mind to go back, before they entered the tent. Freigang caught his arm, and cried—
“What is the matter with you, Hiller? Right about, you do not part from us till after sunset.”
“Let me alone!” answered the stern old man. “I cannot bear to look at the good-for-nothing fellow!”
“At whom?” Freigang followed the direction of his friend’s finger, and burst out a laughing. “Ha! Mozart!” he cried, “look yonder; there comes Hiller’s favorite!”
A man was coming towards the company; he approached with very unsteady steps, but did not perceive them till he stood directly before them. He seemed about thirty years of age, perhaps older; was slender and well formed, but his features were sharpened and pallid, and his whole person bore the marks of excessive dissipation. His oiled-cloth cap was placed sideways on his uncombed head; his coat had once been a fine one, but lacked much of the lace belonging to it, and several buttons here and there; his satin vest was frayed and torn; his rumpled collar, (the cravat was entirely wanting,) as well as the rest of his attire, bespoke a slovenly disregard to comfort or cleanliness.
“Bon jour, monsieur?” cried Freigang, as this disgusting object came near.
The man stood still, rolled up his meaningless eyes, contracted his brows, and at length shading off the sun with his hand, looked inquisitively at the speaker. After a few moments he recognized him, and with a low, ceremonious bow, from which he found it difficult to recover himself—“Most worthy sir!” he said, “at your service—I am your humble—servant!”
“You seem to be in deep thought,” observed Freigang, laughing.
“He is drunk, the wretched dog!” muttered Hiller, greatly disgusted.
“If I am not mistaken,” stammered the man, “I have the honor—to salute—the most excellent Director of music—Monsieur Hiller—yes—I am right—it is he! I am happy—to speak with your excellency! I am highly pleased at the—unexpected—pleasure of this meeting!”
“I am not,” retorted Hiller, angrily; “I would have walked a mile out of the way to avoid it. I do not feel honored at being in such company.”
“Nay, Hiller,” remonstrated Mozart.
“Let the excellent Director scold as much as he likes,” said the stranger, indifferently, and speaking more fluently than at first; “what is in the heart, must come out of the lips; and after all, I must allow, Monsieur Hiller has indeed some little cause to be vexed with me! You must all know I ran away with his foster-daughter! I am the famous violoncellist, Mara, the husband of the famous singer—”
“Is it possible?” cried Mozart, astonished and grieved; “can this be Mara?”
“At your service, most worthy master—eh? what is the little man called?” said he, addressing Doles.
Doles answered—“It is the chapel-master, Mozart, from Vienna.”
Mara lifted up both hands in amazement. “The little”—he cried, “the great Mozart—who has composed such splendid quartettos! who has composed Don Giovanni, and I know not what!”
“The same!” answered Weisse; and Freigang advised Mara to look at him straight, for he was worth taking some pains to see.
Mara seemed overpowered with his respect; he took off his soiled hat, and making a low bow, said to Mozart, “I have the honor to be—your—servant! You see me to-day for the first time en canaille; I need not apologise to you, for you know how apt good resolutions are to melt away in a bowl of liquor!” The composer colored slightly. “Another time,” continued the tippler, “you shall see me with my best face, and hear how I can handle my instrument; till then, I have the honor to commend myself to your friendly remembrance!” He went on past the company, but on a second thought turned back for an instant and addressed Hiller. “Before we part, most worshipful music-director—I know you have had much uneasiness on the score of Gertrude; her running away from you was to be excused, as you were only her foster-father! but you would be quite shocked to learn in what a manner she has behaved to me, as Madame Mara, and what I have had to bear on her account! I wish not to insinuate that she has not her good qualities or is altogether an ill-disposed person—au contraire! She paid my debts once in Berlin, but what did that help me? did not the great Frederick—may he rest in peace—keep me a quarter of a year among his soldiers, and had not the brutal corporal the impudence to beat me! Sir, I assure you, such treatment soured my feelings, and to this day, when I am playing, I often think of my wife and the King, and the corporal with his heavy cane! Excuse me then, sir, for if I do take a drop too much now and then, ’tis to drown my sorrows at Gertrude’s scandalous behavior! Let us part good friends, old gentleman; mind not trifles. I shall be happy to see you at any time at my house in Windmill Street, No. 857. I am sober every day, till eight o’clock; come and see me, and if you like a dance I will play for you; my violincello is a capital old instrument, a veritable Cremonese, full toned and strong. Your servant, sir.” Therewith the drunken musician walked on, leaving Hiller undecided whether to laugh or be angry.
The company sat down to a collation under the tent. Mozart was astonished to find Cecilia grown so much. The last time he had seen her was at Berlin, five years before. She was then a pretty child, but now a very beautiful girl. It is not for words to paint that fresh, innocent beauty, the pledge of an unsullied soul. She had grown a woman, and her manner was changed from girlish vivacity and frankness, to womanly dignity and reserve. Mozart did not, however, like her dropping the familiar “Du,” (Thou,) and “Wolfgang!” in conversation with him.
“Why do you not still call me Wolfgang?” asked he. “Lena, calls me so, and is she not of the same age with yourself?”
But Cecilia said “Mozart,” so prettily, it sounded like music from her lips. The composer soon learned to reverence her as the gifted and cultivated woman, as well as to admire her as the lovely girl. Nor had he reason to complain of coldness or constraint when once she became interested in the conversation. The hours flew swiftly to that social party of friends, and twilight came too soon upon them.
As they went forth, Cecilia took Lena’s arm and whispered—
“How charming he is, Lena! do you not love him?”
“Ah, Cecilia!” answered her friend, gravely, and shaking her head, “take care you do not love him too much—you know he is sometimes fond of playing the flirt.”
Cecilia blushed, and smiled incredulously, but said nothing. The gentlemen accompanied the ladies to the house of Doles, and then went to supper at Breitkopf’s.
The next day Mozart was showing his friends an autograph letter of King Frederick William II., of Prussia, and a royal present of a gold watch, set round with rich jewels. The composer, on his last visit to Berlin, had played in the King’s presence, and this had been sent as a token of approbation. Lena clapped her hands with delight at seeing it, and called her mother to admire its magnificence, and Doles expressed equal wonder at its splendor, and the liberality of the King.
“Are you pleased with it, father?” cried Mozart, “well, I will make it a present to you,” and would have pressed the watch upon him, but Doles firmly refused, saying it was not treating the King with proper respect to give away his gift. Mozart was really vexed that he should decline it, and would not take back the watch without a grave reproof from Madame Doles. A year after, the same watch was stolen from him by a dissolute musician, Stadeler by name, whom he had permitted to lodge in his house several months, furnished him with supplies, and even composed for him a clarionet concert.
After this little matter was adjusted, and the usual skirmish between the composer and Lena at an end, he and Doles accompanied by Friedrich went to the rehearsal of his concert.
Many persons are living in Leipzig who are so happy as to remember having listened to that last concert of Mozart. I have seen their eyes sparkle, and their cheeks glow, in speaking of it. It recalled to their bosoms the enthusiasm of youth.
Mozart was not wholly satisfied with the musicians, and he drilled them thoroughly. Once he stamped on the floor so emphatically, that he shattered a costly shoe-buckle. The performers were vexed, and played prestissimo; he cried “Bravo!” and said to an old friend, when he saw him shaking his head—“Nay, nay, do not disturb yourself about my strange behavior this morning. These people are old and slow: their work to-night will be a drag, unless I put some fire into them by scolding them out of patience. I think now all will go off admirably.”
And all did go off admirably that night. The boundless applause of the audience, and Mozart’s cheerful commendations and thanks, put the orchestra once more in high good humor.
Cecilia, who had already much reputation as a singer, sang two airs from Idomeneo. Mozart was delighted with her. The true feeling of her singing showed that she was possessed of genius, that rare and precious gift of heaven; thus he whispered to her father while she was singing, and at the end conducted her from the stage himself. Cecilia thought the master’s approval worth more than the noisy applause of the audience, and went home proud and happy.
Some of the wealthy connoisseurs had ordered a splendid supper to be prepared at the principal hotel, in honor of the distinguished composer. When the concert was over, they carried him off in triumph. Freigang was of the party. Doles relished not scenes of mirth, and went home with his wife and daughter, and Cecilia.
The ladies could not give up talking of the pleasures of the evening, till a late hour; and just as Cecilia was taking leave of her friends, a servant came from the hotel with a message to Father Doles that the chapel-master begged they would not wait up for him, as he should not return home that night. The messenger added, by way of comment—
“They are very merry yonder; I do not think for a year past we have opened so many bottles of champagne as for the party to-night—”
“Very well!” said Doles, interrupting him, and dismissed the servant.
“I am sorry for Mozart, indeed,” whispered Cecilia, as she bade Lena good night.
“Never mind,” returned that lively girl, “be quiet about it, and I will read him a lesson to-morrow, the like of which he has not heard for a long time.”
The next morning Mozart made his appearance at breakfast, pale and haggard-looking; confused in his discourse and looking much ashamed. Neither Doles nor his wife made any allusion to his dissipation of the preceding night, and Lena did not venture to show her displeasure in the presence of her parents. Yet Mozart felt that things were not exactly as they should be, and all frankness and openness as he was, he could not long disguise his real feelings. He began to lament what had passed, half in jest and half in earnest; “It had been,” he said, “too wild a night for him, and to say truth, he would have much preferred a quiet evening after the concert,” adding, “but you know, once is not always.”
“True, my dear son,” replied Father Doles, with a smile, “and if you really enjoyed yourself, the gayety of last night could do you no harm. Only, I beg of you in future, to leave off in time, and carry nothing to excess! Your health is feeble, and will not bear much: take good care of it, for the powers of body and mind are but too easily exhausted. Remember poor Mara!”
Mozart looked very grave, and said, somewhat sadly, “Ah! there are the ruins of a noble creature! Let me die, rather than fall thus! No, I shall remember last night—the mischief take such hospitality!”
“Why, what happened?” asked Doles, anxiously.
“You know, father, the invitation was given by the friends of art,” said Mozart, with an emphasis of some bitterness; “I accepted it as such; the concert elevated my spirits, and I went with them. All was well at first—we were a set of rational men, met together in the spirit of social enjoyment. When the toasts were going round, one of the company went out and returned with Mara, already half drunk, and set him up to make sport for the rest. The poor wretch made me a very ridiculous speech, and when he was animated by a few more glasses of champagne, they brought him a violincello, and invited him to play. I wished for some cotton in my ears, for I thought nothing else but that I was to suffer torture; but it was far otherwise; indeed I cannot describe to you my sensations, when he began to play—I never heard the like before. It was music to stir the inmost soul. I could not refrain from tears through the adagio, and thought of the witch-music Tartini heard in his dreams—so moving, so entrancing! At the wild concluding allegro, I could have embraced the performer. I did not attempt to conceal what I felt.” The composer stopped suddenly, as if even the recollection moved him.
“Well, and what then?” asked Doles, at length.
Mozart bit his lips. “Mara then played the variations in my duet from Don Giovanni—‘La ci darem la mano!’ I assure you, even had I not heard his previous splendid performance, these variations, played in such a manner as showed the most thorough appreciation of the whole work, would have convinced me of his being a perfect master of his art, and of his instrument, and led me to reverence him as such. But how did the friends of art take it?” here Mozart sprang up highly excited, his eyes flashing fire, though his face was paler than ever, “how did they applaud his playing? with huzzas and toasts! and when he ceased, they plied him with more and more wine, till he was beastly drunk and beside himself, and then they set him upon all sorts of foolery, and made him imitate on his instrument, from which he had just drawn such matchless tones, the mewing of cats, the braying of an ass, the crowing of a cock, and the like, and they laughed to see him degrade himself. Oh, shame! shame! And they laughed the more when Mara, unable to stand any longer on his feet, fell on the floor—and then I, like the rest, drank till I was reeling,” concluded he, with a bitter expression of self-contempt.
“Do you not think, my dear son,” asked Doles, mildly, after a pause, “that the time will come when the true artist’s worth will be estimated properly, and he assume the dignity he deserves?”
“It is possible,” answered Mozart, gloomily, “but the artist will never live to feel it.”
“You certainly do, Wolfgang?”
The composer shook his head with a melancholy smile—“You are mistaken, my dear friend, I do not. But I am satisfied that some few appreciate and are faithful to me, and I can depend upon them; you for example, father, and my fair friends here!”
Lena wiped her eyes, and said—“Nay, Mozart, you should not talk so, as if you had but few friends.”
Here Friedrich joined them.
“Here comes another,” said the master, smiling, “one who understands me also. May you ever have the consolation of real friends, my good lad, and keep your spirit free and uncontaminated! Aim at that above all things, and do not forget me, Friedrich, when I am—gone!”
“Never, never!” cried the youth, clasping the master’s hand and pressing it to his heart. They then bade the ladies good morning, and went out for a walk.
Lena forgave her friend from her heart, and resolved to spare him the lesson she had intended to inflict on him.
“I leave it all to you. Do what I told you and be silent,” said Mozart, in the street, to the lad Friedrich, giving him at the same time a well-filled purse.
Friedrich took the purse, promised secrecy, and hastened to the dwelling of the unhappy Mara. Mozart went on to pay a visit at the house of his friend, Freigang.
“My father is asleep yet,” said Cecilia, as she came into the parlor to meet him. “If you will wait a few moments, I will awaken him.”
“By no means!” said Mozart, detaining her; “Let your father sleep on. I will pay my visit to you, with your permission. I wish to thank you for your admirable singing last evening. Indeed, Cecilia, I was delighted with the simplicity and taste of your performance. I detest the airs and graces so many young women of the present day introduce into their songs. I have been so disgusted in Vienna, that I would not hear the singers again in my pieces.”
“How were you amused, last night, after the concert?” asked the young lady.
“Very badly.”
“How was that?”
Here Mozart told her what he had related to Doles. Cecilia colored, and he saw tears in her eyes as he concluded.
“How cruel,” she said, with noble indignation, “thus to take advantage of the weakness, say the vices of a man in whose breast, notwithstanding all his faults, the fire of genius is still inextinguishable.”
“Cruel indeed!” echoed Mozart.
“But you must not fancy all the world selfish and regardless of the artist’s high claims, because some are so, who indeed are incapable of appreciating what they pretend to admire. Shun such men, dear Mozart—shun them utterly! there is no safety in their companionship.”
“You mean to warn me?” asked the composer.
“I only entreat you,” said Cecilia, earnestly; “such associations can never profit, but must disturb you. What need have I to say anything? Have not you yourself learned by experience how hard it is to help being drawn down in the vortex?”
Mozart confessed that such was the truth; but desirous of removing any unfavorable opinion of his discretion that his fair friend might have conceived from his recent act of folly, he entered into an argument to show her why she need never fear his falling into such snares. This led to reminiscences of his days of enthusiasm, and the raptures of his past successes.
Mozart received, as a parting present from Doles, a collection of church pieces by the elder Bach. These he prized highly, and laid them carefully in his portmanteau. The day was passed in quiet conversation with his venerable friend; in the evening a few came in to bid the master adieu, for he was going to start for Vienna with the evening post, and that went at nine.
It was half-past eight; the faces of all the company began to grow sad, but Mozart seemed gayer than ever. Indeed, those who remember this his farewell interview with his friends, say they never knew him in such high spirits. Excitement, even of a painful kind, sometimes produces such effects upon ardent natures; and besides, the composer wished to keep up the spirits of the rest.
“If we should never meet again!” whispered Cecilia, sadly, and Father Doles responded to her melancholy foreboding.
“Let’s have no whimpering!” cried Mozart, laughing. “I will not hear it. I will give you a toast—Long life, and a happy meeting next year!”
The glasses were filled, and rang as they brought them together. Some one observed the sound was like a knell. Mozart brought his down impatiently on the table and shivered it; he laughed again, and hoped their friendship would prove more durable than the fragile glass.
“Master Mozart!” said Hiller, “will you not write us some little piece before you go, just to bring you to our thoughts sometimes, and remind us of this hour? It is possible that we shall never all meet again in this world.”
“Oh, willingly,” answered Mozart. He paused a few moments thoughtfully, and then called to Friedrich to bring him paper and writing materials.
Friedrich obeyed with alacrity, and the master wrote a piece impromptu, while the others were looking on, wondering at him, and exchanging glances.
When he had finished, he tore the paper into five pieces, and keeping one part for himself, divided the others; to Doles, basso primo, to Hiller, basso secondo; Friedrich, tenore primo, Weisse, tenore secondo.
“Now,” he cried, “we have no time to lose; allons—begin!”
They sang the farewell song of Mozart! Never was farewell sung with deeper feeling or with better execution. When it was at an end, they all sat silent and sad. Mozart was first to recover himself; he started up, bade a hasty adieu to all present, and seizing his hat, with another broken “farewell,” rushed from the room.
His friends still sat, as if stupified by their grief. Presently the post-horn sounded, and the coach rolled past the window. Their beloved companion was gone.
In the autumn of that same year they buried the venerable Father Doles.
It was just before the Christmas festival, in the year 1791, that Lena, now a happy wife and mother, busied at home in preparing Christmas gifts, was surprised by her friend, Cecilia, who rushed into the room pale as death, without hat or mantle.
“Cecilia!” cried Lena, much alarmed, “what ails you—what has happened?”
“Read it—read it!” faltered the breathless girl, and putting a newspaper into her friend’s hand, she burst into tears, and sank on a seat.
“The Vienna Gazette,” said Lena, and trembling with indefinite apprehension, she looked over a column or two, before her eyes lighted on the paragraph:
“Vienna, December 6th.—Died yesterday evening, the celebrated musician and composer, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Chapel-Master, Knight of the Golden Spurs, etc., etc., in the thirty-sixth year of his age.”
The genius of Cecilia was not destined to ripen on earth. In another year the weeping Lena followed her bier to the grave. She was buried near the resting-place of Father Doles.