THE ARTIST’S LESSON.
In a room meanly furnished, of a small house, No. 857 Windmill street, Leipzig, a man in the beginning of middle age was reclining on a seat, one morning in 1789. He was well built and slender, and his features were rather handsome than otherwise; but they were sharpened and bleached by dissipation, and his whole person bore the marks of excess. He wore a flowered silk dressing-gown, torn and frayed in various places; his collar was open and soiled, though it displayed the whitest of necks; and a dirty velvet cap had just been removed from a head that seemed as if it had not in many days known the discipline of a comb. This individual was leaning on a table, turning over some pages of music carelessly; a violoncello lay beside him.
The sun was high in heaven, the day cloudless and beautiful; a soft and balmy air came in at the open window and door, and stirred the disordered locks of the student, if such he might be called. He seemed now occupied in thought, and pushed away the music; anon he heaved a deep sigh, shook his head and began once more to pore over the notes.
“Bon jour, mon cher!” cried a merry voice, and looking up, the student recognized Heinrich Ferren, one of his neighbors and boon companions, and briefly returned his salutation.
“What the mischief are you about here?” asked Heinrich.
“Ah, mon ami,” replied the other, “if I could only hold it fast! But it flies and whirls about my head—worse than the fumes of the champagne, and is gone as quickly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had a dream last night—such a dream! I and my fellow there,” pointing to the violoncello, “were alone together in the woods; and so glorious an air came to me—so graceful—so moving—so entrancing! Tartini’s witch music was nothing to it! and it seemed that a spirit voice said to me, ‘Do this—Mara—you can!’ Oh, Heinrich! I have been striving ever since I waked to catch it, but in vain; and I was looking over these notes to find something that might recall it.”
“Pshaw—’twas but the wine we drank last night.”
“No, no, Heinrich—but I’ll tell you what it was; the voice of my genius”—
“You make me laugh, Mara!”
“Then what think you of this?” and catching up the instrument, the musician ran over the strings several times, bringing forth snatches of melody so exquisite that Heinrich himself started; but melody broken and incoherent, mingling the wildest and most touching harmony with what was frequently commonplace and harsh.
“Ah! ’tis not that yet! I cannot catch it!” and throwing down the instrument with a gesture of despair, the disappointed artist buried his face in his hands.
“Come, do not take it so,” cried the friend; ’twill come to you to-night! Who thinks, ha! of work in the morning? and you, Mara, of all others, whose inspiration is always in the bottom of your glass!”
“True, true, Heinrich! and we will dive for it, eh!” and rising, the artist went to a closet and brought out a couple of flasks and two tumblers. “Here’s what will drive away melancholy.” He poured out the wine and they pledged each other.
“Come, I have a thought,” cried the violoncellist. “It was at Rosenthal, in my dream, that I heard the witch music. I will go there to-day, with my good fellow, and perhaps it will come back to me. I cannot compose in this house, but in the green vale and under the blue sky—ah, Heinrich!”
“I suppose Madame Mara favors you with an accompaniment sometimes—ha! ha!” cried the friend, laughing.
Mara held up his finger significantly and shook his head. “The public are enchanted with Gertrude’s singing, but ’tis anything rather than adagio with me! Ah, mine is a sad lot! And what think you? she will give me no more furniture to my room, though I have had to part with piece after piece to pay for our suppers, Heinrich! You see to what I am reduced! but two chairs and a bench and table, and my fellow here,” hugging his instrument, “which I will die rather than pawn. And Madame Mara rides in her carriage and dresses like a queen at the concerts, and wins all hearts, and gives me nothing of all the money she has paid her! It all goes to the bank, laid up for her luxury, while I have to sell the furniture for this”—pointing to the wine. “But I’ll outwit her. I have a jewelled brooch she thinks lost, and mean to sell it to-morrow; ’twill keep us in good liquor for a month, and then I know where to find more of the same plunder!”
The degraded artist chuckled over the idea of robbing his wife; his friend laughed with him, but observed that were he blessed with a wife who could make money, he would know how to obtain it without stratagem.
“Oh, as to that, mon ami, remember her foster-father—Hiller, the music director; ’tis he encourages her obstinacy, and I should not like to break with him altogether. As to Gertrude, she thinks she acts for my good. Did she not quarrel for my sake with the King at Berlin? Did she not give up her appointment, worth two thousand a year, at the court of Frederick the Great, because the King and I could not pull together? Then, after all, I am not fit, as she says, to be my own master; and I would rather submit to her than the monarch who shut me up three months, or the corporal who thrashed me! ’Sdeath! that corporal with his stout cane! it makes me foam to think of it! But I’ll pay him back some day or other.” And with hand already tremulous from drunkenness, Mara filled and emptied his glass again, signing to his companion to do the same, with a ludicrous expression of hilarious hospitality.
At this moment the clock struck, and a door opened opposite the one leading into the street. A lady of fine figure, and elegantly dressed in a riding habit, came into the room. She stopped as if about to speak, but seeing the wine on the table and the condition of both the tipplers, she cast on them a look of profound and withering contempt, and passed on to the outer door without saying a word.
“Bravo, Madame Mara!” cried Heinrich, when he had recovered from his surprise after she had gone out. “Her ladyship likes not to find us drinking so early. Where goes she? ah! to the rehearsal; and that reminds me, Mara, of what I had nearly forgotten. We must go also; so no more wine till supper time!”
“I will not go!” said Mara, doggedly.
“Yes you will. Do you know who is to be there? The chapel-master from Vienna!”
“What do you say—Mozart?” cried the violoncellist, springing up, half sobered by surprise.
“The very same, mon cher.”
“To-day—at rehearsal?”
“Exactly; Father Doles, Hiller, Weisse and others have arranged a concert for the chapel-master, and it is to take place to-night. Master Wolfgang arrived yesterday. You must go with me to rehearsal and see him.”
“That I will, Heinrich. Do you know it has been the desire of my life to know the great Mozart? Oh, to think of his quartettes! I have painted him before me as I played the music—grand, noble, of towering form, dark, flashing eyes and trumpet voice”—
“Hold, Mara, you are out there,” interrupted Heinrich, laughing heartily. “The little Master Wolfgang never sat for such a picture! In the first place, he is not towering, but low of stature and insignificant in appearance.”
“But no less the great Mozart!” cried Mara, with enthusiasm. “The creator of Idomeneo, of Don Giovanni! I must know him, if only to tell him how I adore his music. Allons—mon ami; but stay; I must put on my coat.”
And pulling off his dressing-gown, assisted by Heinrich, the musician in trembling haste put on a coat that had once been a fine one, though it lacked now much of its lace and several buttons; and clapping his cap on his head, and taking up his stick, after locking up his violoncello, the two worthy companions made their way to the theatre.
Almost all the distinguished musical characters in Leipzig were at the rehearsal of Mozart’s last concert, for it was the last he ever gave in that musical capital of Europe. There was the venerable Father Doles, whose guest Mozart was; there was the cynical director Hiller, whose sternness was not proof against the gayety of the chapel-master; there were pupils of his and Doles, and many other connoisseurs. When our two tipplers arrived, the music and the company seemed to bewilder the brain of the violoncellist, already fuddled by the wine he had drunk. He walked unsteadily to one of the side scenes and looked on. The performers were rehearsing a scene from Don Giovanni; a little, pale, thin man stood on the stage and seemed much interested, for he stopped them several times and forced them to go over what they had sung. Several times he stamped violently on the floor, and once he seized one of the singers by the shoulders and shook him, crying “Prestissimo! I will not have my music dragged out in that way!”
His friends laughed, and the singers looked angry; Mozart cried “Da capo!” and they went on sullenly, but with more spirit than before. Then he encouraged them with “Bravo, friends, I have you now!” and clapped his hands.
Through the rehearsal he continued to play the same part; running hither and thither, stopping one, correcting another and swearing at another, till the performers at last caught his spirit and excelled themselves to please him.
“Is that the man?” asked Mara of his companion when the rehearsal was at an end; and being told that it was Mozart, he took off his cap, went up to him and made a low, ceremonious bow, rolling his red eyes and stammering an expression of his sense of the honor of standing in the presence of so distinguished a person.
“Eh, who is this?” inquired the composer, turning to Hiller.
“One whose company does us no honor,” replied the director, angrily surveying the slovenly figure before him. “I wonder he dares intrude himself here.”
“Who is he, then?”
“Mara, at your service—Mara, the violoncellist,” answered the tippler, with another scraping bow; “I would thank you, sir, for your excellent music.”
“Mara? I have heard of you; you are a famous player. I am happy to make your acquaintance.”
“I thank you, Master Mozart; I am most honored and happy to make yours; I have long wished for this good fortune. I am aware, sir,” with a glance at Hiller, “that I have enemies who misrepresent me; and that is easy, too, for I sometimes misrepresent myself. But I would have you appreciate me. I should like to hear your judgment on my playing; I should hold it an honor, sir, to be permitted to play before you. I should esteem it a favor if you would visit me. I live at 857 Windmill street, and shall be happy to see you at any time—before noon. It would give me great pleasure”—
“I will certainly visit you,” said Mozart.
“You—visit this drunken wretch?” exclaimed Hiller in unfeigned surprise. “No, he is not worthy of your acquaintance.” Just then Madame Mara passed out and descended to her carriage. “He is the torment of his excellent wife, who has made sacrifices enough for him, and now that he is wholly lost and there is no hope of his reformation, she allows to him the necessaries of life, even while she leaves him forever.”
“How?—Gertrude—my wife—” stammered Mara.
“Yes, your injured wife;” repeated the music-director. “You have outraged her feelings by your miserable excesses; you have destroyed her rest by your midnight orgies; she is weary of you. She will return no more to your house; she will see you no more. To-morrow she departs for Paris.”
“Bravo, Heinrich, what fun we shall have!” cried the violoncellist, with a flourish of his stick. “Eh bien, foster father—”
“In pity, to you, degraded wretch,” continued Hiller, “she has directed me to supply you with provisions as you need, but with no money to minister to your depraved passion for drinking. Now you know what you have to depend upon.”
“Your most obedient, my lord,” said Mara, bowing with a flourish almost to the ground, from which obeisance he recovered himself with great difficulty, amidst the laughter of the bystanders. “I am wholly at your service, most excellent director of music—at your excellency’s service! But I shall not draw on my banker. I am beholden to Madame Mara, but I can play the violoncello as well as she. You should hear me play,” turning to Mozart. “These gentlemen here, can tell you something of my taste in music.”
“Oh, yes,” cried several in a breath; “Monsieur Mara is a first rate player on the violoncello. You are too severe with him, Monsieur Hiller.”
“Oh, much too severe!” repeated others. “Mara is a good fellow—an excellent fellow—and the best of company. What should we do without him? He is the life of our suppers.” Hiller, in disgust, drew Mozart away; Doles and his party had already gone. They left the theatre while the inebriated musician was making a grateful speech to his “good friends,” and gesticulating in a manner to kill them with laughter.
We change the scene to the celebrated Rosenthal, the beautiful retreat where Goëthe passed so many hours of leisure when a student. It was indeed a valley of roses; for the season was early summer, when flowers are most abundant and the tender green of the rich foliage is freshest and brightest. It was a lovely afternoon, but not sultry; a large awning was spread for temporary use; and just in the shade of a group of trees was set out a table with refreshments. There were not more than a dozen seats arranged round it, evidently for a small and select company. Ere long carriages drove up and some ladies alighted and began to arrange the collation. Two of them were the wife and daughter of Doles; they brought flowers which they had gathered, and decorated the table, placing a wreath of roses and laurels over the seat destined to be occupied by their honored guest. The rest of the company soon joined them, and it would be interesting, had we space, to relate the conversation that formed the most delightful part of their entertainment. They were a few choice spirits, met to enjoy the society of Mozart in an hour sacred to friendship. There was no lack of humor and mirth; indeed the composer would have acted at variance with his character had he not beguiled even the gravest by his amusing sallies; but the themes of their discourse were the musical masters of the world and the state and prospects of their art.
“You have in truth some reason to quarrel with our good Leipzig,” said one of the company to Mozart. “We are slow and cold; we hang back from what they call your innovations, but time will bring us along; and you must not, meantime, judge us incapable of appreciating the wonders you have made known to the world.”
“Far from it,” replied the composer; “or if I should be vexed at the caution of your public taste, unwilling to admire at once what is new, I should be rebuked by your eminence in concerts and church music. You are unrivalled in your artists, and to please your connoisseurs I should esteem the highest triumph in my life.”
“But could we only entice you to live here”—
“No, the atmosphere does not suit me; the reserve would chill my efforts, for I live upon the love of those who suffer me to do as I please. Some other time, perhaps, I may come to Leipzig; just now Vienna is the place for me. By the way, what think you of Bonn?”
“You cannot think of Bonn for a residence?”
“Not I; but never despair! Had you asked me where art had the least chance of spreading her wings for a bold flight—where she was most securely chained down and forbidden to soar, I should have answered, ‘Bonn.’ But that unpromising city has produced one of the greatest geniuses of our day.”
“Who—who?” eagerly demanded several among the company.
“A lad—a mere lad—who has been under the tutelage of the Elector’s masters, and shocked them all by his musical eccentricities. They were ready to give him up in disgust. He came to me just before I left Vienna; modest, abashed, doubting his own genius, but eager to learn his fate from my lips. I gave him one of my most difficult pieces; he executed it in a manner so spirited, so admirable—carried away by the music, which entered his very soul—forgetful of his faintheartedness—full of inspiration! ’Twas an artist, I assure you; a true and noble one, and I told him so.”
“His name?”
“Louis von Beethoven.”
“I know his father well,” said Hiller.
“Then you know one who has given the world a treasure! For mark me; railed at as he may be for refusing to follow in the beaten path, decried for his contempt of ordinary rules, the lad Beethoven will rise to a splendid fame! But his forte will be sacred music.”
The conversation turned to the works of Bach and Händel.
As the sun declined westward the company rose and returned to the city. When they had left the grounds, a figure came forward from the concealment of the foliage and walked pensively to and fro. He had heard most of the conversation unobserved; it was the artist Mara.
“Well, well,” he said to himself, “I have heard and know him now. His taste is the same with mine; he glories in Händel and old Sebastian; and yet, how much may still be done! Ah, that music in my dream!” He struck his forehead. “But I can keep nothing in my head; Mara—Mara—non e piu com era prima! If ’twere not for this vertigo, this throbbing that I feel whenever I strive to collect my thoughts and fix them on an idea; if I could but grasp the conception, oh, ’twould be glorious!”
The spirit of art had not yet left the degraded being it had once inspired; but how sad were the struggles of the soul against her painful and contaminating bonds!
“Why,” resumed the soliloquist, “why was I not invited to make one among the company assembled here to welcome the great chapel-master? I too am a famous artist; I can appreciate music; the public have pronounced me entitled to rank among the first. But nobody will associate with Mara in the day time! It is only at night, at the midnight revels, where such grave ones as the director scorn to appear, that Mara, like a bird of evil omen, is permitted to show his face. Then they shout and clap for me and call me a merry fellow; and I am the merriest of them all! But I do not like such welcome; I would rather be reasonable if I could, and the wine would let me—the wine—am I a slave to that? Ha, a slave! Alas! it is so; wine is my master, and he is jealous of every other, and beats me when I rebel, till I cry mercy and crouch at his feet again. Oh, if I had a friend strong enough to get me out of his clutches! but I have no friends—none—not even Gertrude. She has left me, and there is no one at home now, even to reproach me when I come back drunk, or make a noise in the house over the table with a companion or two. Heinrich—no—he laughs and makes game of me like the rest. I am sick of this miserable life; I am tired of being laughed at and shunned; I will put an end to it all, and then they will say once again, ‘Poor Mara!’”
With a sudden start the wretched man rushed away and was presently hid among the branches of the trees. A whistle was heard just then, and a lad, walking briskly, followed, hallooing after him. He came just in time. A stream, a branch of the Pleysse, watered the bottom of the valley; Mara was about to throw himself into it in the deepest spot, when his arm was caught by his pursuer.
“What the mischief are you about?”
“Let me alone!” cried Mara, struggling.
“Do you mean to be drowned?”
“Yes; that is just what I want. I came here for that purpose. And what have you to say against it, Friedrich?”
“Nothing, if your fancy runs that way,” replied the lad, laughing. “Only you have plenty of leisure for it hereafter, and just now you are wanted.”
“Wanted?”
“Yes; I came to look for you.”
“Who wants the poor drunkard, Mara?”
“They want you at Breithoff’s to-night, at the supper given to Mozart after the concert, and you must bring your instrument; we are to have some rare fun. Come, if you are obedient, you shall go with me to the concert.”
Mozart’s concert! Surprised and pleased that some of his acquaintance had remembered him, Mara suffered himself to be led away by his companion.
The concert was a splendid one and attended by all the taste and fashion of Leipzig. The orchestra was admirable, the singers were full of spirit and good humor, the audience delighted, the composer gratified and thankful. The good effect of his drilling at rehearsal was evident; but those who listened to the noble music and rewarded the performers by frequent bursts of tumultuous applause, knew not the source of their unusual animation and gave them all the credit. Mozart thanked them in a brief speech, and as soon as the concert was at an end was led off in triumph by the connoisseurs, his friends.
Magnificent beyond expectation was the entertainment prepared, and attended by many among the wealthy and the noble, as well as the most distinguished artists. The votaries of art had indeed superior claims, for the feast was in honor of Art and her noblest son. The revelry was prolonged beyond midnight, and as the guests became warmed with good cheer, we are bound to record that the conversation lost its rational tone, and that comical sallies and uproarious laughter began to usurp the place of critical discourse. They had songs from all who were musical; Mara, among the rest, was brought in, dressed in a fantastic but slovenly manner, and made to play for the amusement of the company. When he had played several pieces, the younger guests began to put their practical jokes upon him and provoke him to imitate the noises of different animals on his violoncello. Mara entered into all their fun, convulsing them with his grotesque speeches and gestures, drinking glass after glass, till at last he fell back quite overpowered and insensible. Then his juvenile tormentors painted his face and clipped his mustaches and tricked him out in finery that gave him the look of a candidate for Bedlam, and had him carried to his own house, laughing to imagine what his sensations would be next morning, when he should discover how ludicrously he had been disfigured. In short, the whole party were considerably beyond the bounds of propriety and sound judgment. Mozart also——
It was considerably after noon the next day, that poor Mara, the victim of those merciless revellers, might be seen sitting disconsolately in his deserted home. He had no heart even to be enraged at the cruelties practised on him. Pale as death, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, his limbs shivering, sat this miserable wretch, dressed in the same mockery of finery which had been heaped upon him in wicked sport.
The door opened and Mozart entered.
At sight of the composer Mara rose and mechanically returned his salutation. Mozart looked grave and sad.
“You are much the worse for last night’s dissipation, my good fellow,” said he.
“Ah, Master Mozart,” said the violoncellist, with a faint smile, “it is too good of you to visit such a dog as poor Mara.”
“I have something to say to you, friend,” answered the composer in a voice of emotion. “In the first place, let me thank you for your music last night.”
The bewildered artist passed his hand across his forehead.
“I say, let me thank you. It is long since I have heard such music.”
“You were pleased with it?” asked Mara, looking up, while a beam of joy shot into the darkness of his soul.
“Pleased? it was noble—heart-stirring! I must own I did not expect such from you. I expected to be shocked, but I was charmed. And when you played the air from Idomeneo—sacré! but it went to my soul. I have never had my music so thoroughly appreciated—so admirably executed. Mara, you are a master of your art! I reverence you!”
“You?” repeated the artist, drawing his breath quickly.
“Yes; I own you for my brother, and so I told them all last night.”
The poor man gave a leap and seized the master by both hands; rapture had penetrated his inmost heart. “Oh, you make me very happy!” faltered he.
“I am glad of it; for now I am going to say something painful.” Mara hung his head. “Nay, I reproach myself as much as you. We both behaved ill last night; we both forgot the dignity of the artist and the man.”
Again the poor violoncellist looked bewildered.
“We forgot that such as we, are set up for an example to the uninitiated, and yielded to the tempter, wine! Art—our mother—has reason to blush for us.”
“For me,” cried Mara, deeply moved. “But not for you.”
“Yes, for me,” repeated Mozart; “and for all who were there. It was a shameful scene. What,” he continued, with rising indignation, “what would the true friends of art have thought of such beastly orgies, celebrated in her name? Why, they would have said, perhaps, ‘these men are wild fellows, but we must let them have their way; we owe the fine music they give us to their free living; they must have stimulus to compose or play well.’ No, no, no! it is base to malign the holy science we love. Such excesses but unfit us for work. I have never owed a good thought to the bottle. I tell you I hate myself for last night’s foolery.”
“Ah, master; you who are so far above me!” sighed Mara.
“And lo, here, the wreck of a noble being!” said the composer, in a low voice and with much bitterness; then resuming, “Listen to me, Mara. You have been your own enemy; but your fall is not wholly your own work. You are wondrously gifted; you can be, you shall be, snatched from ruin. You can, you shall, rise above those who would trample on you now; become renowned and beloved and leave an honored name to posterity. You have given me a lesson, Mara—a lesson which I shall remember my lifelong—which I shall teach to others. You have done me good—I will do something for you. Come with me to Vienna.”
The poor violoncellist had eagerly listened to the words of him he so venerated—whom he looked on as a superior being. While he talked to him as an equal, while he acknowledged his genius, lamented his faults and gave him hope that all was not yet lost, the spirit of the degraded creature revived within him. It was the waking of his mind’s energies; the struggle of the soul for life against the lethargy of a mortal malady. Life triumphed! Mara was once more a man; but overcome by the conflict and by the last generous offer, he sank back, bowed his face upon his hands and wept aloud.
“Come,” cried Mozart, after a pause, during which his own eyes were moistened, “come, we have no time to lose. I go out to-night by the evening post for Vienna; you must accompany me. Take this purse, put your dress in order and make haste. I will call for you at eight. Be ready then. Not a word more.”
And forcing a well filled purse into his trembling hands, the master hastened away too quickly to hear a word of thanks from the man he had saved from worse than death.
The great composer was early summoned from this and many other works of mercy and benevolence. But if his noble design was unaccomplished, at least good seed was sown, and Mara placed once more within view of the goal of virtuous hope. Rescued from the mire of degradation, he might, by perseverance, have won the prize; if he did not, the fault was this time wholly his own. Whatever the termination of his career, the moral lesson is for us the same.