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—