“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?”