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!”