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.”