“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.