“A lad—a mere lad—who has been under the tutelage of the Elector’s masters, and shocked them all by his musical eccentricities. They were ready to give him up in disgust. He came to me just before I left Vienna; modest, abashed, doubting his own genius, but eager to learn his fate from my lips. I gave him one of my most difficult pieces; he executed it in a manner so spirited, so admirable—carried away by the music, which entered his very soul—forgetful of his faintheartedness—full of inspiration! ’Twas an artist, I assure you; a true and noble one, and I told him so.”
“His name?”
“Louis von Beethoven.”
“I know his father well,” said Hiller.
“Then you know one who has given the world a treasure! For mark me; railed at as he may be for refusing to follow in the beaten path, decried for his contempt of ordinary rules, the lad Beethoven will rise to a splendid fame! But his forte will be sacred music.”
The conversation turned to the works of Bach and Händel.
As the sun declined westward the company rose and returned to the city. When they had left the grounds, a figure came forward from the concealment of the foliage and walked pensively to and fro. He had heard most of the conversation unobserved; it was the artist Mara.
“Well, well,” he said to himself, “I have heard and know him now. His taste is the same with mine; he glories in Händel and old Sebastian; and yet, how much may still be done! Ah, that music in my dream!” He struck his forehead. “But I can keep nothing in my head; Mara—Mara—non e piu com era prima! If ’twere not for this vertigo, this throbbing that I feel whenever I strive to collect my thoughts and fix them on an idea; if I could but grasp the conception, oh, ’twould be glorious!”
The spirit of art had not yet left the degraded being it had once inspired; but how sad were the struggles of the soul against her painful and contaminating bonds!
“Why,” resumed the soliloquist, “why was I not invited to make one among the company assembled here to welcome the great chapel-master? I too am a famous artist; I can appreciate music; the public have pronounced me entitled to rank among the first. But nobody will associate with Mara in the day time! It is only at night, at the midnight revels, where such grave ones as the director scorn to appear, that Mara, like a bird of evil omen, is permitted to show his face. Then they shout and clap for me and call me a merry fellow; and I am the merriest of them all! But I do not like such welcome; I would rather be reasonable if I could, and the wine would let me—the wine—am I a slave to that? Ha, a slave! Alas! it is so; wine is my master, and he is jealous of every other, and beats me when I rebel, till I cry mercy and crouch at his feet again. Oh, if I had a friend strong enough to get me out of his clutches! but I have no friends—none—not even Gertrude. She has left me, and there is no one at home now, even to reproach me when I come back drunk, or make a noise in the house over the table with a companion or two. Heinrich—no—he laughs and makes game of me like the rest. I am sick of this miserable life; I am tired of being laughed at and shunned; I will put an end to it all, and then they will say once again, ‘Poor Mara!’”