“I would not give much for your ideas,” muttered the master; and he turned to receive his new visitors. His face soon brightened up; he greeted Albrechtsberger cordially, and looked inquiringly on his young companion.
“Herr von Beethoven from Bonn,” said Albrechtsberger, presenting his friend; “an excellent composer and skilful musician, who is desirous of making your acquaintance.”
“You are heartily welcome, both of you, and I shall expect you to remain and dine with me to day,” said Mozart; and taking Louis by the hand he led him to the window where his wife sat. “This is my Constance,” he continued; “and these are my boys; this little fellow is but three months old”—and throwing his arm round Constance’s neck, he stooped and kissed the smiling infant.
Louis looked with surprise on the great artist! He had fancied him quite different in his exterior; a tall man, of powerful frame, like Händel. He saw a slight, low figure, wrapped in a furred coat, notwithstanding the warmth of the season; his pale face showed the evidences of long continued ill health; his large, bright, speaking eyes alone reminded one of the genius that had created Idomeneus and Don Giovanni.
“So you, too, are a composer?” asked the fat man, coming up to Beethoven; “Look you, sir, I will tell you what to do; lay yourself out for the opera; the opera is the great thing!”
Louis looked at him in surprise and silence.
“Master Emanuel Schickaneder, the famous Impressario,” said Albrechtsberger, scarcely controlling his disposition to laugh.
“Yes,” continued the fat man, assuming an air of importance, “I tell you I know the public, and know how to get the weak side of it; if Mozart would only be led by me he could do well! I say, if you will compose me something,—(I have written half-a-dozen operas myself)—by the way, here is a season ticket; I shall be happy if you will visit my theatre; to-morrow night we shall perform the Magic Flute; it is an admirable piece, some of the music is first rate, some not so good, and I myself play the Papageno.”
“You ought to do something in that line,” said Mozart, laughing, “Your singing puts one in mind of an unoiled door-hinge.”
The Impressario took a pinch of snuff, and answered with an important air, “I can tell you, sir, the singing is quite a secondary thing in the opera, for I know the public; however, I have some good singers; and as for myself, even you, Mozart, will acknowledge my merit one of these days.” And he went on to tell them of an ingenious and comical arrangement he had devised in the dress of the new part.