"The suggestion found hearty approval. Somebody picked up the salt-box and said: 'We must have an historic introduction, with a description of Herr Mozart's purchase, and an account of his philanthropic spirit; and we will put this box on the table to receive the contributions and arrange the rakes as decorations.' This did not happen, however, though the concert came off; and what with the receipts of the concert and outside contributions, the young couple had more than enough for their housekeeping outfit, and also the other obstacles were quickly removed.
"The Duscheks, in Prague, dear friends of ours, with whom we are to stay, heard the story, and Frau Duschek asked for some of the woodenware as souvenirs. So I laid aside two which I thought were suitable, and was taking them to her.
"But since we have made another artist friend by the way, one who is, too, about to provide her wedding furnishings, and who will not despise what Mozart has chosen, I will divide my gift, and you, Eugenie, may choose between a lovely open-work rod for stirring chocolate and the salt-box, which is decorated with a tasteful tulip. My advice is to take the salt-box; salt, as I have heard, is a symbol of home and hospitality, and with the gift go the best and most affectionate wishes."
So ended Madame Mozart's story. How pleased and gratified her listeners were is easily to be imagined. Their delight was redoubled when, in the presence of the whole party, the interesting articles were brought out, and the model of patriarchal simplicity was formally presented. This, the Count vowed, should have in the silver-chest of its present owner and all her posterity, as important a place as that of the Florentine master's famous work.
It was, by this time, almost eight o'clock and tea-time, and soon our master was pressingly reminded of his promise to show his friends Don Juan, which lay under lock and key, but, happily, not too deep down in his trunk. Mozart was ready and willing, and by the time he had told the story of the plot and had brought the libretto, the lights were burning at the piano.
We could wish that our readers could here realize a touch, at least, of that peculiar sensation with which a single chord, floating from a window as we pass, stops us and holds us spellbound—a touch of that pleasant suspense with which we sit before the curtain in the theatre while the orchestra is still tuning! Or am I wrong? Can the soul stand more deeply in awe of everlasting beauty than when pausing before any sublime and tragic work of art—Macbeth, OEdipus, or whatever it may be? Man wishes and yet fears to be moved beyond his ordinary habit; he feels that the Infinite will touch him, and he shrinks before it in the very moment when it draws him most strongly. Reverence for perfect art is present, too; the thought of enjoying a heavenly miracle—of being able and being permitted to make it one's own—stirs an emotion—pride, if you will—which is perhaps the purest and happiest of which we are capable.
This little company, however, was on very different ground from ours. They were about to hear, for the first time, a work which has been familiar to us from childhood. If one subtracts the very enviable pleasure of hearing it through its creator, we have the advantage of them; for in one hearing they could not fully appreciate and understand such a work, even if they had heard the whole of it.
Of the eighteen numbers which were already written the composer did not give the half (in the authority from which we have our statement we find only the last number, the sextet, expressly mentioned), and he played them in a free sort of transcription, singing here and there as he felt disposed. Of his wife it is only told that she sang two arias. We might guess, since her voice was said to be as strong as it was sweet, that she chose Donna Anna's Or sai, chi l'onore, and one of Zerlina's two arias.
In all probability Eugenie and her fiancé were the only listeners who, in spirit, taste, and judgment, were what Mozart could wish. They sat far back in the room, Eugenie motionless as a statue, and so engrossed that, in the short pauses when the rest of the audience expressed their interest or showed their delight in involuntary exclamations, she gave only the briefest replies to the Baron's occasional remarks.
When Mozart stopped, after the beautiful sextet, and conversation began again, he showed himself particularly pleased with the Baron's comments. They spoke of the close of the opera, and of the first performance, announced for an early date in November; and when some one remarked that certain portions yet to be written must be a gigantic task, the master smiled, and Constanze said to the Countess, so loudly that Mozart must needs hear: "He has ideas which he works at secretly; before me, sometimes."