"Who? who?" eagerly demanded several among the company.
"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 faint-heartedness—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 Handel.
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, a violoncellist of great merit—famous, indeed—but ruined by dissipation. His wife had left him in despair of reforming his intemperate habits; his friends had deserted him; all was gone but his love of art; and that had brought him to see the great Mozart.
"Well, well," he said to himself, "I have heard and know him now. His taste is the same with mine; he glories in Handel and old Sebastian. Ah! that music in my dream." He struck his forehead. "But I can keep nothing in my head; Mara— Mara—non e pen 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!"