And, notwithstanding his weakness, the honest Herr was an excellent teacher. True, he did occasionally fail to put in an appearance for a lesson, when no excuse was to be found in the weather; but his patrons learned to forgive him; and, as he was very amiable and obliging, he was a general favorite, and welcome everywhere.
Mr. Whacker had not been slow to form the acquaintance of the Herr and to invite him to Elmington; at first under the pretext of having him tune his piano. The tuning over, the Herr was naturally asked to play; and, one thing leading to another, he and Mr. Whacker soon found themselves trying over a slow movement, here and there, out of a musty and dusty old edition of Mozart’s Sonatas. The music they made was, I dare say, wretched, as my grandfather had not played anything of that kind for years; but it would have been hard to say which of the two was most delighted,—the German, at finding so enthusiastic a lover of his art in a Virginia country gentleman; my grandfather, at the prospect of being able to renew his acquaintance with his idolized Mozart, whom he always persisted in placing at the head of all composers. The Elmington dinner and wines did not lessen the Herr’s estimate of the treasure he had found; and (Mr. Whacker scouting the very idea of his leaving him that night) they separated at the head of the stairs, at one o’clock in the morning, after a regular musical orgie, vowing that they had not seen the last of it. Nor had they; for before Herr Waldteufel had set out, in the morning, for a round of lessons in the neighborhood, he had promised to return, the following Friday, to dinner. And so, from that day forth, he was sure to drop in upon us every Friday afternoon; and regularly, after dinner, he and my grandfather would fall to and play and play until they were exhausted. Next day the Herr would sally forth, and, after giving his lessons, return in time for dinner; after which they would have another time together.
Herr Waldteufel always spent Sunday with us; but my grandfather would never play on that day. I suppose it would be hardly possible for a man who has spent several years on the Continent to see anything “sinful” in music on Sunday; but neither is it possible for any man, even though he be a philosopher, altogether to evade the pressure of surrounding convictions. Now, for the solidity—it wouldn’t do to say stolidity—of our Sabbatarianism, we Virginians may safely defy all rivalry. Virginia is not only one of the Middle States, she is the middle State of the Union in many other respects, but especially in her theological attitude. While, to the north and east of her, religious systems that have weathered the storms of centuries are rocking to their foundations, nay, tumbling before our very eyes, undermined by the incessant rush of opinions ever newer, more radical, more aggressive; and while, to the southward and westward, we see the instability and recklessness inseparable from younger communities, the Old Dominion stands immovable as a rock; believing what she has always believed, and seriously minded so to believe to the end of time,—astronomy, geology, and biology to the contrary notwithstanding. Now, of all the religious convictions of your true Virginian this is the most deeply rooted,—the most universally accepted,—that man was made for the Sabbath, not the Sabbath for man. Again: according to our biblical exegesis the word Sabbath does not really mean Sabbath, but Sunday,—the last day of the week, that is, being synonymous with the first. Now, as first is the opposite of last,—mark the geometric cogency of the reasoning,—so is work the contrary of play. Hence it is clear to us (however others may laugh) that the commandment forbidding all manner of work on the last day of the week was really meant to inhibit all manner of play on the first; Q. E. D.
I must admit, however, that when, one Sunday, after returning from church, the Herr opened the piano, “just to try over” the hymns we had heard, my grandfather made no objection; and then, when his fingers somehow strayed into a classical andante, the old gentleman either believed or affected to believe that it was a Teutonic form of religious music, and called for more. And so, things going from bad to worse, it came about that in the end we had hours of piano music every Sunday, to the great scandal of some of our neighbors, who did not fail to hint that the Herr was an atheist and my grandfather not far from one.
But Mr. Whacker would persist in drawing the line at the fiddle; making a distinction perfectly intelligible to all true Virginians,—though his course in this matter ever remained a sore puzzle to the warped and effete European brain of Herr Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel.
For many months—for two or three years, in fact—after this arrangement was set on foot, my grandfather was at fever heat with his music. To the amazement, not to add amusement of his neighbors and friends, he fell to practising with all the ardor of a girl in her graduating year; nor was he content to stop there. He set every one else, over whom he had any influence, to scraping catgut. His favorite text during this period, and one upon which he preached with much vigor and eloquence, was the insipidity of American life,—its total lack of the æsthetic element.
“What rational relaxations have we? None! Whist is adapted to those among us of middle age, or the old; but whist is, at the best, unsocial. Dancing gives happiness to the young only. Hunting affords amusement during one season and to one sex only. You cannot read forever; so that the greater part of our leisure-time we spend in gaping or gabbling,—boring or being bored. How different it would be if all our young people would take the trouble to make musicians of themselves! one taking one instrument, another another. Why, look at our neighbor up the river, with his five sons and five daughters! Why—PSHAW!”—for, invariably, when he got to this particular neighbor, the bright vision of a possible domestic orchestra of ten—or twelve rather—would seem to rob him of the power of utterance, and he would pace up and down his library with an expression of enthusiastic disgust on his heated features.
Now, among the victims of Mr. Whacker’s views in this regard was his grandson, the teller of this tale; and I believe it was really one of the most serious of the minor troubles of his life that he could never make a musician of me. As it was, he ultimately gave me up as a hopeless case. But with Charley his reward was greater. Charley had readily consented to take lessons on the violin from Herr Waldteufel, as well before he entered the University, as during his vacations; and when, after he left college, he came to live with us, he was not likely to give up his music, as the reader can very well understand. During the week he and his friend used to play duos together, and they made very pleasant music too, and on Fridays and Saturdays they would perform transcriptions (at making which the Herr was really clever) for two violins and piano.
Things went on in this way for a year or two; until, in fact, the summer of 1855. It was during the summer of that year, it will be remembered, that Norfolk was so terribly scourged by yellow fever, and my grandfather, instead of going, as usual, to the springs, had remained at Elmington, and opened his doors to his friends and other refugees from the stricken city. Now it so happened that, a few weeks before the epidemic declared itself, a young French or—to speak more accurately—Belgian violinist had dropped down into Norfolk, from somewhere, in search of a living; who, panic-stricken upon the outbreak of the fever, had fled, he hardly knew whither; but happening to find his way to Leicester Court-House, was not long in falling in with Herr Waldteufel; and he, exulting in the treasure he had found, brought him to Elmington on the first Friday afternoon thereafter ensuing.
“I have inform Monsieur Villemain,” whispered the Herr, at the first opportunity, “dot Elmingtone vas so full as a teek von peoples, but he can shleep mit me. But you know, Barrone, vy I have bring dis Frenchman, oder Beige, to Elmingtone?” (He would insist upon calling Mr. Whacker Baron.)