The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Vii Part 68

Meanwhile they had long ago reached the valley, and were approaching a town, behind which lay the small modern palace of Count Schinzberg. In this town they were to feed the horses, to rest, and to take their noonday meal.

The inn where they stopped stood alone near the end of the village where an avenue of poplar trees led to the count's garden, not six hundred paces away. After they had alighted, Mozart, as usual, left to his wife the arrangements for dinner, and ordered for himself a gla.s.s of wine, while she asked only for water and a quiet room where she could get a little sleep. The host led the way upstairs, and Mozart, now singing, now whistling, brought up the rear. The room was newly whitewashed, clean, and fresh. The ancient articles of furniture were of n.o.ble descent; they had probably once adorned the dwelling of the Count.

The clean white bed was covered with a painted canopy, resting upon slender green posts, whose silken curtains were long ago replaced by a more ordinary stuff. Constanze prepared for her nap, Mozart promising to wake her in time for dinner. She bolted the door behind him, and he descended to seek entertainment in the coffee-room. Here, however, no one but the host was to be seen, and, since his conversation suited Mozart no better than his wine, the master proposed a walk to the palace garden while dinner was preparing. Respectable strangers, he was told, were allowed to enter the grounds; besides, the family were away for the day.

A short walk brought him to the gate, which stood open; then he slowly followed a path overhung by tall old linden-trees, till he suddenly came upon the palace which stood a little to the left. It was a light, plaster building, in the Italian style, with a broad, double flight of steps in front; the slate-covered roof was finished in the usual manner, with a bal.u.s.trade, and was adorned with statues of G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses.

Our master turned toward the shrubbery, and, pa.s.sing many flower-beds still gay with blossoms, took his leisurely way through a dark grove of pines until he came to an open s.p.a.ce where a fountain was playing. The rather large oval basin was surrounded with carefully kept orange-trees, interspersed with laurels and oleanders; a smooth gravel walk upon which an arbor opened ran around the fountain. It was a most tempting resting-place, and Mozart threw himself down upon the rustic bench which stood by a table within the arbor.

Listening to the splash of the water, and watching an orange-tree which stood, heavy with fruit, apart from the rest, our friend was carried away by visions of the South and favorite memories of his childhood.

Smiling thoughtfully, he reached toward the nearest orange, as if to take the tempting fruit in his hand. But closely connected with that scene of his youth there flashed upon him a long-forgotten, half-effaced, musical memory, which he pondered long and tried to follow out. Then his glance brightened, and darted here and there; an idea had come to him, and he worked it out eagerly. Absently he grasped the orange again--it broke from the tree and remained in his hand. He looked at it, but did not see it; indeed, his artistic abstraction went so far that, after rolling the fragrant fruit back and forth before his nose, while his lips moved silently with the melody which was singing itself to him, he presently took from his pocket an enameled case, and with a small silver-handled knife slowly cut open the fruit. Perhaps he had a vague sense of thirst, but, if so, the fragrance of the open fruit allayed it. He looked long at the inner surfaces, then fitted them gently together, opened them again, and again put them together.

Just then steps approached the arbor. Mozart started, suddenly remembering where he was and what he had done. He was about to hide the orange, but stopped, either from pride or because he was too late. A tall, broad-shouldered man in livery, the head-gardener, stood before him. He had evidently seen the last guilty movement, and stopped, amazed. Mozart, likewise, was too much surprised to speak, and, sitting as if nailed to his chair, half laughing yet blus.h.i.+ng, looked the gardener somewhat boldly in the face with his big, blue eyes. Then--it would have been most amusing for a third person--with a sort of defiant courage he set the apparently uninjured orange in the middle of the table.

"I beg your pardon, sir," began the gardener rather angrily, as he looked at Mozart's unprepossessing clothing, "I do not know whom I have the honor--"

"Kapellmeister Mozart, of Vienna."

"You are acquainted in the palace, I presume."

"I am a stranger, merely pa.s.sing through the village. Is the Count at home?"

"No."

"His wife?"

"She is engaged and would hardly see you." Mozart rose, as if he would go.

"With your permission, sir, how do you happen to be pilfering here?"

"What!" cried Mozart. "Pilfering! The devil! Do you believe, then, that I meant to steal and eat that thing?"

"I believe what I see, sir. Those oranges are counted, and I am responsible for them. That tree was just to be carried to the house for an entertainment. I cannot let you go until I have reported the matter and you yourself have told how it happened."

"Very well. Be a.s.sured that I will wait here." The gardener hesitated, and Mozart, thinking that perhaps he expected a fee, felt in his pocket; but he found nothing.

Two men now came by, lifted the tree upon a barrow and carried it away.

Meanwhile Mozart had taken a piece of paper from his pocket-book, and, as the gardener did not stir, began to write:

"_Dear Madam_.--Here I sit, miserable, in your Paradise, like Adam of old, after he had tasted the apple. The mischief is done, and I cannot even put the blame on a good Eve, for she is at the inn sleeping the sleep of innocence in a canopy-bed, surrounded by Graces and Cupids. If you require it I will give you an account of my offense, which is incomprehensible even to myself.

"I am covered with confusion, and remain

"Your most obedient servant,

"W. A. MOZART.

"On the way to Prague."

He hastily folded the note and handed it to the impatient servant.

The fellow had scarcely gone when a carriage rolled up to the opposite side of the palace. In it was the Count, who had brought with him, from a neighboring estate, his niece and her fiance, a young and wealthy Baron. The betrothal had just taken place at the house of the latter's invalid mother; but the event was also to be celebrated at the Count's palace, which had always been a second home to his niece. The Countess, with her son, Lieutenant Max, had returned from the betrothal somewhat earlier, in order to complete arrangements at the palace. Now corridors and stairways were alive with servants, and only with difficulty did the gardener finally reach the antechamber and hand the note to the Countess. She did not stop to open it, but, without noticing what the messenger said, hurried away. He waited and waited, but she did not come back. One servant after another ran past him--waiters, chambermaids, valets; he asked for the Count, only to be told "He is dressing." At last he found Count Max in his own room; but he was talking with the Baron, and for fear the gardener would let slip something which the Baron was not to know beforehand, cut the message short with: "Go along, I'll be there in a moment." Then there was quite a long while to wait before father and son at last appeared together, and heard the fatal news.

"That is outrageous," cried the fat, good-natured, but somewhat hasty Count. "That is an impossible story! A Vienna musician is he? Some ragam.u.f.fin, who walks along the high-road and helps himself to whatever he sees!"

"I beg your pardon, sir. He doesn't look just like that. I thinks he's not quite right in the head, sir, and he seems to be very proud. He says his name is 'Moser.' He is waiting downstairs. I told Franz to keep an eye on him."

"The deuce! What good will that do, now? Even if I should have the fool arrested, it wouldn't mend matters. I've told you a thousand times that the front gates were to be kept locked! Besides, it couldn't have happened if you had had things ready at the proper time!"

Just then the Countess, pleased and excited, entered the room with the open note in her hand. "Do you know who is downstairs?" she exclaimed.

"For goodness' sake, read that note! Mozart from Vienna, the composer!

Some body must go at once and invite him in! I'm afraid he will be gone!

What will he think of me? You treated him very politely, I hope, Velten.

What was it that happened?"

"What happened?" interrupted the Count, whose wrath was not immediately a.s.suaged by the prospect of a visit from a famous man. "The madman pulled one of the nine oranges from the tree which was for Eugenie.

Monster! So the point of our joke is gone, and Max may as well tear up his poem."

"Oh, no!" she answered, earnestly; "the gap can easily be filled. Leave that to me. But go, both of you, release the good man, and persuade him to come in, if you possibly can. He shall not go further today if we can coax him to stay. If you do not find him in the garden, go to the inn and bring him and his wife too. Fate could not have provided a greater gift or a finer surprise for Eugenie today."

"No, indeed," answered Max, "that was my first thought, too. Come, Papa!

And"--as they descended the staircase--"you may be quite easy about the verses. The ninth Muse will not desert me; instead, I can use the accident to especial advantage."

"Impossible!"

"Not at all!"

"Well, if that is so--I take your word for it--we will do the lunatic all possible honor."

While all this was going on in the palace, our quasi-prisoner, not very anxious over the outcome of the affair, had busied himself some time in writing. Then, as no one appeared, he began to walk uneasily up and down. Presently came an urgent message from the inn, that dinner was ready long ago and the postilion was anxious to start; would he please come at once. So he packed up his papers and was just about to leave, when the two men appeared before the arbor.

The Count greeted him in his jovial, rather noisy fas.h.i.+on, and would hear not a word of apology, but insisted that Mozart should accompany him to the house, for the afternoon and evening at least.

"You are so well known to us, my dear Maestro, that I doubt if you could find a family where your name is spoken more often, or with greater enthusiasm. My niece sings and plays, she spends almost the whole day at her piano, knows your works by heart, and has had the greatest desire to meet you, particularly since the last of your concerts. She had been promised an invitation from Princess Gallizin, in Vienna, in a few weeks--a house where you often play, I hear. But now you are going to Prague, and no one knows whether you will ever come back to us. Take today and tomorrow for rest; let us send away your traveling carriage and be responsible for the remainder of your journey."

The composer, who would willingly have sacrificed upon the altar of friends.h.i.+p or of pleasure ten times as much as was asked of him now, did not hesitate long. He insisted, however, that very early next morning they must continue their journey. Count Max craved the pleasure of bringing Frau Mozart and of attending to all necessary matters at the inn; he would walk over, and a carriage should follow immediately.

Count Max inherited from both father and mother a lively imagination, and had, besides, talent and inclination for _belles lettres_. As an officer he was distinguished rather for his learning and culture than because of fondness for military life. He was well read in French literature, and at a time when German verse was of small account in the higher circles had won appreciation for uncommon ease of style--writing after such models as Hagedorn and Gotz. The betrothal had offered him, as we already learned, a particularly happy occasion for the exercise of his gifts.

He found Madame Mozart seated at the table, where she had already begun the meal, talking with the inn-keeper's daughter. She was too well used to Mozart's habits of forming acquaintances and accepting impromptu invitations to be greatly surprised at the appearance and message of the young officer. With undisguised pleasure she prepared to accompany him, and thoughtfully and quickly gave all necessary orders. Satchels were repacked, the inn-keeper was paid, the postilion dismissed, and, without too great anxiety over her toilet, she herself made ready, and drove off in high spirits to the palace, never guessing in what a strange fas.h.i.+on her spouse had introduced himself there.

He, meanwhile, was most comfortably and delightfully entertained. He had met Eugenie, a most lovely creature, fair and slender, gay in s.h.i.+ning crimson silk and costly lace, with a white ribbon studded with pearls in her hair. The Baron, too, was presented, a man of gentle and frank disposition, but little older than his fiancee and seemingly well suited to her.

The jovial host, almost too generous with his jests and stories, led the conversation; refreshments were offered, which our traveler did not refuse. Then some one opened the piano, upon which _Figaro_ was lying, and Eugenie began to sing, to the Baron's accompaniment, Susanne's pa.s.sionate aria in the garden scene. The embarra.s.sment which for a moment made her bright color come and go, fled with the first notes from her lips, and she sang as if inspired.

Mozart was evidently surprised. As she finished he went to her with unaffected pleasure. "How can one praise you, dear child," he said.

"Such singing is like the suns.h.i.+ne, which praises itself best because it does every one good. It is to the soul like a refres.h.i.+ng bath to a child; he laughs, and wonders, and is content. Not every day, I a.s.sure you, do we composers hear ourselves sung with such purity and simplicity--with such perfection!" and he seized her hand and kissed it heartily. Mozart's amiability and kindness, no less than his high appreciation of her talent, touched Eugenie deeply, and her eyes filled with tears of pleasure.

At that moment Madame Mozart entered, and immediately after appeared other guests who had been expected--a family of distant relatives, of whom one, Franziska, had been from childhood Eugenie's intimate friend.