The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Vii Part 72

"Is it possible! When? Oh! three weeks ago, when you were to go to Eisenstadt."

"Exactly. This is how it came about. I came in after ten (you were fast asleep) from dinner at the Richters'. and intended to go to bed early, as I had promised, for I was to start very early in the morning.

Meanwhile Veit had lighted the candles on the writing-table, as usual. I made ready for bed mechanically, and then thought I would take just a look at the last notes I had written. But, cruel fate! with woman's deuced inconvenient spirit of order you had cleared up the room and packed the music--for the Prince wished to see a number or two from the opera. I hunted, grumbled, scolded-all in vain. Then my eye fell on a sealed envelope from Abbate--his pot-hooks in the address. Yes; he had sent me the rest of his revised text, which I had not hoped to see for months. I sat down with great curiosity and began to read, and was enraptured to find how well the fellow understood what I wanted. It was all much simpler, more condensed, and at the same time fuller. The scene in the churchyard and the _finale_, with the disappearance of the hero, were greatly improved. 'But, my excellent poet,' I said to myself, 'you need not have loaded me with heaven and h.e.l.l a second time, so carelessly.'

"Now, it is never my habit to write any number out of order, be it never so tempting; that is a mistake which may be too severely punished. Yet there are exceptions, and, in short, the scene near the statue of the governor, the warning which, coming suddenly from the grave of the murdered man, interrupts so horribly the laughter of the revelers--that scene was already in my head. I struck a chord, and felt that I had knocked at the right door, behind which lay all the legion of horrors to be let loose in the _finale_. First came out an adagio--D-minor, only four measures; then a second, with five. 'There will be an extraordinary effect in the theatre,' thought I, 'when the strongest wind instruments accompany the voice.' Now you shall hear it, as well as it can be done without the orchestra."

He snuffed out the candles beside him, and that fearful choral, "Your laughter shall be ended ere the dawn," rang through the death-like stillness of the room. The notes of the silver trumpet fell through the blue night as if from another sphere--ice-cold, cutting through nerve and marrow. "Who is here? Answer!" they heard Don Juan ask. Then the choral, monotonous as before, bade the ruthless youth leave the dead in peace.

After this warning had rung out its last notes, Mozart went on: "Now, as you can think, there was no stopping. When the ice begins to break at the edge, the whole lake cracks and snaps from end to end.

Involuntarily, I took up the thread at Don Juan's midnight feast, when Donna Elvira has just departed and the ghost enters in response to the invitation. Listen!"

And then the whole, long, horrible dialogue followed. When the human voices have become silent, the voice of the dead speaks again. After that first fearful greeting, in which the half-transformed being refuses the earthly nourishment offered him, how strangely and horribly moves the unsteady voice up and down in that singular scale! He demands speedy repentance; the spirit's time is short, the way it must travel, long.

And Don Juan, in monstrous obstinacy withstanding the eternal commands, beneath the growing influence of the dark spirits, struggles and writhes and finally perishes, keeping to the last, nevertheless, that wonderful expression of majesty in every gesture. How heart and flesh tremble with delight and terror! It is a feeling like that with which one watches the mighty spectacle of an unrestrained force of nature, or the burning of a splendid s.h.i.+p. In spite of ourselves, we sympathize with the blind majesty, and, shuddering, share the pain of its self-destruction.

The composer paused. For a while no one could speak. Finally, the Countess, with voice still unsteady, said "Will you give us some idea of your own feelings when you laid down the pen that night?"

He looked up at her as if waked from a dream, hesitated a moment, and then said, half to the Countess, half to his wife: "Yes, my head swam at last. I had written this dialogue and the chorus of demons, in fever heat, by the open window, and, after resting a moment, I rose to go to your room, that I might talk a little and cool off. But another thought stopped me half way to the door." His glance fell, and his voice betrayed his emotion. "I said to myself, 'If you should die tonight and leave your score just here, could you rest in your grave?' My eye fell on the wick of the light in my hand and on the mountain of melted wax.

The thought that it suggested was painful. 'Then,' I went on, 'if after this, sooner or later, some one else were to complete the opera, perhaps even an Italian, and found all the numbers but one, up to the seventeenth--so many sound, ripe fruits, lying ready to his hand in the long gra.s.s-if he dreaded the finale, and found, unhoped for, the rocks for its construction close by--he might well laugh in his sleeve.

Perhaps he would be tempted to rob me of my honor. He would burn his fingers, though, for I have many a good friend who knows my stamp and would see that I had my rights.'

"Then I thanked G.o.d and went back, and thanked your good angel, dear wife, who held his hand so long over your brow, and kept you sleeping so soundly that you could not once call to me. When at last I did go to bed and you asked me the hour, I told you you were two hours younger than you were, for it was nearly four; and now you will understand why you could not get me to leave the feathers at six, and why you had to dismiss the coach and order it for another day."

"Certainly," answered Constanze; "but the sly man must not think that I was so stupid as not to know something of what was going on. You didn't need, on that account, to keep your beautiful new numbers all to yourself."

"That was not the reason."

"No, I know. You wanted to keep your treasure away from criticism yet a little while."

"I am glad," cried the good-natured host, "that we shall not need to grieve the heart of a n.o.ble Vienna coachman to-morrow, when Herr Mozart cannot arise. The order, 'Hans, you may unharness!' always makes one sad."

This indirect invitation for a longer stay, which was heartily seconded by the rest of the family, obliged the travelers to explain their urgent reason for declining it; yet they readily agreed that the start need not be made so early as to interfere with a meeting at breakfast.

They stood, talking in groups, a little while longer. Mozart looked about him, apparently for Eugenie; since she was not there he turned navely with his question to Franziska.

"What do you think, on the whole, of our Don Juan? Can you prophesy anything good for him?"

"In the name of my aunt, I will answer as well as I can," was the laughing reply. "My opinion is that if Don Juan does not set the world mad, the good Lord may shut up his music chests for years to come, and give mankind to understand--"

"And give mankind," corrected the Count, "the bag-pipes to play on, and harden the hearts of the people so that they wors.h.i.+p Baal."

"The Lord preserve us!" laughed Mozart. "But in the course of the next sixty or seventy years, long after I am gone, will arise many false prophets."

Eugenie approached, with the Baron and Max; the conversation took a new turn, growing ever more earnest and serious, and the composer, ere the company separated, rejoiced in many a word of encouragement and good cheer. Finally, long after midnight, all retired; nor, till then, had any one felt weary.

Next day--for the fair weather still held--at ten o'clock a handsome coach, loaded with the effects of the two travelers, stood in the courtyard. The Count, with Mozart, was waiting for the horses to be put in, and asked the master how the carriage pleased him.

"Very well, indeed; it seems most comfortable." "Good! Then be so kind as to keep it to remind you of me."

"What! You are not in earnest?"

"Why not?"

"Holy Sixtus and Calixtus! Constanze, here!" he called up to the window where, with the others, she sat looking out. "The coach is mine. You will ride hereafter in your own carriage."

He embraced the smiling donor, and examined his new possession on all sides; finally he threw open the door and jumped in, exclaiming: "I feel as rich and happy as Ritter Gluck. What eyes they will make in Vienna!"

"I hope," said the Countess, "when you return from Prague, to see your carriage again, all hung with wreaths."

Soon after this last happy scene the much-praised carriage moved away with the departing guests, and rolled rapidly toward the road to Prague.

At Wittingau the Count's horses were to be exchanged for post-horses, with which they would continue their journey.

When such excellent people have enlivened our houses by their presence, have given us new impulses through their fresh spirits, and have made us feel the blessings of dispensing hospitality, their departure leaves an uncomfortable sense of vacancy and interruption, at least for the rest of the day, and especially if we are left to ourselves. The latter case, at least, was not true with our friends in the palace. Franziska's parents and aunt soon followed the Mozarts. Franziska herself, the Baron, and Max of course, remained. Eugenie, with whom we are especially concerned, because she appreciated more deeply than the others the priceless experience she had had--she, one would think, could not feel in the least unhappy or troubled. Her pure happiness in the truly beloved man to whom she was now formally betrothed would drown all other considerations; rather, the most n.o.ble and lovely things which could move her heart must be mingled with that other happiness. So would it have been, perhaps, if she could have lived only in the present, or in joyful retrospect. But she had been moved by anxiety while Frau Mozart was telling her story, and the apprehension increased all the while that Mozart was playing, in spite of the ineffable charm beneath the mysterious horror of the music, and was brought to a climax by his own story of his night work. She felt sure that this man's energy would speedily and inevitably destroy him; that he could be but a fleeting apparition in this world, which was unable to appreciate the profusion of his gifts.

This thought, mingled with many others and with echoes of Don Juan, had surged through her troubled brain the night before, and it was almost daylight when she fell asleep. Now, the three women had seated themselves in the garden with their work; the men bore them company, and when the conversation, as was natural, turned upon Mozart, Eugenie did not conceal her apprehensions. No one shared them in the least, although the Baron understood her fully. She tried to rid herself of the feeling, and her friends, particularly her uncle, brought to her mind the most positive and cheering proofs that she was wrong. How gladly she heard them! She was almost ready to believe that she had been foolishly alarmed.

Some moments afterward, as she pa.s.sed through the large hall which had just been swept and put in order, where the half-drawn green damask curtains made a soft twilight, she stopped sadly before the piano. It was like a dream, to think who had sat there but a few hours before. She looked long and thoughtfully at the keys which _he_ had touched last; then she softly closed the lid and took away the key, in jealous care lest some other hand should open it too soon. As she went away, she happened to return to its place a book of songs; an old leaf fell out, the copy of a Bohemian folk-song, which Franziska, and she too, had sung long ago. She took it up, not without emotion, for in her present mood the most natural occurrence might easily seem an oracle. And the simple verses, as she read them through again, brought the hot tears to her eyes:

"A pine-tree stands in a forest--who knows where?

A rose-tree in some garden fair doth grow; Remember they are waiting there, my soul, Till o'er thy grave they bend to whisper and to blow.

"Far in the pasture two black colts are feeding.

Toward home they canter when the master calls; They shall go slowly with thee to thy grave, Perchance ere from their hoofs the gleaming iron falls."

[Ill.u.s.tration: ANNETTE VON DROSTE-HuLSHOFF]

ANNETTE ELIZABETH VON DROSTE-HuLSHOFF

PENTECOST[34] (1839)

The day was still, the sun's bright glare Fell sheer upon the Temple's beauteous wall Withered by tropic heat, the air Let, like a bird, its listless pinions fall.

Behold a group, young men and gray, And women, kneeling; silence holds them all; They mutely pray!

Where is the faithful Comforter Whom, parting, Thou didst promise to Thine own?

They trust Thy word which cannot err, But sad and full of fear the time has grown.

The hour draws nigh; for forty days And forty wakeful nights toward Thee we've thrown Our weeping gaze.

Where is He? Hour on hour doth steal, And minute after minute swells the doubt.

Where doth He bide? And though a seal Be on the mouth, the soul must yet speak out.

Hot winds blow, in the sandy lake The panting tiger moans and rolls about, Parched is the snake.

But hark! a murmur rises now, Swelling and swelling like a storm's advance, Yet standing gra.s.s-blades do not bow, And the still palm-tree listens in a trance.

Why seem these men to quake with fear While each on other casts a wondering glance?

Behold! 'Tis here!