"they are all gone! i might have known it by the whispering, shuffling, coughing, buzzing through all the notes of the gamut. it was a true swarm of bees, leaving the old hive. gottlieb has lighted fresh candles for me, and placed a bottle of burgundy on the piano-forte. i can play no more, i am perfectly exhausted. my glorious old friend here on the music-stand is to blame for that. again he has borne me away through the air, as mephistopheles did faust, and so high, that i took not the slightest notice of the little men under me, though i dare say they made noise enough. a rascally, worthless, wasted evening! but now i am well and merry! however, while i was playing, i took out my pencil, and on pagesixty-three, under the last system, noted down a couple of good flourishes in cipher with my right hand, while the left was struggling away in the torrent of sweet sounds. upon the blank page at the end i go on writing. i leave all ciphers and sweet tones, and with true delight, like a sick man restored to health, who can never stop relating what he has suffered, i note down here circumstantially the dire agonies of this evening's tea-party. and not for myself alone, but likewise for all those who from time to time may amuse and edify themselves with my copy of john sebastian bach's variations for the piano-forte, published by nägeli in zürich, and who find my marks at the end of the thirtieth variation, and, led on by the great latin verte, (i will write it down the moment i get through this doleful statement of grievances,) turn over the leaf and read.
"they will at once see the connexion. they know, that the geheimerath rödelein's house is a charming house to visit in, and that he has two daughters, of whom the whole fashionable world proclaims with enthusiasm, that they dance like goddesses, speak french like angels, and play and sing and draw like the muses. the geheimerath rödelein is a rich man. at his quarterly dinners he brings on the most delicious wines and richest dishes. all is established on a footing of the greatest elegance; and whoever at his tea-parties does not amuse himself heavenly, has no ton, no esprit, and particularly no taste for the fine arts. it is with an eye to these, that, with the tea, punch, wine, ice-creams, etc., a little music is always served up, which, like the other refreshments, is very quietly swallowed by the fashionable world.
"the arrangements are as follows.--after every guest has had time enough to drink as many cups of tea as he may wish, and punch and ices have been handed round twice, the servants wheel out the card-tables for the elder and more solid part of the company, who had rather play cards than any musical instrument; and, to tell the truth, this kind of playing does not make such a useless noise as others, and you hear only the clink of money.
"this is a hint for the younger part of the company to pounce upon the misses rödelein. a great tumult ensues; in the midst of which you can distinguish these words,--
"'schönes fräulein! do not refuse us the gratification of your heavenly talent! o, sing something! that's a good dear!--impossible,--bad cold,--the last ball! have not practised anything,--oh, do, do, we beg of you,' etc.
"meanwhile gottlieb has opened the piano-forte, and placed the well-known music-book on the stand; and from the card-table cries the respectable mamma,--
" 'chantez donc, mes enfans!'
"that is the cue of my part. i place myself at the piano-forte, and the rödeleins are led up to the instrument in triumph.
"and now another difficulty arises. neither wishes to sing first.
"'you know, dear nanette, how dreadful hoarse i am.'
"'why, my dear marie, i am as hoarse as you are.'
"'i sing so badly!--'
"'o, my dear child; do begin!'
"my suggestion, (i always make the same!) that they should both begin together with a duet, is loudly applauded;--the music-book is thumbed over, and the leaf, carefully folded down, is at length found, and away we go with dolce dell' anima, etc.
"to tell the truth, the talent of the misses rödelein is not the smallest. i have been an instructer here only five years, and little short of two years in the rödelein family. in this short time, fräulein nanette has made such progress, that a tune, which she has heard at the theatre only ten times, and has played on the piano-forte, at farthest, ten times more, she will sing right off, so that you know in a moment what it is. fräulein marie catches it at the eighth time; and if she is sometimes a quarter of a note lower than the piano-forte, after all it is very tolerable, considering her pretty little doll-face, and very passable rosy-lips.
"after the duet, a universal chorus of applause! and now arriettas and duettinos succeed each other, and right merrily i hammer away at the thousand-times-repeated accompaniment. during the singing, the finanzräthin eberstein, by coughing and humming, has given to understand that she also sings. fräulein nanette says;
"'but, my dear finanzräthin, now you must let us hear your exquisite voice.'
"a new tumult arises. she has a bad cold in her head,--she does not know anything by heart! gottlieb brings straightway two armfuls of music-books; and the leaves are turned over again and again. first she thinks she will sing der hölle rache, etc., then hebe sich, etc., then ach, ich liebte, etc. in this embarrassment, i propose, ein veilchen auf der wiese, etc. but she is for the heroic style; she wants to make a display, and finally selects the aria in constantia.
"o scream, squeak, mew, gurgle, groan, agonize, quiver, quaver, just as much as you please, madam,--i have my foot on the fortissimo pedal, and thunder myself deaf! o satan, satan! which of thy goblins damned has got into this throat, pinching, and kicking, and cuffing the tones about so! four strings have snapped already, and one hammer is lamed for life. my ears ring again,--my head hums,--my nerves tremble! have all the harsh notes from the cracked trumpet of a strolling-player been imprisoned in this little throat! (but this excites me,--i must drink a glass of burgundy.)
"the applause was unbounded; and some one observed, that the finanzräthin and mozart had put me quite in a blaze. i smiled with downcast eyes, very stupidly. i could but acknowledge it. and now all talents, which hitherto had bloomed unseen, were in motion, wildly flitting to and fro. they were bent upon a surfeit of music; tuttis, finales, choruses must be performed. the canonicus kratzer sings, you know, a heavenly bass, as was observed by the gentleman yonder, with the head of titus andronicus, who modestly remarked also, that he himself was properly only a second-ratetenor; but, though he said it, who should not say it, was nevertheless member of several academies of music. forthwith preparations are made for the first chorus in the opera of titus. it went off gloriously. the canonicus, standing close behind me, thundered out the bass over my head, as if he were singing with bass-drums and trumpet obbligato in a cathedral. he struck the notes gloriously; but in his hurry he got the tempo just about twice too slow. however, he was true to himself at least in this, that through the whole piece he dragged along just half a beat behind the rest. the others showed a most decided penchant for the ancient greek music, which, as is well known, having nothing to do with harmony, ran on in unison or monotone. they all sang treble, with slight variations, caused by accidental rising and falling of the voice, say some quarter of a note.
"this somewhat noisy affair produced a universal tragic state of feeling, namely a kind of terror, even at the card-tables, which for the momentcould no longer, as before, chime in melodramatic, by weaving into the music sundry exclamations; as, for instance;
" 'o! i loved,--eight and forty,--was so happy,--i pass,--then i knew not,--whist,--pangs of love,--follow suit,' etc.--it has a very pretty effect. (i fill my glass.)
"that was the highest point of the musical exhibition this evening. 'now it is all over,' thought i to myself. i shut the book, and got up from the piano-forte. but the baron, my ancient tenor, came up to me, and said;
" 'my dear herr capellmeister, they say you play the most exquisite voluntaries! now do play us one; only a short one, i entreat you!'
"i answered very drily, that to-day my fantasies had all gone a wool-gathering; and, while we are talking about it, a devil, in the shape of a dandy, with two waistcoats, had smelt out bach's variations, which were lying under my hat in the next room. he thinks they are merely little variations, such as nel cor mio non più sento, or ah, vous dirai-je, maman, etc., and insists upon it, that i shall play them. i try to excuse myself, but they all attack me. so then, 'listen, and burst with ennui,' think i to myself,--and begin to work away.
"when i had got to variation number three, several ladies departed, followed by the gentleman with the titus-andronicus head. the rödeleins, as their teacher was playing, stood it out, though not without difficulty, to number twelve. number fifteen made the man with two waistcoats take to his heels. out of most excessive politeness, the baron stayed till number thirty, and drank up all the punch, which gottlieb placed on the piano-forte for me.
"i should have brought all to a happy conclusion, but, alas! this number thirty,--the theme,--tore me irresistibly away. suddenly the quarto leaves spread out to a gigantic folio, on which a thousand imitations and developments of the theme stood written, and i could not choose but play them. the notes became alive, and glimmered and hopped all round about me,--an electric firestreamed through the tips of my fingers into the keys,--the spirit, from which it gushed forth, spread his broad wings over my soul, the whole room was filled with a thick mist, in which the candles burned dim,--and through which peered forth now a nose, and anon a pair of eyes, and then suddenly vanished away again. and thus it came to pass, that i was left alone with my sebastian bach, by gottlieb attended, as by a familiar spirit. (your good health, sir.)
"is an honest musician to be tormented with music, as i have been to-day, and am so often tormented? verily, no art is so damnably abused, as this same glorious, holy musica, who, in her delicate being, is so easily desecrated. have you real talent,--real feeling for art? then study music;--do something worthy of the art,--and dedicate your whole soul to the beloved saint. if without this you have a fancy for quavers and demi-semi-quavers, practise for yourself and by yourself, and torment not therewith the capellmeister kreisler and others.
"well, now i might go home, and put the finishing touch to my sonata for the piano-forte; but it is not yet eleven o'clock, and, withal, a beautiful summer night. i will lay any wager, that, at my next-door neighbour's, (the oberjägermeister,) the young ladies are sitting at the window, screaming down into the street, for the twentieth time, with harsh, sharp, piercing voices, 'when thine eye is beaming love,'--but only the first stanza, over and over again. obliquely across the way, some one is murdering the flute, and has, moreover, lungs like rameau's nephew; and, in notes of 'linked sweetness long drawn out,' his neighbour is trying acoustic experiments on the french horn. the numerous dogs of the neighbourhood are growing unquiet, and my landlord's cat, inspired by that sweet duet, is making close by my window (for, of course, my musico-poetic laboratory is an attic,) certain tender confessions,--upward through the whole chromatic scale, soft complaining, to the neighbour's puss, with whom he has been in love since march last! till this is all fairly over, ii think will sit quietly here. besides, there is still blank paper and burgundy left, of which i forthwith take a sip.
"there is, as i have heard, an ancient law, forbidding those, who followed any noisy handicraft, from living near literary men. should not then musical composers, poor, and hard beset, and who, moreover, are forced to coin their inspiration into gold, to spin out the thread of life withal, be allowed to apply this law to themselves, and banish out of the neighbourhood all ballad-singers and bagpipers? what would a painter say, while transferring to his canvass a form of ideal beauty, if you should hold up before him all manner of wild faces and ugly masks? he might shut his eyes, and in this way, at least, quietly follow out the images of fancy. cotton, in one's ears, is of no use; one still hears the dreadful massacre. and then the idea,--the bare idea, 'now they are going to sing,--now the horn strikes up,'--is enough to send one's sublimest conceptions to the very devil."