Part 5

“Cursed Fate! Here is another octave-hunter!” I look up and perceive now for the first time that imperceptibly to me a man has taken a place at the same table, who is looking intently at me, and from whom I cannot take my eyes away again. Never did I see any head or figure which made so sudden and powerful an impression upon me. A slightly crooked nose was joined to a broad open brow, with remarkable prominences over the bushy, half-gray eyebrows, under which the eyes glanced forth with an almost wild, youthful fire, (the age of the man might be about fifty;) the white and well-formed chin presented a singular contrast to the compressed mouth, and a satirical smile breaking out in the curious play of muscles in the hollow cheeks, seemed to contradict the deep melancholy earnestness which rested upon the brow; a few gray locks of hair lay behind the ears, which were large and prominent; over the tall, slender figure was wrapped a large modern overcoat. As soon as I looked at the man he cast down his eyes and gave his whole attention to the occupation from which my outcry had probably aroused him. He was shaking, with apparent delight, some snuff from several little paper horns into a large box which stood before him, and moistening it with red wine from a quarter-flask. The music had ceased and I felt an irresistible desire to address him.

“I am glad that the music is over,” said I, “it was really intolerable.”

The old man threw a hasty glance at me and shook out the contents from the last paper horn.

“It would be better not to play at all,” I began again, “Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t think at all about it,” said he, “you are a musician and connoisseur by profession”—

“You are wrong, I am neither. I once took lessons upon the harpsichord and in thorough-bass, because I considered it something which was necessary to a good education, and among other things I was told that nothing produced a more disagreeable effect than when the bass follows the upper notes in octaves. At first I took this upon authority, and have ever since found it to be a fact.”

“Really?” interrupted he, and stood up and strode thoughtfully towards the musicians, often casting his eyes upwards and striking upon his brow with the palm of his hand, as if he wished to awaken some particular remembrance. I saw him speak to the musicians whom he treated with a dignified air of command—He returned and scarcely had he regained his seat, before they began to play the overture to “Iphigenia in Aulis.”

With his eyes half-closed and his folded arms resting on the table he listened to the Andante; all the while slightly moving his foot to indicate the falling in of the different parts; now he reversed his head—threw a swift glance about him—the left hand, with fingers apart, resting upon the table, as though he were striking a chord upon the Piano Forte, and the right raised in the air; he was certainly the conductor who was indicating to the orchestra the entrance of the various Tempos—The right hand falls and the Allegro begins—a burning blush flew over his pale cheeks; his eyebrows were raised and drawn together; upon his wrinkled brow an inward rage flashed through his bold eyes, with a fire, which by degrees changed into a smile that gathered about his half-open mouth. Now he leaned back again, his eyebrows were drawn up, the play of muscles again swept over his face, his eyes glanced, the deep internal pain was dissolved in a delight which seized and vehemently agitated every fibre of his frame—he heaved a deep sigh, and drops stood upon his brow. He now indicated the entrance of the Tutti and the other principal parts; his right hand never ceased beating the time, and with his left he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his face—Thus he animated with flesh and color the skeleton of the Overture, formed by the two violins. I heard the soft plaintive lament breathed out by the flutes, after the storm of the violins and basses died away, and the thunder of the kettle drums had ceased; I heard the lightly touched tones of the violoncello and the bassoon, which fill the heart with irrepressible yearning—again the Tutti enters treading along the unison like a towering huge giant and the hollow lamenting expires beneath his crushing footsteps.

The overture was finished; the man suffered both his arms to drop, and sat with closed eyes, like one who was exhausted by excessive exertion. This bottle was empty; I filled his glass with the Burgundy, which in the meantime I had procured. He heaved a deep sigh, and seemed to awaken out of his dream. I motioned him to drink; he did so without hesitation, and swallowing the contents of the glass at one draught, exclaimed,

“I am well pleased with the performance! The orchestra did bravely!”

“And yet,” added I, “yet it was only a feeble outline of a master-piece finished in living colors.”

“Am I right? You are not a Berliner.”

“Perfectly right; I only reside here occasionally.”

“The Burgundy is good; but it is growing cold here.”

“Let us go into the house and finish the flask.”

“A good proposal—I do not know you; neither do you know me. We will not ask each other’s names. Names are sometimes in the way. Here am I drinking Burgundy without it costing me anything. Our companionship is agreeable to both, and so far so good.”

All this he said with good-humored frankness. We entered the house together. As soon as he sat down and threw open his overcoat, I perceived with astonishment, that under it he wore an embroidered vest with long lappels, black velvet breeches, and a very small silver-hilted dagger. He again buttoned up his coat carefully.

“Why did you ask me if I was a Berliner?” I resumed.

“Because in such a case it would be necessary for me to leave you.”

“That sounds like a riddle.”

“Not in the least, when I tell you that I—that I am a composer.”

“I have no idea of your meaning.”

“Well then excuse me for my exclamation just now. I see that you understand yourself thoroughly and nothing of Berlin and Berliners.”

He rose and walked once hastily up and down; then went to the window, and in a scarcely audible voice hummed the chorus of Priestesses from the Iphigenia in Tauris, while at intervals he struck upon the window at the entrance of the Tutti. To my great astonishment I observed that he made several modifications of the melody, which struck me with their power and originality. I let him go on without interruption. He finished and returned to his seat. Surprised by the extraordinary bearing of the man, and by this fantastic expression of his singular musical talent—I remained silent. After some time he began—

“Have you never composed?”

“Yes, I have made some attempts in the art; only I found that all which seemed to me to have been written at inspired moments, became afterwards flat and tedious; so that I let it alone.”

“You have done wrong: for the mere fact of your having made the attempt is no small proof of your talent. We learn music when we are children, because papa and mamma will have it so; now you go to work jingling and fiddling, but imperceptibly the mind becomes susceptible to music. Perhaps the half-forgotten theme of the little song, which you formerly sang, was the first original thought, and from this embryo, nourished laboriously by foreign powers, grows a giant, who consumes all within his reach, and changes all into his own flesh and blood! Ah, how is it possible to point out the innumerable influences which lead a man to compose. There is a broad high-way, where all are hurrying round and shouting and screaming; we are the initiated! we are at the goal! Only through the ivory door is there entrance to the land of dreams; few ever see the door and still fewer pass through it. All seems strange here. Wild forms move hither and thither and each has a certain character—one more than the others. They are never seen in the high-way; they only can be found behind the ivory door. It is difficult to come out of this kingdom. Monsters besiege the way as before the Castle of Alsinens—they twirl—they twist. Many dream their dream in the Kingdom of Dreams,—they dissolve in dreams,—they cast no more shadows—otherwise by means of their shadows they would perceive the rays which pass through this realm; only a few awakened out of this dream, walk about and stride through the Kingdom of Dreams—they come to Truth. This is the highest moment;—the union with the eternal and unspeakable! It is the triple tone, from which the accords, like stars, shoot down and spin around you with threads of fire. You lie there like a chrysalis in the fire, until the Psyche soars up to the sun.”

As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and raised his eyes, and threw up his hand. Then he seated himself and quickly emptied the full glass. A silence ensued, which I would not break, through a fear of leading this extraordinary man out of his track. At last he continued in a calmer manner—

“When I was in the kingdom of dreams a thousand pangs and sorrows tormented me. It was night, and the grinning forms of monsters rushed in upon me, now dragging me down into the abyss of the sea, and now lifting me high into the air. Rays of light streamed through the night, and these rays were tones which encircled me with delicious clearness. I awoke out of my pain and saw a large clear eye, gazing into an organ, and while it gazed, tones issued forth and sparkled and intervened in chords more glorious than I had ever imagined. Up and down streamed melodies, and as I swam in this stream, and was on the point of sinking, the eye looked down upon me and raised me out of the roaring waves. It was night again. Two colossi in glittering harnesses stepped up to me—Tonic and fifth! they lifted me up but the eye smiled; I know what fills thy breast with yearnings, the gentle tender third will step between the colossi; you will hear his sweet voice, will see me again, and my melodies shall become yours.”

He paused.

“And you saw the eye again?”

“Yes, I saw it again. Long years I sighed in the realms of dreams—there—yes, there!—I sat in a beautiful valley, and listened to the flowers as they sang together; only one sun-flower was silent and sadly bent its closed chalice towards the earth. Invisible bonds bound me to it—it raised its head. The chalice opened, and streaming out of it again the eye met mine—The tones, like rays of light, drew my head toward the flower which eagerly enclosed it. Larger and larger grew the leaves—flames streamed forth from it—they flowed around me—the eye had vanished and I was in the chalice.”

As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and rushed out of the room with rapid youthful strides. I awaited his return in vain; I concluded at last to go down into the city.

As I approached the Brandenburg gates, I saw in the gloaming a tall figure stride by me, which I immediately recognized as my strange companion—I said to him—

“Why did you leave me so abruptly?”

“It was too late and the Euphon began to sound.”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“So much the better!”

“So much the worse: for I should like to understand you.”

“Do you hear nothing?”

“No.”

“It is past! Let us go—I do not generally like company; but—you are not a composer—you are not a Berliner?”

“I cannot conceive what so prejudices you against the Berliners. Here, where art is so highly esteemed and practised by the people in the highest degree—I should think that a man of your genius in art would like to be.”

“You are mistaken. I am condemned for my torment to wander about here in this deserted place like a departed spirit.”

“Here in Berlin—a deserted place?”

“Yes, it is deserted to me, for I can find no kindred spirit here. I am alone.”

“But the artists!—the composers!”

“Away with them. They criticise and criticise, refining away everything to find one poor little thought—but beyond their babble about art and artistical taste, and I know not what—they can shape out nothing, and as soon as they endeavor to bring out a few thoughts into daylight—their fearful coldness shows their extreme distance from the sun—it is Lapland work.”

“Your judgment seems to me too stern. At least you must allow that their theatrical representations are magnificent.”

“I once resolved to go to the theatre to hear the opera of one of my young friends—what is the name of it? The whole world is in this opera—through the confused bustle of dressed up men, wander the spirits of Orcus. All here has a voice and an almighty sound. The devil—I mean Don Juan. But I could not endure it beyond the overture, through which they blustered as fast as possible without perception or understanding. And I had prepared myself for that by a course of fasting and prayer, because I know that the Euphon is much too severely tried by this measure and gives an indistinct utterance.”

“Though I must admit that Mozart’s masterpieces are generally slighted here in a most inexplicable manner—yet Gluck’s works are very much better represented.”

“Do you think so? I once was desirous of hearing the Iphigenia in Tauris. As soon as I entered the theatre, I perceived they were playing the Iphigenia in Aulis. Then—thought I, this is a mistake. Do they call _this_ Iphigenia? I was amazed—for now the Andante came in, with which the Iphigenia in Tauris opens, and the storm followed. There is an interval of twenty years. All the effect, all the admirably arranged exposition of the tragedy is lost. A still sea—a storm—the Greeks wrecked on the land—this is the opera. How?—has the composer written the overture at random, so that one may play it as he pleases and when he will, like a trumpet-piece?”

“I confess that is a mistake. Yet in the meantime, they are doing all they can to raise Gluck’s works in the general estimation.”

“Oh yes!” said he shortly—and then smiled more and more bitterly. Suddenly he walked off, and nothing could detain him. In a moment he disappeared, and for many successive days I sought him in vain in the park.

* * * * *

Several months had elapsed, when one cold, rainy evening, having been belated in a distant part of the city, I was going towards my house in Friedrich street. It was necessary to pass by the theatre. The noisy music of trumpets and kettle drums reminded me that Gluck’s Armida was to be now performed, and I was on the point of going in, when a curious soliloquy spoken from the window, where every note of the orchestra was distinctly audible, arrested my attention.

“Now comes the king—they play the march—beat, beat away on your kettle drums. That’s right, that’s lively. Yes, yes, you must do that eleven times now—or else the procession won’t be long enough. Ha, ha—Maestro—drag along, children. See there is a figurant with his shoe-string caught. That’s right for the twelfth time!—Keep beating on that dominant—Oh! ye eternal powers this will never cease. Now he presents his compliments—Armida returns thanks. Still once more? Yes, I see all’s right—there are two soldiers yet to come. What evil spirit has banished me here?”

“The ban is loosed,” cried I—“come!”

I seized my curious friend by the arm (for the soliloquist was no other than he,) and hurrying him out of the park, carried him away with me. He seemed surprised, and followed me in silence. We had already arrived in Friedrich street when he suddenly stopped.

“I know you,” said he.—“You were in the park. We talked together. I drank your wine—grew heated by it. The Euphon sounded two days afterwards—I suffered much—it is over.”

“I am rejoiced that accident has thrown you again in my way. Let us be better acquainted. I live not far from here—suppose you—”

“I cannot, and dare not go with any one.”

“No, you shall not escape me thus—I will go with you.”

“Then you must go about two hundred steps. But you were just going into the theatre?”

“I was going to hear Armida, but now—”

“You shall hear Armida _now_—come!”

In silence we went down Friedrich street. He turned quickly down a cross street, running so fast that I could with difficulty follow him—until he stopped at last before a common-looking house. After knocking for some time the door was opened.—Groping in the dark, we ascended the steps and entered a chamber in the upper story, the door of which my guide carefully locked. I heard a door open; through this he led me with a light, and the appearance of the curiously decorated apartment surprised me not a little—old-fashioned, richly adorned chairs, a clock fixed against the wall with a gilt case, and a heavy broad mirror gave to the whole the gloomy appearance of antiquated splendor. In the middle stood a little Piano Forte, upon which was placed a large inkstand; and near it lay several sheets of music. A more attentive examination of these arrangements for composition made it evident to me that for some time nothing could have been written; for the paper was perfectly yellow, and thick spider webs were woven over the inkstand—the man stepped towards a press in the corner of a chamber which I had not perceived before, and as soon as he drew aside the curtain I saw a row of beautifully bound books with golden titles. Orfeo—Armida—Alcesti—Iphigenia—&c.—in short a collection of Gluck’s master pieces standing together.

“Do you own all Gluck’s works?” I cried.

He made no answer, but a spasmodic smile played across his mouth, and the play of muscles in the hollow cheeks distorted his countenance to the appearance of a hideous mask—He fixed his dark eyes sternly upon me, seized one of the books—it was Armida—and stepped solemnly towards the piano forte.—I opened it quickly and drew up the music rack; that appeared to give him pleasure—He opened the book—I beheld ruled leaves, but not a single note written upon them.

He began; “now I will play the overture—Do you turn over the leaves at the proper time”—I promised—and now grasping the full chords, gloriously and like a master, he played the majestic Tempo di Marcia with which the overture begins, without deviating from the original; but the Allegro was only interpenetrated by Gluck’s principal thought. He brought out so many rich changes that my astonishment increased—His modulations were particularly bold, without being startling, and so great was his facility of hanging upon the principal idea of a thousand melodious lyrics, that each one seemed a reproduction of it in a new and renovated form—His countenance glowed—now he contracted his eyebrows and a long suppressed wrath broke powerfully forth, and now his eyes swam in tears of deep yearning melancholy. Sometimes with a pleasant tenor voice he sang the Thema, while both hands were employed in artist-like lyrics, and sometimes he imitated with his voice in an entirely different manner the hollow tone of the beaten kettle drums. I industriously turned over the leaves, as I followed his look. The overture was finished and he fell back exhausted with closed eyes, upon the arm chair. But soon he raised himself again and turning hastily over a few blank leaves, said to me in a hollow tone—

“All this, sir, have I written when I came out of the kingdom of dreams, but I betrayed the holy to unholy, and an ice-cold hand fastened upon this glowing heart. It broke not. Yet was I condemned to wander among the unholy like a departed spirit—formless, so that no one knew me until the sun-flower again lifted me up to the eternal—Ha, now let us sing Armida’s Scena.”

Then he sang the closing scene of the Armida with an expression which penetrated my inmost heart—Here also he deviated perceptibly from the original—but the substituted music was Gluck-like music in still higher potency.—All that Hate, Love, Despair, Madness, can express in its strongest traits—he united in his tones—His voice seemed that of a young man, for from its deep hollowness swelled forth an irrepressible strength—Every fibre trembled—I was beside myself—When he had finished I threw myself into his arms, and cried with suppressed voice—“What does this mean? Who are you?”

He stood up and gazed at me with earnest, penetrating look—but as I was about to speak again he vanished with the light through a door and left me in the darkness—He was absent a quarter of an hour—I despaired of seeing him again and ascertaining my position from the situation of the piano forte sought to open the door, when suddenly in an embroidered dress coat, rich vest and with a sword at his side and a light in his hand he entered—

I started—he came solemnly up to me, took me softly by the hand, and said, softly smiling—

“I am the Chevalier Gluck!”

* * * * *

VENUS AND THE MODERN BELLE.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Young Beauty looked over her gems one night, And stole to her glass, with a petulant air: She braided her hair, with their burning light, Till they played like the gleam of a glowworm there.

Then she folded, over her form of grace, A costly robe from an Indian loom But a cloud overshadowed her exquisite face, And Love’s sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.

“It is useless!” she murmured,—“my jewels have lost All their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!” And she snatched off the treasures, and haughtily tost, Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies and pearls.

Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion; “And what?” she exclaimed, “shall the star of the ball Be seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion?”— Away went the robe,—ribbons, laces and all!

“Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sighed in despair, “Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone, Which Juno of old condescended to wear, And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”—

She said and she started; for lo! in the glass, Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came! She turned,—it was Venus herself! and the lass Stood blushing before her, in silence and shame.

“Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek, Is one you can summon at once, if you will; It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek, And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes, fill.

“No gem in your casket such lustre can lend, No silk wrought in silver, such beauty, bestow, With that talisman heed not, tho’ simply, my friend, Your robe and your ringlets unjewelled may flow!”

“Oh! tell it me! give it me!”—Beauty exclaimed,— As Hope’s happy smile, to her rosy mouth, stole,— “Nay! you wear it e’en now, since your temper is tamed, ’Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul.”

* * * * *

MY BARK IS OUT UPON THE SEA.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

My bark is out upon the sea The moon’s above; Her light a presence seems to me Like woman’s love. My native land I’ve left behind; Afar I roam; In other climes no hearts I’ll find, Like those at home.

Of all yon sisterhood of stars, But one is true; She paves my path with crystal spars, And beams like you, Whose purity the waves recall In music’s flow, As round my bark they rise and fall In liquid snow.

The freshening breeze now swells the sails, A storm is on; The weary moon’s dim lustre fails, The stars are gone. Not so fades love’s eternal light When storm-clouds weep; I know one heart’s with me to-night Upon the deep.

* * * * *

THE LATE SIR DAVID WILKIE.

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.