Nouvellettes of the musicians

I.

Milan, 4th May, 1811.

Am I dreaming?—or do I still tread the earth? Scarce two days have passed, and yet I have lived through events that might occupy a year. On the second of May, at eight in the evening, I arrived at this place. My road brought me first to the cathedral. The slender sickle of the new moon hung in the violet expanse; the western sky was yet crimson with the last rays of the sun; a range of lamps just lighted, threw a red glare on the streets. The lofty obelisk of the Gothic temple, surmounted with its bronze statue, rose in the clear blue ether; a holy silence seemed to wrap its summit, that contrasted with the crowd and excitement below, of people hastening to the theatre. I stood long absorbed in mute admiration. Suddenly two figures stepped out from the shadow of a large pillar; they were, like myself, in traveling gear. As they were passing, I heard familiar voices, and sprang forward to greet Hermann and Adolph, two intimate friends, whom I had not seen for several years. How joyful this unexpected meeting!

We repaired to the nearest café and took seats at a table near the door, to enjoy the fresh breath of evening. While the lights flared in the breeze, and flasks of the Lombard champagne—the foaming wine of Asti—stood before us, each told what had befallen him since the current of time had carried us in different directions after our last separation. Necessity had sundered us, not only from each other, but from our fatherland. My friends were just from the Tyrol; they had visited the ever-memorable scene of that holy strife which those true-hearted sons of the mountains, trusting in justice human and divine, maintained against the over-bearing power of France. Our conversation, more earnest than was altogether prudent, naturally turned to these events, so interesting to the heart of the patriot. “We visited, also,” said Adolph, “the dwelling of Hofer—that noble hero. Let me read you”—here he drew out his tablets, and turned to me—“a poem which I composed on this sacred spot.” Here he read me some verses on Andreas Hofer’s dwelling, a copy of which I took, and have placed in my journal.

We remained in conversation till midnight, when the people came back from the theatre; then separated with promises of seeing each other again. I had gone but a few hundred steps on the way to my lodgings, when I became aware that the heavy jingling tread of a French gend’arme was closely following me. To see if I was the object of his pursuit, I suddenly turned and crossed towards a side street. He followed. I glanced at him; he seized me by the arm. “Monsieur, votre portefeuille,” said he. I gave it up. “Vous me suivrez.” I obeyed. I now understood all.

He led me to a lofty old building, which I had never before seen; a huge door, fastened with heavy bolts, was opened: within were French soldiers on guard. My conductor spoke a few words to the officer, apart. I was then led away by two soldiers, preceded by a turnkey with a lamp. We mounted some steps, then passed through a dark gallery. The turnkey stopped at a door strongly secured with iron bars, and I found myself in a narrow cell, ventilated only by a small grated window, through which glimmered a ray of starlight. The gend’arme entered after me, and I was subjected to a rigorous search. My papers were all taken away, but my watch and purse were courteously handed back. The jailer asked if I wanted anything; I laughed bitterly. “Well, to-morrow morning,” said he, and went out. I remained alone in the darkness.

For an hour or more I lay on the straw matting, and pictured to myself the horrors of my fate. Only twenty-one, and full of hope—ready to serve and save my country, to perform great deeds! What was now before me? Was I ever again to see my parents, my sisters, my beloved? A prisoner, perhaps to be led forth to-morrow to kneel on the ground and receive the bullets of the soldiers—for my love to my native land. Thoughts on these subjects filled my tortured brain. But suddenly my attention was arrested; the stillness of night was broken by a tone of melody so soft, so exquisite, so melancholy, that it pierced my inmost heart, and tears sprang to my eyes. Was it a song? No; there was no voice, but a melody such as was never heard before—such as Orpheus might have drawn forth! It was—yes, let the cold-hearted laugh—it was the sound of a violin!

How shall I describe that music? Sunk in despair as I was—the dungeon, the galleys, death before my eyes—it raised me to the height of rapture; it filled me with the joy of freedom, and yet, strangest of all, with feelings solemn and profound! On the silence of night it stole like magic; the light breeze wafted it through the bars of my window; clear, softly swelling like the sigh of the mourner’s breast—plaintive and imploring, like the accents of love—gently yielding, like the timid bride—that wondrous harmony took possession of my care-fraught soul. Then the player, as it seemed, improvised airs on his instrument; now glided the tones along; now he rose into energy and power, now melted in the most seducing melody; yet the notes were ever clear, as if they had been drops of pearl. After these rhapsodical strains, he passed, by a strange but charming transition, into a melody of wonderful pathos. Never can I forget the effect of this music, so sweet and exquisite, yet full of sadness; now swelling into silvery richness, now dying gently away. It was like the noble, melancholy plaint of an imprisoned king. The thought entered my bosom—how much have those who are better than we oft to suffer!—and in the midst of misfortune I felt a calmness and a trust which I could never have obtained through the pleadings of reason. The player continued his music, and I knew not whether to wonder most at his compositions or his execution. He seemed at length under the influence of inspiration; his music was full of fire; he passed into stranger combinations, into bolder and wilder flights, yet surpassing harmony was in all; and he appeared to create difficulties only to triumph over them. Friends who read my journal, you will say, perhaps, the imagination of the prisoner deceived him. No, I have myself played the violin, (I do it now no more,) and could never have conceived aught like what I heard. The music at last ceased, but it lingered unforgotten in my soul—ay, I longed more to hear it again than to recover freedom.

It was day; I heard the beating of a drum: I climbed to my window and looked out. A company of soldiers marched into the court; three prisoners stood in front of them. At a sign from the officer, they marched away. The jailer opened my door; I asked him about them. “In an hour,” he replied, “they are to die; they are suspected of treason—of having favored the insurrection among the Tyrolese.”

These words were my death-warrant. I heard them shuddering, but with composure. The jailer continued—“It is now the hour when the prisoners are allowed to take the air in the court. Will you go down?”

We went. I saw in the court a rough, vagabond crowd, ruffians whom the energy of the French government had collected out of all Lombardy, to shut them up here. Leaning against a pillar, his eyes fixed on the sun, which had just risen, I observed a young man about twenty-five, who seemed worn out with suffering. He was pale and emaciated; his eyes were sunken; a prominent, bent nose, a high forehead, black masses of hair, and a long beard, gave him a wild appearance. But the expression of deep sorrow in the sharp lines of his chiseled mouth, and his pale, attenuated cheeks, imparted a touching interest to his face. I looked long at this singular person; he seemed not to see any one, but continued to gaze upwards towards the sun.

All at once he perceived the jailer, and hastily went to him. “I entreat you,” he said, speaking earnestly, in Italian; “can I not move you?”

“No,” replied the old man, sternly, “you cannot; and if you are not quiet o’ nights, I will even cut your last string for you.”

This, then, is the player, thought I; and I was hastening to speak to him when I heard my name pronounced behind me. It was the gend’arme who had arrested me. “Suivez moi, monsieur,” he said, sternly. I was compelled to obey. Before the door stood a coach; we entered, drove off and stopped before a handsome house. My companion was silent as the grave. We alighted, and he led me up the steps and into the house. We waited some time in the hall. At last the door of a side room opened, and a voice cried, “Entrez.” Joyful surprise! I stood before General K——, who, four years before, had been brought wounded to the house of my parents in Berlin; and although an enemy, had received generous attention and nursing.

“My young friend,” he cried, grasping my hand, “how imprudent you have been! Had I not, by mere chance, occupied this post, nothing could have saved you. You are free.”

“And my friends?”

“They are also at liberty.”

“A thousand thanks—”

“Silence; I am yet in your debt. Be my guest to-day, with your friends. To-morrow you must depart, for I leave Milan with my troops, and your adventure here might still have serious consequences for you. Your passports to Germany are already made out.”

II.

Paris, 13th April, 1814.

I received from M. —— the following note:—

“Your story of the musician in the dungeon, and your longing to hear him again, form a pretty romance; but, like other romances, it savors strongly of imagination. I told it to Lafont to-day; he laughed, and said, ‘I pledge myself to cure this feverish enthusiasm: I must give him a violin concert.’ I have taken him at his word. This evening his promise is to be fulfilled; and, to put you down completely, Baillot, Kreuzer and Rode are also invited! Can you desire more? I shall expect you this evening.”

I cannot describe what I felt at this invitation. For the last four years I had heard all the violin players in the different cities where I had been, yet nothing in the smallest degree approached what I remembered. Now I was to hear the four most famous masters the world knew. I trembled for my ideal.

With a beating heart, I found myself in the brilliantly lighted saloon. Ah, the splendor of the scene, the elegant dresses of the ladies, were displeasing to me; I thought of my dungeon in Milan, and the melody that seemed wafted from another sphere.

The concert began. Lafont played first. The most perfect polish, a tone of silvery clearness—in andante, as in allegro, grace itself—were his; but it was as a finely wrought miniature beside the nameless charm of that glorious picture before my mind’s vision.

Next I heard Kreuzer. Brilliant as a string of diamonds were his passages, full and clear were his tones, and of surpassing boldness and strength; but his was the brilliancy of pure metal, or of jewels—not the living beam that penetrates the soul.

Baillot now came forward. The full, energetic harmony he drew from the instrument, roused memory in my breast. A noble fire glowed in his work; he ruled like a monarch over the realm of sound. But my prisoner ruled like a god!

At last appeared Rode. His noble, expressive features, his air of graceful, manly dignity, influenced me in his favor. He began. I started involuntarily; he brought back to me powerfully the recollection of the player who had so deeply moved my heart. His representation appeared like the sculptured image that pictures forth the very form of a loved being. The same fervor breathed in his music, the same fire, restrained by kindred power. At the moment, I almost fancied he equaled the mysterious stranger; but as he proceeded, I felt that what seemed in him so wonderful, so finished an effort, would have been accomplished at once and with ease by my prisoner. His chainless spirit would have soared upward and onward still, seeking more distant heights, more fathomless depths;—him the bounds of earth could never have contained. He swept the empyrean towards the confines of other worlds, and the harmonies heard there he gave back to men in tones of unrivaled melody.

Thus I felt during the remainder of the concert. After it was over, M. —— introduced me to the celebrated artists. Courtesy required that I should praise their performance—and who would not have praised it? Of my prisoner I was silent; but Lafont, to whom M. —— had told the story, began himself to question me. I endeavored to avoid speaking on the subject, in vain; at last I related the occurrence. All except Rode smiled; and when I mentioned and described some peculiar difficulties which I had heard overcome in a wonderful manner, Lafont exclaimed, “Oh, you are joking with us!” In short, it was plain they did not believe me. I was vexed, and soon after took my leave. Hardly was I out of the door when I perceived some one following me hastily; it was Rode.

“Sir,” said he, “your narration has deeply affected me. Is it true—upon your honor?”

I assured him it was.

“Yes,” he answered, “I believe you; but I am convinced there lives only one man on earth who can be your mysterious prisoner. Fifteen years since, when I was a young man, I chanced to be in Genoa. Going home late one evening, I heard the sound of a violin. The playing filled me with astonishment. At first I could not perceive whence came this enchanting music; but I soon discovered the performer to be a youth hardly grown out of boyhood, who stood on a garden wall not very high, and, looking towards a dimly-lighted window, drew from his instrument those heavenly sounds. I stood rooted to the ground. At that time I was myself a performer; but never had I dreamed of such mysteries in music as were here revealed to me. Hidden in the shadow, I remained listening. The moon came from behind a cloud, and shone full on the figure of the youthful player. His features were like those you have described, but softened, probably, from his extreme youth.

“He ended his playing; the window opened, and a female figure appeared and threw something down. An instant after, a harsh voice cried, ‘Traditore, pel diavolo!’ At this outcry, the boy sprang down from the wall into the street, plunged into a side alley, and disappeared before I could recover from my surprise. At the same time I perceived a head peering over the wall, and oaths and menaces were poured forth without stint. The light in the window was extinguished. Evidently it was some love affair. After some minutes, I came out from my concealment, and as I passed along the wall, I trod upon something which proved a violin bow. The lad must have lost it as he leaped from the wall. I have this bow yet: it is marked with a P. I hoped by means of it to discover the young musician, but the troubled state of the times compelled me in a day or two to leave the city. Since then I have heard nothing of my unknown artist. But I owe him much. The impression his magical performance left with me was deeper than I could express; by it I have modeled and improved my own. Yes, I am indebted to this strange appearance—this revelation, I might call it—for perhaps the greatest part of my fame!”

I heard this relation of the great artist with astonishment. Then I owned to him that I had found in his playing some resemblance to that of the unfortunate stranger. It seemed as if Rode had apprehended and followed the first flights of that wild spirit.

We parted. I have hope still so mighty a genius must one day sway the world. If tyrant fate have not already crushed him, that spirit must one day be crowned sovereign over all hearts!

III.

Berlin, 30th March, 1829.

After long residence in the north, I arrived here at half-past eight in the evening.

“What is there at the theatre to-night?” said I to the butler.

“Nothing of consequence. But you should go to the concert, mein Herr. A violin player—”

“I have had enough of violin players.”

“But this one is a wonder. The critic, Rellstab, writes his pen to the stump in praises of him. Look here, in the paper.”

“Very well. What is the name of the wonderful performer so praised by the critic?”

“His name? I will tell you in a moment. It has just escaped me. An Italian—”

“An Italian?”

“Yes. It begins with a P.”

“A P? I must go instantly to the concert. Where will I find a ticket?”

“Over the way. I do not think you can procure any now elsewhere.”

I hastened to get one.

The concert hall was so crowded that I could not get in, but was forced to remain outside with many others. The tutti of the last composition was ended; the solo—a pollacca—began.

“’Tis he, or none!” cried I. “I have heard those tones before; they are unforgotten, deep in my heart. But what a miracle! Do two play, or three? That I have never heard. I will not trust my ear. If I might but see him—only one look! In vain: the crowd presses the door too closely. I will, at least, lose not one note.”

The performer ceased. A thunderburst of applause shook the building. I pressed forward and strove to get a sight of him; others, equally eager, pushed before me: I was again disappointed. What thoughts swelled in my heart! I waited with impatience to hear him begin once more. At last——. “Now he plays on the G string,” said some one near me. He began. Is it possible? That was the very melody I heard in prison! Those were the self-same tones that once—calming, elevating, faith-inspiring, as if sent down from heaven—shed light into my gloomy soul!

I forced my way forward through the multitude. I saw once more the pale, melancholy brow, the sunken eyes, the long dark hair, the same feeble aspect of the whole person. It was HE! The mystery of nineteen years was at length solved. The stranger who had filled my youthful breast with feelings wonderful, unutterable, who had ceaselessly accompanied me since, like a veiled apparition, familiar, yet from which I could not tear the covering, stood before me. I heard, I saw——Paganini!