Bravura_" in our programmes. She was an extraordinary-looking creature,
Mademoiselle Meibel. I can see her little wizened figure at this moment
as if she were here before my eyes. She used to come forward on to the
platform, very grave and dignified, her music in her hand, dressed in
nearly all the colours of the rainbow, and make a ceremonious dip of
the upper part of her body to the audience. She used to have on a
miraculous sort of head-gear, with Italian porcelain flowers stuck on
the front of it; and, as she sung, these flowers used to nod and quiver
in the oddest fashion. When she ended her solo--received always by the
audience with boundless applause--she would hand her music, with a
glance of pride, to my master, who was accorded the privilege of
dipping his forefinger and thumb into the little box, in the shape of a
pug dog, which she at such times produced, and took snuff from with a
courtly air. She had a most disagreeable, quavering voice, and
introduced all kinds of horrible, vulgar grace-notes and flourishes;
and you can imagine the ludicrous effect which this, in combination
with her external appearance, produced on me. My uncle was loud in
encomiums, but this was incomprehensible to me, and I sided all the
more with my organist, who despised all vocal music, and used to mimic
old Mademoiselle Meibel in the most entertaining style.

"'The more I coincided with my master in considering all singing to be
an inferior province of the musical art, the higher waxed his estimate
of my musical endowments. He taught me counterpoint with untiring,
indefatigable pains and zeal, and ere long I was able to write the
correctest of _fugues_ and _toccatas_.

"'On my nineteenth birthday, I was playing one of those compositions of
mine to my uncle, when the waiter of our principal hotel came in, and
announced that two foreign ladies, who had just arrived in the town,
were coming to see us.

"Before my uncle had time to throw off his large-flowered dressing-gown
and dress himself, the ladies were in upon us.

"You know the electrical effect which any unusual apparition of this
sort has upon people who live in small provincial places, but the one
which now appeared to me was really such as to produce on me the effect
of the wave of some enchanter's wand.

"'Picture to yourself two tall, handsome Italian girls, dressed in the
latest fashions, walking up to my uncle, with a combination of artistic
ease and charming courtesy of manner, and talking away to him in voices
which were extremely loud, and yet remarkably beautiful in tone. What
was the curious language they were speaking? Now and then but only now
and then it sounded something like German.

"'My uncle didn't understand a word of it. He stepped back, completely
nonplussed, and pointed in silence to the sofa; they sat down there and
talked to each other. _That_ was real music. Ultimately they managed to
explain to my uncle that they were singers on a tour, intended giving
some concerts, and had been recommended to apply to him as a person who
could assist them in the necessary arrangements. While they had been
talking to each other I had gathered their names; Lauretta, who seemed
to be the elder of the two, kept talking away to my bewildered uncle,
with immense energy and eager gesticulation, glancing about her with
beaming eyes the while. Without being to be called "stout," she was
luxuriant of figure to a degree which was at that time something wholly
novel to my inexperienced--and admiring--eyes. Teresina, taller and
slighter, with a long earnest face, spoke, in the intervals, very
little, but much more comprehensibly. Every now and then she would
smile, in a curious way, as if a good deal amused at the aspect of my
poor uncle, who kept shrinking into his flowered dressing-gown as a
snail does into its shell, vainly trying to stick away a certain string
belonging to his nether garments, which would keep fluttering out every
now and then, to the length of an ell or so.

"'At last they rose to go. My uncle had promised to arrange a concert
for the next day but one, and he and I (whom he had presented to them
as a young _virtuoso_) were invited to go and take chocolate with the
sisters that evening.

"'When the time came, we walked slowly and solemnly up the stairs
accordingly. We both felt very queer: somewhat as if we were going
forward to undertake some rather perilous adventure, for which we were
by no means adequately prepared.

"After my uncle, who had carefully prepared himself beforehand, had
spoken much and learnedly about music--(nobody understood a word he
said, neither he himself, nor we others)--after I had burnt my tongue,
three times, terribly with the scalding chocolate smiling at my
tortures with the stoicism of a Scaevola--Lauretta said she would sing
something. Teresina took the guitar tuned it, and struck two or three
handfuls of chords. I had never heard the instrument before, and was
much impressed by the strange, mysterious effect of its hollow
vibrations.

"'Lauretta commenced a note, very _piano_, swelled it out to a ringing
_fortissimo_, and then broke out into a bold warbling _cadenza_,
extending over an octave and a half. I remember the words of the
beginning of her aria:--

            "Sento l'amica speme."

"'My blood seemed to pause in my veins! I never had had an idea that
there could be anything like this, and as Lauretta soared on her
bright pinions of song, higher and higher, and as the beams of those
beautiful tones shone brighter and brighter upon me, all the music within
me--dead and dormant hitherto--caught fire, and blazed on high in
glorious and mighty flames.

"'Ah! that was the first time in my life that I ever heard _music_!
Next the sisters sang together, some of those earnest, quiet,
deep-drawn duets of Abbate Steffani'e. Teresina's rich, exquisitely
beautiful contralto stirred the depths of my soul. I could not keep
back my tears, they rolled down my cheeks. My uncle blew his nose a
great deal, and cast reproachful looks at me. It was no use; I couldn't
control myself. This seemed to please the sisters; they asked about my
musical studies. I felt utterly disgusted with all I had done, and
declared, in my enthusiasm, that I had never heard music before.

"'"_Il buon fanciullo!_" said Lauretta, very sweetly and tenderly.

"'When I got home I felt almost out of my mind. I seized all the
_toccatas_ and _fugues_ which I had so laboriously carpentered together
(as well as forty-five Variations on a Thema in Canon, which the
organist had composed for me, and presented to me in a beautifully
written MS.), and shied the whole boiling of them into the fire. I
laughed sardonically as this mass of double counterpoint crackled and
blazed, and went sparkling out into ashes. Then I sat down to the
instrument, and tried, first to imitate the guitar, and then to play,
and next to sing, the melodies which I had heard the sisters execute.
At last, about midnight, my uncle came out of his bedroom crying, "For
the love of heaven stop that caterwauling, be off to your bed, and
let's try to get some sleep," with which he blew out the lights and
left me in the dark. I had nothing for it but obey; but in my dreams I
thought I had solved the secret of song, and was singing the "Sento
l'Amica Speme" in the most exquisite style myself.

"'Next morning my uncle had got together everybody who could play on
string or wind instruments, to a rehearsal in the concert-room, and a
proud man he felt himself to be able to turn out such a fine show of
performers. The rehearsal was anything but a success, however. Lauretta
essayed a grand scena, but we had not got many bars into the recitative
when everything was at sixes and sevens; none of the players had the
slightest idea of accompanying. Lauretta screamed, stormed, wept, with
rage and disgust. The organist was at the piano, and him she attacked
with her bitterest objurgations. He rose from his seat, and walked
slowly, and with much composure, out at the door. The band-master, at
whom she had hurled an "_asino tedesco_" put his violin under his arm,
and cocked his cap martially over one ear; he, too, was making for the
door, his men, unscrewing their mouthpieces, and sticking their bows in
among their strings, preparing to follow him. Only the amateurs were
left, looking at each other, almost with tears in their eyes, the
exciseman saying, "Oh, dear me! how very much I do feel a thing of this
sort!"

"'But all my natural bashfulness had abandoned me. I stopped the
band-master; I entreated and implored him; in the anguish of the moment
I promised I would write him six minuets, with double trios each, for
the county-ball. I succeeded in pacifying him. He went back to his
music-stand; the bandsmen followed his example, and the orchestra was
ready to commence operations once more. All except the organist; his place
at the piano was vacant. I found him strolling--a calm, contemplative
man--up and down in the market-place, by no process whatever to be
prevailed upon to cross the threshold of the concert-room any more.

"'Teresina had been looking on at all this, biting her lips to keep
back her laughter. Lauretta was now just as conciliatory as she had
previously been the contrary. She thanked me most warmly for all I had
done. She asked if I could play the piano, and, ere I knew where I was,
I found myself occupying the organist's vacant place, with the score
before me. Up to this time I had never accompanied a singer, or
directed an orchestra. Teresina sat down beside me, and indicated the
various _tempi_ to me. Lauretta gave me an encouraging "bravo!" now and
then; the orchestra began to understand, and things went better. At the
second rehearsal all was clear, and the sensation the sisters produced
at the concert was indescribable.

"'There were going to be great doings at the Residenz, on the occasion
of the prince's return from abroad, and the sisters were engaged to
sing there; in the meantime they decided on remaining in our little
town, and giving one or two more concerts. The admiration of the
towns-folk for them amounted to a species of insanity. Only old Mdlle.
Meibel would take a reflective pinch out of her pug-dog snuff-box, and
remark that screeching of that sort was not singing. My organist was no
more to be seen, and I by no means regretted his absence. I was the
happiest creature on earth. I sat with the sisters all day long, playing
their accompaniments, and writing out the parts from the scores for the
concerts at the Residenz. Lauretta was my ideal; all her naughty
tempers, her artistic outbreaks of fury, impatience with her
accompanyist, and so forth, I bore like a lamb. I began to learn
Italian, and wrote a _canzonetta_ or two. How I rose to the empyrean
when Lauretta sang my compositions, and even praised them! I often felt
as if I had never thought and written those things, but as if the ideas
streamed out for the first time when she sang them. With Teresina I did
not get on so well. She sang very seldom; didn't seem to take much
interest in me or my doings, and sometimes gave me the impression of
laughing at me behind my back.

"'The time arrived at last when they had to leave us: then it was that
I fully realized what Lauretta had become to me, and how impossible it
was for me to be parted from her. After she had been unusually
_smorfiosa_ with me, she would be kind and caressing, but always in
such a fashion that, although my blood would seethe, the coldness which
I could feel that she brought to bear upon me was sufficient to prevent
me from throwing myself at her feet with passionate avowals of love.

"'I had a pretty fair tenor voice then: it had never had any
cultivation, but it was beginning to improve, and I used to sing, with
Lauretta, numbers of those tender Italian duets whose name is legion.
We were singing one of those duets one day; the time of her departure
was at hand--

                 "Senza di te, ben mio!
                  Vivere non poss' io."

"'Who could have resisted this? I threw myself at Lauretta's feet, wild
with despair.

"'She helped me to rise. "Why should we part, dear friend?" she said. I
listened in delighted amazement. She said I had much better go with her
and Teresina to the Residenz. If I meant to devote myself to music
altogether, I should have to quit my little native town some day or
other.

"'Picture to yourself a person who has bidden good-bye to life and
hope, and is falling down some black, fathomless abyss; but, at the
very instant when he expects the crash which is to dash him in pieces,
lo and behold! he is in a beautiful bower of roses, with hundreds of
little many-tinted lights dancing round him, and saying, "Darling!
you're still alive, you see!" These were my sensations at that moment.
To go with them to the Residenz was the one prominent, tangible idea of
my life.

"'I shan't weary you by describing how I set about proving to my uncle
the absolute necessity of my going to the Residenz--no such very great
distance, when all was said. He agreed at last, and said he would go
with me! Here was an unexpected baulk to my little plans. I dared not
tell him I was going with the ladies; but luckily one of his attacks of
bronchitis came to my rescue.

"'I started off in the stage-coach, but got out at the first change of
horses, and waited there for the coming of my goddesses. I had plenty
of money in my pocket, so that I was able to make all my arrangements.
My idea was to escort the ladies on horseback, like a paladin of
Romance; so I managed to hire a steed--not particularly grand to look
at, but, as his owner assured me, a good serviceable animal,--and at
the appointed time I mounted him, and rode out to meet the two
_cantatrices_. Ere long, their little double-seated phæton was seen
coming quietly along. The two sisters were on the front seat, and
behind sat their maid, little fat Gianna, a brown Neapolitan. The
carriage was crammed with all sorts of boxes, band-boxes, portmanteaus,
and so forth, and two pug-dogs, on Gianna's lap, yapped at me as I rode
up.

"Everything went swimmingly till we got to the last stage from the
Residenz, but there my horse was seized with the remarkable idea that
he ought to go home to his stable. A conviction that severe measures
are seldom effectual in such conjunctures induced me to try every
description of mild persuasion that I could think of. The perverse
animal was proof against all my gentle remonstrances. I wanted to go
forward; he wanted to go back. All that I could accomplish in the
circumstances was that, instead of retrograding, he kept describing
circles. Teresina leant out of the carriage, laughing most heartily;
whilst Lauretta put her hands before her eyes and screamed, as if I
were in the utmost danger. I jammed my spurs into the brute's sides,
and, ere I could say Jack Robinson, found myself on the broad of my
back on the turnpike road, with the horse standing over me, his long
neck stretched out, surveying me with an expression of calm derision.

"'I could not get up till the driver got off and helped me. Lauretta,
too, got out, and was weeping and screaming. I had twisted one of my
feet, and couldn't ride any further. What was to be done? The horse was
made fast to the back of the carriage, and I had to squeeze myself
inside, as best I could. Just picture to yourself two well-grown
young women, a fat maid, a couple of dogs, a dozen or so of baskets,
band-boxes, etc., and me in addition, squeezed up in a little two-seated
phaeton! Think of Lauretta's lamentations about the want of room; the
dogs' yapping; the Neapolitan's chattering, and the horrible pain of my
foot, and you will have some idea what a charming position I was in.
Teresina declared she could bear it no longer; the driver pulled up,
and with one bound she was out of the carriage. She loosed my horse,
got on his back, and trotted and curvetted down the road before us. She
certainly looked splendid; the grace and distinction which she
possessed in an eminent degree were more especially conspicuous on
horseback. She made us hand her out her guitar, and, slinging her
bridle over her left arm, she sang Spanish ballads as she rode along,
striking handfuls of chords in accompaniment. Her silk dress fluttered
in shimmering folds, and the white plumes in her hat nodded and
quivered, like airy sprites, in time to the music. Her whole effect was
romantic beyond expression, and I could not take my eyes away from her;
although Lauretta called her absurd, and said she was a silly, forward
girl, and had better take care she didn't meet with an accident.
However, the horse seemed to have altered his tactics--or perhaps he
preferred the lady-singer to the Paladin; at all events, it was not
till we were close to the gates of the Residenz that Teresina clambered
back into the carriage again.

"'Imagine me now deliciously up to my eyes in concerts, operas, and
music of every description, passing my days and hours at the piano,
whilst arias, duets, and I don't know all what, are being studied and
rehearsed. From the total change in my outward man you gather that I am
permeated and inspired by a spirit of might. All the provincial
bashfulness is gone. I sit at the piano, a _maestro_, with the score
before me, conducting my donna's _scenas_. My whole soul and existence
is centred in melody. With the utmost contempt for counterpoint,
I write quantities of _canzonettas_ and _arias_, which Lauretta
sings--only in private, however. Why won't she ever sing anything of mine
at a concert? I can't make this out. Teresina sometimes dawns on my
memory, curvetting with her lyre on her charger, like some incarnation of
music; and, spite of myself, I write loftier and more serious strains
when I think of this. Lauretta, no doubt, sports and plays with the
notes like some fairy-queen. What does she ever attempt in which she
does not succeed? Teresina never attempts a _roulade_; a simple
_appoggiatura_ or so, in the antique style, is the utmost that she
ventures upon; but those long, sustained notes of hers shine through
the dim background, and wonderful spirits arise, and gaze, with their
earnest eyes, deep into the breast. I don't know why mine was so long
before it opened to them.

"'The sisters' benefit-concert came off at length. Lauretta was singing
a great _scena_ of Anfossi's. I was, of course, at the piano as usual.
We had arrived at her final "pause," where her grand _cadenza ad
libitum_ had to come in. It was a question of showing what she really
_could_ do. Nightingale trills went warbling up and down; then came
long holding-notes; then all kinds of florid passages--a regular
_solfeggio_; even _I_ thought the affair was being kept up too long.
Suddenly I felt a breath. Teresina was standing close behind me;
Lauretta was just pulling herself together to begin her long, swelling
harmonica shake, which was to lead back to the _a-tempo_. Some demon
took possession of me. I crashed down the chord of the dominant with
both hands; the orchestra followed me; and there was an end of
Lauretta's _trillo_, just at the supreme moment when it ought to have
set the audience _in furore_.

"'Lauretta, with a glare of fury at me, which went through me like a
two-edged sword, tore her music in pieces, and sent it flying about my
ears; then rushed away like a mad creature, through the orchestra, into
the ante-room. As soon as the _tutti_ was finished, I hastened after
her. She was sobbing and raving. "Don't come near me, you malignant
fiend!" she screamed: "you have blasted my career for ever; how can I
ever look an audience in the face again? You have robbed me of my name,
and fame, and, oh, of my _trillo_! Out of my sight;" she made a rush at
me, but I slipped deftly out of the door. During the _concerto_--which
somebody or other played--Teresina and the Kapellmeister succeeded in
so far pacifying her as to induce her to appear again--but not with me
at the piano--and in the concluding duet, which the sisters sung,
Lauretta did actually introduce the harmonica shake, was tremendously
applauded, and got into the most delightful temper imaginable.

"'I, however, couldn't get over the style in which I had been treated
before so many strangers; and I had quite made up my mind to be off
back to my native town again the following morning. In fact I was
packing up, when Teresina came into my room. When she saw what was
going on, she was thunderstruck. "_You_ going to leave us?" she cried.
I said that after the way in which Lauretta had behaved to me, I could
not possibly stay.

"'"Then the hasty, petulant outburst of a foolish girl, which she is
heartily ashamed of and sorry for, is going to drive you away; where
else could you carry on your artistic life so happily? It rests
entirely with you to cure Lauretta of those tempers of hers. You are
too good to her, and let her have her own way far too much. You have
too high an opinion of her altogether. She has a very fair voice, and
an enormous compass, no doubt. But all those _fioriture_, those
everlasting scales and passages, and nightingale trills of hers, what
are they but dazzling tricks, more like what an acrobat does on the
tight-rope than anything else? Can such things possibly touch the
heart? The harmonica shake, which you wouldn't let her bring in, is a
thing which I detest! it makes me feel quite ill. Then all that
clambering up among the ledger-line notes, isn't it a mere, unnatural
forcing of the proper voice--the real voice--the only voice that
touches the listener? What I admire are the middle and lower registers.
A tone which goes to the heart, a genuine _portamento di voce_, I
prefer to everything else. None of those meaningless _embellimenti_--a
firm, steady, full utterance of the note--something like decision and
accuracy of intonation; that is real singing, and that is how I sing
myself. If you can't bear Lauretta longer, don't forget that there is
Teresina, who is your devoted friend: and you can be my _maestro_ and
composer quite in your own special style. Don't be vexed with me, but
all your florid _canzonettas_ and _arias_ are nothing in comparison
with _the_ one."

"'Teresina sang, in her rich pathetic tones, a simple _canzone_ in
church style which I had written a few days before. Never could I have
imagined that it could ever possibly have sounded like that. Tears of
rapture rolled down my cheeks: I seized her hand, and pressed it to my
lips a thousand times: I vowed that nothing on earth should ever part
us.

"'Lauretta looked upon my alliance with Teresina with angry jealousy,
which she concealed as best she could. I was indispensable to her at
the time; because, clever as her singing was, she couldn't learn
anything new without assistance. She was a wretched hand at reading,
and extremely shaky over her time. Teresina could read everything at
sight, and the accuracy of her time was incomparable. Lauretta's
tempers and caprices never came out in such full force as when she was
being accompanied. The accompaniment never pleased her. She looked upon
it in the light of a necessary evil, she wanted the piano to be barely
audible, always _pianissimo_. She was always dragging and altering the
time, every bar different, just as she happened to take it in her head
at the moment. I set to work to resist this firmly. I combatted those
evil habits of hers; I showed her that there must be a certain energy
about an accompaniment, that breadth of phrasing was one thing, and
meaningless dragging quite another. Teresina backed me up staunchly. I
gave up writing everything but the church style, and gave all the solos
to the contralto voice. Teresina dragooned me pretty smartly, too; but
I didn't mind that. She knew more than Lauretta, and I thought she had
more feeling for German music.

"'When we were in a certain little town in the south of Germany, we met
with an Italian tenor on his way from Milan to Vienna. My ladies were
charmed to meet with a fellow-countryman. He was continually with them.
Teresina was the one whom he chiefly devoted himself to, and, to my no
small disgust, I found myself quite playing second fiddle. One morning,
as I was just going into their room, with a score under my arm, I heard
an animated conversation going on between my ladies and the tenor. My
own name struck my ear, and I listened with might and main. I knew
enough Italian to catch every word that was said. Lauretta was relating
the terrible story of the concert when I cut her out of her shake by
striking my chord too soon.

"'"_Asino tedesco!_" cried the tenor. I felt inclined to go and chuck
the vapouring stage-hero out of the window; but I restrained myself.
Lauretta went on to say that she would have got rid of me on the spot,
but that I had implored her to let me stay, and she had done so, out of
compassion, as I was going to take singing-lessons from her. Teresina
confirmed this, to my no small amazement. "He is a nice boy, enough,"
she added. "He is in love with _me_ just now, and writes all his solos
for the contralto. There is a certain amount of talent in him, if he
could get rid of the stiffness and awkwardness which all Germans have.
I am in hopes I may make a composer of him who may write some good
things for the contralto: there is so little written for it that is
worth very much. He is dreadfully wearisome with his everlasting
sighings and devotion, and torments me fearfully with his compositions,
which are poor enough as yet."

"'"Thank goodness, I am quit of him," cried Lauretta, "You know,
Teresina, how he used to torture me with his _arias_ and _duettos_,"
and she began a duet of mine, which she had highly praised formerly.
Teresina took the second voice, and they both caricatured me most
unmercifully. The tenor laughed till the room re-echoed. I felt a
stream of icy water running down my back, my mind was thoroughly made
up. I slipped back to my own room as quietly as I could. Its windows
looked out into the side-street--the post-office was just over the
way, and the Bamberg coach was drawing up to take in the mail-bags.
The passengers were collecting at the gate, but I had still the best
part of an hour before me. I got my things together as quickly as I
could--magnanimously paid the whole of the hotel bill, and was off to
the coach. As I went along the High Street, I saw my ladies looking out
at the window, with the tenor, at the sound of the horn. But I kept well
out of sight in the background, and pictured to myself, with deep
delight, the crushing effect of the scathing letter which I had left
for them.

"'Here Theodore slowly savoured, with intense gusto, the last drops of
the glowing Eleatic which Edward had poured out for him.

"'"I shouldn't have expected Teresina to have behaved as she did," said
Edward, opening a fresh bottle, and shaking away the drop or two of oil
on the surface like one accustomed to that operation. "I can't forget
the pretty picture of her caracoling along on horseback, singing
Spanish songs."

"'That was her culminating point,' said Theodore. 'I remember as
distinctly as possible the impression that made upon me. I forgot the
pain of my foot. She looked like some creature of a higher sphere. A
moment of that sort makes a tremendous impression upon one sometimes.
Things sometimes put on a form, in an instant, which no lapse of time
can change. If ever, since then, I have been unusually happy in the
subject of some bold, spirited _romanza_, you may be sure I had that
scene, and Teresina, vividly before my mind.'

"'"We mustn't forget the clever Lauretta, either," said Edward. "I vote
that we let bygones be bygones, and drink to both the sisters." Which
they did.

"'Ah!' said Theodore, 'how the perfumes of exquisite Italy breathe upon
one out of this wine. One's blood seems to course through one's veins
with threefold vigour. Oh, why had I to leave that glorious country so
soon!'

"'"So far, though," said Edward, "I see no connection between what you
have been telling me and the picture; so I suppose there is more about
the sisters yet to come. Of course I see that the ladies in the picture
are no other than Lauretta and Teresina."

"'Yes,' said Theodore. 'And my longing sighs for Italy form a
good-enough introduction to what there remains for me to say. A short
time before I had to leave Rome, the year before last, I went for a
little excursion into the country, on horseback. I came to a _locanda_,
where I saw a nice-looking girl, and I thought it would be a good thing
to get her to bring me a flagon of good wine. I drew up at the door in
the shaded alley, the bright sunlight breaking athwart it through the
branches. I heard singing, and a guitar, somewhere near. I listened
attentively, for the voices of the singers affected me strangely; dim
reminiscences stirred within me, but were slow to take definite form. I
got off my horse, and slowly drew nearer to the vine-covered arbour
where the music was going on. The second voice had stopped; the first
was singing a _canzonetta_ alone; the singer was in the middle of an
elaborate _cadenza_, it went warbling up and down, till at last she
began a long holding-note, and then, all at once, a woman's voice broke
out in a fury, with curses, execrations and reproaches. A man was heard
protesting, another man laughing, whilst a second woman's voice joined
in the _mêlée_. Wilder and wilder raged the storm, with true Italian
_rabbia_. At last, just as I came up to the arbour, out flew an
_abbate_, nearly knocking me down. He looked up at me, and I saw that
he was none other than my good friend Signor Ludovico, my regular
news-purveyor, from Rome. "What, in the name of Heaven----" I cried.
"Ah, Signor Maestro! Signor Maestro!" he cried, "save me! rescue me!
protect me from this mad creature--this crocodile, this tiger, this
hyena--this devil of a girl! It is true I was beating the time to that
_canzonetta_ of Anfossi's, and I came in too soon with my down-beat, right
in the middle of her pause-note, and cut her out of her _trillo_. Why did
I look at her eyes, goddess of the infernal regions that she is? The
devil take all pause-notes!"

"'In most unusual excitement I hastened into the arbour, and at the
first glance, recognised Lauretta and Teresina. Lauretta was still
screaming and raging, Teresina talking violently into her face; the
landlord was looking on with a face of amusement, whilst a girl was
putting fresh flasks of wine on the table.

"'The moment that the singers set eyes on me they threw themselves
about my neck and overwhelmed me with the affectionateness of their
reception. "Ah, Signor Teodoro, Signor Teodoro," all our little
differences were forgotten. "This," said Lauretta to the _Abbate_, "is
a composer who has all the grace and melody of the Italians combined
with the science of the Germans." And both the sisters, taking the
words out of each other's mouths, told him all about the happy days we
had spent together, my profound musical knowledge, even as a boy, our
practisings, and the excellence of my compositions. Never had they
really cared to sing anything but works of mine. Presently Teresina
told me she had got an engagement at an important theatre for the next
Carnival, but meant to make it a condition that _I_ should be
commissioned to write at least one tragic opera; since, of course,
_opera seria_ was my real line, etc., etc. Lauretta, again, said it
would be too bad if I didn't follow my special bent for the florid and
sparkling style--for _opera buffa_, in fact: that she had got an
engagement as prima donna in that line, and that, as a matter of
course, nobody but I should write the operas in which she should
appear. You can imagine how strange it felt to be with them again; and
you see, now, that the scene and all the circumstances are exactly
those of Hummel's picture.

"'"But didn't they say anything about the circumstances of your
parting, or that scathing letter of yours?" asked Edward.

"Not a syllable,' said Theodore. 'Neither did I. I had long forgotten
my annoyance, and remembered my affair with the sisters as a mere piece
of fun nothing more. The only thing I did was to tell the _Abbate_ how,
many years ago, a similar misadventure had befallen me, and that in an
aria of Anfossi's too. I incorporated in my story an account of all
that had happened during the time that the sisters and I had spent
together, delivering a swashing side-blow, now and then, just to show
the considerable increment of "calibre" which a few years of artistic
experience had endowed me with. "And," said I in conclusion, "it was a
very lucky thing that I did come in too soon with that down-beat of
mine. No doubt it was fore-ordained from all eternity; and I have
little doubt that, if I hadn't interrupted Lauretta as I did then, I
should have been sitting playing pianoforte accompaniments to this
hour."

"'"But, Signer," said the _Abbate_, "what _maestro_ can lay down laws
to a prima donna? And then, your crime was far more heinous than mine.
You were in a concert-room. I was only in this arbour here, merely
_playing_ the _maestro_. What did it matter about my down-beat? If
those beautiful eyes of hers hadn't bewitched me, I shouldn't have made
an ass of myself as I did." The _Abbate's_ last words worked like
magic. Lauretta's eyes, which had begun to dart angry lightnings,
beamed softly again.

"'We spent that evening together. It was fourteen years since we had
met, and fourteen years cause many changes. Lauretta was by no means as
young as she had been, but she had not lost all her attractiveness.
Teresina had worn better, and still retained her beautiful figure. They
dressed in much the same style as of old, and had all their former
ways: that's to say, their dress and manners were fourteen years
younger than themselves. At my request, Teresina sang some of those
earnest, serious _arias_ which had impressed me so much in early days,
but they did not seem to be quite what my memory had represented them.
And it was the same with Lauretta's singing: though her voice had
fallen off little, either in power or in compass, still it was
different from the singing which lived in my memory as hers; and this
attempt to compare a mental idea with the not altogether satisfactory
reality, untuned me even more than the sisters' behaviour--their
pretended ecstasy, their coarse admiration (which at the same time took
the form of a generous patronage) had done at the beginning. But the
droll little _Abbate_--who was playing the _amoroso_ to both the
sisters at once, in the most sugary manner--and the good wine (of which
we had a fair share) gave me my good humour back at length, so that we
all enjoyed our evening. The sisters invited me, in the most pressing
manner, to go and see them, so that we might talk over the parts I was
to compose for them; however I left Rome without ever seeing them
again.

"'"Still," said Edward, "you have to thank them for awaking the music
within you."

"'Undoubtedly,' answered Theodore, 'and for a quantity of good melodies
into the bargain; but that is exactly the reason why I never should
have seen them again. No doubt every composer can remember some
particular occasion when some powerful impression was made on him,
which time never effaces. The spirit which dwells in music spoke, and
the spirit _en rapport_ with it within the composer awoke at that
creative fiat; it flamed up with might, and could never be extinguished
again. It is certain that all the melodies which we produce under an
impulse of this sort seem to belong only to the singer who cast the
first spark into us. We hear her, and merely write down what she has
sung; but it is the lot of us feeble earthly creatures, clamped to the
dust as we are, to long and strive to bring down whatever we can of the
super-earthly into the wretched little bit of earthly life in which we
are cribbed up. And thus the singer becomes our beloved--perhaps our
wife! The spell is broken; our inward melody, with its message, or
gospel of glory, turns to a squabble about a broken soup-plate, or a
row about an ink-mark on one's new shirt. That composer is a happy man
who never again, in this earthly life, sees Her who, with mystic power,
kindled the music within him. He may rage, and mourn, poor boy! when
his beautiful enchantress has left him; but she has been transformed to
everlasting Music, glorious and divine, which lives on in eternal
beauty and youth; and out of it are born the melodies which are Her
only, and Her again and again. What is she but his highest ideal,
reflected from him on to herself?

"'"Curious, but pretty plausible," said Edward, as the friends,
arm-in-arm, walked out of the Sala Tarone into the street.'"

It was admitted that, if Theodore's story might not satisfy all the
necessary conditions, it came near enough to be passed as
"Serapiontic." Ottmar said, "Your story, dear Theodore, has this
effect, that it brings vividly to mind all your devoted labours at
music. Each of us wished to draw you into a different province of it.
While Lothair thought your instrumental writings your best, I thought
your _forte_ was comic opera. Cyprian wanted you to do 'things
unattempted yet,' by putting music to (what he will now admit were)
poems completely beyond all recognised forms and rules; and you
yourself cared only for the serious ecclesiastical style. Well, as
things stand at present, the _opera tragica_ may probably be
considered, the highest goal at which a composer can aim, and I can't
understand why you haven't set to work at one long ago; you would
surely have turned out something very superior in that line."

"And whose fault is it that I have not?" said Theodore, "but your own,
and Cyprian's, and Lothair's? Could I ever succeed in inducing either
of you to write me a libretto, with all my entreaties?"

"Marvellous fellow!" said Cyprian, "haven't I argued for hours and days
with you about opera-texts? Haven't you rejected the finest ideas, on
the ground that they were not adapted for music? Didn't you insist, at
last, like an extraordinary fellow as you are, that I should regularly
set to work to study music, so as to be able to understand, and comply
with your requirements? So that I should have had to say good-bye to
all idea of writing poetry, seeing that, like all professional writers,
Kapellmeisters, and music-directors, you cleave to the established
musical forms, and won't abandon them by so much as a hair's breadth."

"What I can't understand," said Lothair, "is, why Theodore, with his
command of language and poetical expression, doesn't write librettos
for himself? Why should we have to learn to be musicians, and expend
our poetical powers, merely to produce a sort of block, or lay figure,
for him to give life and motion to? Is it not principally because
composers are usually one-sided people, without enough _general_
education, that they require other folks to help them to do their own
work? Are perfect unity of text and music conceivable, except when poet
and composer are one and the same person?"

"All that sounds astonishingly plausible," said Theodore, "and yet it
is utterly and completely untrue. I maintain that it is wholly
impossible that any one person can write a work, the words and the
music of which shall both be excellent."

"You composers," said Lothair, "get that idea into your heads either
because you are absurdly unenergetic, or constitutionally indolent. The
notion of having to go through the labour of writing the words before
you can set to work at the music is so disagreeable to you that you
can't bring yourselves to face it; but my belief is that, to a really
inspired composer, the words and the music would occur simultaneously."

"You are rather driving me into a corner," said Theodore, "so instead
of carrying on this argument, I shall ask you to let me read you a
dialogue about the necessary conditions, or essentials of opera, which
I wrote several years ago that eventful period which we have passed
through was then only beginning. I thought my artistic existence
seriously menaced, and I fell into a state of despondency, which was
probably partly the result of bad health. At this time I made a
Serapiontic friend, who had abandoned the pen for the sword. He cheered
me in my despondency, and forced me to throw myself into the full
current of the events of that stirring time." Without further
introduction, Theodore at once began:--

                      "THE POET AND THE COMPOSER.

"The enemy was before the gates. Heavy guns were thundering in every
direction, and shells were hurtling through the air; the people of the
town were running, with white faces, into their houses, and the empty
streets rang to the tramp of the cavalry patrols that were cantering
along through them, and driving, with threats and curses, such of the
soldiers as were loitering, or had fallen out of the ranks from any
cause, forward into the trenches. But Ludwig sat on, in his back room,
sunk and lost in the lovely, glorious vision-world which had opened
upon him at his piano. For he had just completed a symphony, in which
he had tried to write down, in notes to be seen and read, what he had
heard and seen within him; a work which, like Beethoven's colossal ones
in that kind, should tell, in heavenly language, of the glorious
wonders of that far-off, romantic realm where life is all unspeakable,
blissful, longing. Like _his_ marvellous creations, it was to
come from that far-off realm, into this little, arid, thirsty world of
ours, and, with beautiful, syren-accents, lure away from it those who
should list, and give ear to its charming. But the landlady came in and
rated him for sitting at his piano in that time of danger and distress;
asking him if he meant to stay in his garret and be shot. At first he
didn't understand what the woman was talking about, till a fragment of
a shell knocked a piece of the roof off, and the broken panes of the
window went clattering down upon the floor. Then the landlady ran
down-stairs weeping and screaming; and Ludwig, taking his most precious
possession, the score of his symphony, under his arm, hastened after
her to the cellar. The inhabitants of the house were all assembled
there. In an access of liberality very unusual with him, the wine-shop
keeper, who occupied the lower story, had 'stood' a dozen or so of his
best wine; whilst the women, in fear and trembling, brought numerous
tit-bits in their work-baskets. People ate and drank, and quickly
passed from their condition of exaltation and excitement to that
confidential frame of mind in which neighbour, drawing close to
neighbour, seeks, and thinks he finds security; and, so to say, all the
petty, artificial _pas_ which we have been taught by conventionality
are whelmed and merged in the great colossal waltz-whirl, to which the
iron hand of destiny beats the resistless measure. The trouble and
danger--the risk to life and limb--were forgotten; cheerful
conversation was the order of the day; animated lips uttered brilliant
speeches, and fellow-lodgers, who barely touched a hat to each other at
ordinary times as they met on the stairs, were seated side by side,
confiding to each other their most confidential affairs.

"The firing began to slacken a good deal, and there was talk of going
up-stairs again, as the streets seemed to be getting pretty safe. An
ex-Militaire, who was present, went further; and, after a few
instructive observations concerning the system of fortification
practised by the Romans, and the effect of the catapult (with a passing
allusion or two to Vauban, and more modern times), was just proving to
us that we had no cause for the slightest uneasiness, because the house
was completely out of the line of fire, when a shot sent the bricks of
the cellar-ventilator rattling down about our ears. No one was hurt,
however; and, as the Militaire jumped, with a brimming bumper in his
hand, on to the table (which the falling bricks had cleared of the
bottles), and defied any other shot to trouble us, we were all quite
reassured at once; and this proved to be our last scare. The night
passed away quietly, and, in the morning, we found that the troops had
moved off to occupy another position, abandoning the town to the enemy.
On leaving the cellar, we found the enemy's cavalry scouring the
streets, and a placard posted up guaranteeing that the townsfolk and
their property should not be molested.

"Ludwig joined the throng, eager to see the new spectacle, which was
watching the arrival of the enemy's commander-in-chief, who was coming
in at the gate, with a pompous fanfare of trumpets, surrounded by a
brilliant escort. Scarcely could he believe his eyes when he saw his
old college-friend Ferdinand among the staff, in a quiet-looking
uniform, with his left arm in a sling, curvetting close past him on a
beautiful sorrel charger. 'It was he--it was really and truly himself
and no other!' Ludwig cried involuntarily. He couldn't overtake him,
his horse was going too fast, and Ludwig hastened, full of thought,
back to his room. But he couldn't get on with any work; he could think
of nothing but his old friend, whom he had not seen for years; and the
happy days of youth which they had spent together rose to his memory
bright and clear. At that time Ferdinand had never shown any turn for
soldiering: he was devoted to the Muses, and had evinced his poetic
vocation in many a striking poem; so that this transformation was all
the more incomprehensible; and Ludwig burned with anxiety to speak with
him, though he had no notion where or how he should find him. The
bustle and movement in the streets increased; a considerable portion of
the enemy's forces, with the Allied Princes at their head, passed
through the town, as a halt was to be made in the neighbourhood for a
day or two; and the greater the crowd about headquarters the less
chance there seemed of encountering Ferdinand. But suddenly, in an
out-of-the-way _café_, where Ludwig was in the habit of going for his
frugal dinner, Ferdinand came up to him with a cry of delight.

"Ludwig was silent, for a certain feeling of discomfort embittered, for
him, this longed-for meeting. It was, as it often is in dreams, when,
just as we are going to put our arms about people whom we love, they
suddenly change into something else, and the whole thing becomes a
mockery, Here was the gentle son of the Muses, the writer of many a
romantic lay which Ludwig had clothed in music, in a nodding plume,
with a clanking sword at his side, and even his voice transformed to a
harsh, rough tone of command. Ludwig's gloomy glance rested on the
wounded arm, and upon the decoration, the cross of honour, on his
breast. But Ferdinand put his arm round him and pressed him to his
side.

"'I know what you are thinking,' he said; 'I understand what you feel
at this meeting of ours. But the Fatherland called me; I could not
hesitate to obey. My hand, which had only wielded the pen, took up the
sword, with the joy, with the enthusiasm, which the holy cause has
kindled in every breast which is not stamped with the seal of
cowardice. I have given some of my blood already; and the mere accident
that this happened under the Prince's eyes has gained me this cross.
But, believe me, Ludwig, the strings which vibrated in me of old, and
whose tones have so often spoken to you, are all whole and uninjured
still; and many a night, when, after some fierce engagement, the
troopers have been sleeping round the fire of the bivouac on some
lonely picquet, I have written poems which have elevated me and
inspired me in my glorious duty of fighting for Honour and Freedom.'

"Ludwig's heart opened at these words; and when Ferdinand went with him
into a small private room, and took off his sword and helmet, he felt
as if his friend had only been dressed to act a part, and had taken off
his stage-costume.

"As they dined and talked over the old days they began to feel as if
they had only parted yesterday. Ferdinand asked what Ludwig had been
composing lately, and was much astonished to learn that he had never
written an opera, because he never had been able to meet with a
libretto to his satisfaction--one that could inspire him with music.

"'I can't understand,' said Ferdinand, 'why you haven't written a
Libretto long ago yourself. You have a very vivid imagination, and a
fine command of language.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Yes, I have imagination enough to invent plenty of good
plots. Indeed, often, when at night a slight headache keeps me in that
dreamy condition which is like a struggle between sleeping and waking,
I not only think of splendid subjects for operas, but see and hear them
being performed, to my own music. But, so far as the faculty of
retaining them and writing them down is concerned, my belief is that I
am wholly without it. And in fact it is scarcely to be expected of us
composers that we should acquire that technical, mechanical skill
(which is necessary to success in every art, and only comes by constant
perseverance and long practice) which would enable us to write our own
librettos. But even if I had the skill to write out a plot, properly
arranged in lines, scenes, etc., I scarcely think I should set to work
to do it for myself.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'But then nobody could so thoroughly understand your
special musical tendencies as yourself.'

"_Ludwig_. 'That, I daresay, may be true enough. Still, I can't help
thinking that a composer who should sit down to put the idea of a plot,
which had occurred to him, into the words would be something like a
painter who should be called upon to make a minute etching, or a
line-engraving, of his picture before setting to work to draw it and
colour it.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'You mean that the necessary fire would smoulder out
during the process of versifying?'

"_Ludwig_. 'I think it would. My poetry would seem trashy, to myself;
something like the cases of rockets which had fallen down, charred and
empty, after rushing all resplendent up to the skies. To me it appears
that in no art so much as in music is it so essential that the entirety
of the subject involved, with all its parts, down to the minutest
detail, should be grasped by the mind at _first_, in its earliest,
glowing outburst; because in no other is subsequent polishing and
altering so hurtful. I am convinced, by my own experience, that the
melody which comes to you, as at the wave of an enchanter's wand, the
first time you read the words of a poem, is always the best--nay,
probably the only really _right_ one (for that particular composer at
all events), to put to it. It would be impossible for a composer not to
think of the music called for by the situation, while he was writing
down the words. Indeed he would be thinking so much of _it_ that he
could not give the necessary attention to the words, and if he forced
himself to do so the river of the music would soon dry up, as if sucked
in by thirsty sands. Nay, to express my meaning more clearly, I will
say that, at the moment of his musical inspiration, all _words_, all
verbal expressions, would appear insufficient to him, nay flat, and
miserably inadequate; and it would be necessary for him to come down to
a lower level, to go, like a beggar asking for alms, in quest of those
words, necessities of the lower requirements of his existence. Would
not his wings soon be paralysed, like a caged eagle's, so that he would
try to soar sunwards in vain?'

"_Ferdinand_. 'One listens to all this, of course; but do you know, my
dear friend, that what you say does not so much convince me as it seems
to indicate your own _personal_ repugnance to working your way,
laboriously, through all the necessary _scenas_, _arias_, _duettos_,
etc., till you get to the point of composing the music.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Perhaps; but I renew an old reproach. Why, in the days when
you and I were living in such constant intimacy, would you never write
me a libretto, eagerly as I begged you to do so?'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Because I think it the most thankless labour imaginable.
You must allow that no demands could be more exacting than those which
you composers make upon us; and if you say that a musician can't be
expected to acquire the technical skill which the mechanical part of
poetry-writing demands, I, again, think that it is too much to expect
of a poet that he should be continually harassing himself about the
precise structure of your _terzettes_, _quartettes_, _finales_, etc.,
so as not to run the risk of transgressing against some of those forms,
which you look upon--Heaven knows why--as so many matters fixed and
established for ever and ever, like the laws of the Medes and Persians.
After we have expended our best efforts with extremity of mental
tension, in trying to apprehend all the situations of our story in a
true poetical spirit, and to express them in the most eloquent
language, and the smoothest and most finished versification, it is
quite terrible how you run your pens through our finest lines, in the
most relentless manner, and spoil our happiest ideas and expressions,
by inverting them, or altering them, or drowning them in the music. I
say this merely with reference to the uselessness of spending time and
labour on elaborate finish. But then, many admirable plots, which have
occurred to us in our poetic inspiration, and which we bring to you,
all pride, expecting you to be delighted with them, you reject in a
moment, as being unsuitable, and unworthy to be clothed in music. But
this must often be sheer caprice, or I don't know what else it can be;
because you often set to work upon texts which are absolutely wretched
and----'

"_Ludwig_. 'Stop a moment, my dear friend! Of course there are
composers who have as little idea of music as many rhyme-spinners have
of poetry, and _they_ have often put notes to plots which really are
wretched, in all respects. But real composers, who live and move and
have their being in true, glorious, heavenly _Music_, always choose
poetic texts.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Do you say so of Mozart?'

"_Ludwig_. 'Mozart--however paradoxical it may appear to you--never
chose any but poetic texts for his classical operas. But, leaving that
on one side for the moment, my opinion is that it is always quite easy
to know what sort of plot is adapted for an opera, so that the poet
need never be in any danger of making any mistake about it.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I must confess I never have really gone into this: and
indeed I know so little about music that I don't suppose it would have
been of much consequence if I had.'

"_Ludwig_. 'If by the expression "knowing about music" you mean being
thoroughly versed in the so-called "school routine" of music, there is
no necessity for your being that, to be able to know what composers
require. It is quite easy, altogether apart from the school routine, so
to comprehend, and have within one, the true essence of music as to be,
in this sense, a much better musician than a person who, after studying
the whole, extensive school-routine in the sweat of his forehead, and
labouring through all its manifold, intricate mazes and labyrinths,
worships its lifeless rules and regulations as a self-manufactured
Fetish, in place of the living Spirit: and whom this Idol-cult excludes
from the happiness of the higher realm of bliss.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Then you think the poet might enter into this inner
sanctum without the preliminary initiation of the "school"?'

"_Ludwig_. 'I do, certainly. And I say that, in that far-off realm
which we often feel,--so dimly, but so unmistakeably,--to be so close
about us, whence marvellous voices sound to us, awakening all the tones
which are sleeping in our hearts, cabined, cribbed, confined, so that
those tones, awakened and set free, dart aloft in fiery streams,
gladsome and happy, and we taste of the bliss of that paradise whence
the voices come--I say that, in that far-off realm, the Poet and the
Musician are intimately-allied members of one and the same Church: for
the "secret" of poetry and of music is one and the same, and opens to
both the portals of the Inner Sanctuary.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I hear my dear old Ludwig trying to formulate the laws
of art in dim and mystic phrases; and I must say, that the gulf which
seemed to lie between poet and composer, begins to look much narrower
than it did.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Let me try to express my idea about the true essentials of
Opera in as few words as possible. A proper opera, in my opinion, is
one in which the music springs directly out of the poem, as a necessary
sequence, or consequence.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I don't quite understand that, as yet.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Is not music the mysterious language of a higher
spirit-realm, whose wondrous accents make their way into our souls,
awaking in them a higher Intensivity of life? All passions contend
together, shimmering in bright armour, and then merge and sink into an
ineffable longing which fills our being. This is the effect (not, perhaps,
to be more clearly expressed in words) of _Instrumental_ music. But Music,
to enter wholly into our lives, must take those visions of hers which she
thus brings with her, and, clothing them in words and actions, speak to
us of _particular_ passions and events. Very well! Can the vulgar and
the common-place be spoken of in those accents of glory? Can Music tell
us of anything other than the wonders and the mysteries of that realm
from whence she comes to us with those magic tones of hers? Let the
poet equip himself for a bold flight into the land of romance. There
he will find the Marvellous, which it is for him to bring into this
work-a-day world, so living and glowing in brilliant colouring that we
accept it as true without hesitation. So that--as if carried out of
this arid every-day life in some blissful dream--we go wandering along
the flowery paths of that happy country, and, forgetting everything
else for the time, understand its language--which is what the mighty
voice of Music speaks.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Then it is the Romantic Opera, with its fairies and
spirits, its prodigies and transformations, that you would adhere to,
exclusively?'

"_Ludwig_. 'I certainly think the Romantic Opera the only perfect kind,
because it is only in the realm of the Romantic that music is at home.
Of course you will understand that I profoundly despise that miserable
class of productions in which silly, _un_spiritual spirits appear, and
where wonders are heaped upon wonders, without rhyme or reason, merely
for the delectation of the _eyes_ of the musical groundlings. It is
only a poet of true genius who can write the book of a proper Romantic
Opera; for none other can bring the wonders of the Spirits-World into
this life of ours. On his wings we soar across the gulf which divides
us from it. We grow to feel at home in that strange land; we give
belief to the marvels which, as necessary results of the influence of
higher natures on our personality, we see taking place; and we
comprehend all the powerful incidents and situations which fill us with
awe and horror, and also with the highest rapture. It is, in one word,
the magical power of Poetical Truth which the poet who would represent
those marvels must have at his command; for it is that alone which can
carry us away: and a mere collection of meaningless fairies, who (as is
the case in so many productions of the kind) are introduced only to
dance about the _pagliasso_ in flesh-coloured skin-tights,--foolish
absurdities as they are,--will always leave us indifferent and
uninterested. In an opera the effect produced upon us by the influence
of higher beings should take place _visibly_, so as to display before
our eyes a romantic life, or condition of existence, in which the
_language_, too, is more highly potentiated; or rather, is derived from
that distant realm: in other words, is _sung music_: ay! where the
scenes and incidents, too, hovering and soaring about in grand and
beautiful tones, and masses of tones, seize us and carry us away with
irresistible might. It is in this way that, as I said before, the music
ought to take its rise and origin straight out of the poem, as a
necessary sequence, or consequence.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Now I quite understand you; and I think, at once, of
Tasso and Ariosto. Still, it seems to me, it would be no easy matter to
write a musical drama as you would postulate it.'

"_Ludwig_. 'It is work for a real romantic poet, of true genius. Think
of the splendid Gozzi! in his dramatic legends he has completely
fulfilled the conditions which I have laid down as essential for the
poet of opera, and I cannot understand why this rich mine of
magnificent opera-plots has been so little drawn upon, hitherto.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I remember being greatly delighted with Gozzi, when I
read him some years ago; though, of course, I did not then look at him
from your point of view.'

"_Ludwig_. 'One of the best of his tales is "The Raven." A certain King
Millo, of Frattombrosa, cares for nothing but the chase. One day in the
forest he sees a splendid raven, and he sends an arrow through its
heart. The raven falls upon a monumental tomb of the whitest marble,
which there is there under the trees, besprinkling it with his blood.
On this, the forest is shaken, as if by an earthquake; and a terrible
monster comes stalking out of a cave, and thunders forth a curse upon
Millo, in the following terms:--

           "Findest thou not a fair woman,
            White as this monument's marble,
            Red as the raven's heart's blood,
            Black as the night of his plumes,
            Perish in raving madness."

"'All attempts to discover such a woman are fruitless. But the king's
brother, Gennaro, who is devoted to him, vows that he will never rest
till he finds this woman, who is to restore his brother's reason. He
traverses land and sea; till at last, counselled by an old man versed
in necromancy, he discovers Armilla, daughter of the mighty sorcerer
Norand. White is her skin like the monument's marble, red like the
raven's blood; and black as his plumes are her hair and eyebrows. He
succeeds in carrying her off, and after many adventures, they reach the
shores of Frattombrosa in safety. As he lands on the beach, chance
places in his possession a magnificent charger, and a falcon endowed
with extraordinary powers. He is filled with joy that he is enabled to
restore his brother's reason, and also to have two such acceptable
gifts to offer him. He lies down to rest in a pavilion which has been
prepared for him under a tree. Then two doves come and sit in the
branches, and begin to talk:--

"'"Woe! Woe to Gennaro! Well had he never been born; the falcon will
peck out his brother's eyes--but if he giveth it not, or if he telleth
what he hath heard, he will turn to stone; if his brother mounteth the
horse, it will instantly kill him--but if he giveth it not, or telleth
what he hath heard, he will turn to stone; if his brother weddeth
Armilla, a monster will come on the wedding-night, and tear him limb
from limb but if Gennaro withholdeth Armilla, or telleth what he hath
heard, he will turn to stone!

"'"Woe! Woe to Gennaro! Well had he never been born!"

"'Norand appears, and confirms what the doves have said. It is the
punishment--the penalty, for having carried Armilla away.

"'As soon as Millo sets eyes on Armilla, his madness departs. The horse
and the hawk are brought, and the king is charmed with his brother's
affection in bringing him presents so much to his mind. Gennaro brings
the hawk, but ere his brother can take it, he cuts off its head. Thus
Millo's eyes are saved; and just as Millo is setting foot in the
stirrup to mount the horse, Gennaro draws his sword and hews off its
fore-legs with one stroke. Millo thinks it is love-madness which causes
Gennaro's conduct, and Armilla confirms this opinion, as Gennaro's
sighs and tears, and his confusion and inexplicable behaviour have for
some time made her suspect him of being secretly in love with her. She
assures the king of her entire devotion to him; of which Gennaro had
laid the foundation, by his warm and touching accounts of his brother
on the journey. To cast aside all suspicion, she begs that the marriage
may be hurried on as much as possible; and that is accordingly done.
Gennaro, who sees his brother's last hours at hand, is in despair at
being so misjudged; and yet, a terrible fate awaits him if a word of
explanation crosses his lips. But he determines to save his brother, at
whatever cost, and makes his way in the night, by a subterranean
passage, to his sleeping chamber. A terrible dragon appears, breathing
flames and fire. Gennaro attacks it; but his blows have no effect; the
monster is nearing the sleeping chamber. In his desperation he delivers
a tremendous two-handed stroke at the creature, and this cleaves
through the door of the chamber. Millo comes out, and, as the monster
has disappeared, he sees in his brother a traitor urged to fratricide
by the madness of unhallowed passion. Gennaro cannot vindicate himself.
The guards are summoned, and he is disarmed and thrown into a dungeon.
He is doomed to die, but begs that he may speak with his brother first.
Millo consents. Gennaro recalls to his memory the tender affection
which has always subsisted between them; but when he asks if his
brother can truly suppose him capable of his murder, Millo calls for
proofs of his innocence; and then, in his agony, Gennaro divulges the
terrible prophecies of the doves and Norand. But no sooner have the
words been spoken than Gennaro is turned to a marble statue. On this
Millo, in his grief and remorse, determines that he never will leave
the statue's side, and will die at its feet in contrition and sorrow.
At this juncture Norand appears, and says, "In the eternal Book of
Destiny were written the raven's death, the curse on you, and the
carrying away of Armilla. One thing, and one alone, will bring your
brother back to life--but it is a terrible deed. Let Armilla be slain
at the statue's side, by this dagger; and when the cold marble is
besprinkled with her heart's blood, it will warm into life. If you have
courage to kill her, do it. Weep, weep, and lament! even as do I!" He
vanishes. Armilla wrings from the unfortunate Millo the purport of
Norand's terrible disclosure. Millo quits her in despair, and, filled
with horror and grief, careless of living longer, she stabs herself
with the dagger. As soon as her blood besprinkles the statue Gennaro
comes back to life. Millo comes: he sees his brother alive, and his
bride lying slain. In his despair he is going to stab himself with the
dagger; but the gloomy dungeon changes to a great, illuminated hall;
Norand appears: all the mysterious decrees of fate are accomplished,
all the sorrow is past. Norand touches Armilla. She comes back to life,
and everything ends happily.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Yes; I remember this fine, imaginative tale quite well,
and the impression it made upon me. You are quite right; this is an
instance in which the Marvellous takes the form of an essential
element, and has so much poetical verity that we believe it without
hesitation. Millo's killing of the raven is what knocks at the brazen
gates of the Spirit-Realm; on that they fly open with a clash, and the
spirits come swooping in upon the human life, and immesh the mortals in
the web of strange, mysterious destiny which impends over them.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly; and notice the grand, powerful situations which
the poet has evolved from this contest with the spirit-world. Gennaro's
self-sacrifice; Armilla's deed of heroism; there is a grandeur in them
which our "moral" playwrights, in their rummagings among the
paltrinesses of every-day life (like sweepings of drawing-rooms thrown
out into the dust-bin) haven't the slightest idea of; and then the
comic parts for the masks are must effectively woven in.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Yes it is only in the Romantic Drama that the comic
element blends on such perfectly equal terms with the tragic that they
contribute with equality to the general effect.'

"_Ludwig_. Even common opera-manufacturers have got hold of some dim
notion of that, for it is thence that the so-called Comic-Heroic operas
take their origin--productions in which the Heroic is often exceedingly
Comic, and the Comic is so far Heroic that it most heroically ignores
all the requirements of taste and propriety.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'According to your notion of the essentials of opera, we
can't congratulate ourselves on possessing very many.'

"_Ludwig_. 'No; most so-called operas are only plays with singing
added; and the utter absence of dramatic effect, which is ascribed
sometimes to the music, sometimes to the plot or to the words, is
really due to the lifelessness of the mass of scenes, tacked together
without inward connection or poetical truthfulness, and incapable of
kindling music into life. The composer has often to work between the
lines, as it were, on his own account, and the wretched words meander
along in a side-channel, not to be brought into the musical current by
any conceivable means. In such a case the music may be good enough;
that is,--without having depth enough to carry away the listener with
magic power, it may give a certain amount of pleasure, like a
glittering play of gay colours. Then the opera is merely a concert,
given on a stage, with dresses and scenery.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'As it is the Romantic Opera, in its strictest sense,
which is the only species that you recognise as opera, properly
so-called, how about musical Tragedies, and Comic Operas in modern
costume?--you repudiate them altogether, I presume.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Oh, no; not at all. In most of the older Tragic
Operas--such as are not written nowadays, unfortunately (either as
regards plots or music)--what so powerfully sways the audience is the
heroic nature of the action, and the inward strength of the characters
and situations. That dark mysterious power which rules, controls, and
disposes of Gods and Men, we see stalking along visibly before our
eyes; we hear the eternal, irreversible, immutable decrees of Fate, to
which the Gods themselves have to submit, pronounced and formulated
aloud, in awful and mysterious tones. From Tragic matter of this sort
the Fantastic element is perforce excluded; but a loftier language--in
the wondrous accents of Music--has to be employed to depict that
intercourse with the Gods which stirs the Mortals to a higher life, and
to God-like achievements. Were not the ancient tragedies musically
declaimed, by the way?--and did not that prove clearly the necessity
for a higher medium of expression than ordinary language? The musical
tragedies have inspired composers of genius in a quite special
way--with a lofty, I might almost say, a _saintly_ style of writing. It
is as if we mortals were wafted upwards, in some condition of mystic
consecration, on the pinions of the tones of the golden harps of the
Cherubim and Seraphim, to the realms of light, where we learn the
mystery of our existence. What I would say, Ferdinand, is to point out
the close relationship that there is between the old Church Style and
the Tragic Opera, whence the old writers have framed a glorious style
of their own, of which modern composers have no idea--not even
excepting Spontini, with all his wealth and exuberance of fancy. The
glorious Gluck, who stands apart by himself, a hero, I need say nothing
about; but as an instance how the grand tragic style has influenced far
inferior talents, think of the chorus of the Priests of Night in
Piccini's "Dido."'

"_Ferdinand_. 'This is just as it used to be in the golden old days
when we were together. As you talk in that inspired sort of way of your
Art, you raise me up to the level of ideas which otherwise I never
should have dreamt of; and, I assure you, at this moment I consider
that I really know a good deal about music. In fact, I think no
passable line of poetry would occur to me without its appropriate
clothing of music.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Is not this the true inspiration of the poet of opera? I
maintain that he should "think" the music belonging to his lines just
as much>as the composer does; and that the only thing which
differentiates the one from the other is the distinct recognition of
particular melodies, and of particular qualities and peculiarities of
the Bounds of instruments which are co-operating and involved in the
effects; in fact, the easy, habitual command over the "Inner Kingdom"
of Music. But I have still to tell you my ideas about _Opera Buffa_.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'You will scarcely have a good word to say for that,
particularly if it is in modern costume.'

"_Ludwig_. 'On the contrary, I consider that it is just when it is in
the costume of the day that not only is it at its best, but that it is
the only genuine form of _opera buffa_ in the sense in which the
mobile, mercurial, excitable Italians have understood it and written
it. In this case it is the Fantastic element which is _paramount_,
proceeding partly from the quips of individual characters, partly from
the _bizarre_ play of chance. The Fantastic element comes pop into our
everyday lives, and turns everything topsy-turvy. One ought to have to
say, "Yes; that really _is_ Brown (or Jones, or Robinson) in that
snuff-coloured Sunday coat of his with the brass buttons, which we all
know so well. And what in the name of fortune 's the fellow going on
like _that_ for?" Picture to yourself some respectable family--uncles,
aunts, and so forth--and a little languishing daughter; throw in two or
three students, be-singing their cousin's eyes and playing the guitar
under the windows. Let the tricksy sprite Puck pop suddenly into the
middle of them! The result you may imagine. All the fat's in the fire;
everything is at sixes and sevens; everybody goes darting in every
direction, gesticulating and grimacing, skipping and posturing, as if a
whole hive of bees were let loose in their bonnets. Some strange planet
rules the ascendant; the nets of haphazard are set, and will catch the
most respectable folk if their noses happen to be just the least bit
longer than the average. I consider that the very essence of _opera
buffa_ lies in this incursion of the Fanciful-Fantastic, the
preposterous and absurd, into actual, everyday life, and the
incongruities that result. And it is just the power of catching hold of
this fanciful-fantastic element--which generally lies rather far off
and out of the way--and bringing it, with vividness, into everyday
life, which makes the acting of Italian buffo actors so inimitable.
They catch the indications given by the author, and their acting
clothes the skeleton which he has sketched with flesh and colour.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'I think I follow you quite. What you mean is, that in
the _opera buffa_ the Fantastic element takes the place of the Romantic
(which, in general terms, you consider an essential principle of
opera), and the art of the poet has to consist in this--that the
characters must appear, not only with much finish, and standing out in
_alto-relievo_, as well as being poetically true, but so clearly drawn
as well from everyday life, and so full of individual character, that
the spectator at once says, "Look there! that's my next-door neighbour,
whom I say 'How are you?' to every day. And that's the student who goes
to his lectures every morning, and sighs so tremendously as he passes
his cousin's window," etc., etc. And then all these people are to be
subjected to the spell of some Puck, in such fashion that what they set
to work to do under that influence, and all that happens to them, are
to affect us as if we were there on the spot, sharing their experiences
with them, under the influence of the same spell.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly. And I scarcely need say that, according to my
principle, music adapts itself well to _opera buffa_, and that in so
adapting itself there results a certain special style which makes a
special impression of its own on the hearer.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Do you think music can express all the shades of the
Comic?'

"_Ludwig_. 'I am quite sure it can; clever artists have proved it
scores of times. For instance, music can express the most delicate and
delightful Irony. That is the predominating element in Mozart's
glorious "Cosi fan tutte."'

"_Ferdinand_. That, by the way, leads me to the remark that, according
to your principle, the so-much disparaged text of that work is really
highly suitable for an opera.'

"_Ludwig_. 'That is exactly what I was thinking of when I said, a
little while ago, that for his classic operas Mozart always chose
really suitable texts, for "Le Nozze di Figaro" is more a Comedy in
Music than a true Opera. The nefarious attempt to turn pathetic dramas
into operas can never come to anything; our "Orphan Hospitals,"
"Oculists," and so forth, are sure to be soon forgotten. And what could
have been more miserable and opposed to the true spirit of opera than
all that series of _vaudeilles_ of Dittersdorf's? But on the other hand
I call such works as "The Sunday-Child" and "The Sisters of Prague"
admirable. One might style them true German _opere buffe_.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'They have always amused me greatly, at all events, when
decently given; and I have always thought of what Tieck makes his
"poet" say to the public in his "Puss in Boots": "If you want to enjoy
this thoroughly, you must divest yourself of whatever you may have
attained in the shape of cultivation and learning, and become wholly as
little children, so as to enjoy it as such."'

"_Ludwig_. 'Unfortunately those words, like many others of the kind,
fell upon stony ground, and could take no root. But the _vox populi_,
which is generally the _vox Dei_ in theatrical matters, has drowned the
few isolated sighs and groans which super-delicate and sensitive people
have given vent to over the sad untruthfulness and tastelessness of
those works--"trifling," according to their ideas. And there are
instances on record of some of those very people who, in the height of
their calm, contemptuous, aristocratic impassibility and supercilious
scorn of the whole thing, have been so carried away by the infection of
the roars of laughter of the "baser" folk about them that they have
burst out laughing in the most deplorable way themselves, declaring
that they had no idea what they were laughing at.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Wouldn't Tieck, if he had chosen, have written splendid
opera plots, according to your definition of them?'

"_Ludwig_. 'No doubt, being a true romantic poet; and I remember I did
once think of writing music to a plot of his. But though the subject
was well adapted for music, the work was too diffuse and lengthy; not
concentrated enough. It was called "The Monster of the Enchanted
Forest," if I remember rightly.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'That reminds me of another difficulty which we meet with
in writing for you composers: I mean the extraordinary brevity and
conciseness which you insist upon. All our efforts to portray this or
that situation or burst of passion in properly descriptive language are
so much wasted labour. You will have the whole affair comprised in a
line or two; and even these few lines you twist about and turn
upside-down just as you take it in your heads.'

"_Ludwig_. 'I think the writer of the words of an opera ought to be
something like a scene painter, and paint his picture correctly as
regards the drawing, but in broad, powerful lines; then the music will
be what will make it appear in proper light and shade, and in correct
perspective, so that it shall have a proper effect of life, and what
seemed only meaningless dashes of colour prove to be forms instinct
with meaning, standing out prominently in relief.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'So that what we have to do is to give you a sketch
merely, not a finished poem?'

"_Ludwig_. 'No, no; that is not what I mean at all! It is scarcely
necessary to say that the poet of opera must observe, as regards the
arrangement, the disposition, of the whole, all the rules essential to
dramatic composition; but what he has to take special care for is to so
order his scenes that the subject-matter may unfold itself, clearly and
intelligibly, to the _eyes_ of the spectator: who ought to be able to
understand what is going on from what he sees taking place, almost
without catching any of the words. No dramatic poem so absolutely
demands this sort of distinctness as the opera-text, for not only is it
more difficult to distinguish words when they are sung, (however
distinctly,) than when they are spoken, but the music tends to carry
the audience into distant regions, and it is necessary that the
attention should be kept directed to the particular point whore the
action is concentrated, _pro tempore_. Then as regards the words, the
composer likes them best when they express the passion, or situation,
to which they refer, _vigorously_ and _concisely_. There is no occasion
for flowery diction, and, above all, there should be no imagery, no
similes.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Then how about Metastasio, with his exuberance of
similes?'

"_Ludwig_. 'Yes; he had the strange idea that the composer,
particularly in arias, must always have his imagination stirred up by
some poetical comparison. Hence his oft-repeated openings such as "Come
una Tortorella," etc., or "Come Spume in Tempesta," etc.: and in fact,
the cooing of doves and the roar of the sea have often made their
appearance--in the accompaniment, at all events.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'But, while we avoid flowery language, are we to be
allowed any sort of elaboration of interesting situations? For
instance: the young hero sets off to the battle, and bids adieu to
his aged father, the old king, whose country is trembling in the
grasp of a victorious usurper. Or some terrible fate severs a youth
from his beloved. Are neither of them to say anything but just
"fare-thee-well"?'

"_Ludwig_. 'The hero may add a few words about his courage and the
justice of his cause, and the lover may tell his sweetheart that life
will be nothing but a long, painful dream without her. Still, the
simple "fare-thee-well" will be amply sufficient for the Composer--(who
draws his inspiration, not from the words, but from the business and
the situations)--to represent the mental condition of the hero and the
lover with powerful strokes and touches. To stick to the instance you
have adduced; just think in what thousands of most affecting and
heart-breaking ways the Italians have sung the little word "_addio_."
What thousands--ay, and thousands of thousands--of shades musical
expression is capable of! And of course it is just that that is the
marvellous mystery of the Tone-Art that, just where language comes to
an end, _she_ is only beginning to disclose a perennial fountain of fresh
forms of expression.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Then what the opera-poet has to do is--to strive to
attain the utmost simplicity, as far as the words are concerned; it
will be enough to _suggest_ the situation, in clear and forcible
language.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly: because the composer has to draw his inspiration
from the matter, the business and the situation--not from the words.
And not only is imagery to be avoided, but everything in the shape of a
reflection is a bugbear to the composer.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'After what you have said, I can assure you it seems to
be anything but an easy matter to write an opera text. Now, this
indispensable simpleness of the language; I can't say that I quite see
how to----'

"_Ludwig_. 'How to accomplish it! No! You are so fond of painting with
words, and so accustomed to it. But though Metastasio (as I think) has
exemplified in his librettos how opera texts ought _not_ to be written,
there are quantities of Italian poems which are absolute models of
words for music. For instance take the lines, known to the whole world,
no doubt:

           "Almen si non poss' io
            Seguir l'amato bene,
            Affetti del cor mio
            Seguite-lo per me!"

What can be simpler? Yet, in these few, unpretending words lies the
suggestion, or indication, of love and sorrow which the composer
comprehends, and can apply all the resources of musical expression to
represent. The particular situation in which the words are to be sung
will so stir his imagination that he will give the music the most
individual character. And this is why you will often find that a
poetical composer sets words that are wretched enough to admirable
music. In such cases what inspired him was that the matter was
genuinely suitable for opera; and as an instance I merely mention
Mozart's "Zauberfloete."'

"Ferdinand was going to reply, when, outside the windows, down in the
street, the drums were heard beating the _générale_. This seemed to
wake him to the sense of present duty as with an electric shock. Ludwig
shook him warmly by the hand.

"'Ah, Ferdinand,' he cried, 'what is to become of Art in these terrible
times? Won't it die, like some delicate plant lifting its languid head
towards the clouds beyond which the sun has disappeared? Ah! Where are
the golden days when we were lads? All that is good is drowned and
swept away by this torrent that whirls along, devastating the country.
We see bleeding corpses, appearing by glimpses, carried along in its
dark billows; and in the horror which seizes us, we slip and lose our
footing, we have nothing to hold on to; our cry of terror dies away in
the darksome air--victims of inappeasable anger, we sink to earth, and
there is no hope of salvation.' Ludwig paused, sunk in his thoughts.

"Ferdinand stood up, and put on his sword and helmet. He stood before
Ludwig like the God of War armed for the fray. Ludwig looked up at him
admiringly, and a glow came over Ferdinand's face, and he said, in a
calm and reassuring tone:

"'Ludwig, what has happened to you? Has the dungeon air which you have
been breathing here so long debilitated you, so that you are too sick
and faint to feel the warm reviving breath of spring which is blowing,
sweet and gentle, up there among the clouds as they glow with the rose
tints of dawn? The children of Nature were abbrutized and sunk in
sluggish inaction, careless of all her most precious gifts, and
treading them into the mire. Then their angry mother awoke the Genius
of War, who had long been sleeping in gardens heavy with the breath of
flowers--and War came, like some Giant of Adamant, amongst these spoilt
children, who, at the sound of his awful voice, which makes the hills
tremble, fled to their mother's arms for refuge, though they had
forgotten her before. But with remembrance came gratitude. Nothing but
strength brings success. The divine element radiates out from contest
and striving as life does from death. Yes, Ludwig, a time is upon us
which is pregnant with fate, and (as in the awful profundity of the
ancient Sagas, which come rolling over to us like the mysterious
muttering of distant thunder) we can trace, once more, distinctly, the
voice of that Power which rules for Ever more. Nay, marching visibly
into our lives, it awakes in us a faith which enables us to read the
riddle of our Being. The morning light is breaking, and inspired
Singers are soaring up in the sweet fresh morning air, proclaiming the
advent of the Divine, and celebrating it with hymns of praise. The
golden gates are open, and art and knowledge, in one united ray,
are kindling that flame of sacred effort which makes all humanity
one universal Church. Therefore lift up your eyes, dear friend.
Courage--Confidence--Faith.'

"Ferdinand clasped Ludwig's hand; and in a few moments his charger was
bearing him rapidly along with the troops moving on to the attack, the
light and joy of battle on every brow."

The friends were much affected by this; for each of them remembered
days when the clutch of a hostile destiny was at his throat and all
comfort or enjoyment in life seemed to be a thing of the past for ever.
And then, after a time, the first rays of the beautiful Star of Hope
began to pierce the clouds and rose higher and higher, reviving them,
strengthening and invigorating them with newness of life. Then, in the
gladsomeness of contest, everything stirred, and came into activity,
shouting for joy. At last the grandest and most brilliant of victories
rewarded their courage and constancy.

"Each of us," said Lothair, "has said, within himself, very much what
the Serapiontic Ferdinand said; and well is it for us that the menacing
storms which thundered over our heads refreshed us, instead of
annihilating us, and braced us like a fine sulphur bath. In fact, it
seems to me that it is only now, and here among you, that I begin to
feel quite strong and well, and to trace a fresh impulse to begin, now
that the storms are over, to bestir myself again in the paths of
literature and science. I know that Theodore is doing so right
strenuously; he is devoting himself, as of old, to his music, although
he is not neglecting literature neither, so that I am expecting him to
astonish us, one of these days, with an opera altogether his own, both
music and words. All that he has said about the impossibility of the
same person writing the words and the music of an opera may be
plausible enough, but it doesn't convince me."

"I don't agree with you," said Cyprian, "but I don't see much use in
continuing the discussion. It seems all the more a waste of time that
if the thing were possible, which Theodore says it is not, he would be
the first to set about doing it. It would be far better if he would
open his piano and, as he has favoured us with so many interesting
Stories, let us hear some of his Compositions."

"Cyprian," said Theodore, "is always accusing me of sticking too
closely to established forms, and rejecting any poetry which cannot be
fitted to some of them. This I do not admit, and I mean to prove what I
say by producing some music of mine to words which require a setting
differing from any of the hackneyed 'forms' in question. I mean
the Night Hymn in Mueller the painter's 'Genofeva.' All the sweet
sadness,--the pain, longing, and sense of the supernatural,--of a heart
torn by hopeless love are in the words of this beautiful poem. Moreover,
as the verses have a certain touching flavour of the Antique, I have
thought it better that the composition should be without any instrumental
accompaniment, but for voices alone, in the style of old Alessandro
Scarlatti, or the more modern Benedetto Marcello. I have done all the
music for it in my head, but only the beginning of it has been written
down as yet. If you haven't quite forgotten all about singing, and,
especially, if you still feel the benefit of our old practice at
'reading invisible music,' and can strike your notes correctly as of
old, I should like that we sing what I have composed for thebe words."

"Ah yes!" said Ottmar, "I remember about the 'reading invisible music.'
You used to put your fingers on the notes of the chords without
pressing them down, and each of us sang the notes of his part without
previously hearing them on the instrument. People who didn't notice the
process of indicating the notes couldn't imagine how we 'improvised'
part-music so cleverly; and for those who possess the talent of being
easily astonished, it really is a good and interesting musical trick.
For my part, I still sing that mediocre, grumbling old baritone of
mine, and have as little forgotten how to hit my note as Lothair, who
can still, with his fine _basso_, lay firm foundations on which tenors
like you and Cyprian can build skywards with security."

"For Cyprian's beautiful, delicate, tender tenor," said Theodore, "this
thing of mine is exactly suitable. Therefore I shall give him the first
tenor part, and take the second myself. Ottmar, who was always very
accurate in striking his note, shall take the first bass, and Lothair
the second. Only, for Heaven's sake, don't thunder, but keep the whole
thing soft and _sostenuto_, as the character of the composition
requires."

Theodore struck two or three introductory chords on the piano, and then
the voices began, with long, sustained notes, in the key of A flat
major:

           "Beauteous Lover's Star,
            That gleamest far and far,
              In pale blue vault of Heaven!
            To thee, this night, our hearts make prayer;
            Oh! aid us in our fond despair!
              To Love--to Love alone our souls are given."

The two Tenors now went on, in duet; key of F minor:

           "Oh! calm and holy night!
            Those glowing worlds of light--
              Heaven's eyes--begin to tread their mystic measure.
            Soar high, like sweet bells far-off chime,
            Night Hymn of Love, in silv'ry rhyme--
              Beat at Heaven's gate, in rhythmic, pulsant measure."

At the words "soar high," etc., the music had gone into the key of D
flat major, and now Lothair and Ottmar came in, in B flat minor:

           "Oh! saintly souls above,
            That burn in holy love,
              With heart and tongue all pure from earthly tainting,
            Drop down some balm on this poor heart,
            Which fails, and droops, in bitter smart,
              Contending here--in conflict well-nigh fainting."

Then, finally, the four voices ended in F major:

           "Knock, knock, and soon the angel's voice will say,
            'The gates are open! enter in for aye!'"

All of them--Lothair, Ottmar, and Cyprian--felt much affected by
Theodore's lovely music, which was in the simple, serious style of the
early masters. The tears came to their eyes. They embraced the clever
composer; they pressed him to their hearts. The clocks tolled midnight.

"Blessed be our reunion!" cried Lothair. "Oh! glorious Serapion
Brotherhood, which binds us with an eternal chain! May it ever keep
green and flourish! As we have done to-night, we will continue to
refresh and vivify our minds in the paths of literature and art; and
our next care will be to assemble again here at our Theodore's, at the
same time in the evening, this day week."

                              SECTION II.

Seven o'clock struck. Theodore was expecting his friends impatiently.
At last Ottmar came in.

"Leander has just been with me," he said; "that was what detained me. I
told him how sorry I was that I was called away by a pressing
engagement. He insisted on walking with me as far as the place I was
going to, but I slipped away from him in the dark--not without some
difficulty. I know he knew quite well I was coming here, and wanted to
come too."

"And you haven't brought him?" said Theodore. "He would have been most
welcome."

"No, no," said Ottmar, "that would never have answered at all. In the
first place, I don't consider that I have any right to bring in a
stranger--or, if Leander is not exactly a stranger, any fifth person
whatever--without the unanimous consent of the Serapion Brethren.
Besides, rather an unfortunate thing happened with regard to Leander,
through Lothair's fault. Lothair told him about our delightful Serapion
Brotherhood, in his usual enthusiastic style. He talked hyperbolically
of the admirable tendency of the Serapiontic principle, and asseverated
nothing less than that we meant--keeping that principle constantly in
view--to incite each other to undertake all sorts of interesting and
important work. On that, Leander said that an opportunity of
associating himself in this way with literary people was what it had
long been his most ardent desire to meet with, and that he hoped, if we
would admit him to our order, to prove himself a highly meritorious
brother of it. He added that he had a great many things _in petto_, and
as he said so, he made an involuntary movement of his hand towards one
of his coat pockets. It was stuffed to fatness; and, to my alarm, I saw
that the other pocket was so too; they were both distended with
manuscripts, and papers of an alarming aspect were sticking out of his
breast pocket as well."

Here Ottmar was interrupted by the somewhat boisterous entry of
Lothair, who was followed by Cyprian.

"A certain little storm cloud," said Theodore, "has been forming,
rather threateningly, in the atmosphere of this Serapion Brotherhood of
ours. However, Ottmar has managed to dispel it cleverly. Leander wanted
to come bothering us, and stuck to poor Ottmar like grim death, till he
managed to give him the slip in the dark."

"Why didn't he bring him?" asked Lothair. "He's a witty, clever,
intelligent fellow: I can't think of a more eligible member of our
society."

"How exactly like you that is," said Ottmar: "you are always the same
old Lothair; always changing your mind; always a member of the
opposition. If I had brought him, you would have been the very first to
find fault with me most bitterly. You say Leander is intelligent,
clever, and witty. Very well; so he is--all that and more. Everything
he writes has a roundness and a finish which evinces soundness of
criticism and clearness of judgment; but, in the first place, I don't
believe there is a man on this earth who is so absolutely devoid of any
trace of the Serapiontic principle. Everything he writes he has most
maturely thought out, weighed, and considered in all its aspects, but
never really _seen_. His reasoning faculty does not control his
imagination; it puts itself in its place. Then he delights in a wordy
prolixity which is unendurable to the hearer, if not to the reader;
works of his which one must admit to possess plenty of talent and
interest, are tedious beyond expression when he reads them aloud."

"There is a curious question there, connected with reading aloud; I
mean as to things _adapted_ for reading aloud," said Cyprian; "it seems
as if not only the most vivid life were essential to them, but that
they should be restricted to a certain definite length."

"The reason, I think," said Theodore, "is that the reader must not
declaim; experience tells us that _that_ is unendurable; he ought
merely to slightly indicate the various feelings that arise in the
course of the action, preserving a quiet tone; and this tone, after a
time, produces an irresistibly narcotic effect."

"What I think," said Ottmar, "is, that a story or poem, to be adapted
for reading aloud, ought to approach very closely to the dramatic, or
be dramatic altogether; but then again, why is it that most comedies
and tragedies are unsatisfactory when read aloud?--that is, become
boring and wearisome?"

"Just because they are quite _un_dramatic, said Lothair; "or because
too much has been left for the effect of the action of the actors on
the stage; or because the poem is so weak and feeble in itself that it
does not call up before the listener's mind any picture in clear,
distinct colours, and with living figures, except with the help of the
actors and the stage. However, we are losing sight of Leander, as to
whom I maintain, notwithstanding what Ottmar says to the contrary, that
he well deserves to be admitted to our circle."

"Well and good," said Ottmar, "but please to remember what your own
experience has been of him already; how he once dogged and pursued you
wherever you went, with a fat--fat dramatic poem; how you always
managed to give him the slip, till he asked you and me to a splendid
dinner, with grand cuisine and first-rate wines, so that we might
swallow the poem, thus washed down, like a dose of medicine; how I
endured two acts of it like a man, and was screwing up my courage for a
third, when you lost patience, and got up, declaring that you were
suddenly taken very unwell, and left poor Leander in the lurch, wines,
dinner, and all. Recollect how he came to your house once when you had
several people with you; how he now and then rustled papers in his
pockets, looking from one to the other with sly, crafty glances, in
hopes that somebody would say, 'You've brought something good, haven't
you, dear Leander?' How you privately implored us all, for God's sake,
to take no notice whatever of this menacing rustling, but to hold our
tongues. Remember how you used to liken old Leander--with a tragedy
always in his breast pocket, always armed and eager for the fray--to
Meros creeping to slay the tyrant, with a dagger in his breast; how
once, when you were obliged to ask him to dinner, he came with a great
fat manuscript in his hand, so that our hearts sunk within us; how he
then announced, with the sweetest smiles, that he could only stay for
an hour or so, because he had promised to go to Madame So-and-so's to
tea, and to read her his last epic poem in twelve cantos; how we then
breathed freely again, like men relieved from a terrible burden;
and when he went away all cried, with one voice, 'Oh, poor Madame
So-and-so!--what an unfortunate woman!'"

"Stop, stop, Ottmar," said Lothair; "what you say is all true enough,
of course, but nothing of that sort could take place amongst Serapion
Brethren. We form a strongly organized opposition to everything that is
not in harmony with our fundamental principle, and I would give odds
that Leander conforms to our rule."

"Don't imagine anything of the kind, dear Lothair," said Ottmar.
"Leander has a fault which many conceited writers have in common with
him--he won't listen; and, just for that reason, he always wants to be
the person who reads or speaks. He would always be trying to occupy the
whole of our evenings with his own interminable compositions; he would
take our efforts to obviate this in the worst possible part, and,
consequently, mar the whole of our enjoyment: he even spoke to-day of
works to be undertaken in common; and with that idea in his head he
would torture us terribly."

"That is a sort of thing which never answers," said Cyprian. "It
doesn't seem practicable for several people to write a work together;
it would require such absolute similarity of mental disposition, such
depth of insight, and such identity of the power to grasp ideas as they
suggest and succeed one another, even if a plot were fully determined
on in concert. I say this from experience, although of course there are
some instances to the contrary."

"At the same time," said Cyprian, "sympathetically-minded friends often
give each other valuable hints and suggestions, which lead to the
production of works."

"For a suggestion of that sort," said Ottmar, "I have to thank our
friend Severin, who, when he comes back here, as I expect him to do
immediately, will make a much better Serapion Brother than Leander. I
was sitting with him in the Thiergarten, Berlin, when there happened,
before our eyes, the incident which suggested the story called 'A
Fragment of the Lives of Three Friends,' which I wrote, and have
brought with me to read to you to-night; for when (as you shall
presently hear) the pretty girl read the letter, which had been
privately handed to her, with tears in her eyes, Severin cast pregnant
glances at me, and whispered, 'There's something for you, Ottmar; let
your fancy move its wings; write at once all about the girl, the
letter, and her tears.' I did so, and here you have the result."

The friends sat down at the round table; Ottmar took a manuscript from
his pocket, and read--

               'A FRAGMENT OF THE LIVES OF THREE FRIENDS.

"One Whit Monday the 'Webersche Zelt,' a place of public resort in the
Thiergarten, Berlin, was so densely crowded by people of every sort and
kind that it was only by dint of unremitting and assiduous shouting,
and the most dogged perseverance of pursuit, that Alexander succeeded
in capturing a much-vexed and greatly-badgered waiter, and inducing him
to set out a small table under the trees beside the water, where he,
with his friends Severin and Marzell (who had managed, by the exercise
of fine strategical talent, to possess themselves of a couple of
chairs), sat down in the happiest possible frame of mind. It was only a
few days since they had come back to Berlin. Alexander had arrived from
a distant province to take possession of the heritage of an aunt
deceased, and the two others had come back to resume the duties of
their Government appointments, from which they had been absent for a
considerable time on military duty, during the important campaign which
was just at an end. This was the day when they had arranged to
celebrate their reunion in famous style, and, as it often happens, it
was the Present, with its doings and strivings, more than the eventful
Past, that was occupying their minds.

"'I can assure you,' said Alexander, taking up the steaming coffee-pot
and filling the cups, 'that if you saw me in my aunt's old house--how I
wander pathetically up and down the lofty chambers hung with gloomy
tapestry; how Mistress Anne, my aunt's former housekeeper, a little
spectral-looking creature, comes in wheezing and coughing, carrying the
pewter salver with my breakfast in her trembling arms, putting it down
on the table with a curious backward-sliding curtsey, and then making
her exit without a word, sighing, and scuffling along on slippers too
large for her feet, like the beggar wife of Locarno, while the tom-cat
and the pug, eying me with dubious glances, go out after her; how I
then, with a low-spirited parrot scolding at me, and china mandarins
nodding at me with scornful smiles, swallow cup after cup of the
coffee, scarcely daring to desecrate this virginal chamber, where amber
and mastic have been wont to shed their perfumes, with vulgar tobacco
reek,--I say, if you were to see me in these circumstances, you would
say I was under some spell of enchantment; you would regard me as a
species of Merlin. I can assure you that the easy adaptability to
circumstances which you have so often blamed me for was the sole cause
of my having at once taken up my quarters in my aunt's lonely house,
instead of looking out for some other lodging; for the pedantic
scrupulosity of her executor has rendered it an exceedingly uncanny
place to be in. That strange creature of an aunt of mine (whom I
scarcely ever saw) left directions in her will that everything was to
remain till my arrival exactly as she left it at her death. By the side
of the bed, which is resplendent in snow-white linen and sea-green
silk, still stands the little tabouret, on which, as of yore, is laid
out the maidenly night-dress and the much be-ribboned nightcap; under
it are the embroidered slippers,--and a brightly polished silver
mermaid (the handle of some piece of toilet apparatus or other)
glitters as it projects from beneath the quilt, which is all over
many-tinted flowers. The unfinished piece of embroidery, which she
was working at shortly before her death, is still lying in the
sitting-room, with Arndt's 'True Christianity' open beside it; and
(what for me, at all events, fills up the measure of eeriness) in this
same room there is a life-size portrait of her, taken some thirty-five
or forty years ago, in her wedding-dress; in which wedding-dress, as
Mistress Anne tells me with many tears, just as it is shown in the picture,
she was buried.'

"'What a strange idea!' said Marzell.

"'Yet not so very odd, after all,' said Severin; 'those who die maids
are called the brides of Christ, and I trust nobody would be reprobate
enough to make fun of this pretty old fancy, which well beseems an old
maiden's creed. At the same time I don't quite gather why the aunt had
her portrait taken as a bride forty years ago.'

"'As the tale was told to me,' said Alexander, 'my aunt was engaged to
be married at one time--indeed the wedding-day had arrived, and she was
dressed and waiting for the bridegroom; but he never made his
appearance, having thought proper to leave the place that morning with
a "flame" of his of earlier date. My aunt took this deeply to heart,
and, without being exactly queer in the head, always kept the
anniversary of that marriage-day of hers, that was to have been,
in a curious way. Early in the morning of it she used to put on her
wedding-dress complete, and (as she had done on the day itself) lay out
a little table of walnut-wood with gilt carvings in her dressing-room,
with chocolate, wine, and cake for two people, and then walk slowly up
and down, sighing and softly lamenting, till ten at night, when, after
she had prayed fervently, Mistress Anne would undress her, and she
would go silently to bed, sunk in deep reflection.'

"'I call that exceedingly touching,' said Marzell. 'Woe to the traitor
who caused the poor creature that never-forgotten pain!'

"'But there may be another side to the question,' said Alexander: 'the
man whom you accuse of perfidy--and who was a traitor, no doubt,
whatever may have been his motives--may have had a warning from his
good genius; or, if you prefer to say so, a better feeling may have
come to him. Perhaps it was her money that was the attraction; he may
have found out that she was imperious, quarrelsome, miserly--in short,
a disagreeable person to have much to do with.'

"'Perhaps,' said Severin, laying his pipe on the table, and looking
reflectively before him with his arms crossed; 'but could those silent,
affecting funereal observances--those resigned regrets, heard only
in her own heart, for the unfaithful scoundrel--have existed in any
but a deep and tender nature, which must have been a stranger to the
worldly infirmities which you accuse your aunt of? No doubt the bitter
feeling--(how seldom can we altogether master it, hard beset as we are
in this life of ours?)--may sometimes have manifested itself in her in
various forms, not always very easily recognizable, and having a more or
less unpleasant effect upon the old lady's surroundings; still, that
yearly day of pious sorrow would have atoned, in my eyes, at all events,
for any amount of shortcomings during the rest of the time.'

"'I agree with you, Severin,' said Marzell. 'The old lady can't have
been quite so bad as Alexander--though only from hearsay--makes her out
to have been; at the same time I must confess I don't like to have
anything to do with folks who have had their lives embittered, and it's
better that Alexander should edify himself with the story of the old
lady's way of keeping her wedding-day (that ought to have been), and
rummage in the well-filled boxes and chests she has left him, or gloat
over the valuable "inventory," than that he should see the deserted
bride, dressed for the altar, walking up and down beside her
chocolate-table.'

"Alexander set the coffee-cup which he was raising to his lips down
untasted on the table with a clatter; beat his hands together, and
cried, 'For Heaven's sake don't put ideas of that sort into my head!
Really I feel in that state that it wouldn't astonish me if I were to
see my old aunt in her bride-clothes suddenly peering, in a horrible,
spectral manner, out of the middle of that group of nice-looking girls
there, in the bright sunshine!'

"'That serves you right for having said what you did about your aunt,
who never did you anything but kindness, even in death,' said Severin,
with a quiet laugh, puffing away little blue cloudlets from his pipe,
which he had resumed.

"Do you know, my dear fellows,' said Alexander, 'that the very
atmosphere of that old house of mine seems to be so thoroughly
impregnated with the essence and spirit of the old lady, that one has
only to be in it for a day or two to find one's self imbibing it to a
very appreciable extent?'

"Marzell and Severin chanced to be handing their empty cups to
Alexander as he spoke; he put in the sugar and milk, and poured out the
coffee with a dainty, deliberate care, and said:

"'I daresay you notice how differently I do a thing of this sort from
my old way of doing it; I mean, I do it much more like an old lady; and
you will be more astonished still when I tell you that I find myself
taking a strange pleasure in well-polished pewter and copper, and in
linen and silver plate--in everything relating to a well-ordered
household. In one word, I feel like some old housekeeper. I find myself
looking with a funny satisfaction at household paraphernalia of every
sort, and it has suddenly dawned upon me that it is good to be the
possessor of something besides a bed, a chair, a table, a lamp and an
inkstand. My aunt's executor smiles and tells me I can marry whenever I
choose, and have nothing to do but fix upon the bride and the parson.
What he really means is that the bride's not far to seek. He has a
little bit of a daughter himself; a dressy little thing with great big
eyes, excessively childish and innocent in her ways, always gushing
with artlessness, and hopping about like a water-wagtail. I daresay
this may have been all very well, considering her little elfin
figure, some sixteen years ago or so; but now that she's two- or
three-and-thirty, it gives one rather a queer sensation.'

"'Ay,' said Severin, 'and yet how very natural that kind of
self-mystification is. Where is the precise point where a girl, who
has taken up some particular line, in consequence of some personal
peculiarity or other, is to say to herself, "I am no longer what I was;
the colours I put on are still fresh and youthful, but my face has lost
its bloom; so, patience! what can't be cured must be endured!" The
sight of a poor girl in these circumstances fills me with pity, and,
for that very reason, I could put my arms about her, take her to my
heart, and comfort her.'

"'You see, Alexander,' said Marzell, 'that Severin's in his most
beneficent mood to-day. First, he takes up the cudgels for your aunt,
and now the executor's daughter (I think I know who the executor
is--Falter, the Kriegsrath); Falter's little witch of two- or
three-and-thirty, whom I know very well, inspires him with sentiments
of sad, compassionate sympathy; presently he'll advise you to marry her,
and cure her of that inappropriate _naïveté_ of hers; for that she will
lay aside, as far as you are concerned at all events, the moment she says
"Yes!" Don't you do anything of the kind. Experience teaches that naïve
little creatures of that kind are sometimes--or rather very often--of
feline nature, and, out of the velvet paws which they stroke you with
before the parson's blessing, can soon stick out sharp enough claws, on
suitable opportunity afterwards.'

"'Heavens and earth!' cried Alexander, 'what nonsense you're talking!
Neither Falter's little witch of thirty-two, nor anybody else, were she
ten times as young and charming, could induce me to go and sacrifice,
of my own free will and accord, the golden years of youthful liberty
and freedom which, now that a slice of the good things of this world
has fallen to my share, I mean to set to work to thoroughly enjoy; and
the fact is that the old bridely aunt has such a ghostly, haunting
effect upon me, that I can't help associating all sorts of eery,
uncanny, shuddery feelings with the very word "bride."'

"I'm sorry for you,' said Marzell; 'for my part, the moment I think of
a girl dressed for her wedding, I feel sweet, secret thrills going all
through me; and if I see such a creature, I feel impelled to clasp her
to me, mentally, with a lofty, pure affection which has nothing in
common with mundane passion.'

"'Oh!' said Alexander, 'I know you always fall in love with every bride
you come across; and often even other people's sweethearts are to be
found set up in that inner sanctuary which you have established in your
imagination.'

"'He loves with them that love,' said Severin; 'that's why I like him
so much.'

"I shall set my aunt at him,' said Alexander, laughing, 'and see if
that will rid me of a species of haunting which is becoming rather a
nuisance to me. You are looking at me with questioning glances, are
you?--very well then; I'll make a clean breast of it. The old-maid
nature is traceable in me in this further respect, that I feel a
perfectly unendurable terror of ghosts, and go on like some little
child whom its nurse has frightened with a bogy. What happens is no
less than this: that often in broad daylight, and particularly about
mid-day, when I'm looking into the chests and boxes, I suddenly seem to
catch a glimpse of my aunt's peaky nose close beside me, and of her
long, lean fingers poking in among the clothes and linen, and rummaging
among them. If I take down a teacup, or a saucepan off the wall, to
look at them with a feeling of satisfaction, all the rest rattle, and I
expect to see a ghostly hand offering me another; then I throw the
things down, and run to the front-room without looking over my
shoulder. There I sing or whistle out of the open window into the
street, at which Mistress Anne is greatly scandalized: and that the
aunt "walks" every night at twelve o'clock is a positive and undoubted
fact.'

"Marzell laughed heartily at this. Severin remained grave, and said,
'Let us hear all about that; it'll probably turn out to be some trick
or other. Fancy a fellow with your enlightened, advanced views, turning
spirit-seer!'

"'Well, Severin,' said Alexander, 'you know quite well, and so does
Marzell, that nobody could be less of a believer in ghosts and
apparitions than I have always been. Never in my life till now have I
ever met with anything in the least out of the common, and I had never
had the slightest experience of that strange, nervous sense of the
proximity of spiritual principles belonging to another state of being
which paralyzes both body and mind; but let me tell you what happened
the very first night I spent in the house.'

"'Not too loud, then,' said Marzell, 'for I think our neighbours here
are doing us the favour of listening to what we are saying.'

"'They shan't hear,' said Alexander; 'indeed I scarcely like to tell
even you; however, here goes, I may as well out with it. Mistress Anne
received me, dissolved in tears, and went before me with a branched
silver candlestick in her trembling hands to the bedroom, groaning and
coughing as she went. The postboy had to bring in my trunk, and as he
pocketed, with profuse thanks, the tip I gave him, he took a survey of
the room with a grin on his face, till he fixed his eyes on the great
towering bed with the sea-green curtains.

"'"My word!" he cried, "the gentleman'll have a better night of it than
he would have had in the old coach!--and the nightgown and nightcap all
ready and waiting!"

"'Mistress Anne, almost fainting with the shock of this irreverent
mention of the maidenly night-gear, was letting the candlestick fall,
but I caught it in time, and lighted the fellow out. He cast a
facetious look at the old woman as he departed. When I came back she
was all in a tremble; she thought I would tell her to go, and proceed
coolly to desecrate the maidenly couch by sleeping in it, but she
revived when I told her I wasn't accustomed to anything so soft, and
should be obliged if she would make me up a shake-down as well as she
could in the sitting-room. Her wrinkles of annoyance vanished, and her
face lighted up, in a way it never has since, into a most gracious
smile. She dipped her long lean arms down to the ground, fingered up
the down-trodden heels of her slippers, and trotted off, half
frightened and half delighted. As I meant to have a fine long sleep, I
told her not to come with my coffee before nine o'clock; so I left the
old woman for the night almost with Wallenstein's words.

"I was tired to death, and thought I should fall asleep in a moment,
but the manifold thoughts and fancies which began to cross each other
in my brain drove sleep away. I seemed to be only beginning to realize
the rapid change which had taken place in my position and
circumstances. It was only now, when I had actually taken possession of
my property, and was absolutely in my house, that I quite grasped the
fact that I was suddenly lifted out of very narrow circumstances to a
position of affluence, and that life was opening before me a vista of
most agreeable ease and comfort. The watchman's discordant voice
croaked out "Eleven," and "Twelve." I was so wide awake that I
distinctly heard my watch ticking on the table, and a cricket chirping
somewhere a long way off; but as the last stroke of twelve sounded,
hollow and faint, from a church-clock in the distance, measured
footfalls began to walk up and down the room, and at every step came
the sounds of sobbing and sighing, growing louder and louder, till they
were like the heart-breaking cries of some creature in deadly pain or
peril, and then there came a scuffling and a scratching on the outside
of the door, and a dog whimpered and moaned, in tones that were almost
human. I had noticed the old pug--my aunt's pet and darling--the
evening before. It was evidently him, whining to get in. I got out of
bed: I stared most scrutinizingly all about the room, which was dimly
lighted by the glimmer of the sky. Everything that was in it I could
make out distinctly; but no form was to be seen moving up and down,
though the footsteps, and the sobbing and sighing, still went on,
apparently close beside my bed. And then, suddenly, I was seized by
that terror, arising from the proximity of a spirit, which I had never
known before. I felt a cold perspiration dropping from my forehead, and
my hair standing straight up on end, as if frozen by its iciness. I
could not move a limb, nor open my mouth to scream, for terror; but my
blood streamed faster in my throbbing veins, and kept my inner senses
active, though they could exercise no control over my organs, which
were paralyzed as with a spasm of death. Suddenly the footsteps
stopped, and the sobbing ceased; then I could hear a sort of coughing
sound--like a clearing of the throat more than coughing; the door of a
cupboard seemed to open; there was a clattering as of a silver spoon;
then a sound as if some bottle was opened and put back on the shelf; a
sound of swallowing, and then a deep-drawn sigh. At that instant a
tall, white figure seemed to come wavering forward out of the wall. I
sunk down into the depths of an ice river of the wildest terror. I lost
consciousness.

"I came to myself with the sensation of a fall from some height. You
all know that every-day dream sensation; but the peculiar feeling that
I experienced then I hardly know how to describe to you. It was some
time before I could make out where I was, and then there was a sense as
if something terrible had been happening, which a long, death-like
sleep had wiped away the remembrance of. At last it all came gradually
back to me, but I thought it was nothing but a painful dream. However,
when I got up I noticed the portrait for the first time--the portrait
in the wedding-dress; a life-size, three-quarter length portrait. A
cold shiver ran down my back, for I felt sure I recognized in it the
figure which I had seen in the night. But then I could see nothing in
the shape of a cupboard in the room, and that confirmed me in the
conclusion that I had only been dreaming.

"'Mistress Anne brought my coffee. She looked me long in the face, and
said, "Eh, sir! you _are_ looking pale and badly!--has anything been
happening?" Far from telling her anything about it, I said an
oppression in my chest had prevented me from sleeping. "It's the
stomach!--it's the stomach!" said the old woman. "Eh! we've help at
hand for that!" She scuffled up to the wall; opened a door in the
hangings which I had not noticed before, and I saw into a cupboard
where there were glasses, small bottles, and two or three silver
spoons. The old woman took out one of the spoons, clattering and
tinkling it as she did so; opened a bottle; poured a few drops from it
into the spoon; put it back in its place, and then came towards me with
her unsteady, wavering gait. I gave a scream of horror. It was the
exact reproduction, in broad, waking daylight, of the scene of the
previous night.

"'"Well, well!" croaked the old woman, with a strange grin; "it's only
a drop of medicine, sir. The mistress was troubled with her stomach
too, and often had to take a little."

"'I manned myself, and swallowed the stuff, which was bitter and
hot. My eyes were on the bride's picture, which was just over the
wall-press. "Whose portrait's that?" I asked.

"'"Good gracious, sir! don't you know?" she cried. "That's poor dear
mistress, that's dead and gone your aunt." The tears ran down her
cheeks. The dog began to whimper, as it had done in the night. I
mastered my inward shudder, and forced myself with some difficulty to
be composed. I said:

"'"Mistress Anne! I feel quite positive that my aunt was at that
cupboard last night at twelve o'clock, taking some of those drops."

"'The old woman showed no surprise. A strange, deadly pallor seemed to
extinguish the last sparks of life in her wrinkled face, and she said
softly, "Has the Feast of the Invention of the Cross come round
again?--No; it's long past the third of May."

"'I didn't feel able to ask anything further, and the old woman went
away. I dressed as fast as I could, left my breakfast untouched, and
ran as quickly as possible into the open air to try and shake off
the dreadful feeling of unreality--as if everything was a horrible
dream--which had taken possession of me again. That night, without my
having given any orders on the subject, Mistress Anne made up my bed in
a nice cheerful room facing the street. I have never said another word
to her about what I heard and saw, far less to Falter. Do me the favour,
you two, to say nothing about it either, or there will only be a lot of
annoying tittle-tattle, and endless troublesome questions, and, very
likely, all the bother of a formal investigation by the Psychological
Society. Even in the room where I sleep now, I feel pretty certain I
can hear the footsteps and the sobs every night at midnight. However, I
mean to put up with it the best way I can for a short time, and then
try to get rid of the house as quietly as possible, and look out for
another.'

"When Alexander had finished, there was a short silence. Then Marzell
said:

"'All this about your old aunt haunting the house is strange and
uncanny enough. But, firmly as I believe that an extraneous Spiritual
Principle, or "Entity," has the power of making itself felt by, or
perceptible to, us in some way or other, this adventure of yours
strikes one as being very largely tinctured with a purely material
element. The footsteps, and the sighing and sobbing, might pass well
enough: but that the poor old aunt deceased should go and swallow
stomachic drops, as she did when she was feeling a little out of sorts
in this life--well, it's too much like the lady who, when she revisited
the glimpses of the moon after death, used to scrabble outside the
window like a cat shut out by accident.'

"'Now that,' said Severin, 'is just one of the regular, stereotyped
ways in which we go wilfully mystifying ourselves. We admit that an
extraneous Spiritual Principle can affect us (apparently, at all
events), by acting on our bodily senses, but we insist on giving said
spiritual principle a certain amount of education, and on teaching it
what it is proper, and what it is improper that it should do. According
to your theory, my dear Marzell, a spirit may go about in slippers and
sigh and sob, but it mustn't take the cork out of a bottle, or swallow
any of its contents. Here it is to be observed that our own spirit, in
dreams, often hangs commonplace matters out of our own imprisoned state
of life on to that higher condition of being which only indicates
itself dimly, even in dreams; and that it employs a great deal of irony
in so doing. May not this irony, which lies so very deep in our nature
(so conscious of its state of decadence from what it originally was)
still exist in the soul after it has burst from the chrysalis of the
body, and out of this life of dreams, when it is allowed a glance back
at its discarded envelope? On this theory, the essential factor in