Part 6 (1/2)
He paused, but remaining on his knees, continued to look up to heaven.
Then he rose slowly, and like a seer or a somnambulist, with eyes opened but seeing nothing, he went to his piano without knowing what he was doing. He sat down on the stool, and did not know it; his hands touched the keys and drew magnificent chords from them, and he did not hear them. He only heard the thousands of seraphic voices which in his breast chanted sublime anthems; he only heard the praise of his own winged soul which, in divine ecstasy, soared far into the realm of eternal harmonies.
Louder and louder rolled the music he drew from the keys; now it burst forth into a tremendous jubilee, then again it died away in melancholy complaints and gentle whispers, and again it broke out into a swelling, thundering anthem.
At length Haydn concluded with a sonorous and brilliant pa.s.sage, and then with youthful agility jumped up from his seat.
”That was the prelude,” he said, aloud, ”and now we will go to work.”
He hastily threw the white and comfortable dressing-gown from his shoulders and rapidly walked toward the looking-gla.s.s which hung over the bureau. Every thing was ready for his toilet, the footman having carefully arranged the whole. He put the cravat with lace tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs around his neck and arranged the tie before the looking-gla.s.s in the most artistic manner; then he slipped into the long waistcoat of silver-lined velvet, and finally put on the long-tailed brown coat with bright metal b.u.t.tons. He was just going to put the heavy silver watch, which his wife had given him on their wedding-day, into his vest-pocket, when his eye fell upon the blue ribbon embroidered with silver, which, ever since his visit to the imperial palace, had lain on the bureau.
”I will wear it on this holiday of mine,” said Haydn, with great warmth, ”for I think the day on which a new work is begun is a holiday, and we ought to wear our choicest ornaments to celebrate it.”
He attached the ribbon to his watch, threw it over his neck, and slipped the watch into his vest-pocket.
”If that beautiful Mrs. Shaw could see me now,” he whispered, almost inaudibly, ”how her magnificent eyes would sparkle, and what a heavenly smile would animate her angelic features! Yes, yes, I will remember her smile--it shall find an echo in the jubilant accords of my Creation. But let us begin--let us begin!”
He rapidly walked toward his desk, but stopped suddenly. ”Hold on!” said he; ”I really forgot the most important thing--my ring. While looking at the precious ribbon of my beautiful English friend, I did not think of the ring of my great king--and still it is the talisman without which I cannot work at all.”
Returning once, more to the bureau, he opened a small case and took from it a ring which he put on his finger. He contemplated the large and brilliant diamonds of the ring with undisguised admiration.
”Yes,” he exclaimed--”yes, thou art my talisman, and when I look at thee, it seems to me as if I saw the eyes of the great king beaming down upon me, and pouring courage and enthusiasm into my heart. That is the reason, too, why I cannot work unless I have the ring on my finger.
[Footnote: Haydn had dedicated six quartets to Frederick the Great, who acknowledged the compliment by sending him a valuable diamond ring.
Haydn wore this ring whenever he composed a new work, and it seemed to him as though inspiration failed him unless he wore the ring. He stated this on many occasions.] But now I am ready and adorned like a bridegroom who is going to his young bride. Yes, yes, it is just so with me. I am going to my bride--to St. Cecilia!”
When he now returned to his desk, his features a.s.sumed a grave and solemn expression. He sat down once more at the piano and played an anthem, then he resumed his seat at the desk, took a sheet of music-paper and commenced writing. He wielded his pen with the utmost rapidity, and covered page after page with the queer little dots and dashes which we call notes.
And Haydn's eyes flashed and his cheeks glowed, and a heavenly smile played on his lips while he was writing. But all of a sudden his pen stopped, and a slight cloud settled on his brow. Some pa.s.sage, may be a modulation, had displeased him, in what he had just composed, for he glanced over the last few lines and shook his head. He looked down sadly and dropped the pen.
”Help me, O Lord G.o.d--help me!” he exclaimed, and hastily seized the rosary which always lay on his desk, ”Help me!” he muttered once more, and, while hurriedly pacing the room, he slipped the beads of the rosary through his fingers and whispered an Ave Maria.
His prayer seemed to have the desired effect, for the cloud disappeared from his forehead, and his eyes beamed again with the fervor of inspiration. He resumed his seat and wrote on with renewed energy. A holy peace now settled on his serene features, and reigned around him in the silent little cabinet.
But all at once this peaceful stillness was interrupted by a loud noise resounding from below. Vociferous lamentations were heard, and heavy footsteps ascended the staircase.
Haydn, however, did not hear any thing--his genius was soaring far away in the realm of inspiration, and divine harmonies still enchanted his ears.
But now the door of the small parlor was opened violently, and his wife, with a face deadly pale and depicting the liveliest anxiety, rushed into the room. Catharine and Conrad, the aged footman, appeared behind her, while the cat slipped in with her mistress, and the parrot e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the most frantic and piercing screams.
Haydn started in dismay from his seat and stared at his wife without being able to utter a single word. It was something unheard of for him to be disturbed by his wife during his working hours, hence he very naturally concluded that something unusual, something really terrible must have occurred, and the frightened looks of his wife, the pale faces of his servants, plainly told him that he was not mistaken.
”Oh, husband--poor, dear husband!” wailed his wife, ”pack up your papers, the time for working and composing is past. Conrad has brought the most dreadful tidings from the city. We are all lost!--Vienna is lost! Oh, dear, dear! it is awful, and I tell you I am almost frightened out of my senses!”
And the old lady, trembling like an aspen-leaf, threw herself into an arm-chair.
”What in Heaven's name is the matter?” asked Haydn--”what is it that has frightened you thus? Conrad, tell me what is the news?”
”Oh, my dear master,” wailed Conrad, approaching the doctor with folded hands and shaking knees, ”it is all up with us! Austria is lost--Vienna is lost--and consequently we are lost, too! Late dispatches have arrived from the army. Ah! what do I say?--army? We have no longer an army--our forces are entirely dispersed--Archduke Charles has lost another battle--old Wurmser has been driven back--and General Bonaparte is advancing upon Vienna.”
”These are sad tidings, indeed,” said Haydn, shrugging his shoulders, ”still they are no reason why we should despair. If the archduke has lost a battle--why, all generals have lost battles--”
”Bonaparte never lost one,” replied Conrad, with a profound sigh, ”he wins every battle, and devours all countries he wants to conquer.”
”We must pack up our things, Joseph,” said Mrs. Haydn--”we must bury our money, our plate, and especially your jewels and trinkets, so that those French robbers and cannibals will not find them. Come, husband, let us go to work quickly, before they come and take every thing from us.”