Mozart's Journey to Prague and a Selection of Poems

by Eduard Morike

  ‘In the meantime the other, plainer vessel had drawn nearer. The young people in it were all male. The colour worn by the boys in the first ship was scarlet, and these were in sea-green. Their attention was caught by the sight of the pretty girls; they waved greetings to them and signalled that they desired their closer acquaintance. The liveliest of the girls now took a rose from her breast and held it up coquettishly, as if asking whether such gifts would be acceptable, to which the others replied with unambiguous gestures. The red youths looked on scornfully and angrily, but there was nothing they could do when some of the girls decided at least to throw the poor devils something to satisfy their hunger and thirst. There was a basket of oranges standing on the deck; probably they were only yellow balls made to look like the fruit. And now an enchanting spectacle started, accompanied by music from the players on the quayside.

  ‘One of the maidens began by lightly tossing a few oranges across, which were caught with equal dexterity and at once thrown back; and thus it continued to and fro, with gradually more and more of the girls taking part, until oranges by the dozen were flying hither and thither at ever-increasing speed. The beautiful girl in the middle took neither side in this contest, merely watching eagerly from her seat. We were lost in admiration for the skill shown by both parties. The two boats circled each other slowly, about thirty paces apart, sometimes lying broadside on, sometimes aslant with bows converging. About twenty-four balls were constantly in the air, but in the confusion there seemed to be many more of them. At times a regular crossfire developed, and often they rose and fell in a high curving trajectory. Only a very few missed their mark, for as if by some power of attraction they fell of their own accord straight into the grasping fingers.

  ‘But delightful though all this was as a spectacle for the eye, our hearing was equally charmed by the accompanying melodies: Sicilian airs, dances, saltarelli, canzoni a ballo, a whole medley of pieces lightly interwoven with each other like garlands. The younger princess, a sweet innocent creature of about my age, was nodding her head very nicely in time to the music; to this day I can still see her smile and her long eyelashes.

  ‘Now let me briefly tell you how this comedy continued, although it is not relevant to my theme! It really was the prettiest thing you could imagine. While the skirmishing was gradually coming to an end and only a few more missiles were being exchanged, as the girls collected their golden apples and returned them to the basket, a boy in the other boat, as if in play, had seized a large net of green cords and held it for a short time under water; then he lifted it out, and to everyone’s astonishment it had caught a great fish of shimmering colours, blue and green and gold. The others eagerly leapt up to him to pull the fish out, but it slipped out of their hands as if it were really alive, and dropped back into the sea. Now this was an agreed stratagem to fool the red youths and entice them out of their ship. They, as if bewitched by this miracle, had no sooner noticed that the animal did not attempt to dive but continued to play on the surface, than without a moment’s hesitation they all hurled themselves into the sea; the green youths did the same, and thus we saw twelve fine-looking expert swimmers, all intent on catching the fleeing fish, which danced about on the waves, disappeared beneath them for minutes on end, and then surfaced again, now here and now there, now between the legs of one of the youths and now between the breast and chin of another. Suddenly, just as the red swimmers were most passionately absorbed in their chase, the other party spied its advantage, and quick as lightning climbed aboard their opponents’ vessel, on which the only persons left were the girls, who now set up a great shrieking. The noblest-looking of the boys, who was like the god Mercury in stature, sped straight up to the chief beauty and embraced and kissed her, his face aglow with joy; and she, far from joining in the cries of the others, likewise passionately flung her arms round the neck of this youth, whom she evidently knew well. The other group, thus outwitted, at once came swimming alongside, but were driven off with oars and weapons. Their futile rage, the maidens’ startled shrieks, the strenuous resistance of some of them, their pleas and entreaties – all this noise, almost drowned by that of the waves and the music, which had suddenly changed its character – it was all beautiful beyond description, and the audience burst into a storm of enthusiastic applause.

  ‘Now at this moment the sail, hitherto loosely furled, opened out and released from its midst a rosy-cheeked boy with silver wings, with a bow and arrows and quiver, who hovered freely above the mast in a graceful posture. Already all the oars were being plied and the sail was swelling, but the presence of the god and his energetic forward gesture seemed to drive the vessel on more powerfully than either, so much so that the swimmers, in almost breathless pursuit, and with one of them holding the golden fish with his left hand high above his head, soon gave up in exhaustion and were forced to take refuge on the abandoned ship. In the meantime their green opponents had reached a little wooded peninsula, from behind which a handsome vessel full of armed comrades suddenly appeared. With such a threat confronting them, the first group ran up a white flag to signal that they were prepared to negotiate amicably. Encouraged by a similar signal from the other side, they put in at the same landing-place, and soon we saw the good-natured girls, all except the leading one who voluntarily stayed behind, happily going aboard their own ship with their lovers. And that was the end of this comedy.’

  There was a short pause in which everyone greeted the narrative with acclamation, and Eugenie, her eyes shining with excitement, whispered to the Baron: ‘Surely what we have just been given is a whole symphony in colour from beginning to end, as well as a perfect allegory of the Mozartian genius itself in all its joy and serenity! Am I not right? Does it not embody all the grace of Figaro?’

  Her fiancé was just about to repeat her remark to the composer when the latter began speaking again.

  ‘It’s seventeen years now since I saw Italy. What man who has seen it, and seen Naples above all, does not remember it for the rest of his life, even if, like myself, he was still half a child at the time! But scarcely ever have I experienced so vivid a recollection of that beautiful evening by the Gulf as today, in your garden. Every time I closed my eyes, there it was – quite plain and clear and bright, its last veil lifting and drifting away, that heavenly panorama spread out before me! The sea and the sea-shore, the mountain and the city, the motley crowd of people on the embankment, and then that wonderful complicated game with the balls! My ears seemed to hear that same music again, a whole rosary of happy melodies, some my own and some by others, all and sundry, all following on from each other! Suddenly a little dancing song jumped out, a motif in six-eight time, quite new to me. “Hang on!” I thought, “what’s this? Now that’s a devilish neat little thing!” I took a closer look, and – good God above, it’s Masetto and it’s Zerlina!’ And he looked laughingly across at Madame Mozart, who at once understood him.

  ‘The fact is simply this,’ he continued. ‘In the first act of my opera there’s an easy little number which I hadn’t yet written: a duet and chorus for a country wedding. Two months ago, you see, when it was the turn of this piece to be composed, I couldn’t get it right first time round. A simple, childlike melody, bubbling over with happiness, like a fresh posy of flowers and a fluttering ribbon fastened to the girl’s dress: that was what I needed. But because one must never try to force anything, and because trifles of this kind often simply write themselves, I just passed it by, and scarcely gave it another thought as I carried on with the main work. Quite fleetingly, as I sat in the carriage today, just before we drove into the village, I remembered the text of that song; but no musical idea developed from it, at least not so far as I know. In fact, only an hour later, in that arbour by the fountain, I picked up a happier and better tune than I could ever have invented at any other time and in any other way. In art one sometimes has strange experiences, but I had never known a trick like that before. For lo and behold, a melody, fitting the line of words like a glove –
but let me not anticipate, we’re not quite there yet. The little bird had only just stuck its head out of the egg, and at once I began to scoop it out clean and complete. As I did so, I clearly saw Zerlina dancing there before my eyes, andinastrangewaythatlaughinglandscapeoftheGulfofNaples was there as well. I could hear the voices of the bride and the groom turn about, and the lasses and lads singing in chorus.’

  And at this point Mozart began merrily trilling the opening lines of the song:

  ‘Giovinette, che fate all’ amore, che fate all’ amore,

  Non lasciate che passi l’età, che passi l’età, che passi l’età!

  Se nel seno vi bulica il core, vi bulica il core,

  Il remedio vedetelo quà! La la la! La la la!

  Che piacer, che piacer che sarà!

  Ah la la! Ah la la!’ etc.12

  ‘Meanwhile, my hands had done the great mischief. Nemesis was already lying in wait for me just round the hedge, and now it stepped forth in the guise of that terrible man in braided blue livery. An eruption of Vesuvius, if it had really occurred on that divine evening by the sea, and had suddenly smothered and buried the spectators and actors and the whole Parthenopean13 splendour in a black rain of ashes: by God, it would not have been a more unexpected and dreadful catastrophe than this. Devil take him! I can’t recall when any man has ever put me in such a pother. A face that might have been cast in bronze – rather like the cruel Roman emperor Tiberius! If that’s what the servant’s like, I thought after he had left, how am I to look his lordship himself in the eye! And yet, to tell the truth, I was even now rather relying on the protection of the ladies, and not without some reason. For my little wife Connie here, who’s a trifle nosy by nature, had already in my presence made the fat woman at the inn tell us most of what we needed to know about this noble family and all its members; I was standing there and heard –’

  Here Madame Mozart could not refrain from interrupting, and assured the company most emphatically that on the contrary, it was he who had asked all the questions: this gave rise to a good-natured disputation between husband and wife, which caused much amusement. ‘Be that as it may,’ he declared, ‘the fact is that I heard some story somehow about a dear adopted daughter who was engaged to be married, and not only beautiful but kindness itself, and with a voice like an angel. And the thought came to me now: Per Dio! that will help me out of my pickle! I’ll sit down straight away and write that little song as far as it goes, then I’ll give a truthful account of my foolish prank, and the whole thing will be a great joke. No sooner said than done! I had time enough, and even a clean sheet of green-lined paper on me. And here is the result! I lay it in this lady’s fair hands – an impromptu bridal song, if you will allow it to count as such.’

  So saying, he handed his meticulously written manuscript across the table to Eugenie, but her uncle’s hand anticipated hers: he snatched it up, exclaiming: ‘Have patience just a moment, my dear!’

  At a sign from him the double doors of the dining-room opened wide, and a procession of servants appeared, quietly and ceremoniously carrying in the fateful orange-tree and setting it down on a bench at the end of the table; at the same time two slender myrtles were placed to the left and right of it. An inscription fastened to the trunk of the orange-tree declared it to be the property of the bride; but in front of it, on the surrounding moss, stood a porcelain plate covered with a napkin. When this was removed, an orange cut into two halves was revealed, and beside it on the plate, with a meaningful look, Eugenie’s uncle laid the master’s autograph. All this was greeted by the company with prolonged and tumultuous applause.

  ‘I really think,’ said the Countess, ‘that Eugenie still does not even know what is standing there before her. I’ll wager she doesn’t recognize her beloved old tree in its new glory and all covered with fruit!’

  Startled and unable to believe her eyes, the young lady looked from the tree to her uncle and back again. ‘It’s not possible!’ she said. ‘I know it was so far gone that it couldn’t be saved.’

  ‘So you think, do you,’ he replied, ‘that we just picked up some kind of substitute to present to you? That would have been a fine compliment! No, just take a look at this – now I have to do what they do in comedies, when long-lost sons or brothers have to prove their identity by birthmarks and scars. Look at this lump! and this crack where the branches divide – you must have noticed it a hundred times. Well now: is it, or isn’t it?’ And she could doubt it no longer; her amazement, her emotion and her joy were indescribable.

  For the family, this tree was associated with a memory that went back more than a hundred years, the memory of a great lady, who well deserves that we should give a brief account of her here.

  The grandfather of Eugenie’s uncle, whose diplomatic accomplishments had won him honour in the Imperial ministry and who had enjoyed the equal trust of two successive rulers, was no less fortunate in his domestic affairs as the husband of an excellent wife, Renate Leonore. Her repeated visits to France brought her into frequent contact with the brilliant court of Louis XIV and with the leading men and women of that remarkable period. And although she shared the spontaneous joie de vivre of that society, its constant flow of highly cultivated pleasures, she nevertheless always retained in word and deed her innate German firmness of character and moral seriousness – qualities that were unmistakably impressed on the strong features of the portrait of this Countess still hanging on the wall. It was this very disposition that enabled her to play in court circles a distinctive role of naive opposition, and in the letters she left behind her there are many instances of her candour and ready wit, displayed equally in matters of religion, literature, politics or anything else. With great originality she would defend her sound principles and views, or criticize the weaknesses of society without giving the least offence. Accordingly her lively interest in such guests as might be met, for instance, at Ninon de Lenclos’s house,14 that true centre of refined intellectual culture, was of such a character as to be wholly compatible with the exalted friendship that bound her to one of the noblest women of the age, the Marquise de Sévigné.15 In addition to many whimsical pleasantries addressed to her by the poet Chapelle16 and scribbled in his own hand on sheets of paper with a silver floral border, the deeply affectionate letters of the Marquise and her daughter to their good Austrian friend were discovered in an ebony casket by the Count after his grandmother’s death.

  And it was also from the hands of Madame de Sévigné that one day, on a terrace in the garden during a fête at the Trianon, she had received the flowering orange branch, which she at once casually planted in a pot: here it happily struck root, and she took it back with her to Germany.

  Gradually, for some twenty-five years, the little tree grew before her eyes, and later her children and grandchildren tended it with the utmost care. In addition to its personal value, it could stand for them as a living symbol of the subtle intellectual charm of an almost idealized bygone age: an age, to be sure, in which we can today find little that is truly admirable, and which was already pregnant with a disastrous future, a world-shaking calamity already not too far removed in time from the events of this innocent tale.

  It was Eugenie who most devotedly loved this heirloom from her excellent ancestress, and that was why her uncle often remarked that one day it would become her special property. It had therefore been a great sorrow for the young lady when, during her absence in the previous spring, the tree had begun to wilt, its leaves to turn yellow and many of its branches to wither. Since there was absolutely no discernible cause for its deterioration, and no remedy seemed to be effective, the gardener soon gave up hope of its recovery, although in the ordinary course of nature it should easily have lived to twice or three times its age. But the Count, advised by an expert in the neighbourhood, had it secretly treated in a separate enclosure, applying a strange and indeed mysterious recipe of a kind often known to country people; and his hope of one day being able to surprise his beloved niece by giving
her back her old friend with its vigour and fertility restored was fulfilled beyond all expectation. Overcoming his own impatience and his anxious concern that the oranges, some of which had by now reached full maturity, might drop off their branches too soon, he had postponed this pleasure for several weeks until the day of the present feast; and we need hardly describe what the good gentleman must have felt on finding that at the very last moment he was to be deprived of this happiness after all by the action of a stranger.

  The Lieutenant had found time and opportunity, before sitting down at table, to revise his in any case perhaps rather too solemn poetic contribution to the presentation ceremony and, by altering his closing lines, to fit them reasonably well to the new circumstances. He now drew out his manuscript, rose from his chair, turned to his cousin, and recited his poem, the contents of which may be briefly summarized as follows:

  Long ago, on an island in the far west, the famous Tree of the Hesperides had sprung up in the garden of Juno as the Earth Mother’s wedding gift to the goddess, and was watched over by the three melodious nymphs. This tree had a descendant who had always desired and hoped to share the same destiny and be presented to a beautiful bride, for recently the gods had also introduced this custom among mortals. After long waiting in vain, it seemed that a maiden had been found to whom the young tree might turn his affection. She showed him favour and spent much time with him. But beside the fountain he had a proud neighbour, the laurel, the tree of the Muses, who aroused his jealousy; for it seemed to be stealing away the heart and mind of the young maiden, gifted as she was in many arts, and turning her away from the love of men. The myrtle tried in vain to console the lover, to teach him patience by her own example; in the end, the long absence of his beloved increased his grief and after he had pined for a time it proved fatal.