othing more. Mere music!' The professor of
biology, who was gifted with, a sense of music and had studied it
scientifically, had now crunched his last leaf of salad. Wiping his
lips with his napkin, he joined our _tete-a-tete_. 'Gracious
madam, I agree with you. He who seeks from music more than music
gives, is on the quest--how shall I put it?--of the Holy Grail.' 'And
what,' I struck in, 'is this minimum or maximum that music gives?'
'Dear young friend,' replied the professor, 'music gives melodies,
harmonies, the many beautiful forms to which sound shall be fashioned.
Just as in the case of shells and fossils, lovely in themselves,
interesting for their history and classification, so is it with
music. You must not seek an intellectual meaning. No; there is no
_Inhalt_ in music' And he hummed contentedly the air of 'Voi
che sapete.' While he was humming, Miranda whispered to me across the
table, 'Separate the Lucca from the music.' 'But,' I answered rather
hotly, for I was nettled by Miranda's argument _ad hominem_, 'But
it is not possible in an opera to divide the music from the words, the
scenery, the play, the actor. Mozart, when he wrote the score to Da
Ponte's libretto, was excited to production by the situations. He did
not conceive his melodies out of connection with a certain cast of
characters, a given ethical environment.' 'I do not know, my dear
young friend,' responded the professor, 'whether you have read
Mozart's Life and letters. It is clearly shown in them how he composed
airs at times and seasons when he had no words to deal with. These he
afterwards used as occasion served. Whence I conclude that music was
for him a free and lovely play of tone. The words of our excellent
Da Ponte were a scaffolding to introduce his musical creations to the
public. But without that carpenter's work, the melodies of Cherubino
are _Selbst-staendig_, sufficient in themselves to vindicate their
place in art. Do I interpret your meaning, gracious lady?' This he
said bending to Miranda. 'Yes,' she replied. But she still played with
her wineglass, and did not look as though she were quite satisfied.
I meanwhile continued: 'Of course I have read Mozart's Life, and know
how he went to work. But Mozart was a man of feeling, of experience,
of ardent passions. How can you prove to me that the melodies he gave
to Cherubino had not been evolved from situations similar to those
in which Cherubino finds himself? How can you prove he
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