Part 1

Boys who Became Famous Men

Boys who Became Famous Men

_Stories of the Childhood of Poets, Artists, and Musicians_

By Harriet Pearl Skinner

Illustrated by Sears Gallagher

Boston Little, Brown, and Company 1905

_Copyright, 1905_, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

_All rights reserved_

Published September, 1905

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.

TO

FRANK, HOWARD, AND ROBERT ANDREWS

CONTENTS

PAGE BENI'S KEEPER: GIOTTO 1

THE VICTOR: BACH 9

"THE LITTLE BOY AT ABERDEEN": BYRON 44

"TOM PEAR-TREE'S PORTRAIT": GAINSBOROUGH 71

GEORG'S CHAMPION: HÄNDEL 92

SIX HUNDRED PLUS ONE: COLERIDGE 133

THE LION THAT HELPED: CANOVA 176

FRÉDÉRIC OF WARSAW: CHOPIN 207

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"The citizen wheeled abruptly, grasped his arm" _Frontispiece_

PAGE "He was roused by a hand upon his shoulder" 4

"Sebastian started up, bewildered" 37

"Lay in the grass reading aloud from his favorite story" 56

"A head suddenly appeared above the wall" 84

"The clavichord provided unceasing entertainment" 116

"In its place appeared a noble lion" 193

"Like the tired robbers, were fast asleep" 216

_BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS MEN_

BENI'S KEEPER

[GIOTTO[1]]

One summer morning, long ago, a small boy guarded his father's sheep on a hillside in the Apennines. Up and down the stony pasture he trod, driving back the lambs who strayed too far, and trying all the while to keep his wayward charges in a group where he could count them from time to time. His chief care was to prevent them from straggling into the lonely passes above, where wild animals might set upon and devour them; and to watch that they did not wander down the wooded slope and imprison themselves in the tangled thickets below.

The boy might easily have been mistaken for a dryad, as he sprang from rock to rock, whistling shrilly here, coaxing, calling there, and waving his crook to direct the truants back to the flock. It would have seemed no great wonder if he had really stepped out from a mountain boulder to command these gentle troops, for like all woodland sprites, he was brown. His eyes were brown, his hair was brown, and the tunic reaching barely to his knee was made of cool brown linen. His sleeves were rolled to the shoulder, and his arms and legs, bared ever to the sun, were as brown as bronze itself. A crimson cover-kerchief wound carelessly about his head was the only bit of vivid color on the mountain side.

The sun shone hot, and when Giotto was satisfied that his sheep were all about him, cropping the mosses, he threw himself down in the shade of an ilex-tree, and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his tunic.

Below, he could see his home nestling in a forest of sturdy pines, and far down the valley shone the roofs and spires of the village. Southward appeared a glimpse of the public road that threaded its way through the hills to the mighty city of Florence. Giotto had never visited the place, but his father, who every spring carried wool thither to market, had often told him of the splendid bridges, towers, and palaces to be seen there. Great men lived there too, Giotto's father had said, and one of them, a certain Cimabue,[2] painted such pictures as the world had never seen before. Of this painter and his colors the boy was never tired of hearing; and as he lay on the grass under the ilex-tree, he was longing unspeakably for the time to come when he himself might go to Florence and behold the pictures wrought by Cimabue's hand.

Musing, his eye fell upon a smooth flat stone near by, and with the sight came a desire that caused him to leap from his lounging position, his face alight with purpose.

"Hold still for a little while, Beni!" he said, addressing one of the sheep that nibbled beside the stone; "just be quiet, and I'll play I'm Cimabue, and draw your picture."

Giotto reached for a sharp bit of slate that had chipped from the rock above, and carefully studying the woolly face before him, began to draw upon the flat white stone. Patiently, thoughtfully he worked, glancing now up at his placid companion, now down at his flinty canvas, and coaxing Beni back into position with tempting handfuls of grass whenever the animal turned to trot away.

The sun rose high, and the boy, bending low over his task, forgot that he was warm, forgot that he was tired, even forgot that he was hungry, until he was roused by a hand upon his shoulder.

He sprang up, startled beyond speech by the touch, for he had believed himself alone with the silence and the sheep.

Before him stood a man in the robes of a scholar. His manner was stately, his face pale and serious. He was gazing intently downward, not upon the little Tuscan shepherd, but at Beni's picture upon the stone.

"Boy, where did you learn to draw?" he exclaimed in a voice of strong excitement.

"Learn to draw?" queried Giotto wonderingly. "Nowhere, sir. I haven't learned."

"Do you mean me to believe that you have had no teacher, no one to tell you how to use your pencil?" The speaker searched the boy's face earnestly, almost fiercely, in his desire to know whether the child spoke the truth.

Giotto, innocent of all but the facts of his simple experience, replied sadly, "My father is too poor to pay for lessons."

"Then God Himself has taught you!" declared the stranger, hoarse with agitation. "What is your name?"

"Giotto, sir."

"I am Cimabue, Giotto."

"Not--not Cimabue, the painter of Florence!" ejaculated the lad, falling back a step, unable to believe that he who stood before him was in reality the hero of his boyish dreams.

"Yes," affirmed the man gravely, "and if you will go with me to Florence, child, I will make of you so great a painter that even the name of Cimabue will dwindle before the name of Giotto."

Down upon one bare knee fell the boy, and grasping the master's hand in both of his, he cried,--

"Oh, teach me to paint pictures, great and beautiful pictures, and I will go with you _anywhere_--" He broke off suddenly and rose,--"if father will give me leave," he concluded quietly.

"Oho!" and the artist smiled curiously. "If your father forbade, you would not go with me, even though you might become a great painter?"

"No," said Giotto slowly, casting down his eyes, "even though I might become a great painter."

"Most good, most good," burst out the master exultantly; "a true heart should ever direct a painter's hand, and yours is true indeed, Giotto. Come, let us go to him."

Down the steep they hastened, the boy running on before to point the way, the master following with the look of one who has found a diamond in the dust at his feet; and when they came before Giotto's father with their strange request, and the Tuscan peasant learned what fortune had befallen his child, with the promised teaching and protection of Cimabue the renowned, he bared his head, waved his hand toward Florence, and said to the painter solemnly,--

"Take him, master, and teach him the cunning of your brush, the magic of your colors; tell him the secret of your art and the mystery of your fame, but let him not forget his home, nor his mountains, nor his God."

And what became of the little Tuscan shepherd?

He dwelt with Cimabue in the wonderful city of Florence, studying early, studying late; and by the time he had grown to manhood, he was known to be the greatest painter in all the world. Even his master turned to him for instruction, and picture-lovers journeyed from distant countries to see him and behold his works. He was encouraged by the church, honored by the court, loved by the poor; and in all Christendom no name was more truly revered than that of the painter, Giotto.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Giotto (pronounced _Jótto_).

[2] Cimabue (pronounced _Chím-a-boó-y_).

THE VICTOR

[BACH[3]]

Down the principal street of old Ohrdruf came a procession of boys singing a New Year's anthem. The cantor marched before them, wielding his baton high above his head, so that those following could watch its motions and keep in perfect accord. Behind him marched the singers, two by two. They carried neither book nor music sheet, but every eye was fixed steadily upon the silver-tipped baton, and forty voices rose in harmony so splendid and exact that passers-by stopped, listened, and turned to follow the procession down the street.

The singers wore students' caps and gowns of black, and upon the breast of each shone an embroidered Maltese cross of gold, while below it appeared the crimson letters, S. M. C., which denoted that these were the choir-boys of St. Michael's Church.

Marching into an open square, they formed a compact group about the cantor, and started a fresh and stirring hymn; and presently stepped forth the smallest boy of them all, who paused a pace or two in advance of the others, and took up the strain alone. Clear and sweet rang out his voice upon the frosty air, and listeners by the way turned to one another with nods and smiles of pleasure.

"That's little Bach," announced one.

"They say he is one of the best sopranos at St. Michael's," murmured another.

The lad seemed quite unconscious of the impression he was making, for his manner was as unaffected as though he were singing only to the barren trees. His dark face was not noticeably handsome, but was very earnest; and a certain plaintive note in his voice appealed to the company with singular power, for while the carol falling from his lips was blithe indeed, the eyes of his hearers were wet. Fervently he hymned the New Year's joy, now trilling, trilling, like a rapturous bird at springtime; now softly crooning with the sound of a distant violin.

When his solo ended, a round of applause and many bravos burst from his audience, but the boy stepped quickly back to his former place and finished the choral with the others.

In the crowd of bystanders, a man wearing a coat and cap of rough gray fur smiled broadly when the people applauded little Bach.

"Who is the boy?" inquired a stranger at his elbow.

"He is Sebastian Bach and my brother," announced the fur-coated man. "I am the organist at St. Michael's, and he is one of the leading sopranos."

"You should be proud of the child, for he sings remarkably well."

"I am proud of him--ah, here come the collectors."

The singing was done, and in and out among the bystanders went the boys, passing their wooden plates for pennies in exchange for their serenade.

Nearly every one contributed something, for the people of Ohrdruf were genuine music-lovers, and they knew that the money gathered in this fashion would be divided equally among the boys, to use as they pleased.

The choir broke ranks, having paraded and collected in all the streets of the town, and black-robed boys scurried away in every direction.

"Are you bound for home now, Sebastian?" asked Georg Erdmann, the soloist's marching companion.

"No," replied the other, "I am going to the church to practise."

"Oh, little Bach is going to practise on the organ," exclaimed a woman who had overheard the boy's speech. "Come, sister, let's go in and listen while he plays."

Whereupon the two matrons followed him across the square, and the fur-coated organist, who had lately seemed so gratified at Sebastian's success, scowled fiercely.

"I wish that boy would stick to his singing, and let the organ alone," he muttered. "People tell me every day that if I don't look sharp my little brother will beat me at my own profession. He would make me a nice return for my kindness, if, after I have taken him into my house, fed him, clothed him, and taught him everything that he knows about music, he should try to outstrip me in my own work and shame me before my friends. I won't have it! I won't bear it! I'll admit that the boy is industrious and generally obedient, but I sha'n't let him impose on me, if he _is_ of my own flesh and blood. Why should these people go to hear _him_ practise? Why don't they drop in while _I_ am playing? I am the organist, although people seem to forget the fact. I think I'll step over to the church and see what these people are going mad about."

Into the shadowy edifice he stole, taking up his position behind the two women whose coming had so clearly annoyed him. The peal of the organ was filling the place from floor to dome, but though the women listened with eager attention, the face of Christoff Bach gradually softened.

"He is playing his studies, just as I have taught him. Any boy who is willing to work could do as well. There is nothing remarkable in that performance. I needn't be worried for my position yet awhile."

High in the organ-loft Sebastian practised faithfully, unaware of the presence of kindred or stranger. Page after page he rehearsed, sometimes repeating a difficult passage many times before leaving it.

At length he removed the thick scroll from the rack, and replaced it with a second book of musical manuscript. Then the church re-echoed with sounds of a brilliant fugue.

At the first note Christoff Bach started violently and his mouth fell open with astonishment. He strained forward to be sure that he heard aright, and as the inspiriting theme rolled through the vaulted spaces his eyes grew sinister and his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug savagely into his palms.

"My book," he gasped; "the music that I copied at Arnstadt for my own use! When did he decide to steal it, and undertake to learn my best selections? He can't keep to his own pieces, but must filch out mine during my absence, and fumble them on the organ so that my friends can laugh at me for being outdone by a ten-year-old. The braggart! I'd thrash him soundly if I hadn't promised father that I'd keep my hands off him; but I'll settle this business before I sleep. The upstart!"

Raging inwardly, Christoff Bach stalked from the church; and half an hour later Sebastian quietly took his music bag under his arm and started homeward, conscious that he was very hungry, and that an appetizing New Year's dinner would be ready when he arrived.

Sebastian Bach had lost both parents by death, and for nearly a year he had lived with his brother at Ohrdruf. Seldom does an orphan fall into such kindly hands, for Christoff had generously supplied the boy's needs, and the organist's young wife had cared for Sebastian with all the gentleness of a sister. They sent him to the Lyceum school, and Christoff taught him music at home. At first the elder brother rejoiced over the boy's progress in organ playing, and often rubbed his hands with pride as he predicted for his pupil a future filled with musical successes. But as the months rolled by, and the lad acquired greater knowledge, Christoff became silent.

Had Sebastian been content to dawdle at his practising, or even to work with moderate zest, his experience might have proved no different from that of most music students; but he did nothing by halves, and whether he worked or whether he played, whether he studied grammar or whether he led the games at school, he attacked the enterprise with such force that he usually came off victorious. Bringing this same determination to bear upon his music, he soon left his fellow-students far behind; and practising hour after hour and day after day, with his mind set upon conquering all obstacles as soon as they appeared, he climbed and presently leaped into musicianly skill. Some of his music mates complained that Sebastian learned more in one week than they did in three or four, and their conclusion was wholly correct; but while they grumbled they forgot that he daily spent twice as many hours at the organ as did any one of them, toiling steadily, unfalteringly, until he had acquired a skill far exceeding theirs.

He was such a good comrade, however, that they readily forgave him his musical progress, and in every game and contest on the playground he was eagerly sought as an ally.

Strangely enough, as Sebastian's facility increased, his teacher's brow clouded. The boy could not understand why his brother was more plainly vexed over a perfect lesson than with a faulty one. In the beginning Christoff had cheered Sebastian on, but of late he had grown crabbed and irritable, and the lessons had come to be hours of harsh and sneering criticism. Sebastian did not dream that his brother was jealous, but this was really the case; and Christoff heard the boy's lessons with deepening anxiety and distaste. Never, however, until to-day had the organist admitted, even to himself, that he was afraid of his younger brother, that he dreaded lest he himself should be outstripped by his pupil.

When Sebastian opened the door of the great kitchen, which served the family for dining-room and living-room as well, a savory odor floated out to greet him.

"Hurrah for the goose, Schwester! I hope it is nearly done!" he cried, throwing down his music and hanging his cap and cloak on a peg beside the door.

Mrs. Bach was kneeling before the open fireplace, busily engaged in turning the fowl that browned so temptingly above the blaze; but upon Sebastian's entrance, she rose and approached him with a troubled look.

"Christoff is very angry with you," she whispered, indicating the chamber above with a motion of her hand.

"Angry with me? What for? What's wrong?" exclaimed Sebastian astonished. Before she could reply, a door above was heard to open, and down the wooden stairway at the end of the kitchen rushed Christoff Bach, his face purple, his eyes gleaming.

Seizing Sebastian roughly by the arm, he loudly demanded,--

"What do you mean by stealing my pieces, and trying to learn them behind my back, so that the town can laugh at me when you perform?"

"Steal! Laugh!" echoed Sebastian blankly, unable to comprehend his brother's meaning.

"Don't pretend to be innocent! You can't hoodwink me any longer, my young cub. I'll see that nothing like this occurs again."

"What have I done, Christoff? I don't know what you mean."

"You stole my book that I copied at Arnstadt, taking pains to lay hold of it while I was safe at Gotha."

"I didn't _steal_ it," returned Sebastian horrified.

"You didn't? What do you call your going into my room, taking music without my permission, and practising it while I am out of town?"

"I didn't suppose you would care a bit. I thought if I learned one or two of Pachelbel's fugues, it would be a nice surprise for you when you came back from Gotha."

"A nice surprise! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! I suppose that next time I go from home for a week you will surprise me by pilfering the contents of my money-drawer."

"I _didn't_ steal, I _didn't steal_ the book," protested Sebastian, paling under the sting of his brother's taunt.

"No, no, Christoff, I'm sure the boy meant no harm," interposed Mrs. Bach, touching her husband's arm with a coaxing gesture; "I knew that he borrowed your music book, but I thought also that you would be pleased with his desire to study it."

"Then you, too, are engaged in a plot to ruin me!" shrieked the organist, carried quite beyond himself by the fury of his jealousy; "I'll see whether I am not to be master in my own house. If I can't leave my belongings in my room without fear that my brother will use them expressly to injure me, and that my wife will help him along with the scheme, I'll begin to put them out of reach!"

Snatching up Sebastian's music bag, Christoff, too impatient to loose its fastenings of hook and tape, ripped it apart, seized his roll of manuscript, thrust it into the shelf of a side cupboard, slammed the steel wicker door, locked it grimly, and pocketed the key.

"Let's have dinner," he growled, drawing out his chair noisily, and dropping into his place at table without a glance toward either member of his household.

Mrs. Bach brought on the steaming goose, but everybody was dismally uncomfortable throughout the meal. The organist's rosy-cheeked wife tried to banish the gloom by speaking cheerily upon subjects not akin to music; but Christoff would not reply, and Sebastian could not, so her brave attempts soon failed, and the room was left in silence.

Sebastian's appetite was gone, and as soon as possible he hurried away to his own room, where, deeply dejected, he sat with his face buried in his folded arms.

As the shade of twilight fell across his bowed figure, a quick footstep sounded behind him, and a soft hand was laid upon his head.

"Come, Bübchen," said Mrs. Bach kindly, "don't worry any more. Christoff didn't mean all that he said to-day, and he is sorry that he spoke as he did. See, I have brought you a bowl of bread and milk, for I noticed that you ate no dinner. So now forgive Christoff for what he said when he was angry, and forget all that happened this afternoon. If you act toward him just as usual, he will do the same with you, and we shall all be happy again."

Sebastian eagerly raised his head.

"He won't think me a thief any longer?"

"No, no. Certainly not. After he had cooled down a bit I explained to him what you meant by borrowing his book, and how hard you practised to learn the second fugue against his return; and he said that he believed that you were truly honest, and he was sorry that he had accused you wrongfully."

"And he'll let me use his book hereafter, and learn to play the fugues?" cried Sebastian joyfully.

Mrs. Bach shook her head slowly, her blue eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the boy.

"No," she said, "you cannot use his book any more. He said that he would never scold you again for having taken it last week, but that you must send him your promise never to play out of it again."

"Schwester!" ejaculated the boy in keen distress, "why does he forbid me to use it?"

"I do not know; I do not know."

"I may as well give up my playing altogether, for I have finished my own pieces; Christoff himself said I might leave them now, and I have no others to study. Music is so costly that I cannot buy any for myself,--yes, I may as well forget that I wished to be a great, great musician. Schwester!" The boy's eyes kindled and his cheeks glowed as he continued ardently,--

"I'd like to play so wonderfully by the time I'm a man that whole audiences would sometimes smile and sometimes cry with the sweetness of my music, and little children would drop their toys in the street and stand in my garden listening. But how can I learn without any music to study?"

"Buy a book from the cantor with the money you earned to-day in the parade," suggested Mrs. Bach hopefully.

Sebastian shook his head. "I can't," he explained, "because I gave half of it to Georg Erdmann, so that he might go to Gotha to visit his grandmother, and I paid the rest to a gardener for a present that I brought home yesterday for you."

Throwing open the door of his closet, Sebastian stepped inside, and quickly emerged, bearing in his arms a tiny rose-tree in full bloom.

"I got it for your New Year's gift, and meant to put it on the dinner table, but the trouble with Christoff made me forget all about it."

"Oh, oh, it is a beautiful present, and so fragrant, so fragrant! But, Bübchen," she said in a fondly chiding tone, "you should not have spent your pennies for me; I have so much and you so little."

"I have you, and--and Christoff, and music," returned Sebastian soberly.

"You are truly a man, and surely a baby," said Mrs. Bach, laughing merrily. At sound of a voice from below stairs she grew instantly serious.

"Christoff is calling me, and I must go down. You promise, Sebastian, never to play out of his book again?"

The boy nodded quickly.

"I promise," he said.