Part 5

Mrs. Händel believed that her husband was right at all times, and would not have reversed his decision regarding the musical affair, if she could; but her sister Anna, the plump fair girl who had peeped in upon the last rehearsal of the orchestra in Georg's room, sympathized warmly with the boy, and sought to console him in every way possible.

Anna was barely sixteen, herself scarcely more than a child, blue-eyed, yellow-haired, and a member of the Händel household. Her sweet temper and merry heart had long before won Georg's devotion, and in his present trial no one was admitted to his confidence but this youthful aunt.

Never a word of disrespect or rebellion did Anna utter against Mr. Händel, for she believed implicitly in a child's obedience to his parents; but, being of a musical temperament herself, she entered into the boy's trouble as though she, too, were under the ban. In a certain sense she was, there being no musical instrument in the house, and often she felt stirred by the same impulse that wrought so constantly upon her nephew.

"Never mind, Georg," she would say, "let Hans and Frieda have the mouth organ and the drum. Just you attend to your school, and when your father sees that you mean to study hard and carry out his wishes, he will give them back to you."

But weeks dragged wearily by, and, despite Georg's diligence at school, Mr. Händel did not relent. Frieda and Peter came occasionally, but they had never been Georg's chosen comrades, and he joined their games mechanically, plainly relieved when they took their departure. He longed unceasingly for Otto, who was clever with the trumpet, and for Hans, who was now the possessor of a violin.

He became restless and dissatisfied, and his mother despaired of a child who went about with such a sober face.

He never gave voice to the discontent that surged in his breast, for parental authority was strict in the Händel household, and he would have been sharply punished for outspoken protest. But he did not recover from his disappointment, as his father had so reasonably expected; a slight paleness crept over his plump cheeks, his lively spirit was tinged with melancholy, and from his compressed lips was seldom heard his former ringing laugh.

Every one in the house noticed the change, but all except Anna thought the mood would presently pass away if properly ignored, and no mention was made in his hearing of the subject that lay nearest his heart. The girl, however, realized that Georg was seriously unhappy, and right heartily did she try to divert him from his consuming desire.

One November afternoon, as Georg sat studying before the sitting-room fire with his mother, who had fallen asleep over her knitting, his attention was attracted by a pebble being thrown against the window. Raising his eyes, he beheld his aunt beckoning to him from the garden. Down went the book and out went the boy.

"What is it, Aunt Anna?"

For answer, the girl caught him about the neck and whirled him madly up and down the gravelled path.

"It's a secret, Georg, the best and biggest secret in the whole world. Nobody is to know it but you and me, and it is so lovely that I can't keep from spinning like a top!"

"Wait! Stop! Let loose!" and the boy broke from her clasp, half-strangled by the joyful energy of her arm. "What is the secret? Hurry and tell!"

The girl stood smiling and speechless, unable to find words to frame her tidings. Then glancing about to assure herself that no one was near, she bent quickly and whispered,--

"You remember, Georg, that poor Granny Wegler died last week. Well, her daughter, Mrs. Friesland, who came from Munich to take care of her, called here to-day to tell me--what do you suppose?"

"I don't know."

"She said that she had found a note written by Granny, saying that when she died, she wanted to leave her _clavichord_ to me. Just think of it, Georg, I am to have that dear, beautiful little clavichord that stood in Granny's parlor, and you and I can play on it whenever we please!"

Georg's face went from red to white and back to red again with this stupendous news. Afraid that a shout would serve to recall him to house and book, he sought to express his delight by rolling over and over in the crackling brown grass and pulling up the dead blades by handfuls.

Suddenly, however, he ceased his tumbling about, and sat up, his hair filled with bits of leaves and grass.

"Ought I to play on it, Aunt Anna? Will father care?"

Georg's voice shook with apprehension, but the girl hastened to reassure him.

"When your father made you give away the toys, he never said a word about clavichords. It can't be wrong to play on it when you never have been forbidden."

Anna's idea of obedience was very strict, and in the present case she was wholly sincere, never doubting for an instant that they were about to proceed in the straight path of duty.

"Oh, no," murmured the boy, much relieved, "he didn't mention clavichords, I'm sure."

"Now this is to be a secret of yours and mine, and while the others are gone to the Kirmess to-morrow, I shall have the darling brought over and carried up to the garret."

"Ho, ho! Hurrah for our secret! Hurrah! hurrah!"

When, next day, Georg saw the clavichord borne to the shadowy chamber under the eaves and set up in all its thrilling reality against the warm brick chimney, he pressed both hands over his mouth in the fear that his cries of exultation might reach his father's ears in town.

When the carriers were gone, he approached the instrument timidly, and only after Anna had played several tunes, could he be induced to touch its yellowed keys. But when he had once overcome the awe that filled him at sight of his heart's desire, he clung to it as a thing of life, passing every hour thereafter that he could snatch from his school studies, in the company of this glorious toy. In the beginning, Anna taught him the few rudiments of musical art that lay within her ken, but before many weeks had passed, the pupil turned teacher, so far outstripping his aunt that he was able to give her many helpful suggestions.

That Georg speedily recovered his vaulting spirits, every one remarked; but none guessed the reason. The good surgeon supposed that the boy's regret for his lost playthings and companions was forgotten, and he smiled to see his son as noisy and mischief-loving as before the September episode.

The conspirators were for a time in terror of discovery, but the tones of the clavichord were so thin and muffled that their tinkling would never disturb a drowsy garret mouse, much less penetrate the oaken floors to the chambers under foot. No one but Georg's mother ever visited the attic region, and during this important season, she chanced to be afflicted with acute rheumatic pain that prevented her climbing the steep stair leading to the treasure-house.

The winter was a long one and cold, but Anna and Georg, in their high retreat, were as happy and comfortable as meadow-larks. Trunks, chests, old clothing, and discarded furniture abounded there; bunches of dried herbs were strung to the cross-beams, and cobwebs draped the outlying nooks; but the great chimney emitted a cosy warmth, and the clavichord provided unceasing entertainment.

As time went by, Anna's interest waned considerably, owing to the succeeding preparations of Christmas gifts, March birthday festivities, and spring finery; but when months had rolled away and summer suns were once more ripening the fruit and coloring the flowers, Georg was as intently absorbed in the clavichord as on the day of its first appearance.

One June morning he was starting for a day's visit with some cousins who lived on the most fashionable street in Halle. He was attired for the occasion in his best suit of shining black satin. A deep collar of Mechlin lace, a pair of gleaming silver shoe-buckles, and a silver cord wound around his broad black beaver filled him with satisfaction as he emerged from the house door.

At this juncture Mr. Händel drove into the gravelled plaza lying between stable and street, and Georg observed with surprise that the carriage was festooned with yellow streamers, that Mummer, the staid mare, was groomed until she shone, and tricked out in the yellow harness and tassels reserved for state occasions.

"Where are you going, father?" called Georg.

"To Weisenfels. The duke sent for me this morning. He wishes a report of the state of health in Halle."

"Oh, father, please take me with you! I've never seen the court, and I want to go so much!"

"Not this time, Georg. I have business to attend to, and I cannot look after you."

"You needn't look after me," insisted the lad, laying his hand upon the door of the slowly moving vehicle. "I'll be good and do everything you say, and Christian will take care of me. Please, father, take me!"

"No, no! Some other time I'll take you, but this time I shall be too busy. Get up, Mummer!"

With the touch of the whip, the ancient mare broke into a gentle dogtrot, the only gait more swift than a walk in which she ever indulged.

Georg saw the carriage roll through the gates and take the road toward Weisenfels.

To go to the duke's court was something that he had long desired, and this seemed a wholly favorable time for the undertaking. Had his father's denial been decisive, Georg would have accepted it with the best grace he could muster, and gone on about his visit; but he had seen that the surgeon was merely preoccupied, refusing the petition absently in order that his reflections should not be disturbed, rather than that he cared to forbid the journey.

"If he only knew how much I wanted to go, he would have said 'yes,'" thought Georg. "Father nearly always lets me do things when I ask him. He really didn't hear what I said,--didn't hear inside him, I mean,--or he would have taken me. I'll go! I'll go anyway, and when I get there father will be sure to let me stay."

Fired with this determination, Georg set off, running nimbly behind the carriage, taking pains all the while to keep out of the surgeon's sight.

Although Mummer was not very fleet as horses go, she jogged steadily along, and the boy, following close behind the carriage, began to wonder why she never stopped to catch her breath and cool herself. Up and down hill, over bridges, through strips of forest, went horse, carriage, and boy; and, as the sun blazed down, and the road grew dusty to choking, the last one of the procession became so hot and breathless that he feared he must stop or die.

At twelve o'clock the carriage drew up before a roadside inn; and when the hostler came to take charge of Mummer, Mr. Händel opened the door and stepped out upon the flower-bordered driveway.

The flash of a silver hat-cord seemed to twinkle before his eyes, and seized with a sharp suspicion, the old gentleman strode quickly round to the back of the carriage only to see a pair of small black legs disappearing under the vehicle.

"Georg!" he ejaculated. "Come out, instantly! What are you doing here?"

A dusty, sheepish boy crawled slowly into sight, murmuring confusedly as he rose,--

"I knew you'd let me go if you thought about it, so I came--"

Dizzy from heat and fatigue, Georg clutched the wheel to keep himself from falling; and the surgeon took him anxiously by the shoulder.

"You foolish boy! What possessed you to undertake such a tramp! I didn't care particularly if you came. Here, let's go into the inn and get dinner! You will feel better when you have had warm food and time to rest. I'll send a messenger back to your mother, so she will know that you have come with me. You foolish child!"

The evening was spent in the ducal palace, whither the surgeon had been summoned with his professional report; and the novel sights and sounds proved so exciting to Georg that long after he was tucked into his cot he lay wide awake, thinking of all that he had enjoyed. When sleep did finally overtake him, he dreamed of the gayly uniformed guards stationed inside and outside the palace, of the massive corridors, rich with works of art, and the vast assembly room where the duke had held an audience, while he himself had looked down from an upper gallery upon the throngs of men and women, the flowers, the banners, and listened to the music wafted from the musicians' balcony opposite.

Christian Händel, a nephew of Georg's, although more than twice the boy's age, was a member of the duke's train, and he had piloted the small visitor about the place, pointing out to him the things that would prove of especial interest. He had likewise introduced his young relative to the musicians, and they, attracted by the boy's straightforward manner and intelligent replies, cordially received him among them.

Morning came before Georg realized that he had been asleep, and with it, Christian, who shook him awake.

"Dress yourself quickly, Georg, for the duke goes to church this morning, and when he attends, nobody else in the house is permitted to stay away."

Christian conducted Georg to the organ-loft, that he might better see the sumptuous chapel and the duke with his richly apparelled retinue passing in for service.

The white-haired organist, whom Georg had met the night before, greeted him pleasantly; and Christian left him in care of the aged musician, while he hurried down to take his place among the crimson-clad retainers.

When, an hour later, the duke sat in his apartment at breakfast, the sound of the organ fell upon his ear. Himself a passionate lover of music, he could readily distinguish the touch of the various players at court; but this soft and unfamiliar strain caused him to bend forward with a puzzled look. Gradually the music grew more distinct, and soon the palace resounded with a strong and stately melody.

"Who is at the organ?" the duke demanded suddenly, glancing inquiringly at one of his attendants.

"It is the little Händel from Halle, your grace," replied Christian.

"A relative of yours?"

The young man blushed, for he was unwilling to confess to an eight-year-old uncle; but he told the truth and satisfied his pride by explaining distinctly,--

"He is my grandfather's youngest son."

"Bring him hither, and his father also."

Christian disappeared, and presently Mr. Händel entered by one door, just before his son and grandson appeared on the threshold of the other.

The duke motioned the old gentleman to a distant corner, and beckoned the boy to approach.

Georg, bereft of Christian's support, and unaware of his father's presence, became so frightened that his breath almost failed as he advanced, and he wondered wildly if the trembling of his knees could be detected by the company. He carried his black beaver on his arm, as he had seen the courtiers do, and when he came within a few feet of the ducal chair, he bowed with a curious little bob that set the whole room laughing.

"Silence!" commanded the duke sternly; then turning, he kindly asked his small auditor what his name might be.

"Georg Friedrich Händel," replied the boy tremulously, but with the sound of his own voice his terror dissolved, and he stood before the Duke of Sächse with respectful composure.

"When did you learn to play the organ, my manikin?"

"This morning, your grace."

"This morning!" echoed the duke, astounded. "Can it be true that you have never tried the instrument before to-day?"

"Well, you see, we have no organ at home," returned Georg apologetically.

The duke studied him for a moment, as though seeking for traces of falsehood, but Georg's utter simplicity was strangely convincing.

Quietly the duke put his next question.

"Upon what instruments _have_ you played before?"

"Last winter and this summer I have played every day on my aunt's clavichord, your grace."

Here a loud gasp was heard from a distant corner, but the duke frowned for silence.

"And what before the clavichord, my boy?"

"A mouth organ, a tin trumpet, a fife, a drum, and a dinner-bell, your grace."

A dozen irrepressible titters burst from the attendants, but the duke grew very grave.

"And that is all, lad?"

"All, your grace."

"No lessons?"

"No--except when Aunt Anna and I taught each other. But you mustn't tell father about the clavichord, your grace, because it is a secret, and father told me to give away my own instruments, and Aunt Anna wouldn't like to give away her clavichord, so please don't let him know about it."

"I am afraid that he knows already," said the duke, smiling; and at his signal, the Halle surgeon emerged from his corner, pale with amazement.

Georg was so confounded at sight of his parent, that, unable to meet his expected look of condemnation, he buried his face in the folds of the duke's breakfast cloth.

"I am sorry, Mr. Händel," said the duke, "that I betrayed the child's secret. Had I known there was anything confidential in the interview, I should have held it in private. But now that the mischief is done, will you tell me why you oppose the musical study that Georg desires?"

"Merely, your grace, because he neglects his school for music when I allow it. I am a music-lover myself, but I wish to educate my son for a jurist, and I cannot have the plan interfered with, even by music."

"Let me suggest, then, that you allow the music lessons and compel the school lessons, taking away the instrument if he fails at school; and when he is old enough and wise enough to be a jurist, he will be capable of choosing for himself the work of his life."

"I thank you, your grace! The advice is fair and judicious, and I shall be happy to act upon it. If I have made a mistake, it was out of concern for the child's best good, your grace."

"An error on the safe side, Mr. Händel. A-ha, my small minstrel, do you hear how your father and I have arranged matters?"

Georg had not fully understood the conversation, but he gathered that the duke had somehow persuaded the surgeon to allow his little son to play upon the clavichord as much as he wished, if he were faithful at school.

"Does the prospect please you?" asked the duke, his eyes twinkling.

"It does, it does!" cried Georg, his face radiant. "I am obliged to your grace, and I am sure that you are almost as good and fine a person as my Aunt Anna."

One night, in London, a concert was given at a certain music-hall, and the money earned from the sale of tickets was to be used to relieve the poor children of the city.

Such a throng of people crowded into the hall that every seat was promptly filled, and the door-keepers were obliged to turn away many who desired to attend.

King George II. appeared in the royal box, and when he had been respectfully saluted by the people, the hall grew still. The stage was filled with singers, and soon the room resounded with the thrilling notes of a new piece called "The Messiah."

The people had expected to be only pleasantly entertained, but as one strain followed another, they bent forward entranced. Such harmonies they had never listened to before, and the people in the hall were moved to the point of tears. At length the sounds grew so impressive that the king could contain himself no longer, but leaped to his feet. Instantly the people, following the lead of their sovereign, rose impulsively in their places, and so standing, they waited until the glorious chorus was ended.

Throughout the performance, a fine old gentleman sat quietly on the stage near the singers, listening intently. His face wore a look of noble earnestness, and he did not smile until the last note died away, and from every part of the house voices cried,--

"Händel! Händel!"

For a moment he did not respond to their calls, but as the hall fell into a tumult, and the shout increased to a deafening roar, the white-haired gentleman rose and quietly bowed.

This did not satisfy the crowd, and from above, below, from right and from left, excited men and women demanded that he should play for them.

The old gentleman bowed again, but finding that the audience would not depart until he had yielded to its desire, he turned toward the massive organ at his right.

Before he had taken a step, one of the singers hurried to his side, laid a hand upon his arm, and conducted him slowly to the organ-bench. Then it was that any stranger would have learned what all London understood,--that the courtly old gentleman was blind.

At the first rich chord from the organ, a hush fell upon the room, and when the silvery-haired musician finished, and rose to his feet with another stately bow, the people silently filed out, too stirred by the grandeur of his music for ordinary speech.

That night, in the city of London, hundreds of suffering and friendless children were gathered into places of refuge, and were fed, warmed, and clothed with the money earned by the genius and loving-kindness of Georg Friedrich Händel.

SIX HUNDRED PLUS ONE

[COLERIDGE]

Up to London, one May morning, came Samuel Coleridge, and as the coach rattled over the pavements, and the roar and tumult of the city filled his ears, the boy clutched his uncle's arm with delight. Never before in all his ten years had he journeyed beyond the quaint country village where he was born, and the dun clouds of city smoke caused him to look expectantly about for rain.

His uncle laughed and patted the boy's arm good-naturedly. "Never mind," he said; "these crowded streets will soon become as homelike to you as one of your Devonshire fields."

Mr. Bowdon was right, and at the end of a week Samuel could go alone about the quarter of the city where his uncle resided, and his ears grew so accustomed to the mighty din that he quite forgot there was any noise to hear.

Samuel was the youngest of thirteen children. His mother was a widow, and gradually she had become too poor to provide food and shelter for so great a family. To be sure, the oldest brothers and sisters aided her as best they could, but times were hard, money was scarce at best, and when Uncle Bowdon proposed to undertake the care and education of Samuel his offer was thankfully accepted. It was planned that the boy should visit at his uncle's house for several weeks, and that later in the summer he should enter the famous charity school known as Christ's Hospital. Many families sought to send their sons to this school, but only those pupils were admitted who were too poor to pay for their education.

Samuel was tall for his age, and very dark. He was attractive without being handsome, for his striking look of intelligence, his slight, straight figure and ready laughter, earned for him the frankest approval of friends and strangers too.

Mr. Bowdon was exceedingly proud of him, and often took him to his club, that his friends might become acquainted with his young guest. Also Mr. Bowdon planned frequent excursions about the city, so that his nephew might enjoy the notable sights of London. These were indeed gala days for Samuel, and when the time came for him to go to school he could scarcely believe that ten weeks had flown since he had come up by the coach from his country home. It is doubtful whether Mr. Bowdon would have been willing to part with the lad even after so long a visit, but his business just at this time compelled him to take a long journey to the East Indies, and he desired to see the boy safely established before departing from London.