Chapter 15

_A large room in the castle at Retiro, with one door in the centre and one at each side. Everywhere signs of destruction. In the foreground, at the left, an overturned toilet table with scattered utensils. In the background, at the left, another overturned table; above it a picture half torn from its frame. In the centre of the room, a chair. It is dark. From without, behind the middle wall, the sound of voices, footsteps, and the clatter of weapons, finally, from without--"It is enough! The signal sounds! To horse!" Sounds of voices and footsteps die out. Pause. Then Isaac comes from the door at the right, dragging along a carpet, which is pulled over his head, and which he later drops._

ISAAC. Are they then gone?--I hear no sound.

(_Stepping back._)

But yes-- No, no, 'tis naught! When they, a robber band, Searched all the castle through, I hid myself, And on the ground all doubled up I lay. This cover here was roof and shield alike. But whither now? Long since I hid full well Here in the garden what I saved and gained; I'll fetch it later when this noise is past.-- Where is the door? How shall I save my soul?

ESTHER _enters from the door at the left._

ISAAC. Who's there? Woe's me!

ESTHER. Is't thou?

ISAAC. Is't thou, then, Rachel?

ESTHER. What mean'st thou? Rachel? Only Esther, I!

ISAAC. Only, thou say'st? Thou art my only child-- Only, because the best.

ESTHER. Nay, rather say, The best because the only. Aged man, Dost thou, then, nothing know of this attack, Nor upon whom they meant to vent their wrath?

ISAAC. I do not know, nor do I wish to know, For has not Rachel flown, to safety gone? Oh, she is clever, she!--God of my fathers! Why dost thou try me--me, a poor old man, And speak to me from out my children's mouths? But I believe it not! 'Tis false! No, no!

[_He sinks down beside the chair in the centre, leaning his head against it._]

ESTHER. So then be strong through coward fearsomeness. Yet call I others what I was myself. For when their coming roused me from my sleep, And I went hurrying to my sister's aid, Into the last, remote, and inmost room, One of them seizes me with powerful hand, And hurls me to the ground. And coward, I, I fall a-swooning, when I should have stood And offered up my life to save my sister, Or, at the very least, have died with her! When I awoke, the deed was done, and vain My wild attempt to bring her back to life. Then could I weep, then could I tear my hair; That is, indeed, true cowardice, a woman's.

ISAAC. They tell me this and that. But 'tis not true!

ESTHER. Lend me thy chair to sit upon, old man!

[_She pulls the chair forward._]

My limbs grow weak and tremble under me. Here will I sit and here will I keep watch.

[_She sits down._]

Mayhap that one will think it worth his while To burn the stubble, now the harvest's o'er, And will return and kill what still is left.

ISAAC (_from the floor_).

Not me! Not me!--Some one is coming. Hark! No, many come!--Save me--I flee to thee!

[_He runs to her chair, and cowers on the floor._]

ESTHER. I like a mother will protect thee now, The second childhood of the gray old man. And, if death comes, then childless shalt thou die-- I following Rachel in advance of thee!

_The KING appears at the centre door, with his page, who carries a torch._

KING. Shall I go farther, or content myself With what I know, though still it is unseen? This castle all a-wreck, laid bare and waste, Shrieking from ev'ry corner cries to me It is too late, the horror has been done! And thou the blame must bear, cursed dallier, If not, forsooth, a party to the deed! But no, thou weepst, and tears no lies can tell. Behold, I also weep, I weep for rage, From hot and unslaked passion for revenge! Come, here's a ring to set your torch within. Go to the town, assemble all the folk, And bid them straight unto this castle come With arms, as chance may put within their reach; And I, when morning comes, with written word, Will bring the people here, at my command-- Children of toil and hard endeavor, they, As an avenger at their head I'll go, And break down all the strongholds of the great, Who, half as servants, half again as lords, Serve but themselves and overrule their master. Ruler and ruled, thus shall it be, and I, Avenging, will wipe out that hybrid throng, So proud of blood, or flowing in their veins, Or dripping on their swords from others' wounds. Thy light here leave and go! I'll stay alone And hatch the progeny of my revenge.

[_The servant puts his torch into the ring beside the door and withdraws._]

KING (_taking a step forward_).

What moves there? Can it be there still is life? Give answer!

ISAAC. Gracious Lord ill-doer, O, O, spare us, good assassin!

KING. You, old man? Remind me not that Rachel was your child; It would deface her image in my soul. And thou--art thou not Esther?

ESTHER. Sire, I am.

KING. And is it done?

ESTHER. It is.

KING. I knew it well, Since I the castle entered. So, no plaints! For know, the cup is full; an added drop Would overflow, make weak the poisonous draught. While she still lived I was resolved to leave her, Now dead, she ne'er shall leave my side again; And this her picture, here upon my breast, Will 'grave its image there, strike root within-- For was not mine the hand that murdered her? Had she not come to me, she still would play, A happy child, a joy to look upon. Perhaps--but no, not that! No, no, I say! No other man should ever touch her hand, No other lips approach her rosy mouth, No shameless arm--she to the King belonged, Though now unseen, she still would be my own. To royal might belongs such might of charms!

ISAAC. Speaks he of Rachel?

ESTHER. Of thy daughter, yes. Though grief increase the value of the loss, Yet must I say: Too high you rate her worth.

KING. Think'st thou? I tell thee, naught but shadows we-- I, thou, and others of the common crowd; For if thou'rt good, why then, thou'rt learned it so; If I am honest, I but saw naught else; Those others, if they murder,--as they do-- Well, so their fathers did, came time and need! The world is but one great reëchoing, And all its harvest is but seed from seed. But she was truth itself, ev'n though deformed, And all she did proceeded from herself, A-sudden, unexpected, and unlearned. Since her I saw I felt myself alive, And to the dreary sameness of my life 'Twas only she gave character and form. They tell that in Arab desert wastes The wand'rer, long tormented in the sands, Long tortured with the sun's relentless glare, Some time may find a blooming island's green, Surrounded by the surge of arid waves; There flowers bloom, there trees bestow their shade, The breath of herbs mounts soothing in the breeze And forms a second heav'n, arched 'neath the first. Forsooth the serpent coils among the brush; A famished beast, tormented by like thirst, Perchance comes, too, to slake it at this spring; Yet, tired and worn, the wand'rer doth rejoice, Sucks in with greedy lips the cooling draught, And sinks down in the rank luxuriant growth. Luxuriant growth! In faith! I'll see her now-- See once again that proud and beauteous form, That mouth which drew in breath and breathed out life, And which, now silenced ever, evermore, Accuses me of guarding her so ill.

ESTHER. Go not, O Sire! Now that the deed is done, Let it be done. The mourning be for us! Estrange thyself not from thy people, Sire.

KING. Think'st thou? The King I am--thou know'st full well. She suffered outrage, but myself no less. Justice, and punishment of ev'ry wrong I swore upon my coronation day, And I will keep my oath until the death. To do this, I must make me strong and hard, For to my anger they will sure oppose All that the human breast holds high and dear-- Mem'ries from out my boyhood's early days, My manhood's first sweet taste of woman's love, Friendship and gratitude and mercy, too; My whole life, roughly bundled into one, Will stand, as 'twere against me, fully armed, And challenge me to combat with myself. I, therefore, from myself must first take leave. Her image, as I see it here and there, On every wall, in this and every corner Shows her to me but in her early bloom, With all her weaknesses, with all her charm. I'll see her now, mistreated, wounded, torn; Will lose myself in horror at the sight, Compare each bloody mark upon her form With this, her image, here upon my breast. And learn to deal with monsters, like to like.

(_As ESTHER has risen._)

Speak not a word to me! I will! This torch Shall, like myself, inflamed, illume the way; Gleaming, because destructive and destroyed. She is in yonder last and inmost room, Where I so oft--

ESTHER. She was, and there remains.

KING (_has seized the torch_).

Methinks 'tis blood I see upon my way. It is the way to blood. O fearful night!

[_He goes out at the side door to the left._]

ISAAC. We're in the dark.

ESTHER. Yes, dark is round about, And round about the horror's horrid night. But daylight comes apace. So let me try If I can thither bear my weary limbs.

[_She goes to the window, and draws the curtain._]

The day already dawns, its pallid gleam Shudders to see the terrors wrought this night-- The difference 'twixt yesterday and now.

(_Pointing to the scattered jewels on the floor._)

There, there it lies, our fortune's scattered ruin-- The tawdry baubles, for the sake of which We, we--not he who takes the blame--but we A sister sacrificed, thy foolish child! Yea, all that comes is right. Whoe'er complains, Accuses his own folly and himself.

ISAAC (_who has seated himself on the chair_).

Here will I sit. Now that the King is here I fear them not, nor all that yet may come.

_The centre door opens. Enter MANRIQUE, and GARCERAN, behind them the QUEEN, leading her child by the hand, and other nobles._

MANRIQUE. Come, enter here, arrange yourselves the while. We have offended 'gainst his Majesty, Seeking the good, but not within the law. We will not try now to evade the law.

ESTHER (_on the other side, raising the overturned table with a quick movement_).

Order thyself, disorder! Lest they think That we are terrified, or cowards prove.

QUEEN. Here are those others, here.

MANRIQUE. Nay, let them be! What mayhap threatens us, struck them ere now. I beg you, stand you here, in rank and file.

QUEEN. Let me come first, I am the guiltiest!

MANRIQUE. Not so. O Queen. Thou spak'st the word, 'tis true, But when it came to action thou didst quake, Oppose the deed, and mercy urge instead, Although in vain; for need became our law. Nor would I wish the King's first burst of rage To strike the mighty heads we most revere As being next to him, the Kingdom's hope. I did the deed, not with this hand, forsooth-- With counsel, and with pity, deep and dread! The first place, then, is mine. And thou, my son-- Hast thou the heart to answer like a man For that which at the least thou hinder'dst not, So that thy earnest wish to make amends And thy return have tangled thee in guilt?

GARCERAN. Behold me ready! To your side I come! And may the King's first fury fall on me!

ESTHER (_calling across_).

You there, although all murderers alike, Deserving every punishment and death-- Enough of mischief is already done, Nor would I wish the horrors yet increased! Within, beside my sister, is the King; Enraged before he went, the sight of her Will but inflame his passionate ire anew. I pity, too, that woman and her child, Half innocent, half guilty--only half. So go while yet there's time, and do not meet Th' avenger still too hot to act as judge.

MANRIQUE. Woman, we're Christians!

ESTHER. You have shown you are. Commend me to the Jewess, O my God!

MANRIQUE. Prepared as Christians, too, to expiate In meek submission all of our misdeeds. Lay off your swords. Here now is first my own! To be in armor augurs of defense. Our very number makes submission less. Divide we up the guilt each bears entire.

[_All have laid their swords on the floor before _MANRIQUE.]

So let us wait. Or rather, let one go To urge upon the King most speedily, The country's need demands, this way or that, That he compose himself; and though it were Repenting a rash deed against ourselves! Go thou, my son!

GARCERAN (_turning around after having taken several steps_).

Behold, the King himself!

[_The_ KING _rushes out of the apartment at the side. After taking a few steps, he turns about and stares fixedly at the door._]

QUEEN. O God in Heaven!

MANRIQUE. Queen, I pray be calm!

[_The_ KING _goes toward the front. He stops, with arms folded, before old_ ISAAC, _who lies back as if asleep, in the armchair. Then he goes forward._]

ESTHER (_to her father_).

Behold thy foes are trembling! Art thou glad? Not I. For Rachel wakes not from the dead.

[_The_ KING, _in the front, gazes at his hands, and rubs them, as though washing them, one over the other. Then the same motion over his body. At last he feels his throat, moving his hands around it. In this last position, with his hands at his throat, he remains motionless, staring fixedly before him._]

MANRIQUE. Most noble Prince and King. Most gracious Sire!

KING (_starting violently_).

Ye here? 'Tis good ye come! I sought for you-- And all of you. Ye spare me further search.

[_He steps before them, measuring them with angry glances._]

MANRIQUE (_pointing to the weapons lying on the floor_).

We have disarmed ourselves, laid down our swords.

KING. I see the swords. Come ye to slay me, then? I pray, complete your work. Here is my breast!

[_He opens his robe._]

QUEEN. He has't no more!

KING. How mean you, lady fair?

QUEEN. Gone is the evil picture from his neck.

KING. I'll fetch it, then.

[_He takes a few steps toward the door at the side, and then stands still._]

QUEEN. O God, this madness still!

MANRIQUE. We know full well, how much we, Sire, have erred-- Most greatly, that we did not leave to thee And thine own honor thy return to self! But, Sire, the time more pressing was than we. The country trembled, and at all frontiers The foemen challenged us to ward our land.

KING. And foemen must be punished--is't not so? Ye warn me rightly; I am in their midst. Ho, Garceran!

GARCERAN. Thou meanest me, O Sire?

KING. Yea, I mean thee! Though me thou hast betrayed, Thou wert my friend. Come to me then, I say, And tell me what thou think'st of her within! Her--whom thou help'dst to slay--of that anon. What thoughtst thou of her while she still did live?

GARCERAN. O Sire, I thought her fair.

KING. What more was she?

GARCERAN. But wanton, too, and light, with evil wiles.

KING. And that thou hidst from me while still was time?

GARCERAN. I said it, Sire!

KING. And I believed it not? How came that? Pray, say on!

GARCERAN. My Sire--the Queen, She thinks 'twas magic.

KING. Superstition, bah! Which fools itself with idle make-believe.

GARCERAN. In part, again, it was but natural.

KING. That only which is right is natural. And was I not a king, both just and mild-- The people's idol and the nobles', too? Not empty-minded, no, and, sure, not blind! I say, she was not fair!

GARCERAN. How meanest, Sire?

KING. An evil line on cheek and chin and mouth. A lurking something in that fiery glance Envenom'd and disfigured all her charm. But erst I've gazed upon it and compared. When there I entered in to fire my rage, Half fearsome of the mounting of my ire, It happened otherwise than I had thought. Instead of wanton pictures from the past, Before my eyes came people, wife, and child. With that her face seemed to distort itself, The arms to rise, to grasp me, and to hold. I cast her likeness from me in the tomb And now am here, and shudder, as thou seest.

But go thou now! For, hast thou not betrayed me? Almost I rue that I must punish you. Go thither to thy father and those others-- Make no distinction, ye are guilty, all.

MANRIQUE (_with a strong voice_).

And thou?

KING (_after a pause_).

The man is right; I'm guilty, too. But what is my poor land, and what the world, If none are pure, if malefactors all! Nay, here's my son. Step thou within our midst! Thou shalt be guardian spirit of this land; Perhaps a higher judge may then forgive. Come, Doña Clara, lead him by the hand! Benignant fortune hath vouchsafed to thee In native freedom to pursue thy course Until this hour; thou, then, dost well deserve To guide the steps of innocence to us. But hold! Here is the mother. What she did, She did it for her child. She is forgiv'n!

[_As the_ QUEEN _steps forward and bends her knee._]

Madonna, wouldst thou punish me? Wouldst show The attitude most seeming me toward thee? Castilians all, behold! Here is your King, And here is she, the regent in his stead! I am a mere lieutenant for my son. For as the pilgrims, wearing, all, the cross For penance journey to Jerusalem, So will I, conscious of my grievous stain, Lead you against these foes of other faith Who at the bound'ry line, from Africa, My people threaten and my peaceful land. If I return, and victor, with God's grace, Then shall ye say if I am worthy still To guard the law offended by myself. This punishment be _yours_ as well as mine, For all of you shall follow me, and first, Into the thickest squadrons of the foe. And he who falls does penance for us all. Thus do I punish you and me! My son Here place upon a shield, like to a throne, For he today is King of this our land. So banded, then, let's go before the folk.

[_A shield has been brought._]

You women, each do give the child a hand. Slipp'ry his first throne, and the second too! Thou, Garceran, do thou stay at my side, For equal wantonness we must atone-- So let us fight as though our strength were one. And hast thou purged thyself of guilt, as I, Perhaps that quiet, chaste, and modest maid Will hold thee not unworthy of her hand! Thou shalt improve him, Doña Clara, but Let not thy virtue win his mere respect, But lend it charm, as well. That shields from much.

[_Trumpets in the distance._]

Hear yet They call us. Those whom I did bid To help against you, they are ready all To help against the common enemy, The dreaded Moor who threats our boundaries, And whom I will send back with shame and wounds Into the and desert he calls home, So that our native land be free from ill, Well-guarded from within and from without. On, on! Away! God grant, to victory!

[_The procession has already formed. First, some vassals, then the shield with the child, whom the women hold by both hands, then the rest of the men. Lastly, the _KING,_ leaning in a trustful manner on _GARCERAN.]

ESTHER (_turning to her father_).

Seest thou, they are already glad and gay; Already plan for future marriages! They are the great ones, for th' atonement feast They've slain as sacrifice a little one, And give each other now their bloody hands.

[_Stepping to the centre._]

But this I say to thee, thou haughty King, Go, go, in all thy grand forgetfulness! Thou deem'st thou'rt free now from my sister's power, Because the prick of its impression's dulled, And thou didst from thee cast what once enticed. But in the battle, when thy wavering ranks Are shaken by thy en'mies' greater might, And but a pure, and strong, and guiltless heart Is equal to the danger and its threat; When thou dost gaze upon deaf heav'n above, Then will the victim, sacrificed to thee, Appear before thy quailing, trembling soul-- Not in luxuriant fairness that enticed, But changed, distorted, as she pleased thee not-- Then, pentinent, perchance, thou'lt beat thy breast, And think upon the Jewess of Toledo!

(_Seizing her father by the shoulder._)

Come, father, come! A task awaits us there.

[_Pointing to the side door._]

ISAAC (_as though waking from sleep_). But first I'll seek my gold!

ESTHER. Think'st still of that In sight of all this misery and woe! Then I unsay the curse which I have spoke, Then thou art guilty, too, and I--and she! We stand like them within the sinners' row; Pardon we, then, that God may pardon us!

[_With arms outstretched toward the side door._]

CURTAIN

THE POOR MUSICIAN (1848) BY FRANZ GRILLPARZER

TRANSLATED BY ALFRED REMY, A.M.

Professor of Modern Languages, Brooklyn Commercial High School

In Vienna the Sunday after the full moon in the month of July of every year is, together with the following day, a real festival of the people, if ever a festival deserved the name. The people themselves attend and arrange it; and if representatives of the upper classes appear on this occasion, they may do so only in their capacity as members of the populace. There is no possibility of class discrimination; at least there was none some years ago.

On this day the Brigittenau,[62] which with the Augarten, the Leopoldstadt and the Prater, forms one uninterrupted popular pleasure-ground, celebrates its kermis. The working people reckon their good times from one St. Bridget's kermis to the next. Anticipated with eager expectation, the Saturnalian festival at last arrives. Then there is great excitement in the good-natured, quiet town. A surging crowd fills the streets. There is the clatter of footsteps and the buzz of conversation, above which rises now and then some loud exclamation. All class distinctions have disappeared; civilian and soldier share in the commotion. At the gates of the city the crowd increases. Gained, lost, and regained, the exit is forced at last. But the bridge across the Danube presents new difficulties. Victorious here also, two streams finally roll along: the old river Danube and the swollen tide of people crossing each other, one below, the other above, the former following its old bed, the latter, freed from the narrow confines of the bridge, resembling a wide, turbulent lake, overflowing and inundating everything. A stranger might consider the symptoms alarming. But it is a riot of joy, a revelry of pleasure.

Even in the space between the city and the bridge wicker-carriages are lined up for the real celebrants of this festival, the children of servitude and toil. Although overloaded, these carriages race at a gallop through the mass of humanity, which in the nick of time opens a passage for them and immediately closes in again behind them. No one is alarmed, no one is injured, for in Vienna a silent agreement exists between vehicles and people, the former promising not to run anybody over, even when going at full speed; the latter resolving not to be run over, even though neglecting all precaution.

Every second the distance between the carriages diminishes. Occasionally more fashionable equipages mingle in the oft-interrupted procession. The carriages no longer dash along. Finally, about five or six hours before dark, the individual horses and carriages condense into a compact line, which, arresting itself and arrested by new vehicles from every side street, obviously belies the truth of the old proverb: "It is better to ride in a poor carriage than to go on foot." Stared at, pitied, mocked, the richly dressed ladies sit in their carriages, which are apparently standing still. Unaccustomed to constant stopping, the black Holstein steed rears, as if intending to jump straight up over the wicker-carriage blocking its way, a thing the screaming women and children in the plebeian vehicle evidently seem to fear. The cabby, so accustomed to rapid driving and now balked for the first time, angrily counts up the loss he suffers in being obliged to spend three hours traversing a distance which under ordinary conditions he could cover in five minutes. Quarreling and shouting are heard, insults pass back and forth between the drivers, and now and then blows with the whip are exchanged.

Finally, since in this world all standing still, however persistent, is after all merely an imperceptible advancing, a ray of hope appears even in this _status quo_. The first trees of the Augarten and the Brigittenau come into view. The country! The country! All troubles are forgotten. Those who have come in vehicles alight and mingle with the pedestrians; strains of distant dance-music are wafted across the intervening space and are answered by the joyous shouts of the new arrivals. And thus it goes on and on, until at last the broad haven of pleasure opens up and grove and meadow, music and dancing, drinking and eating, magic lantern shows and tight-rope dancing, illumination and fireworks, combine to produce a _pays de cocagne_, an El Dorado, a veritable paradise, which fortunately or unfortunately--take it as you will--lasts only this day and the next, to vanish like the dream of a summer night, remaining only as a memory, or, possibly, as a hope.

I never miss this festival if I can help it. To me, as a passionate lover of mankind, especially of the common people, and more especially so when, united into a mass, the individuals forget for a time their own private ends and consider themselves part of a whole, in which there is, after all, the spirit of divinity, nay, God Himself--to me every popular festival is a real soul-festival, a pilgrimage, an act of devotion. Even in my capacity as dramatic poet, I always find the spontaneous outburst of an overcrowded theatre ten times more interesting, even more instructive, than the sophisticated judgment of some literary matador, who is crippled in body and soul and swollen up, spider-like, with the blood of authors whom he has sucked dry. As from a huge open volume of Plutarch, which has escaped from the covers of the printed page, I read the biographies of these obscure beings in their merry or secretly troubled faces, in their elastic or weary step, in the attitude shown by members of the same family toward one another, in detached, half involuntary remarks. And, indeed, one can not understand famous men unless one has sympathized with the obscure! From the quarrels of drunken pushcart-men to the discords of the sons of the gods there runs an invisible, yet unbroken, thread, just as the young servant-girl, who, half against her will, follows her insistent lover away from the crowd of dancers, may be an embryo Juliet, Dido, or Medea.

Two years ago, as usual, I had mingled as a pedestrian with the pleasure-seeking visitors of the kermis. The chief difficulties of the trip had been overcome, and I found myself at the end of the Augarten with the longed-for Brigittenau lying directly before me. Only one more difficulty remained to be overcome. A narrow causeway running between impenetrable hedges forms the only connection between the two pleasure resorts, the joint boundary of which is indicated by a wooden trellised gate in the centre. On ordinary days and for ordinary pedestrians this connecting passage affords more than ample space. But on kermis-day its width, even if quadrupled, would still be too narrow for the endless crowd which, in surging forward impetuously, is jostled by those bound in the opposite direction and manages to get along only by reason of the general good nature displayed by the merry-makers.

I was drifting with the current and found myself in the centre of the causeway upon classical ground, although I was constantly obliged to stand still, turn aside, and wait. Thus I had abundant time for observing what was going on at the sides of the road. In order that the pleasure-seeking multitude might not lack a foretaste of the happiness in store for them, several musicians had taken up their positions on the left-hand slope of the raised causeway. Probably fearing the intense competition, these musicians intended to garner at the propylaea the first fruits of the liberality which had here not yet spent itself. There were a girl harpist with repulsive, staring eyes; an old invalid with a wooden leg, who, on a dreadful, evidently home-made instrument, half dulcimer, half barrel-organ, was endeavoring by means of analogy to arouse the pity of the public for his painful injury; a lame, deformed boy, forming with his violin one single, indistinguishable mass, was playing endless waltzes with all the hectic violence of his misshapen breast; and finally an old man, easily seventy years of age, in a threadbare but clean woolen overcoat, who wore a smiling, self-satisfied expression. This old man attracted my entire attention. He stood there bareheaded and baldheaded, his hat as a collection-box before him on the ground, after the manner of these people. He was belaboring an old, much-cracked violin, beating time not only by raising and lowering his foot, but also by a corresponding movement of his entire bent body. But all his efforts to bring uniformity into his performance were fruitless, for what he was playing seemed to be an incoherent succession of tones without time or melody. Yet he was completely absorbed in his work; his lips quivered, and his eyes were fixed upon the sheet of music before him, for he actually had notes! While all the other musicians, whose playing pleased the crowd infinitely better, were relying on their memories, the old man had placed before him in the midst of the surging crowd a small, easily portable music-stand, with dirty, tattered notes, which probably contained in perfect order what he was playing so incoherently. It was precisely the novelty of this equipment that had attracted my attention to him, just as it excited the merriment of the passing throng, who jeered him and left the hat of the old man empty, while the rest of the orchestra pocketed whole copper mines. In order to observe this odd character at my leisure, I had stepped, at some distance from him, upon the slope at the side of the causeway. For a while he continued playing. Finally he stopped, and, as if recovering himself after a long spell of absent-mindedness, he gazed at the firmament, which already began to show traces of approaching evening. Then he looked down into his hat, found it empty, put it on with undisturbed cheerfulness, and placed his bow between the strings. "_Sunt certi denique fines_" (there is a limit to everything), he said, took his music-stand, and, as though homeward bound, fought his way with difficulty through the crowd streaming in the opposite direction toward the festival.

The whole personality of the old man was specially calculated to whet my anthropological appetite to the utmost--his poorly clad, yet noble figure, his unfailing cheerfulness, so much artistic zeal combined with such awkwardness, the fact that he returned home just at the time when for others of his ilk the real harvest was only beginning, and, finally, the few Latin words, spoken, however, with the most correct accent and with absolute fluency. The man had evidently received a good education and had acquired some knowledge, and here he was--a street-musician! I was burning with curiosity to learn his history.

But a compact wall of humanity already separated us. Small as he was, and getting in everybody's way with the music-stand in his hand, he was shoved from one to another and had passed through the exit-gate while I was still struggling in the centre of the causeway against the opposing crowd. Thus I lost track of him; and when at last I had reached the quiet, open space, there was no musician to be seen far or near.

This fruitless adventure had spoiled all my enjoyment of the popular festival. I wandered through the Augarten in all directions, and finally decided to go home. As I neared the little gate that leads out of the Augarten into Tabor Street, I suddenly heard the familiar sound of the old violin. I accelerated my steps, and, behold! there stood the object of my curiosity, playing with all his might, surrounded by several boys who impatiently demanded a waltz from him. "Play a waltz," they cried; "a waltz, don't you hear?" The old man kept on fiddling, apparently paying no attention to them, until his small audience, reviling and mocking him, left him and gathered around an organ-grinder who had taken up his position near by.

"They don't want to dance," said the old man sadly, and gathered up his musical outfit. I had stepped up quite close to him. "The children do not know any dance but the waltz," I said.

"I was playing a waltz," he replied, indicating with his bow the notes of the piece he had just been playing. "You have to play things like that for the crowd. But the children have no ear for music," he said, shaking his head mournfully.

"At least permit me to atone for their ingratitude," I said, taking a silver coin out of my pocket and offering it to him.

"Please, don't," cried the old man, at the same time warding me off anxiously with both hands--"into the hat, into the hat." I dropped the coin into his hat, which was lying in front of him. The old man immediately took it out and put it into his pocket, quite satisfied. "That's what I call going home for once with a rich harvest," he said chuckling.

"You just remind me of a circumstance," I said, "which excited my curiosity before. It seems your earnings today have not been particularly satisfactory, and yet you retire at the very moment when the real harvest is beginning. The festival, as you no doubt know, lasts the whole night, and you might easily earn more in this one night than in an entire week ordinarily. How am I to account for this?"

"How are you to account for this?" replied the old man. "Pardon me, I do not know who you are, but you must be a generous man and a lover of music." With these words he took the silver coin out of his pocket once more and pressed it between his hands, which he raised to his heart.

"I shall therefore tell you the reasons, although I have often been ridiculed for them. In the first place, I have never been a night-reveler, and I do not consider it right to incite others to such a disgusting procedure by means of playing and singing. Secondly, a man ought to establish for himself a certain order in all things, otherwise he'll run wild and there's no stopping him. Thirdly, and finally, sir, I play for the noisy throng all day long and scarcely earn a bare living. But the evening belongs to me and to my poor art. In the evening I stay at home, and"--at these words he lowered his voice, a blush overspread his countenance and his eyes sought the ground--"then I play to myself as fancy dictates, without notes. I believe the text-books on music call it improvising."

We had both grown silent, he from confusion, because he had betrayed the innermost secret of his heart, I from astonishment at hearing a man speak of the highest spheres of art who was not capable of rendering even the simplest waltz in intelligible fashion. Meanwhile he was preparing to depart. "Where do you live?" I inquired. "I should like to attend your solitary practising some day."

"Oh," he replied, almost imploringly, "you must know that prayers should be said in private!"

"Then I'll visit you in the daytime," I said.

"In the daytime," he replied, "I earn my living among the people."

"Well, then, some morning early."

"It almost looks," the old man said smiling, "as though you, my dear sir, were the recipient, and I, if I may be permitted to say so, the benefactor; you are so kind, and I reject your advances so ungraciously. Your distinguished visit will always confer honor on my dwelling. Only I should like to ask you to be so very kind as to notify me beforehand of the day of your coming, in order that you may not be unduly delayed nor I be compelled to interrupt unceremoniously some business in which I may be engaged at the time. For my mornings are also devoted to a definite purpose. At any rate, I consider it my duty to my patrons and benefactors to offer something not entirely unworthy in return for their gifts. I have no desire to be a beggar, sir; I am very well aware of the fact that the other street musicians are satisfied to reel off a few street ditties, German waltzes, even melodies of indecent songs, all of which they have memorized. These they repeat incessantly, so that the public pays them either in order to get rid of them, or because their playing revives the memory of former joys of dancing or of other disorderly amusements. For this reason such musicians play from memory, and sometimes, in fact quite frequently, strike the wrong note. But far be it from me to deceive. Partly, therefore, because my memory is not of the best, partly because it might be difficult for any one to retain in his memory, note for note, complicated compositions of esteemed composers, I have made a clear copy for myself in these note-books." With these words he showed me the pages of his music-book. To my amazement I saw in a careful, but awkward and stiff handwriting, extremely difficult compositions by famous old masters, quite black with passage-work and double-stopping. And these selections the old man played with his clumsy fingers! "In playing these pieces," he continued, "I show my veneration for these esteemed, long since departed masters and composers, satisfy my own artistic instincts, and live in the pleasant hope that, in return for the alms so generously bestowed upon me, I may succeed in improving the taste and hearts of an audience distracted and misled on many sides. But since music of this character--to return to my subject"--and at these words a self-satisfied smile lighted up his features--"since music of this kind requires practice, my morning hours are devoted exclusively to this exercise. The first three hours of the day for practice, the middle of the day for earning my living, the evening for myself and God; that is not an unfair division," he said, and at the same time something moist glistened in his eyes; but he was smiling.

"Very well, then," I said, "I shall surprise you some morning. Where do you live?" He mentioned Gardener's Lane.

"What number?

"Number 34, one flight up."

"Well, well," I cried, "on the fashionable floor."

"The house," he said, "consists in reality only of a ground floor. But upstairs, next to the garret, there is a small room which I occupy in company with two journeymen."

"A single room for three people?"

"It is divided into two parts," he answered, "and I have my own bed."

"It is getting late," I said, "and you must be anxious to get home. _Auf Wiedersehen!_"

At the same time I put my hand in my pocket with the intention of doubling the trifling amount I had given him before. But he had already taken up his music-stand with one hand and his violin with the other, and cried hurriedly, "I humbly ask you to refrain. I have already received ample remuneration for my playing, and I am not aware of having earned any other reward." Saying this he made me a rather awkward bow with an approach to elegant ease, and departed as quickly as his old legs could carry him.

As I said before, I had lost for this day all desire of participating further in the festival. Consequently I turned homeward, taking the road leading to the Leopoldstadt. Tired out from the dust and heat, I entered one of the many beer-gardens, which, while overcrowded on ordinary days, had today given up all their customers to the Brigittenau. The stillness of the place, in contradistinction to the noisy crowd, did me good. I gave myself up to my thoughts, in which the old musician had a considerable share. Night had come before I thought at last of going home. I laid the amount of my bill upon the table and walked toward the city.

The old man had said that he lived in Gardener's Lane. "Is Gardener's Lane near-by?" I asked a smell boy who was running across the road. "Over there, sir," he replied, pointing to a side street that ran from the mass of houses of the suburb out into the open fields. I followed the direction indicated. The street consisted of some scattered houses, which, separated by large vegetable gardens, plainly indicated the occupation of the inhabitants and the origin of the name Gardener's Lane. I was wondering in which of these miserable huts my odd friend might live. I had completely forgotten the number; moreover it was impossible to make out any signs in the darkness. At that moment a man carrying a heavy load of vegetables passed me. "The old fellow is scraping his fiddle again," he grumbled, "and disturbing decent people in their night's rest." At the same time, as I went on, the soft, sustained tone of a violin struck my ear. It seemed to come from the open attic window of a hovel a short distance away, which, being low and without an upper story like the rest of the houses, attracted attention on account of this attic window in the gabled roof. I stood still. A soft distinct note increased to loudness, diminished, died out, only to rise again immediately to penetrating shrillness. It was always the same tone repeated as if the player dwelt upon it with pleasure. At last an interval followed; it was the chord of the fourth. While the player had before reveled in the sound of the single note, now his voluptuous enjoyment of this harmonic relation was very much more susceptible. His fingers moved by fits and starts, as did his bow. Through the intervening intervals he passed most unevenly, emphasizing and repeating the third. Then he added the fifth, now with a trembling sound like silent weeping, sustained, vanishing; now constantly repeated with dizzy speed; always the same intervals, the same tones. And that was what the old man called improvising. It _was_ improvising after all, but from the viewpoint of the player, not from that of the listener.

I do not know how long this may have lasted and how frightful the performance had become, when suddenly the door of the house was opened, and a man, clad only in a shirt and partly buttoned trousers stepped from the threshold into the middle of the street and called up to the attic window--"Are you going to keep on all night again?" The tone of his voice was impatient, but not harsh or insulting. The violin became silent even before the speaker had finished. The man went back into the house, the attic window was closed, and soon perfect and uninterrupted silence reigned. I started for home, experiencing some difficulty in finding my way through the unknown lanes, and, as I walked along, I also improvised mentally, without, however, disturbing any one.

The morning hours have always been of peculiar value to me. It is as though I felt the need of occupying myself with something ennobling, something worth while, in the first hours of the day, thus consecrating the remainder of it, as it were. It is, therefore, only with difficulty that I can make up my mind to leave my room early in the morning, and if ever I force myself to do so without sufficient cause, nothing remains to me for the rest of the day but the choice between idle distraction and morbid introspection. Thus it happened that I put off for several days my visit to the old man, which I had agreed to pay in the morning. At last I could not master my impatience any longer, and went. I had no difficulty in finding Gardener's Lane, nor the house. This time also I heard the tones of the violin, but owing to the closed window they were muffled and scarcely recognizable. I entered the house. A gardener's wife, half speechless with amazement, showed me the steps leading up to the attic. I stood before a low, badly fitting door, knocked, received no answer, finally raised the latch and entered. I found myself in a quite large, but otherwise extremely wretched chamber, the wall of which on all sides followed the outlines of the pointed roof. Close by the door was a dirty bed in loathsome disorder, surrounded by all signs of neglect; opposite me, close beside the narrow window, was a second bed, shabby but clean and most carefully made and covered. Before the window stood a small table with music-paper and writing material, on the windowsill a few flower-pots. The middle of the room from wall to wall was designated along the floor by a heavy chalk line, and it is almost impossible to imagine a more violent contrast between dirt and cleanliness than existed on the two sides of the line, the equator of this little world. The old man had placed his music-stand close to the boundary line and was standing before it practising, completely and carefully dressed. I have already said so much that is jarring about the discords of my favorite--and I almost fear he is mine alone--that I shall spare the reader a description of this infernal concert. As the practice consisted chiefly of passage-work, there was no possibility of recognizing the pieces he was playing, but this might not have been an easy matter even under ordinary circumstances. After listening a while, I finally discovered the thread leading out of this labyrinth--the method in his madness, as it were. The old man enjoyed the music while he was playing. His conception, however, distinguished between only two kinds of effect, euphony and cacophony. Of these the former delighted, even enraptured him, while he avoided the latter, even when harmonically justified, as much as possible. Instead of accenting a composition in accordance with sense and rhythm, he exaggerated and prolonged the notes and intervals that were pleasing to his ear; he did not even hesitate to repeat them arbitrarily, when an expression of ecstasy frequently passed over his face. Since he disposed of the dissonances as rapidly as possible and played the passages that were too difficult for him in a tempo that was too slow compared with the rest of the piece, his conscientiousness not permitting him to omit even a single note, one may easily form an idea of the resulting confusion. After some time, even I couldn't endure it any longer. In order to recall him to the world of reality, I purposely dropped my hat, after I had vainly tried several other means of attracting his attention. The old man started, his knees shook, and he was scarcely able to hold the violin he had lowered to the ground. I stepped up to him. "Oh, it is you, sir," he said, as if coming to himself; "I had not counted on the fulfilment of your kind promise." He forced me to sit down, straightened things up, laid down his violin, looked around the room a few times in embarrassment, then suddenly took up a plate from a table that was standing near the door and went out. I heard him speak with the gardener's wife outside. Soon he came back again rather abashed, concealing the plate behind his back and returning it to its place stealthily. Evidently he had asked for some fruit to offer me, but had not been able to obtain it.

"You live quite comfortably here," I said, in order to put an end to his embarrassment. "Untidiness is not permitted to dwell here. It will retreat through the door, even though at the present moment it hasn't quite passed the threshold."

"My abode reaches only to that line," said the old man, pointing to the chalk-line in the middle of the room. "Beyond it the two journeymen live."

"And do these respect your boundary?"

"They don't, but I do," said he. "Only the door is common property."

"And are you not disturbed by your neighbors?"

"Hardly. They come home late at night, and even if they startle me a little when I'm in bed, the pleasure of going to sleep again is all the greater. But in the morning I awaken them, when I put my room in order. Then they scold a little and go." I had been observing him in the mean time. His clothes were scrupulously clean, his figure was good enough for his years, only his legs were a little too short. His hands and feet were remarkably delicate. "You are looking at me," he said, "and thinking, too."

"I confess that I have some curiosity concerning your past," I replied.

"My past?" he repeated. "I have no past. Today is like yesterday, and tomorrow like today. But the day after tomorrow and beyond--who can know about that? But God will look after me; He knows best."

"Your present mode of life is probably monotonous enough," I continued, "but your past! How did it happen--"

"That I became a street-musician?" he asked, filling in the pause that I had voluntarily made. I now told him how he had attracted my attention the moment I caught sight of him; what an impression he had made upon me by the Latin words he had uttered. "Latin!" he echoed. "Latin! I did learn it once upon a time, or rather, I was to have learned it and might have done so. _Loqueris latine?"_--he turned to me; "but I couldn't continue; it is too long ago. So that is what you call my past? How it all came about? Well then, all sorts of things have happened, nothing special, but all sorts of things. I should like to hear the story myself again. I wonder whether I haven't forgotten it all. It is still early in the morning," he continued, putting his hand into his vest-pocket, in which, however, there was no watch. I drew out mine; it was barely nine o'clock. "We have time, and I almost feel like talking." Meanwhile he had grown visibly more at ease. His figure became more erect. Without further ceremony he took my hat out of my hand and laid it upon the bed. Then he seated himself, crossed one leg over the other, and assumed the attitude of one who is going to tell a story in comfort.

"No doubt," he began, "you have heard of Court Councilor X?" Here he mentioned the name of a statesman who, in the middle of the last century, had under the modest title of a Chief of Department exerted an enormous influence, almost equal to that of a minister. I admitted that I knew of him. "He was my father," he continued.--His father! The father of the old musician, of the beggar. This influential, powerful man--his father! The old man did not seem to notice my astonishment, but with evident pleasure continued the thread of his narrative. "I was the second of three brothers. Both the others rose to high positions in the government service, but they are now dead. Only I am still alive," he said, pulling at his threadbare trousers and picking off some little feathers with downcast eyes. "My father was ambitious and a man of violent temper. My brothers satisfied him. I was considered a slow coach, and I _was_ slow. If I remember rightly," he continued, turning aside as though looking far away, with his head resting upon his left hand, "I might have been capable of learning various things, if only I had been given time and a systematic training. My brothers leaped from one subject to another with the agility of gazelles, but I could make absolutely no headway, and whenever only a single word escaped me, I was obliged to begin again from the very beginning. Thus I was constantly driven. New material was to occupy the place which had not yet been vacated by the old, and I began to grow obstinate. Thus they even drove me into hating music, which is now the delight and at the same time the support of my life. When I used to improvise on my violin at twilight in order to enjoy myself in my own way, they would take the instrument away from me, asserting that this ruined my fingering. They would also complain of the torture inflicted upon their ears and made me wait for the lesson, when the torture began for me. In all my life I have never hated anything or any one so much as I hated the violin at that time.

"My father, who was extremely dissatisfied, scolded me frequently and threatened to make a mechanic of me. I didn't dare say how happy that would have made me. I should have liked nothing better than to become a turner or a compositor. But my father was much too proud ever to have permitted such a thing. Finally a public examination at school, which they had persuaded him to attend in order to appease him, brought matters to a climax. A dishonest teacher arranged in advance what he was going to ask me, and so everything went swimmingly. But toward the end I had to recite some verses of Horace from memory and I missed a word. My teacher, who had been nodding his head in approval and smiling at my father, came to my assistance when I broke down, and whispered the word to me, but I was so engrossed trying to locate the word in my memory and to establish its connection with the context, that I failed to hear him. He repeated it several times--all in vain. Finally my father lost his patience, _'cachinnum'_ (laughter)--that was the word--he roared at me in a voice of thunder. That was the end. Although I now knew the missing word, I had forgotten all the rest. All attempts to bring me back on the right track were in vain. I was obliged to rise in disgrace and when I went over as usual to kiss my father's hand, he pushed me back, rose, bowed hastily to the audience, and went away. 'That shabby beggar,' he called me; I wasn't one at the time, but I am now. Parents prophesy when they speak. At the same time my father was a good man, only hot tempered and ambitious.

"From that day on he never spoke to me again. His orders were conveyed to me by the servants. On the very next day I was informed that my studies were at an end. I was quite dismayed, for I realized what a blow it must have been to my father. All day long I did nothing but weep, and between my crying spells I recited the Latin verses, in which I was now letter-perfect, together with the preceding and following ones. I promised to make up in diligence what I lacked in talent, if I were only permitted to continue in school, but my father never revoked a decision.

"For some time I remained at home without an occupation. At last I was placed in an accountant's office on probation; but arithmetic had never been my forte. An offer to enter the military service I refused with abhorrence. Even now I cannot see a uniform without an inward shudder. That one should protect those near and dear, even at the risk's of one's life, is quite proper, and I can understand it; but bloodshed and mutilation as a vocation, as an occupation--never!" And with that he felt his arms with his hands, as if experiencing pain from wounds inflicted upon himself and others.

"Next I was employed in the chancery office as a copyist. There I was in my element. I had always practised penmanship with enthusiasm; and even now I know of no more agreeable pastime than joining stroke to stroke with good ink on good paper to form words or merely letters. But musical notes are beautiful above everything, only at that time I didn't think of music.

"I was industrious, but too conscientious. An incorrect punctuation mark, an illegible or missing word in a first draft, even if it could be supplied from the context, would cause me many an unhappy hour. While trying to make up my mind whether to follow the original closely or to supply missing material, the time slipped by, and I gained a reputation for being negligent, although I worked harder than any one else. In this manner I spent several years, without receiving any salary. When my turn for promotion came, my father voted for another candidate at the meeting of the board, and the other members voted with him out of deference.

"About this time--well, well," he interrupted himself, "this is turning out to be a story after all. I shall continue the story. About this time two events occurred, the saddest and the happiest of my life, namely my leaving home and my return to the gentle art of music, to my violin, which has remained faithful to me to this day.

"In my father's house, where I was ignored by the other members of the family, I occupied a rear room looking out upon our neighbor's yard. At first I took my meals with the family, though no one spoke a word to me. But when my brothers received appointments in other cities and my father was invited out to dinner almost daily--my mother had been dead for many years--it was found inconvenient to keep house for me. The servants were given money for their meals. So was I; only I didn't receive mine in cash: it was paid monthly to the restaurant. Consequently I spent little time in my room, with the exception of the evening hours; for my father insisted that I should be at home within half an hour after the closing of the office, at the latest. Then I sat there in the darkness on account of my eyes, which were weak even at that time. I used to think of one thing and another, and was neither happy nor unhappy.

"When I sat thus I used to hear some one in the neighbor's yard singing a song--really several songs, one of which, however, pleased me particularly. It was so simple, so touching, and the musical expression was so perfect, that it was not necessary to hear the words. Personally I believe that words spoil the music anyway." Now he opened his lips and uttered a few hoarse, rough tones. "I have no voice," he said, and took up his violin. He played, and this time with proper expression, the melody of a pleasing, but by no means remarkable song, his fingers trembling on the strings and some tears finally rolling down his cheeks.

"That was the song," he said, laying down his violin. "I heard it with ever-growing pleasure. However vivid it was in my memory, I never succeeded in getting even two notes right with my voice, and I became almost impatient from listening. Then my eyes fell upon my violin which, like an old armor, had been hanging unused on the wall since my boyhood. I took it down and found it in tune, the servant probably having used it during my absence. As I drew the bow over the strings it seemed to me, sir, as though God's finger had touched me. The tone penetrated into my heart, and from my heart it found its way out again. The air about me was pregnant with intoxicating madness. The song in the courtyard below and the tones produced by my fingers had become sharers of my solitude. I fell upon my knees and prayed aloud, and could not understand that I had ever held this exquisite, divine instrument in small esteem, that I had even hated it in my childhood, and I kissed the violin and pressed it to my heart and played on and on.

"The song in the yard--it was a woman who was singing--continued in the meantime uninterruptedly. But it was not so easy to play it after her, for I didn't have a copy of the notes. I also noticed that I had pretty nearly forgotten whatever I had once acquired of the art of playing the violin; consequently I couldn't play anything in particular, but could play only in a general way. With the exception of that song the musical compositions themselves have always been a matter of indifference to me, an attitude in which I have persisted to this day. The musicians play Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Sebastian Bach, but not one plays God Himself. No one can play the eternal comfort and blessing of tone and sound, its magic correlation with the eager, straining ear; so that"--he continued in a lower voice and blushing with confusion--"so that the third tone forms a harmonic interval with the first, as does the fifth, and the leading tone rises like a fulfilled hope, while the dissonance is bowed down like conscious wickedness or arrogant pride.

"And then there are the mysteries of suspension and inversion, by means of which even the second is received into favor in the bosom of harmony. A musician once explained all these things to me, but that was later. And then there are still other marvels which I do not understand, as the fugue, counterpoint, the canon for two and three voices, and so on--an entire heavenly structure, one part joined to the other without mortar and all held together by God's own hand. With a few exceptions, nobody wants to know anything about these things. They would rather disturb this breathing of souls by the addition of words to be spoken to the music, just as the children of God united with the daughters of the Earth. And by means of this combination of word and music they imagine they can affect and impress a calloused mind. Sir," he concluded at last, half exhausted, "speech is as necessary to man as food, but we should also preserve undefiled the nectar meted out by God."

I could scarcely believe it was the same man, so animated had he become. He paused for a moment. "Where did I stop in my story?" he asked finally. "Oh yes, at the song and my attempt to imitate it. But I didn't succeed. I stepped to the open window in order to hear better. The singer was just crossing the court. She had her back turned to me, yet she seemed familiar to me. She was carrying a basket with what looked like pieces of cake dough. She entered a little gate in the corner of the court, where there probably was an oven, for while she continued her song, I heard her rattling some wooden utensils, her voice sounding sometimes muffled, sometimes clear, like the voice of one who bends down and sings into a hollow space and then rises again and stands in an upright position. After a while she came back, and only now I discovered why she had seemed familiar to me before. I had actually known her for some time, for I had seen her in the chancery office.

"My acquaintance with her was made like this: The office hours began early and extended beyond noon. Several of the younger employees, who either actually had an appetite or else wanted to kill a half hour, were in the habit of taking a light lunch about eleven o'clock. The tradespeople, who know how to turn everything to their advantage, saved the gourmands a walk and brought their wares into the office building, where they took up their position on the stairs and in the corridors. A baker sold rolls, a costermonger vended cherries. Certain cakes, however, which were baked by the daughter of a grocer in the vicinity and sold while still hot, were especially popular.

"Her customers stepped out into the corridor to her; and only rarely, when bidden, did she venture into the office itself, which she was asked to leave the moment the rather peevish director caught sight of her--a command that she obeyed only with reluctance and mumbling angry words.

"Among my colleagues the girl did not pass for a beauty. They considered her too small, and were not able to determine the color of her hair. Some there were who denied that she had cat's eyes, but all agreed that she was pock-marked. Of her buxom figure all spoke with enthusiasm, but they considered her rough, and one of them had a long story to tell about a box on the ear, the effects of which he claimed to have felt for a week afterwards.

"I was not one of her customers. In the first place I had no money; in the second, I have always been obliged to look upon eating and drinking as a necessity, sometimes too much so, so that it has never entered my head to take pleasure and delight in it. And so we took no notice of each other. Only once, in order to tease me, my colleagues made her believe that I wanted some of her cakes. She stepped up to my desk and held her basket out to me. 'I don't want anything, my dear young woman,' I said. 'Well, why do you send for me then?' she cried angrily. I excused myself, and as I saw at once that a practical joke had been played, I explained the situation as best I could. 'Well then, at least give me a sheet of paper to put my cakes on,' she said. I tried to make her understand that it was chancery paper and didn't belong to me, but that I had some paper at home which was mine and that I would bring her some of it. 'I have enough myself at home,' she said mockingly, and broke into a little laugh as she went away.

"That had happened only a few days before and I was thinking of turning the acquaintance to immediate account for the fulfilment of my wish. The next morning, therefore, I buttoned a whole ream of paper--of which there was never a scarcity in our home--under my coat, and went to the office. In order not to betray myself, I kept my armor with great personal inconvenience upon my body until, toward noon, I knew from the going and coming of my colleagues and from the sound of the munching jaws that the cake-vender had arrived. I waited until I had reason to believe that the rush of business was over, then I went out, pulled out my paper, mustered up sufficient courage, and stepped up to the girl. With her basket before her on the ground and her right foot resting on a low stool, on which she usually sat, she stood there humming a soft melody, beating time with her right foot. As I approached she measured me from head to foot, which only added to my confusion. 'My dear young woman,' I finally began, 'the other day you asked me for paper and I had none that belonged to me. Now I have brought some from home, and'--with that I held out the paper. 'I told you the other day,' she replied, 'that I have plenty of paper at home. However, I can make use of everything.' Saying this, she accepted my present with a slight nod and put it into her basket. 'Perhaps you'll take some cake?' she asked, sorting her wares, 'although the best have been sold.' I declined, but told her that I had another wish. 'And what may that be?' she asked, putting her arm through the handle of her basket, drawing herself up to her full height, and flashing her eyes angrily at me. I lost no time telling her that I was a lover of music, although only a recent convert, and that I had heard her singing such beautiful songs, especially one. 'You--heard me--singing?' she flared up. 'Where?' I then told her that I lived near her, and that I had been listening to her while she was at work in the courtyard; that one of her songs had pleased me particularly, and that I had tried to play it after her on my violin. 'Can you be the man,' she exclaimed, 'who scrapes so on the fiddle?' As I mentioned before, I was only a beginner at that time and not until later, by dint of much hard work, did I acquire the necessary dexterity;" the old man interrupted himself, while with the fingers of his left hand he made movements in the air, as though he were playing the violin. "I blushed violently," he continued the narrative, "and I could see by the expression of her face that she repented her harsh words. 'My dear young woman,' I said, 'the scraping arises from the fact that I do not possess the music of the song, and for this reason I should like to ask you most respectfully for a copy of it.' 'For a copy?' she exclaimed. 'The song is printed and is sold at every street-corner.' 'The song?' I replied. 'You probably mean only the words!' 'Why, yes; the words, the song.' 'But the melody to which it is sung--' 'Are such things written down?' she asked. 'Surely,' was my reply, 'that is the most important part.' 'And how did you learn it, my dear young woman?' 'I heard some one singing it, and then I sang it after her.' I was astonished at this natural gift. And I may add in passing that uneducated people often possess the greatest natural talent. But, after all, this is not the proper thing, not real art. I was again plunged into despair. 'But which song do you want?' she asked. 'I know so many.' 'All without the notes?' 'Why, of course. Now which was it?' 'It is so very beautiful,' I explained. 'Right at the beginning the melody rises, then it becomes fervent, and finally it ends very softly. You sing it more frequently than the others.' 'Oh, I suppose it's this one,' she said, setting down her basket, and placing her foot on the stool. Then, keeping time by nodding her head, she sang the song in a very low, yet clear voice, so beautifully and so charmingly that, before she had quite finished, I tried to grasp her hand, which was hanging at her side. 'What do you mean!' she cried, drawing back her arm, for she probably thought I intended to take her hand immodestly. I wanted to kiss it, although she was only a poor girl.--Well, after all, I too am poor now!

"I ran my fingers through my hair in my eagerness to secure the song and when she observed my anxiety, she consoled me and said that the organist of St. Peter's visited her father's store frequently to buy nutmeg, that she would ask him to write out the music of the song, and that I might call for it in a few days. Thereupon she took up her basket and went, while I accompanied her as far as the staircase. As I was making a final bow on the top step, I was surprised by the director, who bade me go to my work and railed against the girl, in whom, he asserted, there wasn't a vestige of good. I was very angry at this and was about to retort that I begged to differ with him, when I realized that he had returned to his office. Therefore I calmed myself and also went back to my desk. But from that time on he was firmly convinced that I was a careless employee and a dissipated fellow.

"As a matter of fact, I was unable to do any decent work on that day or on the following days, for the song kept running through my head. I seemed to be in a trance. Several days passed and I was in doubt whether to call for the music or not. The girl had said that the organist came to her father's store to buy nutmeg; this he could use only for his beer. Now the weather had been cold for some time, and therefore it was probable that the good organist would rather drink wine and thus not be in need of nutmeg so soon. A too hasty inquiry might seem impolite and obtrusive, while, on the other hand, a delay might be interpreted as indifference. I didn't dare address the girl in the corridor, since our first meeting had been noised broad among my colleagues, and they were thirsting for an opportunity to play a practical joke on me.

"In the meantime I had again taken up my violin eagerly and devoted myself to a thorough study of the fundamental principles. Occasionally I permitted myself to improvise, but always closed my window carefully in advance, knowing that my playing had found disfavor. But even when I did open the window, I never heard my song again. Either my neighbor did not sing at all, or else she sang softly and behind closed doors, so that I could not distinguish one note from another.

"At last, about three weeks having passed, I could wait no longer. Two evenings in succession I had even stolen out upon the street, without a hat, so that the servants might think I was looking for something in the house, but whenever I came near the grocery store such a violent trembling seized me that I was obliged to turn back whether I wanted to or not. At last, however, as I said, I couldn't wait any longer. I took courage, and one evening left my room, this time also without a hat, went downstairs and walked with a firm step through the street to the grocery store, in front of which I stopped for a moment, deliberating what was to be done next. The store was lighted and I heard voices within. After some hesitation I leaned forward and peered in from the side. I saw the girl sitting close before the counter by the light, picking over some peas or beans in a wooden bowl. Before her stood a coarse, powerful man, who looked like a butcher; his jacket was thrown over his shoulders and he held a sort of club in his hand. The two were talking, evidently in good humor, for the girl laughed aloud several times, but without interrupting her work or even looking up. Whether it was my unnatural, strained position, or whatever else it may have been, I began to tremble again, when I suddenly felt myself seized by a rough hand from the back and dragged forward. In a twinkling I was in the store, and when I was released and looked about me, I saw that it was the proprietor himself, who, returning home, had caught me peering through his window and seized me as a suspicious character. 'Confound it!' he cried, 'now I understand what becomes of my prunes and the handfuls of peas and barley which are taken from my baskets in the dark. Damn it all!' With that he made for me, as though he meant to strike me.

"I felt utterly crushed, but the thought that my honesty was being questioned soon brought me back to my senses. I therefore made a curt bow and told the uncivil man that my visit was not intended for his prunes or his barley, but for his daughter. At these words the butcher, who was standing in the middle of the store, set up a loud laugh and turned as if to go, having first whispered a few words to the girl, to which she laughingly replied with a resounding slap of her flat hand upon his back. The grocer accompanied him to the door. Meanwhile all my courage had again deserted me, and I stood facing the girl, who was indifferently picking her peas and beans as though the whole affair didn't concern her in the least. 'Sir,' he said, 'what business have you with my daughter?' I tried to explain the circumstance and the cause of my visit. 'Song! I'll sing you a song!' he exclaimed, moving his right arm up and down in rather threatening fashion. 'There it is,' said the girl, tilting her chair sideways and pointing with her hand to the counter without setting down the bowl. I rushed over and saw a sheet of music lying there. It was the song. But the old man got there first, and crumpled the beautiful paper in his hand. 'What does this mean?' he said. 'Who is this fellow?' 'He is one of the gentlemen from the chancery,' she replied, throwing a worm-eaten pea a little farther away than the rest. 'A gentleman from the chancery,' he cried, 'in the dark, without a hat?' I accounted for the absence of a hat by explaining that I lived close by; at the same time I designated the house. 'I know the house,' he cried. 'Nobody lives there but the Court Councilor'--here he mentioned the name of my father--'and I know all the servants.' 'I am the son of the Councilor,' I said in a low voice, as though I were telling a lie. I have seen many changes during my life, but none so sudden as that which came over the man at these words. His mouth, which he had opened to heap abuse upon me, remained open, his eyes still looked threatening, but about the lower part of his face a smile began to play which spread more and more. The girl remained indifferent and continued in her stooping posture. Without interrupting her work, she pushed her loose hair back behind her ears. 'The son of the Court Councilor!' finally exclaimed the old man, from whose face the clouds had entirely disappeared. 'Won't you make yourself comfortable, sir? Barbara, bring a chair!' The girl stirred reluctantly on hers. 'Never mind, you sneak!' he said, taking a basket from a stool and wiping the dust from the latter with his handkerchief. 'This is a great honor,' he continued. 'Has His Honor, the Councilor--I mean His Honor's son, also taken up music? Perhaps you sing like my daughter, or rather quite differently, from notes and according to rule?' I told him that nature had not gifted me with a voice. 'Oh, perhaps you play the piano, as fashionable people do?' I told him I played the violin. 'I used to scratch on the fiddle myself when I was a boy,' he said. At the word 'scratch' I involuntarily looked at the girl and saw a mocking smile on her lips, which annoyed me greatly.

"'You ought to take an interest in the girl, that is, in her music,' he continued. 'She has a good voice, and possesses other good qualities; but refinement--good heavens, where should she get it?' So saying, he repeatedly rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together. I was quite confused at being undeservedly credited with such a considerable knowledge of music, and was just on the point of explaining the true state of affairs, when some one passing the store called in 'Good evening, all!' I started, for it was the voice of one of our servants. The grocer had also recognized it. Putting out the tip of his tongue and raising his shoulders, he whispered: 'It was one of the servants of His Honor, your father, but he couldn't recognize you, because you were standing with your back to the door.' This was so, to be sure, but nevertheless the feeling of doing something on the sly, something wrong, affected me painfully. I managed to mumble a few words of parting, and went out. I should even have left the song behind had not the old man run into the street after me and pressed it into my hand.

"I reached my room and awaited developments. And I didn't have to wait long. The servant had recognized me after all. A few days later my father's private secretary looked me up in my room and announced that I was to leave my home. All my remonstrances were in vain. A little room had been rented for me in a distant suburb and thus I was completely banished from my family. Nor did I see my singer again. She had been forbidden to vend her cakes in the chancery, and I couldn't make up my mind to visit her father's store, since I knew that this would displease mine. Once, when accidentally I met the old grocer on the street, he even turned away from me with an angry expression, and I was stunned. And so I got out my violin and played and practised, being frequently alone half the day.

"But even worse things were in store for me. The fortunes of our house were declining. My youngest brother, a headstrong, impetuous fellow, was an officer in a regiment of dragoons. As the result of a reckless wager, he foolishly swam the Danube, mounted and in full armor, while heated from the exertion of a ride. This escapade, which occurred while he was far away in Hungary, cost him his life. My older brother, my father's favorite, held an appointment as a member of provincial council. In constant opposition to the governor of the province, he even went so far as to promulgate untruthful statements in order to injure his opponent, being secretly incited thereto, as rumor had it, by our father. An investigation followed, and my brother took French leave of the country. Our father's enemies, of whom there were many, utilized this circumstance to bring about his downfall. Attacked on all sides, and at the same time enraged at the waning of his influence, he delivered daily the most bitter speeches at the meetings of the council, and it was in the middle of a speech that he suffered a stroke of apoplexy. They brought him home, bereft of the power of speech. I myself heard nothing of all this. The next day in the chancery I noticed that the men were whispering secretly and pointing at me with their fingers. But I was accustomed to such treatment and paid no further attention to it. On the following Friday--the sad event had occurred on a Wednesday--a black suit of clothes with crepe was suddenly brought to my room. I was naturally astonished, asked for the reason, and was informed of what had taken place. Ordinarily my body is strong and capable of resistance, but then I was completely overcome. I fell to the floor in a swoon. They carried me to bed, where I lay in a fever and was delirious throughout the day and the entire night. The next morning my strong constitution had conquered, but my father was dead and buried.

"I had not been able to speak to him again, to ask his forgiveness for all the sorrow I had brought upon him, or to thank him for all the undeserved favors--yes, favors, for his intentions had been good; and some time I hope to meet him again where we are judged by our intentions and not by our acts.

"For several days I kept my room and scarcely touched any food. At last I went out, but came home again immediately after dinner. Only in the evening I wandered about the dark streets like Cain, the murderer of his brother. My father's house appeared to me a dreadful phantom, and I avoided it most carefully. But once, staring vacantly before me, I found myself unexpectedly in the vicinity of the dreaded house. My knees trembled so that I was obliged to seek support. Leaning against the wall behind me, I recognized the door of the grocery store. Barbara was sitting inside, a letter in her hand, the light upon the counter beside her, and standing up straight close by was her father, who seemed to be urging something upon her. I should have entered, even though my life had been at stake. You have no idea how awful it is to have no one to pour out one's heart to, no one to look to for sympathy. The old man, I knew very well, was angry with me, but I thought the girl would say a kind word to me. But it turned out just the other way. Barbara rose as I entered, looked at me haughtily, and went into the adjoining room, locking the door behind her. The old man, however, shook hands with me, bade me sit down and consoled me, at the same time intimating that I was now a rich man and my own master. He wanted to know how much I had inherited. I couldn't tell him. He urged me to go to court about it, which I promised to do. He was of the opinion that no fortune could be made in a chancery. He then advised me to invest my inheritance in a business, assured me that gallnuts and fruit would yield a good profit and that a partner who understood this particular business could turn dimes into dollars, and said that he himself had at one time done well in that line.

"While he was telling me all this, he repeatedly called for the girl, who gave no sign of life, however, although it seemed to me as though I sometimes heard a rustling near the door. But since she did not put in an appearance, and since the old man talked of nothing but money, I finally took my leave, the grocer regretting that he could not accompany me, as he was alone in the store. I was grievously disappointed that my hopes had not been fulfilled, and yet I felt strangely consoled. As I stopped in the street and looked over toward my father's house, I suddenly heard a voice behind me saying in a subdued and indignant tone: 'Don't be too ready to trust everybody; they're after your money.' Although I turned quickly, I saw no one. Only the rattling of a window on the ground floor of the grocer's house told me, even if I had not recognized the voice, that the secret warning had come from Barbara. So she had overheard what had been said in the store! Did she intend to warn me against her father? Or had it come to her knowledge that immediately after my father's death colleagues of the chancery as well as utter strangers had approached me with requests for support and aid, and that I had promised to help them as soon as I should be in possession of the money? My promises I was obliged to keep, but I resolved to be more careful in future. I applied for my inheritance. It was less than had been expected, but still a considerable sum, nearly eleven thousand gulden. The whole day my room was besieged by people demanding financial assistance. I had almost become hardened, however, and granted a request only when the distress was really great. Barbara's father also came. He scolded me for not having been around for three days, whereupon I truthfully replied that I feared I was unwelcome to his daughter. But he told me with a malicious laugh that alarmed me, not to worry on that score; that he had brought her to her senses. Thus reminded of Barbara's warning, I concealed the amount of the inheritance when the subject came up in the course of the conversation and also skilfully evaded his business proposals.

"As a matter of fact, I was already turning other prospects over in my mind. In the chancery, where I had been tolerated only on account of my father, my place had already been filled by another, which troubled me little, since no salary was attached to the position. But my father's secretary, whom recent events had deprived of his livelihood, informed me of a plan for the establishment of a bureau of information, copying, and translation. For this undertaking I was to advance the initial cost of equipment, he being prepared to undertake the management. At my request the field of copying was extended so as to include music, and now I was perfectly happy. I advanced the necessary sum, but, having grown cautious, demanded a written receipt. The rather large bond for the establishment, which I likewise furnished, caused me no worry, since it had to be deposited with the court, where it was as safe as though it were locked up in my strong-box.

"The affair was settled, and I felt relieved, exalted; for the first time in my life I was independent--I was a man at last. I scarcely gave my father another thought. I moved into a better apartment, procured better clothes, and when it had become dark, I went through familiar streets to the grocery store, with a swinging step and humming my song, although not quite correctly. I never have been able to strike the B flat in the second half. I arrived in the best of spirits, but an icy look from Barbara immediately threw me back into my former state of timidity. Her father received me most cordially; but she acted as if no one were present, continued making paper bags, and took no part whatever in our conversation. Only when we touched upon the subject of my inheritance, she rose in her seat and exclaimed in an almost threatening tone, 'Father!' Thereupon the old man immediately changed the subject. Aside from that, she said nothing during the whole evening, didn't give me a second look, and, when I finally took my leave, her 'good-night' sounded almost like a 'thank heaven.'

"But I came again and again, and gradually she yielded--not that I ever did anything that pleased her. She scolded me and found fault with me incessantly. Everything I did she considered clumsy; God had given me two left hands; my coat fitted so badly, it made me look like a scarecrow; my walk was a cross between that of a duck and cock. What she disliked especially was my politeness toward the customers. As I had nothing to do until the opening of the copying bureau, where I should have direct dealings with the public, I considered it a good preliminary training to take an active part in the retail business of the grocery store. This often kept me there half the day. I weighed spices, counted out nuts and prunes for the children, and acted as cashier. In this latter capacity I was frequently guilty of errors, in which event Barbara would interfere by forcibly taking away whatever money I had in my hand, and ridiculing and mocking me before the customers. If I bowed to a customer or recommended myself to his kind consideration, she would say brusquely, even before he had left the store, 'The goods carry their own recommendation,' and turn her back upon me. At other times, however, she was all kindness; she listened to me when I told her what was going on in the city, or when I spoke of my early years, or of the business of the chancery, where we had first met. But at such times she let me do all the talking and expressed her approval or--as happened more frequently--her disapproval only by casual words.

"We never spoke of music or singing. In the first place, she believed one should either sing or keep quiet, that there was no sense in talking about it. But it was not possible to do any singing--the store was not the proper place for it, and the rear room, which she occupied with her father, I was not allowed to enter. Once, however, when I entered unnoticed, she was standing on tip-toe, her back turned toward me, with her hands raised above her head, groping along one of the upper shelves as if looking for something. At the same time she was singing softly to herself--it was the song, my song! She was warbling like a hedge-sparrow when it bathes its breast in the brook, tosses its head, ruffles its feathers, and smoothes them again with its little beak. I seemed to be walking in a green meadow. I crept nearer and nearer, and was so close that the melody seemed no longer to come from without, but out of my own breast--a song of souls. I was unable to contain myself any longer, and as she stood there straining forward, her shoulders thrown slightly back towards me, I threw both arms around her body. But then the storm broke. She whirled around like a top. Her face livid with rage, she stood before me; her hand twitched, and before I could utter a word of apology, the blow came.

"As I have said before, my colleagues in the chancery used to tell a story of a box on the ear, which Barbara, when she was still vending cakes, had dealt out to an impertinent fellow. What they then said of the strength of this rather small girl and of the power of her hand, seemed greatly and humorously exaggerated. But it was a fact; her strength was tremendous. I stood as though I had been struck by a thunderbolt. The lights were dancing before my eyes, but they were the lights of heaven. It seemed like sun, moon and stars, like angels playing hide-and-seek and singing at the same time. I had visions; I was entranced. She, however, scarcely less astonished than I, passed her hand gently over the place she had struck. 'I'm afraid I struck more violently than I intended,' she said, and, like a second thunderbolt, I suddenly felt her warm breath and her lips upon my cheeks. She kissed me--only gently, but it was a kiss, a kiss upon this very cheek." As he said this, the old man put his hand to his cheek, and tears came to his eyes. "What happened after that I do not know," he continued. "I only remember that I rushed toward her and that she ran into the sitting room and threw herself against the glass door, while I pushed against it from the other side. As she pressed forward with all her might against the glass panel, I took courage, dear sir, and returned her kiss with great fervor--through the glass!

"'Well, this is a jolly party,' I heard some one call out behind me. It was the grocer, just returning home. 'People who love each other are fond of teasing each other,' he said. 'Come out, Barbara, don't be foolish. There's naught amiss in an honest kiss.' But she didn't come out. I took my leave after having stammered a few words of apology, scarcely knowing what I was saying. In my confusion I took the grocer's hat instead of my own, and he laughingly corrected the mistake. This was, as I called it before, the happiest day of my life--I had almost said, the only happy day. But that wouldn't be true, for man receives many favors from God.

"I didn't know exactly what the girl's feelings toward me were. Was she angry or had I conciliated her? The next visit cost me a great effort. But I found her amiable. She sat over her work, humble and quiet, not irritable as usual, and motioned with her head toward a stool standing near, intimating that I should sit down and help her. Thus we sat and worked. The old man prepared to go out. 'You needn't go, Father,' she said, 'what you want to do has already been attended to.' He stamped his foot on the floor and remained. Walking up and down he talked of different things, but I didn't dare take part in the conversation. Suddenly the girl uttered a low scream. She had cut her finger slightly and, although she didn't usually pay any attention to such trifles, she shook her hand back and forth. I wanted to examine the cut, but she beckoned to me to continue my work. 'There is no end to your tomfoolery,' the old man grumbled; and, stepping before the girl, he said in a loud voice, 'What I was going to do hasn't been attended to at all,' and with a heavy tread he went out of the door. Then I started to make apologies for the day before, but she interrupted me and said, 'Let us forget that, and talk of more sensible things.'

"She raised her head, looked at me from head to foot, and continued in a calm tone of voice, 'I scarcely remember the beginning of our acquaintance, but for some time you have been calling more and more frequently, and we have become accustomed to you. Nobody will deny that you have an honest heart, but you are weak and always interested in matters of secondary importance, so that you are hardly capable of managing your own affairs. It is therefore the duty of your friends and acquaintances to look out for you, in order that people may not take advantage of you. Frequently you sit here in the store half the day, counting and weighing, measuring and bargaining, but what good does that do you? How do you expect to make your living in future?' I mentioned the inheritance from my father. 'I suppose it's quite large,' she said. I named the amount. 'That's much and little,' she replied. 'Much to invest, little to live upon. My father made you a proposition, but I dissuaded you. For, on the one hand, he has lost money himself in similar ventures, and on the other hand,' she added with lowered voice, 'he is so accustomed to take advantage of strangers that it's quite possible he wouldn't treat friends any better. You must have somebody at your side who has your interests at heart.' I pointed to her. 'I am honest,' she said, laying her hand upon her heart. Her eyes, which were ordinarily of a greyish hue, shone bright blue, the blue of the sky. 'But I'm in a peculiar position. Our business yields little profit, and so my father intends to set himself up as an innkeeper. Now that's no place for me, and nothing remains for me, therefore, but needlework, for I will not go out as a servant.' As she said this she looked like a queen. 'As a matter of fact I've had another offer,' she continued, drawing a letter from her apron and throwing it half reluctantly upon the counter. 'But in that case I should be obliged to leave the city.' 'Would you have to go far away?' I asked. 'Why? What difference would that make to you?' I told her I should move to the same place. 'You're a child,' she said. 'That wouldn't do at all, and there are quite different matters to be considered. But if you have confidence in me and like to be near me, buy the millinery store next door, which is for sale. I understand the business, and you can count on a reasonable profit on your investment. Besides, keeping the books and attending to the correspondence would supply you with a proper occupation. What might develop later on, we'll not discuss at present. But you would have to change, for I hate effeminate men.' I had jumped up and seized my hat. 'What's the matter? Where are you going?' she asked. 'To countermand everything!' I said breathlessly. 'Countermand what?' I then told her of my plan for the establishment of a copying and information bureau. 'There isn't much in that,' she suggested. 'Information anybody can get for himself, and everybody has learned to write in school.' I remarked that music was also to be copied, which was something that not everybody could do. 'So you're back at your old nonsense?' she burst out. 'Let your music go, and think of more important matters. Besides, you're not able to manage a business yourself.' I explained that I had found a partner. 'A partner?' she exclaimed. 'You'll surely be cheated. I hope you haven't advanced any money?' I was trembling without knowing why. 'Did you advance any money?' she asked once more. I admitted that I had advanced the three thousand gulden for the initial equipment. 'Three thousand gulden!' she exclaimed; 'as much as that?' 'The rest,' I continued, 'is deposited with the court, and that's safe at all events.' 'What, still more?' she screamed. I mentioned the amount of the bond. 'And did you pay it over to the court personally?' 'My partner paid it.' 'But you have a receipt for it.' 'I haven't.' 'And what is the name of your fine partner?' she asked. It was a relief to be able to mention my father's secretary.

"'Good heavens!' she cried, starting up and wringing her hands. 'Father! Father!' The old man entered. 'What was that you read in the papers today?' 'About the secretary?' he asked. 'Yes, yes!' 'Oh, he absconded, left nothing but debts, and swindled everybody. A warrant for his arrest has been issued.' 'Father,' she cried, 'here's one of his victims. He intrusted his money to him. He is ruined!'

"'Oh, you blockhead! The fools aren't all dead yet,' cried the old man. 'Didn't I tell her so? But she always found an excuse for him. At one time she ridiculed him, at another time he was honesty itself. But I'll take a hand in this business! I'll show you who's master in this house. You, Barbara, go to your room, and quickly. And you, sir, get out, and spare us your visits in future. We're not in the charity business here.' 'Father,' said the girl, 'don't be harsh with him; he's unhappy enough as it is!' 'That's the very reason I don't want to become unhappy too,' cried the old man. 'There, sir,' he continued, pointing to the letter Barbara had thrown upon the table a short time before, 'there's a man for you! He's got brains in his head and money in his purse. He doesn't swindle any one, but he takes good care at the same time not to let any one swindle him. And that's the main thing in being honest!' I stammered something about the loss of the bond not being certain. 'Ha, ha,' he cried, 'that secretary was no fool, the sly rascal! And now you'd better run after him, perhaps you can still catch him.' As he said this, he laid the palm of his hand on my shoulder and pushed me toward the door. I moved to one side and turned toward the girl, who was standing with her hands resting on the counter and her eyes fixed on the ground. She was breathing heavily. I wanted to approach her, but she angrily stamped her foot upon the floor; and when I held out my hand, hers twitched as though she were going to strike me again. Then I went, and the old man locked the door behind me.

"I tottered through the streets out of the city gate into the open fields. Sometimes despair gripped me, but then hope returned. I recollected having accompanied the secretary to the commercial court to deposit the bond. There I had waited in the gateway while he had gone upstairs alone. When he came down he told me that everything was in order and that the receipt would be sent to my residence. As a matter of fact I had received none, but there was still a possibility. At daybreak I returned to the city, and made straightway for the residence of the secretary. But the people there laughed and asked whether I hadn't read the papers? The commercial court was only a few doors away. I had the clerks examine the records, but neither his name nor mine could be found. There was no indication that the sum had ever been paid, and thus the disaster was certain. But that wasn't all, for inasmuch as a partnership contract had been drawn up, several of his creditors insisted upon seizing my person, which the court, however, would not permit. For this decision I was profoundly grateful, although it wouldn't have made much difference in the end.

"I may as well confess that the grocer and his daughter had, in the course of these disagreeable developments, quite receded into the background. Now that things had calmed down and I was considering what steps to take next, the remembrance of that last evening came vividly back to my mind. The old man, selfish as he was, I could understand very well; but the girl! Once in a while it occurred to me that if I had taken care of my money and been able to offer her a comfortable existence, she might have even--but she wouldn't have accepted me." With that he surveyed his wretched figure with hands outstretched. "Besides, she disliked my courteous behavior toward everybody."

"Thus I spent entire days thinking and planning. One evening at twilight--it was the time I had usually spent in the store--I had transported myself in spirit to the accustomed place. I could hear them speaking, hear them abusing me; it even seemed as though they were ridiculing me. Suddenly I heard a rustling at the door; it opened, and a woman entered. It was Barbara. I sat riveted to my chair, as though I beheld a ghost. She was pale, and carried a bundle under her arm. When she had reached the middle of the room she remained standing, looked at the bare walls and the wretched furniture, and heaved a deep sigh. Then she went to the wardrobe which stood on one side against the wall, opened her bundle containing some shirts and handkerchiefs--she had been attending to my laundry during the past few weeks--and pulled out the drawer. When she beheld the meagre contents she lifted her hands in astonishment, but immediately began to arrange the linen and put away the pieces she had brought, whereupon she stepped back from the bureau. Then she looked straight at me and, pointing with her finger to the open drawer, she said, 'Five shirts and three handkerchiefs. I'm bringing back what I took away.' So saying she slowly closed the drawer, leaned against the wardrobe, and began to cry aloud. It almost seemed as though she were going to faint, for she sat down on a chair beside the wardrobe and covered her face with her shawl. By her convulsive breathing I could see that she was still weeping. I had approached her softly and took her hand, which she willingly left in mine. But when, in order to make her look up, I moved my hand up to the elbow of her limp arm, she rose quickly, withdrew her hand, and said in a calm voice, 'Oh, what's the use of it all? You've made yourself and us unhappy; but yourself most of all, and you really don't deserve any pity'--here she became more agitated--'since you're so weak that you can't manage your own affairs and so credulous that you trust everybody, a rogue as soon as an honest man--and yet I'm sorry for you! I've come to bid you farewell. You may well look alarmed. And it's all your doing. I've got to go out among common people, something that I've always dreaded; but there's no help for it. I've shaken hands with you, so farewell, and forever!' I saw the tears coming to her eyes again, but she shook her head impatiently and went out. I felt rooted to the spot. When she had reached the door she turned once more and said, 'Your laundry is now in order. Take good care of it, for hard times are coming!' And then she raised her hand, crossed herself, and cried, 'God be with you, James! Forever and ever, Amen!' she added in a lower voice, and was gone.

"Not until then did I regain the use of my limbs. I hurried after her and called to her from the landing, whereupon she stopped on the stairway, but when I went down a step she called up, 'Stay where you are,' descended the rest of the way, and passed out of the door.

"I've known hard days since then, but none to equal this one. The following was scarcely less hard to bear, for I wasn't quite clear as to how things stood with me. The next morning, therefore, I stole over to the grocery store in the hope of possibly receiving some explanation. No one seemed to be stirring, and so I walked past and looked into the store. There I saw a strange woman weighing goods and counting out change. I made bold to enter, and asked whether she had bought the store. 'Not yet,' she said. 'And where are the owners?' 'They left this morning for Langenlebarn.' [63] 'The daughter, too?' I stammered. 'Why, of course,' she said, 'she went there to be married.'

"In all probability the woman told me then what I learned subsequently from others. The Langenlebarn butcher, the same one I had met in the store on my first visit, had been pursuing the girl for some time with offers of marriage, which she had always rejected until finally, a few days before, pressed by her father and in utter despair, she had given her consent. Father and daughter had departed that very morning, and while we were talking, Barbara was already the butcher's wife.

"As I said, the woman no doubt told me all this, but I heard nothing and stood motionless, till finally customers came, who pushed me aside. The woman asked me gruffly whether there was anything else I wanted, whereupon I took my departure.

"You'll believe me, my dear sir," he continued, "when I tell you that I now considered myself the most wretched of mortals, but it wasn't for long, for as I left the store and looked back at the small windows at which Barbara no doubt had often stood and looked out, a blissful sensation came over me. I felt that she was now free of all care, mistress of her own home, that she did not have to bear the sorrow and misery that would have been hers had she cast in her lot with a homeless wanderer--and this thought acted like a soothing balm, and I blessed her and her destiny.

"As my affairs went from bad to worse, I decided to earn my living by means of music. As long as my money lasted, I practised and studied the works of the great masters, especially the old ones, copying all of the music. But when the last penny had been spent, I made ready to turn my knowledge to account. I made a beginning in private circles, a gathering at the house of my landlady furnishing the first opportunity. But as the compositions I rendered didn't meet with approval, I visited the courtyards of houses, believing that among so many tenants there must be a few who value serious music. Finally, I even stood on public promenades, where I really had the satisfaction of having persons stop and listen, question me and pass on, not without a display of sympathy. The fact that they left was the very object of my playing, and then I saw that famous artists, whom I didn't flatter myself I equaled, accepted money for their performances, sometimes very large sums. In this way I have managed to make a scanty, but honest, living to this day.

"After many years another piece of good fortune was granted to me. Barbara returned. Her husband had prospered and acquired a butcher shop in one of the suburbs. She was the mother of two children, the elder being called James, like myself. My profession and the remembrance of old times didn't permit me to intrude; but at last they sent for me to give the elder boy lessons on the violin. He hasn't much talent to be sure, and can play only on Sundays, since his father needs him in his business during the week. But Barbara's song, which I have taught him, goes very well, and when we practise and play in this way, the mother sometimes joins in with her voice. She has, to be sure, changed greatly in these many years; she has grown stout, and no longer cares much for music; but the melody still sounds as sweet as of old."

With these words the old man took up his violin and began to play the song, and kept on playing and playing without paying any further attention to me. At last I had enough. I rose, laid a few pieces of silver upon the table near me, and departed, while the old man continued fiddling eagerly.

Soon after this incident I set out on a journey, from which I did not return until the beginning of winter. New impressions had crowded out the old, and I had almost forgotten my musician. It wasn't until the ice broke up in the following spring and the low-lying suburbs were flooded in consequence, that I was again reminded of him. The vicinity of Gardener's Lane had become a lake. There seemed to be no need of entertaining fears for the old man's life, for he lived high up under the roof, whereas death had claimed its numerous victims among the residents of the ground floor. But cut off from all help, how great might not his distress be! As long as the flood lasted, nothing could be done. Moreover, the authorities had done what they could to send food and aid in boats to those cut off by the water. But when the waters had subsided and the streets had become passable, I decided to deliver at the address that concerned me most my share of the fund that had been started for the benefit of the sufferers and that had assumed incredible proportions.

The Leopoldstadt was in frightful condition. Wrecked boats and broken tools were lying in the streets, while the cellars of some houses were still filled with water covered with floating furniture. In order to avoid the crowd I stepped aside toward a gate that stood ajar; as I brushed by it yielded, and in the passageway I beheld a row of dead bodies, which had evidently been picked up and laid out there for official inspection. Here and there I could even see unfortunate victims inside the rooms, still clinging to the iron window bars. For lack of time and men it was absolutely impossible to take an official census of so many fatalities.

Thus I went on and on. On all sides weeping and tolling of funeral bells, anxious mothers searching for their children and children looking for their parents. At last I reached Gardener's Lane. There also the mourners of a funeral procession were drawn up, seemingly at some distance, however, from the house I was bound for. But as I came nearer I noticed by the preparations and the movements of the people that there was some connection between the funeral procession and the gardener's house. At the gate stood a respectable looking man, somewhat advanced in years, but still vigorous. In his high top-boots, yellow leather breeches, and long coat, he looked like a country butcher. He was giving orders, but in the intervals conversed rather indifferently with the bystanders. I passed him and entered the court. The old gardener's wife came toward me, recognized me at once, and greeted me with tears in her eyes. "Are you also honoring us?" she said, "Alas, our poor old man! He's playing with the angels, who can't be much better than he was here below. The good man was sitting up there safe in his room; but when the water came and he heard the children scream, he jumped down and helped; he dragged and carried them to safety, until his breathing sounded like a blacksmith's bellows. And when toward the very last--you can't have your eyes everywhere--it was found that my husband had forgotten his tax-books and a few paper gulden in his wardrobe, the old man took an axe, entered the water which by that time reached up to his chest, broke open the wardrobe and fetched everything like the faithful creature he was. In this way he caught a cold, and as we couldn't summon aid at once, he became delirious and went from bad to worse, although we did what we could and suffered more than he did himself. For he sang incessantly, beating time and imagining that he was giving lessons. When the water had subsided somewhat and we were able to call the doctor and the priest, he suddenly raised himself in bed, turned his head to one side as though he heard something very beautiful in the distance, smiled, fell back, and was dead. Go right up stairs; he often spoke of you. The lady is also up there. We wanted to have him buried at our expense, but the butcher's wife would not allow it."

She urged me to go up the steep staircase to the attic-room. The door stood open, and the room itself had been cleared of everything except the coffin in the centre, which, already closed, was waiting for the pall-bearers. At the head sat a rather stout woman no longer in the prime of life, in a colored cotton dress, but with a black shawl and a black ribbon in her bonnet. It seemed almost as though she could never have been beautiful. Before her stood two almost grown-up children, a boy and a girl, whom she was evidently instructing how to behave at the funeral. Just as I entered she was pushing the boy's arm away from the coffin, on which he had been leaning in rather awkward fashion; then she carefully smoothed the projecting corners of the shroud. The gardener's wife led me up to the coffin, but at that moment the trombones began to play, and at the same time the butcher's voice was heard from the street, "Barbara, it's time." The pall-bearers appeared and I withdrew to make room for them. The coffin was lifted and carried down, and the procession began to move. First came the school children with cross and banner, then the priest and the sexton. Directly behind the coffin marched the two children of the butcher, and behind them came the parents. The man moved his lips incessantly, as if in devout prayer, yet looked constantly about him in both directions. The woman was eagerly reading in her prayer-book, but the two children caused her some trouble. At one time she pushed them ahead, at another she held them back; in fact the general order of the funeral procession seemed to worry her considerably. But she always returned to her prayer-book. In this way the procession arrived at the cemetery. The grave was open. The children threw down the first handful of earth, being followed by their father, who remained standing while their mother knelt, holding her book close to her eyes. The grave-diggers completed their business, and the procession, half disbanded, returned. At the door there was a slight altercation, as the wife evidently considered some charge of the undertaker too high. The mourners scattered in all directions. The old musician was buried.

A few days later--it was a Sunday--I was impelled by psychological curiosity and went to the house of the butcher, under the pretext that I wished to secure the violin of the old man as a keepsake. I found the family together, showing no token of recent distress. But the violin was hanging beside the mirror and a crucifix on the opposite wall, the objects being arranged symmetrically. When I explained the object of my visit and offered a comparatively high price for the instrument, the man didn't seem averse to concluding a profitable bargain. The woman, however, jumped up from her chair and said, "Well, I should say not. The violin belongs to James, and a few gulden more or less make no difference to us." With that she took the instrument from the wall, looked at it from all sides, blew off the dust, and laid it in the drawer, which she thereupon closed violently, looking as though she feared some one would steal it. Her face was turned away from me, so that I couldn't see what emotions were passing over it. At this moment the maid brought in the soup, and as the butcher, who didn't allow my visit to disturb him, began in a loud voice to say grace, in which the children joined with their shrill voices, I wished them a good appetite and left the room. My last glance fell upon the wife. She had turned around and the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

* * * * *

MY JOURNEY TO WEIMAR[64]

TRANSLATED BY ALFRED REMY, A.M.

Professor of Modern Languages. Brooklyn Commercial High School.

A journey is an excellent remedy for a perplexed state of mind. This time the goal of my journey was to be Germany. The German geniuses had, indeed, almost all departed from this life, but there was still one living, Goethe, and the idea of speaking with him or even of merely seeing him made me happy in anticipation. I never was, as was the fashion at that time, a blind worshipper of Goethe, any more than I was of any other one poet. True poetry seemed to me to lie where they met on common ground; their individual characteristics lent them, on the one hand, the charm of individuality, while, on the other hand, they shared the general propensity of mankind to err. Goethe, in particular, had, since the death of Schiller, turned his attention from poetry to science. By distributing his talents over too many fields, he deteriorated in each; his latest poetic productions were tepid or cool, and when, for the sake of pose, he turned to the classical, his poetry became affected. The impassiveness which he imparted to that period contributed perhaps more than anything else to the decadence of poetry, inasmuch as it opened the door to the subsequent coarseness of Young Germany, of popular poetry, and of the Middle-high German trash. The public was only too glad to have once again something substantial to feed upon. Nevertheless, Goethe is one of the greatest poets of all time, and the father of our poetry. Klopstock gave the first impulse, Lessing blazed the trail, Goethe followed it. Perhaps Schiller means more to the German nation, for a people needs strong, sweeping impressions; Goethe, however, appears to be the greater poet. He fills an entire page in the development of the human mind, while Schiller stands midway between Racine and Shakespeare. Little as I sympathized with Goethe's most recent activity, and little as I could expect him to consider the author of _The Ancestress_ and _The Golden Fleece_ worthy of any consideration, in view of the dispassionate quietism which he affected at the time, I nevertheless felt that the mere sight of him would be sufficient to inspire me with new courage. _Dormit puer, non mortuus est_. (The boy sleeps, he is not dead.)

* * * * *

At last I arrived in Weimar and took quarters in "The Elephant," a hostelry at that time famous throughout Germany and the ante-room, as it were, to the living Valhalla of Weimar. From there I dispatched the waiter with my card to Goethe, inquiring whether he would receive me. The waiter returned with the answer that His Excellency, the Privy-councilor, was entertaining some guests and could not, therefore, receive me at the moment. He would expect me in the evening for tea.

I dined at the hotel. My name had become known through my card and the report of my presence spread through the town, so that I made many acquaintances.

Toward evening I called on Goethe. In the reception-room I found quite a large assemblage waiting for His Excellency, the Privy-councilor, who had not yet made his appearance. Among these there was a court councilor, Jacob or Jacobs, with his daughter, whom Goethe had entertained at dinner. The daughter, who later won a literary reputation under the pseudonym of Talvj, was as young as she was beautiful, and as beautiful as she was cultured, and so I soon lost my timidity and in my conversation with the charming young lady almost forgot that I was in Goethe's house. At last a side door opened, and he himself entered. Dressed in black, the star[65] on his breast, with erect, almost stiff bearing, he stepped among us with the air of a monarch granting an audience. He exchanged a few words with one and another of his guests, and finally crossed the room and addressed me. He inquired whether Italian literature was cultivated to any great extent in our country. I told him, which was a fact, that the Italian language was, indeed, widely known, since all officials were required to learn it; Italian literature, on the other hand, was completely neglected; the fashion was rather to turn to English literature, which, despite its excellence, had an admixture of coarseness that seemed to me to be anything but advantageous to the present state of German culture, especially of poetry. Whether my opinion pleased him or not, I have no means of knowing; I am almost inclined to believe it did not, inasmuch as he was at that very time in correspondence with Lord Byron. He left me, talked with others, returned, conversed I no longer remember on what subjects, finally withdrew, and we were dismissed.

I confess that I returned to the hostelry in a most unpleasant frame of mind. It was not that my vanity had been offended--on the contrary, Goethe had treated me more kindly and more attentively than I had anticipated--but to see the ideal of my youth, the author of _Faust_, _Clavigo_, and _Egmont_, in the rôle of a formal minister presiding at tea brought me down from my celestial heights. Had his manner been rude or had he shown me the door, it would have pleased me better. I almost repented having gone to Weimar.

Consequently I determined to devote the following day to sightseeing, and ordered horses at the inn for the day following. On the morning of the next day visitors of all sorts put in an appearance, among them the amiable and respected Chancellor Müller, and, above all, my fellow-countryman Hummel, who for many years had been occupying the position of musical director in Weimar. He had left Vienna before my poetry had attracted attention, so that we had not become acquainted with each other. It was almost touching to witness the joy with which this ordinarily unsociable man greeted me and took possession of me. In the first place I probably revived in him memories of his native city, which he had left with reluctance; then, too, it probably gave him satisfaction to find his literary countryman honored and respected in Weimar, where he heard nothing but disparaging opinions regarding the intellectual standing of Austria. And, finally, he had an opportunity of conversing with a Viennese in his home dialect, which he had preserved pure and unadulterated while living among people who spoke quite differently. I do not know whether it was the contrast, or whether this really was the worst German I had ever heard in my life. While we were planning to visit some points of interest in Weimar, and while Chancellor Müller, who had probably noticed my depression, was assuring me that Goethe's formality was nothing but the embarrassment always displayed by him on meeting a stranger for the first time, the waiter entered and handed me a card containing an invitation from Goethe to dine with him the next day. I therefore had to prolong my stay and to countermand the order for the horses. The morning was passed in visiting the places that had become famous through their literary associations. Schiller's house interested me most of all, and I was especially delighted to find in the poet's study, really an attic-room in the second story, an old man who is said to have acted as prompter at the theatre in Schiller's time, teaching his grandson to read. The little boy's open and intelligently animated expression prompted the illusion that out of Schiller's study a new Schiller might some day emerge--an illusion which, to be sure, has not been realized.

The exact order of events is now confused in my mind. I believe it was on this first day that I dined with Hummel _en famille_. There I found his wife, formerly the pretty singer, Miss Röckel, whom I could well remember in page's attire and close-fitting silk tights. Now she was an efficient, respected housewife, who vied with her husband in amiability. I felt myself strongly drawn to the whole family and, in spite of his rather mechanical disposition, I honored and venerated Hummel as the last genuine pupil of Mozart.

In the evening I attended the theatre with Chancellor Müller, where an unimportant play was being given, in which, however, Graff, Schiller's first Wallenstein, had a rôle. I saw nothing particularly remarkable in him, and when I was told that, after the first performance, Schiller had rushed upon the stage, embraced Graff, and exclaimed that now for the first time did he understand his Wallenstein, I thought to myself--how much greater might the great poet have become had he ever known a public and real actors! It is remarkable, by the way, that Schiller, who is not at bottom very objective, lends himself so perfectly to an objective representation. He became figurative, while believing himself to be only eloquent--one more proof of his incomparable genius. In Goethe we find the exact opposite. While he is ordinarily called objective and is so to a great extent, his characters lose in the actual representation. His figurativeness is only for the imagination; in the representation the delicate, poetic tinge is necessarily lost. However, these are reflections for another time; they do not belong here.

At last the momentous day with its dinner-hour arrived, and I went to Goethe. The other guests, all of them men, were already assembled, the charming Talvj having departed with her father the morning after the tea-party and Goethe's daughter-in-law being absent from Weimar at the time. To the latter and to her daughter, who died when quite young, I later became very much attached. As I advanced into the room Goethe came toward me, and was now as amiable and cordial as he had recently been formal and cold. I was deeply moved. When we went in to dinner, and Goethe, who had become for me the embodiment of German Poetry and, because of the immeasurable distance between us, almost a mythological being, took my hand to lead me into the dining-room, the boy in me manifested itself once again and I burst into tears. Goethe took great pains to conceal my foolish emotion. I sat next to him at dinner and he was more cheerful and talkative than he had been for a long time, as the guests asserted later. The conversation, enlivened by him, became general, but Goethe frequently turned to me individually. However, I cannot recall what he said, except a good joke regarding Müllner's _Midnight Journal_. Unfortunately I made no notes concerning this journey, or, rather, I did begin a diary, but as the accident I had in Berlin made it at first impossible for me to write and later difficult, a great gap ensued. This deterred me from continuing it, and, besides, the difficulty of writing remained, even in Weimar. I therefore determined to fill in what was lacking immediately after my return to Vienna, while the events were still fresh in my memory. But when I arrived there some other work demanded immediate attention, and the matter soon escaped my mind; and therefore I retained in my memory nothing but general impressions of what I had almost called the most important moment of my life. Only one occurrence at dinner stands out in my memory--namely, in the ardor of the conversation I yielded to an old habit of breaking up the piece of bread beside me into unsightly crumbs. Goethe lightly touched each individual crumb with his finger and arranged them in a little symmetrical heap. Only after the lapse of some time did I notice this, and then I discontinued my handiwork.

As I was taking my leave, Goethe requested me to come the next morning and have myself sketched, for he was in the habit of having drawings made of those of his visitors who interested him. They were done in black crayon by an artist especially engaged for the work, and the pictures were then put into a frame which hung in the reception-room for this purpose, being changed in regular rotation every week. This honor was also bestowed upon me.

When I arrived the next morning the artist had not yet appeared; I was therefore directed to Goethe, who was walking up and down in his little garden. The cause of his stiff bearing before strangers now became clear to me. The years had not passed without leaving some traces. As he walked about in the garden, one could see that the upper part of his body, his head and shoulders, were bent slightly forward. This he wished to hide from strangers, and hence that forced straightening-up which produced an unpleasant impression. The sight of him in this unaffected carriage, wearing a long dressing-gown, a small skull-cap on his white hair, had something infinitely touching about it. He looked like a king, and again like a father. We walked up and down, engaged in conversation. He mentioned my _Sappho_ and seemed to think well of it, thus in a way praising himself, for I had followed fairly closely in his footsteps. When I complained of my isolated position in Vienna he remarked what we have since read in his printed works, that man can do efficient work only in the company of likeminded or congenial spirits. If he and Schiller had attained universal recognition, they owed it largely to this stimulating and supplementing reciprocal influence.

In the meantime the artist had arrived. We entered the house and I was sketched. Goethe had gone into his room, whence he emerged from time to time to satisfy himself as to the progress of the picture, which pleased him when completed. When the artist had departed Goethe had his son bring in some of his choicest treasures. There was his correspondence with Lord Byron; everything relating to his acquaintance with the Empress and the Emperor of Austria at Karlsbad; and finally the imperial Austrian copyright of his collected works. This latter he seemed to value very highly, either because he liked the conservative attitude of Austria, or because he regarded it as an oddity in contradistinction to the usual policy pursued in literary matters by this country. These treasures were wrapped separately in half-oriental fashion in pieces of silk, Goethe handling them with reverence. At last I was most graciously dismissed.

In the course of the day Chancellor Müller suggested my visiting Goethe toward evening; he would be alone, and my visit would by no means be unwelcome to him. Not until later did it occur to me that Müller could not have made the suggestion without Goethe's knowledge.

Now I committed my second blunder in Weimar. I was afraid to be alone with Goethe for an entire evening, and after considerable vacillation decided not to go. Several elements combined to produce this fear. In the first place, it seemed to me that there was nothing within the whole range of my intellect worthy of being displayed before Goethe. Secondly, it was not until later that I learned to place the proper value upon my own works by comparing them with those of my contemporaries, the former appearing exceedingly crude and insignificant in contrast with the works of my predecessors, especially here in the home of German poetry. Finally, as I stated before, I had left Vienna with the feeling that my poetic talent had completely exhausted itself, a feeling which was intensified in Weimar to the point of actual depression. It seemed to me an utterly unworthy proceeding to fill Goethe's ears with lamentations and to listen to words of encouragement for which there seemed to be no guarantee of fulfilment.

Yet there was some method in this madness after all. Goethe's aversion at that time for anything violent and forced was well known to me. Now I was of the opinion that calmness and deliberation are appropriate only to one who is capable of introducing such a wealth of thought into his works as Goethe has done in his _Iphigenia_ and _Tasso_. At the same time I held the opinion that every one must emphasize those qualities with which he is most strongly endowed, and these in my case were at that time warmth of feeling and vividness of imagination. Occupying, as I then did, the viewpoint of impartial observation, I felt that I was far too weak to defend against Goethe the causes of such divergence from his own views, and I had far too much reverence for him to accept his exposition with pretended approval or in hypocritical silence.

At all events I did not go, and that displeased Goethe. He had good cause to feel astonished that I should display such indifference to the proffered opportunity of enlightening him concerning my works and myself; or else he came nearer to the truth, and imagined that _The Ancestress_ and my predilection for similar effusions, which were repugnant to him, were not entirely quenched within me; or perhaps he divined my entire mood, and concluded that an unmanly character was bound to ruin even a great talent. From that time on he was much colder toward me.

But as far as this unmanliness is concerned, I confess, as I have previously done, to falling a prey to this weakness whenever I find myself confronted with a confused mass of sensations of lesser importance, especially with goodwill, reverence, and gratitude. Whenever I was able to define the opposing factors sharply to myself in the rejection of the bad as well as in the perseverance in a conviction, I displayed both before and after this period a firmness which, indeed, might even be called obstinacy. But in general it may safely be asserted: Only the union of character and talent produces what is called genius.

On one of these days I was also commanded to appear before the grand duke, whom I met in all his simplicity and unaffectedness in the so-called Roman House. He conversed with me for over an hour, and my description of Austrian conditions seemed to interest him. Not he, but most of the others, hinted at the desire of acquiring my services for the Weimar theatre--a desire that did not coincide with my own inclination.

When on the fourth day of my stay I paid my farewell visit to Goethe, he was friendly, but somewhat reserved. He expressed astonishment at my leaving Weimar so soon, and added that they would all be glad to hear from me occasionally. "They," then, would be glad, not he. Even in later years he did not do me justice, for I do consider myself the best poet that has appeared after him and Schiller, in spite of the gulf that separates me from them. That all this did not lessen my love and reverence for him, I need scarcely say.

* * * * *

BEETHOVEN AS A LETTER WRITER

BY WALTER R. SPALDING, A.M.

Associate Professor of Music, Harvard University

The first musician to whom a place among the representative masters of German literature may justly be assigned is Beethoven, and this fact is so significant and so closely connected with the subsequent development both of music and literature that the reasons for such a statement should be set forth in detail. Although Haydn kept a note-book, still extant, during his two visits to London, and although Mozart wrote the average number of letters, from no one of the musicians prior to Beethoven have we received, in writings which can be classed as literature, any expression of their personalities. Their intellectual and imaginative activity was manifested almost exclusively in music, and their interest in whatever lay outside the musical horizon was very slight. In the written words of neither Haydn nor Mozart do we find any reference to the poetical and prose works of Germany or of other nations, nor is there any evidence that their imaginations were influenced by suggestions drawn from literature. Famous though they were as musicians by reason of their sincere and masterful handling of the raw material of music, there is so little depth of thought in their compositions that many of them have failed to live. Neither Haydn nor Mozart can be considered as a great character and we miss the note of sublimity in their music, although it often has great vitality and charm. Beethoven, however, was a thinker in tones and often in words.

His symphonies are human documents, and even had he not written a single note of music we have sufficient evidence in verbal form to convince us that his personality was one of remarkable power and that music was only one way, though, to be sure, the foremost, of expressing the depth of his feeling and the range of his mental activity. In distinction from his predecessors, who were merely musicians, Beethoven was a man first and a musician second, and the lasting vitality in his works is due to their broad human import; they evidently came from a character endowed with a rich and fertile imagination, from one who looked at life from many sides. Several of his most famous compositions were founded on works of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Schiller, and the Heroic Symphony bears witness to his keen interest in the momentous political changes of his time and in the growth of untrammeled human individuality. No mere manipulator of sounds and rhythms could have impressed the fastidious nobility of Vienna to the high degree chronicled by contemporary testimony. Beethoven wished to be known as a _Tondichter_, i.e., a first-hand creator, and his whole work was radically different from the rather cautious and imitative methods which had characterized former composers. It was through the cultivated von Breuning family of Bonn that the young Beethoven became acquainted with English literature, and his growing familiarity with it exerted a strong influence upon his whole life and undoubtedly increased the natural vigor of his imagination, for the literature of England surpassed anything which had so far been produced by Germany. Later, in 1823, when the slavery debates were going on in Parliament, he used to read with keen interest the speeches of Lord Brougham.

In estimating the products of human imagination during the last century, a fact of great significance is the relationship of the arts of literature and of music. Numerous examples might be cited of men who were almost equally gifted in expressing themselves in either words or musical sounds--notably von Weber, E.T.A. Hoffmann, Spohr, Schumann, and Mendelssohn, this dual activity reaching a remarkable climax in Richard Wagner, who was both a great dramatic poet and an equally supreme musician. The same tendency is manifested by leaders of thought in other nations. Thus the French Berlioz and St. Saëns are equally noted as composers and men of letters; the Italian Boito is an able dramatist as well as composer; and, among modern instances, Debussy, d'Indy, and Strauss have shown high literary as well as musical ability. To turn to the other side of this duality, allusions to music in works of both prose and poetry have become increasingly frequent during the nineteenth century, and the musical art is no longer considered a mysterious abstraction entirely divorced from the outward world of men and events. It is a long step from Goethe, who was entirely unable to grasp the meaning of Beethoven's symphonies, to such men as Heine, who has made some very illuminating comments on various composers and their music; Max Müller, a highly cultivated musical amateur; Schopenhauer, whose esthetic principles so deeply influenced Wagner; and Nietzsche, a musician of considerable technical ability. To these names should be added that of Robert Browning who, together with Shakespeare, has shown a truer insight into the real nature of music than any other English writers have manifested.

With Beethoven, then, music ceases to be an opportunity for the display of mere abstract skill and takes its place on an equality with the arts of poetry and painting as a means of intense personal expression. If the basis of all worth in literature is that the writer shall have something genuine to say, Beethoven's letters are certainly literature, for they are the direct revelation of a great and many-sided personality and furnish invaluable testimony as to just what manner of man he was--too great indeed for music wholly to contain him. The Letters are not to be read for their felicity of expression, as one might approach the letters of Stevenson or Lamb; for Beethoven, even in his music, always valued substance more than style, or, at any rate, kept style subservient to vitality of utterance. In fact, one modern French musician claims that he had no taste! He was not gifted with the literary charm and subtlety of his great follower, Hector Berlioz, and had no practise as a journalist or a critic. As his deafness increased after the year 1800 and he was therefore forced to live a life of retirement, he committed his thoughts more and more to writing, and undoubtedly left to the world a larger number of letters than if he had been taking a normal part in the activities of his fellowmen.

Particular attention is called to the variety of Beethoven's correspondents and to their influential position in the artistic and social life of that period. In the Will, number 55, a most impassioned expression of feeling, Beethoven lays bare his inmost soul, and with an eloquence seldom surpassed has transformed cold words into living symbols of emotion. The immortal power contained in his music finds its parallel in this document. He who appeals to our deepest emotions commands for all time our reverent allegiance. In addition to the letters there is an extensive diary and also numerous conversation books. All these writings are valuable, not only for themselves, but because they confirm in an unmistakable way certain of the salient characteristics of his musical compositions. With Beethoven we find in instrumental music, practically for the first time, a prevailing note of sublimity. He must have been a religious man in the truest sense of the term, with the capacity to realize the mystery and grandeur of human destiny, and numerous passages from the letters give eloquent expression to an analogous train of serious thought. (See letters 1017 and 1129.) One of his favorite books was Sturm's _Betrachtungen über die Werke Gottes in der Natur_ ("Contemplations upon the Works of God in Nature"), and from his diary of 1816 we have the quotation which was the basis of his creed--"God is immaterial, and for this reason transcends every conception. Since he is invisible He can have no form. But from what we observe in His work we may conclude that He is eternal, omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent."

Although some modern critics have doubted whether music without the association of words can express humor, the introduction of this element into symphonic music is generally considered one of Beethoven's greatest achievements. While it is true that if any one listening to the scherzos of the Third and Eighth symphonies asserts that they mean nothing humorous to him no one can gainsay him, we know that Beethoven intended these movements to be expressions of his overflowing humorous spirits and the suggestive term "scherzo" is his own invention. In music, as in literature, much hinges upon the definition of humor, and there is the same distinction in each art between wit--light and playful, and humor--broad, serious, and, at times, even grim. A genuine humorist is always a deep thinker, one who sees all sides of human nature--the great traits and the petty ones. The poet Lowell has defined humor as consisting in the contrast of two ideas, and in a Beethoven scherzo the gay and the pathetic are so intermingled that we are in constant suspense between laughter and tears. A humorist, furthermore, is a person of warm heart, who looks with sympathetic affection upon the incongruities of human nature. In fact, both the expression and the perception of humor are social acts, as may be seen from the development of this subject by the philosopher Bergson in his brilliant essay _On Laughter_. That Beethoven the humorist was closely related to Beethoven the humanist, and that the expression of humor in his music--something quite different from the facile wit and cleverness of the Haydn minuet--was inevitable with him, is clearly proved by the presence of the same spirit in so many of the letters. Too much stress has been laid by Beethoven's biographers upon his buffoonery and fondness for practical jokes. At bottom he was most tender-hearted and sympathetic; his nature, of volcanic impetuosity, a puzzling mixture of contradictory emotions. In but very few of his great works is the element of humor omitted, and its expression ranges all the way from the uproariously comic to the grimly tragic. Some of his scherzos reveal the same fantastic caprice which is found in the medieval gargoyles of Gothic architecture.

Beethoven's letters, then, are to be considered as the first distinct evidence we have of that change in the musical sense which has brought about such important developments in the trend of modern music. Just as in Beethoven's works we generally feel that there is something behind the notes, and as he is said always to have composed with some poetical picture in his mind, so the music of our time has become programmistic in the wide sense of the term, no longer a mere embodiment of the laws of its own being but charged with vital and dramatic import, closely related to all artistic expression and to the currents of daily life. Familiarity with the selection of letters here published cannot fail to contribute to a deeper enjoyment of Beethoven's music, for through them we realize that the universality of the artist was the direct consequence of the emotional breadth of the man. All art is a union of emotion and intellect, and their perfect balance is the paramount characteristic of this master.

* * * * *

BEETHOVEN'S LETTERS[66]

TRANSLATED BY J.S. SHEDLOCK

NO. 8

TO DR. FRANZ WEGELER IN VIENNA

(Between 1794-1796)

My dearest, my best one!

What a horrid picture you have drawn to me of myself. I recognize it; I do not deserve your friendship. You are so noble, so kindly disposed, and now for the first time I do not dare to compare myself with you; I have fallen far below you. Alas! for weeks I have given pain to my best, my noblest friends. You believe I have ceased to be kind-hearted, but, thank heaven, 'tis not so! It was not intentional, thought-out malice on my part, which caused me to act thus; but my unpardonable thoughtlessness, which prevented me from seeing the matter in the right light. I am thoroughly ashamed for your sake, also for mine. I scarcely venture to beg you to restore your friendship. Ah, Wegeler! _My only consolation is that you knew me almost from my childhood_, and--oh! let me say it myself--I was really always of good disposition, and in my dealings always strove to be upright and honest; how, otherwise, could you have loved me! Could I, then, in so short a time have suddenly changed so terribly, so greatly to my disadvantage? Impossible that these feelings for what is great and good should all of a sudden become extinct! My Wegeler, dear and best one, venture once again to come to the arms of your B. Trust to the good qualities which you formerly found in him. I will vouch for it that the pure temple of holy friendship which you will erect on them will forever stand firm; no chance event, no storm will be able to shake its foundations--firm--eternal--our friendship--forgiveness--forgetting--revival of dying, sinking friendship. Oh, Wegeler! do not cast off this hand of reconciliation; place your hand in mine--O God!--but no more! I myself come to you and throw myself in your arms, and sue for the lost friend, and you will give yourself to me full of contrition, who loves and ever will be mindful of you.

BEETHOVEN.

I have just received your letter on my return home.

NO. 27

TO THE COMPOSER J.N. HUMMEL

(Vienna, circa 1799)

Do not come any more to me. You are a false fellow, and the hangman take all such!

BEETHOVEN.

NO. 28

TO THE SAME

(The next day)

Good Friend Nazerl:

You are an honorable fellow, and I see you were right. So come this afternoon to me. You will also find Schuppanzigh, and both of us will blow you up, thump you, and shake you; so you will have a fine time of it.

Your Beethoven, also named Mehlschoeberl, embraces you.

NO. 35

TO CARL AMENDA AT WIRBEN IN COURLAND

Vienna, June 1, 1800.

My Dear, My Good Amenda, My Heartily Beloved Friend:

With deep emotion, with mixed pain and pleasure, did I receive and read your last letter. To what can I compare your fidelity, your attachment to me. Oh! how pleasant it is that you have always remained so kind to me; yes, I also know that you, of all men, are the most trustworthy. You are no Viennese friend; no, you are one of those such as my native country produces. How often do I wish you were with me, for your Beethoven is most unhappy and at strife with nature and the Creator. The latter I have often cursed for exposing His creatures to the smallest chance, so that frequently the richest buds are thereby crushed and destroyed. Only think that the noblest part of me, my sense of hearing, has become very weak. Already when you were with me I noted traces of it, and I said nothing. Now it has become worse, and it remains to be seen whether it can ever be healed. * * * What a sad life I am now compelled to lead! I must avoid all that is near and dear to me, and then to be among such wretched egotistical beings as ----, etc.! I can say that among all Lichnowski has best stood the test. Since last year he has settled on me 600 florins, which, together with the good sale of my works, enables me to live without anxiety. Everything I write, I can sell immediately five times over, and also be well paid. * * * Oh! how happy should I now be if I had my perfect hearing, for I should then hasten to you. As it is, I must in all things be behindhand; my best years will slip away without bringing forth what, with my talent and my strength, I ought to have accomplished. I must now have recourse to sad resignation. I have, it is true, resolved not to worry about all this, but how is it possible? Yes, Amenda, if, six months hence, my malady is beyond cure, then I lay claim to your help. You must leave everything and come to me. I will travel (my malady interferes least with my playing and composition, most only in conversation), and you must be my companion. I am convinced good fortune will not fail me. With whom need I be afraid of measuring my strength? Since you went away I have written music of all kinds except operas and sacred works.

Yes, do not refuse; help your friend to bear with his troubles, his infirmity. I have also greatly improved my piano-forte playing. I hope this journey may also turn to your advantage; afterwards you will always remain with me. I have duly received all your letters, and although I have answered only a few, you have been always in my mind; and my heart, as always, beats tenderly for you. _Please keep as a great secret what I have told you about my hearing; trust no one, whoever it may be, with it_.

Do write frequently; your letters, however short they may be, console me, do me good. I expect soon to get another one from you, my dear friend. Don't lend out my _Quartet_ any more, because I have made many changes in it. I have only just learnt how to write quartets properly, as you will see when you receive them.

Now, my dear good friend, farewell! If perchance you believe that I can show you any kindness here, I need not, of course, remind you to address yourself first to

Your faithful, truly loving,

L. v. BEETHOVEN.

NO. 45

TO COUNTESS GIULIETTA GUICCIARDI

On the 6th July, 1801, in the morning

My Angel, My All, My Very Self:

Just a few words today, and indeed in pencil--with thine--only till tomorrow is my room definitely engaged; what an unworthy waste of time in such matters--why this deep sorrow where necessity speaks! Can our love endure otherwise than through sacrifices, through restraint in longing? Canst thou help not being wholly mine, can I, not being wholly thine? Oh! gaze at nature in all its beauty, and calmly accept the inevitable--love demands everything, and rightly so. _Thus is it for me with thee, for thee with me_, only thou so easily forgettest that I must live for myself and for thee--were we wholly united thou wouldst feel this painful fact as little as I should--my journey was terrible. I arrived here only yesterday morning at four o'clock, and as they were short of horses the mail-coach selected another route--but what an awful road! At the last stage but one I was warned against traveling by night; they frightened me with a wood, but that only spurred me on--and I was wrong, the coach must needs break down, the road being dreadful, a swamp, a mere country road; without the postillions I had with me I should have stuck on the way. Esterhazi, by the ordinary road, met with the same fate with eight horses as I with four--yet it gave me some pleasure, as successfully overcoming any difficulty always does. Now for a quick change from without to within--we shall probably soon see each other, besides, today I cannot tell thee what has been passing through my mind during the past few days concerning my life--were our hearts closely united I should not do things of this kind. My heart is full of many things I have to say to thee--ah, there are moments in which I feel that speech is powerless! Cheer up--remain my true, my only treasure, my all!!! as I to thee. The gods must send the rest--what for us must be and ought to be.

Thy faithful

LUDWIG.

Monday Evening, July 6.

Thou sufferest, thou my dearest love! I have just found out that the letters must be posted very early Mondays, Thursdays--the only days when the post goes from here to K. Thou sufferest--ah, where I am, art thou also with me! I will arrange for myself and Thee; I will manage so that I can live with thee; and what a life!!! But as it is--without thee!!! Persecuted here and there by the kindness of men, which I little deserve, and as little care to deserve. Humility of man toward man--it pains me--and when I think of myself in connection with the universe, what am I and what is He who is named the Greatest--and still this again shows the divine in man. I weep when I think that probably thou wilt get the first news from me only on Saturday evening. However much thou lovest me, my love for thee is stronger; but never conceal thy thoughts from me. Good-night! As I am taking the baths I must go to bed [two words scratched through]. O God--so near! so far! Our love--is it not a true heavenly edifice, firm as heaven's vault!

Good morning, on July 7.

While still in bed, my thoughts press to thee, my Beloved One, at moments with joy, and then again with sorrow, waiting to see whether fate will take pity on us. Either I must live wholly with thee, or not at all. Yes, I have resolved to wander in distant lands, until I can fly to thy arms and feel that with thee I have a real home; with thee encircling me about, I can send my soul into the kingdom of spirits. Yes, unfortunately, it must be so. Calm thyself, and all the more since thou knowest my faithfulness toward thee! Never can another possess my heart, never--never--O God! why must one part from what one so loves--and yet my life in V. at present is a wretched life! Thy love has made me one of the happiest and, at the same time, one of the unhappiest of men; at my age I need a quiet, steady life--but is that possible in our situation? My Angel, I have just heard that the post goes every day, and I must therefore stop, so that you may receive the letter without delay. Be calm--only by calm consideration of our existence can we attain our aim to live together; be calm--love me--today--yesterday--what tearful longing after thee--thee--thee--my life--my all--farewell! Oh, continue to love me--never, never misjudge the faithful heart

Of Thy Beloved

L.

Ever thine, ever thine, ever each other's.

NO. 55

TO HIS BROTHERS CARL AND ---- BEETHOVEN

O ye men who regard or declare me to be malignant, stubborn, or cynical, how unjust are ye towards me! You do not know the secret cause of my seeming so. From childhood onward, my heart and mind prompted me to be kind and tender, and I was ever inclined to accomplish great deeds. But only think that, during the last six years, I have been in a wretched condition, rendered worse by unintelligent physicians, deceived from year to year with hopes of improvement, and then finally forced to the prospect of _lasting infirmity_ (which may last for years, or even be totally incurable). Born with a fiery, active temperament, even susceptive of the diversions of society, I had soon to retire from the world, to live a solitary life. At times, even, I endeavored to forget all this, but how harshly was I driven back by the redoubled experience of my bad hearing! Yet it was not possible for me to say to men: Speak louder, shout, for I am deaf. Alas! how could I declare the weakness of a _sense_ which in me _ought_ to be more acute than in others--a sense which _formerly_ I possessed in highest perfection, a perfection such as few in my profession enjoy or ever have enjoyed; no, I cannot do it. Forgive, therefore, if you see me withdraw, when I would willingly mix with you. My misfortune pains me doubly in that I am certain to be misunderstood. For me there can be no recreation in the society of my fellow creatures, no refined conversations, no interchange of thought. Almost alone, and mixing in society only when absolutely necessary, I am compelled to live as an exile. If I approach near to people, a feeling of hot anxiety comes over me lest my condition should be noticed--for so it was during these past six months which I spent in the country. Ordered by my intelligent physician to spare my hearing as much as possible, he almost fell in with my present frame of mind, although many a time I was carried away by my sociable inclinations. But how humiliating was it, when some one standing close to me heard a distant flute, and I heard _nothing_, or a _shepherd singing_, and again I heard nothing. Such incidents almost drove me to despair; at times I was on the point of putting an end to my life--_art_ alone restrained my hand. Oh! it seemed as if I could not quit this earth until I had produced all I felt within me, and so I continued this wretched life--wretched, indeed, and with so sensitive a body that a somewhat sudden change can throw me from the best into the worst state. _Patience_, I am told, I must choose as my guide. I have done so--lasting, I hope, will be my resolution to bear up until it pleases the inexorable Parcæ to break the thread. Forced already, in my 28th year, to become a philosopher, it is not easy--for an artist more difficult than for any one else. O Divine Being, Thou who lookest down into my inmost soul, Thou understandest; Thou knowest that love for mankind and a desire to do good dwell therein! Oh, my fellow men, when one day you read this, remember that you were unjust to me and let the unfortunate one console himself if he can find one like himself, who, in spite of all obstacles which nature has thrown in his way, has still done everything in his power to be received into the ranks of worthy artists and men. You, my brothers Carl and ----, as soon as I am dead, beg Professor Schmidt, if he be still living, to describe my malady; and annex this written account to that of my illness, so that at least the world, so far as is possible, may become reconciled to me after my death. And now I declare you both heirs to my small fortune (if such it may be called). Divide it honorably and dwell in peace, and help each other. What you have done against me has, as you know, long been forgiven. And you, brother Carl, I especially thank you for the attachment you have shown toward me of late. My prayer is that your life may be better, less troubled by cares, than mine. Recommend to your children _virtue_; it alone can bring happiness, not money. I speak from experience. It was virtue which bore me up in time of trouble; to her, next to my art, I owe thanks for my not having laid violent hands on myself. Farewell, and love one another. My thanks to all friends, especially _Prince Lichnowski_ and _Professor Schmidt_. I should much like one of you to keep as an heirloom the instruments given to me by Prince L., but let no strife arise between you concerning them; if money should be of more service to you, just sell them. How happy I feel, that, even when lying in my grave, I may be useful to you!

So let it be. I joyfully hasten to meet death. If it come before I have had opportunity to develop all my artistic faculties, it will come, my hard fate notwithstanding, too soon, and I should probably wish it later--yet even then I shall be happy, for will it not deliver me from a state of endless suffering? Come when thou wilt, I shall face thee courageously. Farewell, and when I am dead do not entirely forget me. This I deserve from you, for during my lifetime I often thought of you, and how to make you happy. Be ye so.

LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN.

Heiligenstadt, October 6, 1802.

NO. 136

TO THERESE VON MALFATTI

(1807)

You receive herewith, honored Therese, what I promised, and had it not been for serious hindrances you would have received more, in order to show you that I always _offer more to my friends than I actually promise_. I hope and have every reason to believe that you are nicely occupied and as pleasantly entertained--but I hope not too much, so that you may also think of us. It would probably be expecting too much of you, or overrating my own importance, if I ascribed to you: "Men are not only together when they are together; even he who is far away, who has departed, is still in our thoughts." Who would ascribe anything of the kind to the lively T., who takes life so easily?

Pray do not forget the pianoforte among your occupations, or, indeed, music generally. You have such fine talent for it. Why not devote yourself entirely to it--you who have such feeling for all that is beautiful and good? Why will you not make use of this, in order that you may recognize in so beautiful an art the higher perfection which casts down its rays even on us. I am very solitary and quiet, although lights now and again might awaken me; but since you all went away from here, I feel in me a void which cannot be filled; my art, even otherwise so faithful to me, has not been able to gain any triumph. Your piano is ordered, and you will soon receive it. What a difference you will have found between the treatment of the theme I improvised one evening, and the way in which I recently wrote it down for you! Explain that to yourself, but don't take too much punch to help you. How lucky you are, to be able to go so soon to the country! I cannot enjoy that happiness until the 8th. I am happy as a child at the thought of wandering among clusters of bushes, in the woods, among trees, herbs, rocks. No man loves the country more than I; for do not forests, trees, rocks reëcho that for which mankind longs? Soon you will receive other compositions of mine, in which you will not have to complain much about difficulties. Have you read Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_, the _Schlegel translation of Shakespeare_? One has much leisure in the country, and it will perhaps be agreeable to you if I send you these works. I happen to have an acquaintance in your neighborhood, so perhaps I shall come early some morning and spend half an hour at your house, and be off again; notice that I shall inflict on you the shortest _ennui_.

Commend me to the good wishes of your father, your mother, although I can claim no right for so doing--and the same, likewise, to cousin MM. Farewell, honored T. I wish you all that is good and beautiful in life. Keep me, and willingly, in remembrance--forget my wild behavior. Be convinced that no one more than myself can desire to know that your life is joyous, prosperous, even though you take no interest in

Your most devoted servant and friend,

BEETHOVEN.

N.B.--It would really be very nice on your part to send me a few lines to say in what way I can be of service here.

NO. 151

TO THE BIGOTS

(Probably Summer, 1808)

Dear Marie, Dear Bigot:

Only with the deepest regret am I forced to perceive that the purest, most innocent, feelings can often be misconstrued. As you have received me so kindly, it never occurred to me to explain it otherwise than that you bestow on me your friendship. You must think me very vain or small-minded, if you suppose that the civility itself of such excellent persons as you are could lead me to believe that--I had at once won your affection. Besides, it is one of my first principles never to stand in other than friendly relationship with the wife of another man. Never by such a relationship (as you suggest) would I fill my breast with distrust against her who may one day share my fate with me--and so taint for myself the most beautiful, the purest life.

It is perhaps possible that sometimes I have not joked with Bigot in a sufficiently refined way; I have indeed told both of you that occasionally I am very free in speech. I am perfectly natural with all my friends, and hate all restraint. I now also count Bigot among them, and if anything I do displeases him, friendship demands from him and you to tell me so--and I will certainly take care not to offend him again; but how can good Marie put such bad meaning on my actions!

With regard to my invitation to take a drive with you and Caroline, it was natural that, as Bigot, the day before, was opposed to your going out alone with me, I was forced to conclude that you both probably found it unbecoming or objectionable--and when I wrote to you, I only wished to make you understand that I saw no harm in it. And so, when I further declared that I attached great value to your not declining, this was only that I might induce you to enjoy the splendid, beautiful day; I was thinking more of your and Caroline's pleasure than of mine, and I thought, _if I declared that mistrust on your part or a refusal would be a real offense to me_, by this means almost to compel you to yield to my wish. The matter really deserves careful reflection on your part as to how you can make amends for having spoilt this day so bright for me, owing as much to my frame of mind as to the cheerful weather. When I said that you misunderstand me, your present judgment of me shows that I was quite right--not to speak of what you thought to yourself about it. When I said that something bad would come of it if I came to you, this was more as a joke. The object was to show you how much everything connected with you attracts me, so that I have no greater wish than to be able always to live with you; and that is the truth. Even supposing there was a hidden meaning in it, the most holy friendship can often have secrets, but on that account to misinterpret the secret of a friend because one cannot at once fathom it--that you ought not to do. Dear Bigot, dear Marie, never, never will you find me ignoble. From childhood onwards I learnt to love virtue--and all that is beautiful and good. You have deeply pained me; but it shall only serve to render our friendship ever firmer. Today I am really not well, and it would be difficult for me to see you. Since yesterday, after the quartet, my sensitiveness and my imagination pictured to me the thought that I had caused you suffering. I went at night to the ball for distraction, but in vain. Everywhere the picture of you all pursued me; it kept saying to me--they are so good and perhaps through you they are suffering; thoroughly depressed, I hastened away. Write to me a few lines.

Your true friend BEETHOVEN embraces you all.

NO. 198

TO BREITKOPF AND HAERTEL

Vienna, August 8, 1809.

I have handed over to Kind and Co. a _sextet_ for 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, and 2 German lieder or songs, so that they may reach you as soon as possible--they are presents to you in return for all those things which I asked you for _as presents_; the _Musik Zeitung_ which I had also forgotten--I remind you in a friendly way about it. Perhaps you could let me have editions of Goethe's and Schiller's complete works--from their literary abundance something _comes in to you_, and I then send to you many things, i.e., _something which goes out into all the world_. Those two poets are my favorite poets, also Ossian, Homer, the latter whom I can, unfortunately, read only in translation. So these (Goethe and Schiller) you have only to shoot out from your literary store-house, and if you send them to me soon you will make me perfectly happy, and all the more so, seeing that I hope to pass the remainder of the summer in some cozy country corner. The sextet is one of my early things, and, moreover, was written in one night; the best one can say of it is that it was composed by an author who, at any rate, has produced better works--and yet, for many, such works are the best.

Farewell, and send very soon news to your most devoted

BEETHOVEN.

Of the 'cello Sonata I should like to have a few copies; I would indeed beg you always to send me half a dozen copies; I never sell any--there are, however, here and there poor _Musici_, to whom one cannot refuse a thing of that sort.

NO. 220

TO BETTINA BRENTANO

Vienna, August 11, 1810.

Dearest Bettina (Friend!):

No finer Spring than the present one--I say that and also feel it, because I have made your acquaintance. You yourself have probably seen that in society I am like a frog (fish) on the sand, which turns round and round, and cannot get away until a well-wishing Galatea puts him again into the mighty sea. Yes, I was quite out of my element, dearest Bettina; I was surprised by you at a moment when ill-humor was quite master of me, but it actually disappeared at sight of you. I at once perceived that you belonged to a different world from this absurd one, to which, with the best will, one cannot open one's ears. I myself am a wretched man and yet complain of others!--You will surely forgive me, with your good heart, which is seen in your eyes, and with your intelligence, which lies in your ears--at least our ears know how to flatter when they listen. My ears, unfortunately, are a barrier-wall through which I cannot easily hold friendly communication with men, else--perhaps!--I should have had more confidence in you. So I could only understand the great, intelligent look of your eyes, which so impressed me that I can never forget it. Dear Bettina (friend), beloved Maiden!--Art!--Who understands it, with whom can one speak concerning this great goddess! How dear to me were the few days when we gossiped or rather corresponded together! I have kept all the little notes on which stand your clever, dear, very dear, answers; so I have, at any rate, to thank my bad hearing that the best part of these fleeting conversations has been noted down. Since you went away I have had vexatious hours, hours of darkness, in which one can do nothing; after your departure I roamed about for full three hours in the Schoenbrunner Alley, also on the ramparts; but no angel met me who could take such hold on me as you, angel!--Forgive, dearest Bettina (friend), this digression from the key; I must have such intervals in order to give vent to my feelings. Then you have written, have you not, to Goethe about me? I would willingly hide my head in a sack, so as to hear and see nothing of what is going on in the world, because you, dearest angel, will not meet me. But I shall surely receive a letter from you? Hope nourishes me--it nourishes, indeed, half the world; I have had it as my neighbor all my life--what otherwise would have become of me? I here send, written with my own hand, "Kennst du das Land"--in remembrance of the hour in which I made your acquaintance. I also send the other which I have composed since I parted from you dear, dearest heart!--

Heart, my heart, what bodes the crisis, What oppresseth thee so sore? What a strange, untoward life this! I can fathom thee no more.

Yes, dearest Bettina (friend), send me an answer, write to me what will happen to me since my heart has become such a rebel. Write to your most faithful friend,

BEETHOVEN.

NO. 295

TO EMILIE M. AT H.

Teplitz, July 17, 1812.

My Dear Good Emilie, My Dear Friend!

I am sending a late answer to your letter; a mass of business and constant illness must be my excuse. That I am here for the restoration of my health proves the truth of my excuse. Do not snatch the laurel wreaths from Handel, Haydn, Mozart; they are entitled to them; as yet I am not.

Your pocket-book shall be preserved among other tokens of the esteem of many men, which I do not deserve.

Continue, do not only practise art, but get at the very heart of it; this it deserves, for only art and science raise men to the Godhead. If, my dear Emilie, you at any time wish to know something, write without hesitation to me. The true artist is not proud, for he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and, though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius appears only as a distant, guiding sun. I would, perhaps, rather come to you and your people than to many rich folk who display inward poverty. If one day I should come to H., I will come to you, to your house; I know no other excellencies in man than those which cause him to rank among better men; where I find this, there is my home.

If you wish, dear Emilie, to write to me, only address straight here where I shall remain for the next four weeks, or to Vienna; it is all one. Look upon me as your friend, and as the friend of your family.

LUDWIG V. BEETHOVEN.

NO. 300

TO BETTINA VON ARNIM

Teplitz, August 15, 1812.

Dearest, good Bettina!

Kings and princes can certainly create professors, privy councilors, and titles, and hang on ribbons of various orders, but they cannot create great men, master-minds which tower above the rabble; this is beyond them. Such men must therefore be held in respect. When two such as I and Goethe meet, these grand gentlemen are forced to note what greatness, in such as we are, means. Yesterday on the way home we met the whole Imperial family. We saw them from afar approaching, and Goethe slipped away from me and stood to one side. Say what I would, I could not induce him to advance another step, so I pushed my hat on my head, buttoned up my overcoat, and went, arms folded, into the thickest of the crowd. Princes and sycophants drew up in a line; Duke Rudolph took off my hat, after the Empress had first greeted me. Persons of rank _know_ me. To my great amusement I saw the procession defile past Goethe. Hat in hand, he stood at the side, deeply bowing. Then I mercilessly reprimanded him, cast his sins in his teeth, especially those of which he was guilty toward you, dearest Bettina, of whom we had just been speaking. Good heavens! Had I been in your company, as he has, I should have produced works of greater, far greater, importance. A musician is also a poet, and the magic of a pair of eyes can suddenly cause him to feel transported into a more beautiful world, where great spirits make sport of him and set him mighty tasks. I cannot tell what ideas came into my head when I made your acquaintance. In the little observatory during the splendid May rain--that was a fertile moment for me; the most beautiful themes then glided from your eyes into my heart, which one day will enchant the world when Beethoven has ceased to conduct. If God grant me yet a few years, then I must see you again, dear, dear Bettina; so calls the voice within me which never errs. Even minds can love each other. I shall always court yours; your approval is dearer to me than anything in the whole world. I gave my opinion to Goethe, that approval affects such men as ourselves and that we wish to be listened to with the intellect by those who are our equals. Emotion is only for women (excuse this); the flame of music must burst forth from the mind of a man. Ah! my dearest child, we have now for a long time been in perfect agreement about everything! The only good thing is a beautiful, good soul, which is recognized in everything, and in presence of which there need be no concealment. _One must be somebody if one wishes to appear so_. The world is bound to recognize one; it is not always unjust. To me, however, that is a matter of no importance, for I have a higher aim. I hope when I get back to Vienna to receive a letter from you. Write soon, soon, and a very long one; in 8 days from now I shall be there; the court goes tomorrow; there will be no more performance today. The Empress rehearsed her part with him. His duke and he both wished to play some of my music, but to both I made refusal. They are mad on Chinese porcelain, hence there is need for indulgence; for the intellect has lost the whip-hand. I will not play to these silly folk, who never get over that mania, nor will I write at public cost any stupid stuff for princes. Adieu, adieu, dearest; your last letter lay on my heart for a whole night, and comforted me. _Everything_ is allowed to musicians. Great heavens, how I love you!

Your sincerest friend and deaf brother,

BEETHOVEN.

NO. 615

TO HERR VON GOETHE

Vienna, April 12, 1811.

Your Excellency:

The pressing business of a friend of mine, one of your great admirers (as I also am), who is leaving here in a great hurry, gives me only a moment to offer my thanks for the long time I have known you (for I know you from the days of my childhood)--that is very little for so much. Bettina Brentano has assured me that you would receive me in a kindly--yes, indeed friendly, spirit. But how could I think of such a reception, seeing that I am only in a position to approach you with the deepest reverence, with an inexpressibly deep feeling for your noble creations? You will shortly receive from Leipzig, through Breitkopf and Haertel, the music to _Egmont_, this glorious _Egmont_, with which I, with the same warmth with which I read it, was again through you impressed by it and set it to music. I should much like to know your opinion of it; even blame will be profitable for me and for my art, and will be as willingly received as the greatest praise.

Your Excellency's great admirer,

LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN.

NO. 1017

TO B. SCHOTT & SON, MAINZ

(Summer, 1824).

Dear Sirs:

I only tell you that next week the works will certainly be sent off. You will easily understand, if you only imagine to yourself, that with uncertain copying I have to look through each part separately--for this branch has already decreased here in proportion as tuning has been taken up. Everywhere poverty of spirit--and of purse! Your _Cecilia_ I have not yet received.

The _Overture_ which you had from my brother was performed here a few days ago, and I received high praise for it, etc.--but what is all that in comparison with the great Tone-Master above--above--above--and with right the greatest of all, while here below everything is a mockery--_we the little dwarfs are the highest_!!!?? You will receive the quartet at the same time as the other works. You are so open and frank--qualities which I have never yet noticed in publishers--and this pleases me. Let us shake hands over it; who knows whether I shall not do that in person and soon! I should be glad if you would now at once forward the honorarium for the quartet to Friess, for I just now want a great deal of money; everything must come to me from abroad, and here and there a delay arises--through my own fault. My brother adds what is necessary about the works offered to, and accepted by, you. I greet you heartily. Junker, as I see from your newspaper, is still living; he was one of the first who _noticed_ me, an innocent and nothing more. Greet him.

In greatest haste, and yet not of shortest standing,

Yours,

BEETHOVEN.

NO. 1117

TO HIS NEPHEW CARL

Baden, October 5, 1825.

For God's sake, do come home again today! Who knows what danger might be threatening you! Hasten, hasten! My Dear Son!

Only nothing further--only come to my arms; you shall hear no harsh word. For Heaven's sake, do not rush to destruction! You will be received as ever with affection. As to considering what is to be done in future, we will talk this over in a friendly way--no reproaches, on my word of honor, for it would be of no use. You need expect from me only the most loving help and care.

Only come--come to the faithful heart of your father,

BEETHOVEN.

Come at once on receipt of this.

Si vous ne viendrez pas vous me tuerez surement.

VOLTI SUB.

NO. 1129

TO THE COPYIST RAMPEL

(1825)

Best Rampel, come tomorrow morning, but go to hell with your calling me gracious. _God alone can be called gracious_. The servant I have already engaged--only impress on her to be honest and attached to me, as well as orderly and punctual in her small services.

Your devoted BEETHOVEN.

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FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 2: Translator: Sir Theodore Mart Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 3: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 4: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 5: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 6: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 7: Translator: Richard Garnett. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 8: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 9: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 10: Translator: Franklin Johnson. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 11: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 12: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 13: Translator: Charles G. Leland. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 14: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 15: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 16: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 17: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 18: Translator: J.E. Wallis. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 19: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 20: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 21: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 22: Translator: T. Brooksbank. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 23: Translator: Edgar Alfred Bowring. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 24: Translator: Alma Strettell. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 25: Translator: W.H. Furness. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 26: Translator: John Todhunter. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 27: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 28: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 29: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 30: Translator: James Thomson. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 31: Translator: Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 32: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 33: Translator: "Stratheir." Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 34: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons.]

[Footnote 35: Translator: James Thomson. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 36: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 37: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 38: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 39: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 40: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 41: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 42: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 43: Translator: Sir Theodore Martin. Permission William Blackwood & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 44: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 45: Translator: Lord Houghton. Permission The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 46: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 47: Translator: Margaret Armour. Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 48: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 49: Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 50: Names of Student's Corps.]

[Footnote 51: Name of the University of Göttingen.]

[Footnote 52: Name of an Austrian periodical.]

[Footnote 53: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 54: According to that dignified and erudite work, the _Burschikoses Woerterbuch_, or Student-Slang Dictionary, "to bind a bear" signifies to contract a debt. The definition of a "sable," as given in the dictionary above cited is, "A young lady anxious to please."]

[Footnote 55: From _Ideen: Das Buch Le Grand_ (Chaps. VI-IX). Permission E.P. Dutton & Co., New York, and William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 56: From _Pictures of Travel_, permission W. Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 57: From _French. Affairs_; permission of William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 58: Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 59: Permission William Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 60: This prototype of "The House that Jack Built" is presumed to be a hymn in Seder Hagadah, fol. 23. The historical interpretation, says Mrs. Valentine, who has reproduced it in her Nursery Rhymes, was first given by P.N. Leberecht at Leipzig in 1731, and is printed in the Christian Reformer, vol. xvii, p. 28. The original is in Chaldee. It is throughout an allegory. The kid, one of the pure animals, denotes Israel. The Father by whom it was purchased is Jehovah; the two pieces of money signify Moses and Aaron. The cat means the Assyrians, the dog the Babylonians, the staff the Persians, the fire the Grecian Empire under Alexander the Great. The water betokens the Roman or the fourth of the great monarchies to whose dominion the Jews were subjected. The ox is a symbol of the Saracens, who subdued Palestine; the butcher that killed the ox denotes the crusaders by whom the Holy Land was taken from the Saracens; the Angel of Death the Turkish power to which Palestine is still subject. The tenth stanza is designed to show that God will take signal vengeance on the Turks, and restore the Jews to their own land.]

[Footnote 61: There is a concluding verse which Heine has omitted. "Then came the Holy One of Israel--blessed be he--and slew the Angel of Death, who," etc.--TRAN.]

[Footnote 62: A suburb of Vienna.]

[Footnote 63: In Lower Austria, on the railroad from Vienna to Eger.]

[Footnote 64: From Grillparzer's _Autobiography_ (1855).]

[Footnote 65: A decoration.]

[Footnote 66: A Critical Edition by Dr. A.C. Kalischer. Permission J.M. Dent & Co., London, and E.P. Dutton & Co., New York.]

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