Part 4

"DEAR FATHER,--It will please me very much to know that you are quite well. I am thankful to say, that since I left you, I have been in perfect health, and I have grown much taller, which is shown by the sleeves of my jacket, as they are now almost up to my elbows. I would not even yet have been able to write to you (as I had no money to pay the postage, and did not wish to put you to the expense of it) had not a stranger, who was up the _tower_ to see the fine view, offered to take my letter free. I live here very comfortably; and when I ring the evening bells, I always turn my eyes in your direction. I often wish I had wings to fly to you, and give you a surprise. I have plenty to do; you know already that I have to ring the bells every night; but besides this, when there is a funeral of any distinguished person, or when it is a feast-day, we have to ring all the bells; and that takes the whole of us to do. You see, dear father, it is a kind of music, and therefore the business of the town musician. Then I have all the boots and shoes to clean; to carry the bread from the baker's, and the water from the well; all the instruments to look after, and the church clock to keep right, and, on market days, I carry home the basket of provisions, walking behind my mistress, and run messages to the town when anything is wanted. When I am very heavily laden, I pack all into the basket, and Hannel the cook draws them up in it. Indeed, we sometimes draw up each other, which is good fun. However, I had a trick played on me lately, which was not very pleasant. We had been at a concert until late in the night, and my companions were this time obliged to help to carry home the instruments. Contrary to custom, they were very kind to me; packed the instruments carefully in the basket, and urged me to go likewise into it, faithfully promising to draw me up as soon as they reached the landing-place. They drew me up quickly enough until I was about half way; then the basket stood still, and I could not move it in the least. A loud laugh from the gallery soon informed me what the rogues had done. Only think, father, of my swinging up there in the middle of the night! and there they meant me to swing until morning. My seat was a very bad one; for I now found that they had so placed the instruments that I could not move. I sat on the sharp edges of the violin-cases, while the kettledrums lay on my stretched-out legs, and the mouths of the bugles and horns pierced into my sides. I could scarcely keep my eyes open, I was so sleepy; and, to make matters worse, it began to rain. I then became frightened lest the instruments should get injured, and cried out for help; but no answer came. It was all dark and silent above me. In my despair, I seized the drum-sticks, and began at first to play gently; but as this was of no avail, I thundered out on them in C, and then in G. This worked like a charm; and, continuing to rattle on the drum, I was drawn up as quick as lightning, when my comrades began to abuse me for the dreadful noise I was making. I, however, was not to blame, and threatened to tell the master what they had done; so, in the end, they were glad to get me, by smooth speeches, to say nothing.

"But they played me many wicked tricks; sometimes calling out 'Fire! fire!' and awakening me to give the alarm from the tower-bell to the people in the town; sometimes putting dead mice in my bed. But the worst thing they did was at a concert about a week ago, where I was to play on the violin, when they rubbed the bow over with grease. The master had expected to receive great applause by my playing; and you may fancy his and my consternation, when not a single note could I bring forth. For this piece of mischief, however, they were soundly thrashed; and now, I think they will leave me in peace. How much I wish you could hear the beautiful variations I have learnt, which the great Rhode of Paris composed. They are as beautiful as the voice of Malchen when she sings. What does Malchen do now, father? Is she still with her grandfather? and is my starling yet alive? Remember me to her, as well as to old Butter, the pastor, and the schoolmaster. My master's best violin cost forty dollars; and, would you believe it! there are violins which cost four and six hundred dollars! A single small violin of wood to cost as much as three or four small houses in our village! I can play on eight different instruments; but I detest the oboe, with its croaking voice. My master is very passionate; but I do not get so many cuffs as the others, although they always push me into the breach when they have done anything wrong. The mistress likes very much to scold; therefore I go out of her way as much as possible. The assistant Rupel is very kind to me; and when we are alone, we play beautiful duets together. Dear father, I would like to send you a little present, or some money; but I have not one farthing, although I spend nothing, and write music half the night. Perhaps afterwards I shall become only the richer for being now so poor. But I must finish, for my lamp is almost out, and my eyes will scarcely keep open. So excuse all the blots, and believe me, your affectionate and dutiful son,

"CHRISTLIEB FUNDUS."

About a fortnight after this letter had been despatched, a loud rapping was heard at the door at the foot of the tower. Christlieb looked out, and saw a countryman standing, who had a small basket in his hand, and who beckoned to Christlieb to come and speak to him. The latter immediately ran down.

"Are you Master Christlieb Fundus from Gelenau, the pupil of the town musician?" asked the man.

"Yes!" answered Christlieb; upon which the man handed him a letter, and the small basket, saying, "I have many greetings to you,--you will know from whom,--from old Butter and his little granddaughter; and from the old man the fiddler of Gelenau. If the berries in the basket are all gone to juice, it's not my fault; you will only be saved the trouble of eating them." The countryman laughed; and after receiving Christlieb's thanks, went away. Christlieb hastily opened the letter, which was from Malchen, and read:--

"DEAR CHRISTLIEB,--Your long, long letter we have all read; and it made us very happy to hear of your welfare. I have nothing to entertain you with in return; for there is no news here, everything goes on in the old jog-trot fashion. But how learned you have become! I could not understand parts of your letter, until father Kummas explained them. I knew not what an oboe was, nor anything of Rhode, or of his variations. If I were you, I would have the idle fellows who are so mischievous put into the dungeon, until they learnt to behave better. The schoolmaster has got a new velvet cap, and the church clock a new pointer. Your starling is still alive, and almost eats me up,--that is, my few half-pence. But for your sake I keep it, although my grandfather is always scolding about it.

"With this you will receive a small basket, containing some bramble and whortleberries, of which you used to be so fond. When you become a Paganini, and can get, as Kummas says, ever so many dollars for one night's playing, then send me a stylish cap back in the basket, or something very fine from the town. Above all things, don't become proud, or I shall vex myself to death. Don't let your companions see the basket for fear they steal the berries from you; and be sure and wash the blue stains from your lips, so that they may know nothing about them. Now, good-bye, says your friend,

"MALCHEN."

Christlieb put his letter in the most private corner of his abode, and ate the fruit as soon as possible,--though he had to use a spoon for the purpose, as in consequence of their long carriage they were sadly bruised. As to the wish of the kind giver for a stylish cap from the town, that, alas! he would be unable to send, until he indeed became a Paganini.

*CHAPTER IX.*

*THE JOURNEY ON THE ICE.*

The winter with its frost and snow had passed away, the cold of which had been severely felt by the dwellers in the house of the town musician, as from its high and exposed situation no storm passed without their experiencing its chilling effects. Christlieb had the prospect of soon being relieved from his duties as youngest, for a new pupil was expected at Easter. He was much pleased at this, as he hoped then to be able to earn a few pence, which now was entirely out of his power, never having one moment at his own disposal.

During the carnival there was a grand entertainment at a much-frequented place of amusement, a few miles distant from the town, and lying on the opposite side of the river. As usual, Christlieb was the last to leave, and, laden with the kettle-drums, was following his companions home, who, having less to carry, were already across the river before Christlieb had reached it. The stream was still covered with strong ice, although it had been thawing for several days, and the water was standing some inches above the ice. The air was very warm, indeed almost sultry. The water bubbled up as if boiling wherever an opening in the frozen surface was seen, and every now and then a loud cracking of the ice was heard. At a distance guns were fired to announce its breaking up to the inhabitants on the banks of the river. Christlieb saw, heard, and trembled; he hesitated for an instant before venturing on the ice, but, soon regaining courage, boldly stept on it. His comrades had just gone over before him; there was no bridge near, nor any means of getting to the other side; he saw the twinkling small light in the tower inviting him to proceed! With one drum on his back, and the other hanging before his breast, he had gained his way half across in safety, when suddenly the treacherous ice gave way just a few steps from him. It broke, raised itself up, and then yielding to the flood of water, moved on, and finally sank beneath the overwhelming power of the watery element, which spread itself again over the glassy surface. Christlieb stood petrified, then with trembling limbs ran to look for some safer place where he might be able still to get to the opposite bank. Wherever he looked, he saw the same comfortless prospect. He now tried to return to the side he had left; but he had scarcely proceeded twenty steps, when the whole body of ice broke from the banks, and he was slowly borne away with it. In the houses of the town which lay nearest to the rising waters lights were glancing backwards and forwards, and on every side was heard the cry, "The ice is breaking up!"

Christlieb also shouted, in the hope of finding help; but no answer came. All the bells were set a-ringing, whose tones, mingling with the crashing of the ice and the gushing of the water, were the only sounds which reached the ears of the unfortunate Christlieb, who seemed to hear in the bells his death-knell, as his destruction was apparently inevitable. He had fallen upon his knees on the ice, which every moment became more the prey of the water as it rushed on. The town, his second home, and the place of many hopes, swam before his eyes; fainter became the sound of the bells, and darker appeared to him every object, while he heard the most dreadful noises in his ears. As often as the piece of ice on which he knelt shook beneath him from some fresh concussion, he thought his last moment had come. He pictured to himself the grief of his foster-father, the sorrow of Malchen, and the pity which Rupel would feel for his untimely end, and in this dreadful way. At length his senses became dulled, and he was unconscious of the cold of the ice water, in which he was covered up to his knees. He felt a drowsiness creep over him, and he shut his eyes, no longer looking at the desolation around him, until again awakened from his torpor by a new crashing of the ice. Slowly he opened his weary eyes, and saw by the dim morning light, which was now struggling with the darkness of night, some dark arches suspended over the river. It was the bridge of the city, against whose stone pillars the huge blocks of ice were dashed, and driven back with a fearful noise. Lights were seen glimmering, and again reflected in the rushing waters. But Christlieb saw not that nets were placed between the pillars, in order to save any unhappy persons who might be driven down on the ice. The sight of the lights, however, recalled Christlieb to a sort of consciousness; for where lights are men are not generally far distant, and some one might perhaps yet save him. At all events, the bridge would decide his fate as soon as the piece of ice dashed against the pillars; and most likely it will be death, thought Christlieb The drums still were hanging on him; and they might now be the means of saving him. He was yet at a short distance from the bridge, and the mass of ice was floating slowly down, so that he was enabled to take off the drums from his person and beat an alarm, though with benumbed fingers. He likewise exerted all his remaining strength to utter a cry, but to no purpose, as far as he could see; for he now drove right against one of the stone pillars; the ice broke in two, and the larger half sunk beneath the water; the drums disappeared, and Christlieb, whose cry of agony was unheard, followed after them. He felt the rush of the water over his face, and a sharp pain in his side; after which his senses forsook him, and he was unconscious of what happened.

*CHAPTER X.*

*THE SICK-BED.*

How long Christlieb had remained unconscious, he knew not; neither could he very well tell whether he were in this world or in another. It seemed to him as if he were floating in mist, where huge shadows of men were flying past him. Then his head turned round and round, and he shut his eyes not to see anything more. Afterwards he became, as he thought, a receiver of the dead,--a post which certainly imagination alone could create. A large churchyard spread itself out before him, covered with snow, above which were seen the black crosses and stone monuments of the dead. At the entrance of the churchyard stood the house for the reception of the dead, where, however, Christlieb did not dwell, but hovered over it in the air, and saw the funeral processions of those of whom he was to take care move on to a distance. He likewise fancied that he had received a message from his late master, begging him to return to the tower, at the folly of which he smiled, as he knew that he was now no longer an inhabitant of earth. He felt himself quite happy, and had no desire to return to it again. The scene then changed, and he fancied himself standing up to the neck amidst the chilling ice, and making desperate efforts to reach the shore. These efforts, however, were always rendered unavailing by the united strength of two men and a lady, who kept him back, and pressed him seemingly deeper into the icy water. At length, after repeated struggles to get free, but all in vain, the blocks of ice changed themselves into bed-posts and bedding, under the latter of which he was covered, almost to suffocation. At another time he felt himself sitting upright in bed, and obliged to swallow a spoonful of something tasting like camphor or musk. Then, again, after long unconsciousness, he awoke and looked around him with open eyes. He saw a figure lying on a sofa at a short distance from him, with its head resting as if asleep. A small lamp was burning behind an open book, whose dim light was scarcely sufficient to light up the room, so as to render the objects distinctly visible. In another corner crackled a fire, which was blazing in a stove. Christlieb quietly left his bed, and with difficulty reached the door of the room, from the opening of which a cool air met him. At this moment the sleeping figure started up with a cry of horror, seized the weak and fainting boy, and brought him back again to his bed. When he next awoke a subdued daylight filled the apartment. A tall man stood beside him, holding his hand; and a beautiful, though pale, lady sat on the edge of his bed, to whom the doctor said, in a consoling tone of voice, "Madam, he is now out of danger. The fever has abated, and there only remains a debility and weakness quite natural after so severe an illness. Great care, however, is still necessary, with strict attention to all I have prescribed; for his nervous system is much shaken, and any relapse might be serious." Observing that the patient was awake, he said to him, "Dear Balduin, how do you find yourself?"

Not having heard the changed name, Christlieb replied cordially, "Thank you, I am very well."

At these words the countenance of the lady brightened up. "Do you know me again, my dear son?" she hastily asked Christlieb, bending over him, and looking at him with the greatest tenderness.

Christlieb gazed steadily at the unknown lady, and then shook his head as much as to say, No; which threw the lady into a state of great distress.

"Do not mind this," said the doctor; "it will be all right by and by. In nervous fevers, the memory, generally speaking, suffers most."

The lady was again comforted, and paid the greatest attention to the various orders which the doctor gave her, previous to his leaving, regarding the future treatment of the invalid. Meanwhile Christlieb took a survey of the apartment, which was like a palace compared to his former domicile. The walls were richly papered. The curtains of the windows were of silk; and the floor was covered with thick and elegant carpet. The furniture, tables, chairs, bed, and other articles, were of a brown, shining wood,--the tea-cups of painted china,--the spoons of pure silver. A beautiful embroidered bell-rope, with a handsome gilt handle, hung close to his bed;--the latter being somewhat softer and more elastic than his straw pallet in the tower. When he turned his look upon himself, he perceived that his night-dress was of the finest materials, his linen of the most expensive kind. Of his former dress, not a remnant was to be seen, while a splendid dressing-gown hung on the wall, and a pair of handsome worked slippers stood near his bed,--all evidently intended for him. Most gladly would he have asked where he was but his courage failed him.

After the lady had returned from taking leave of the doctor, she again sat down near the bed of the invalid, and began to knit, regarding him, every now and then, with an expression of the greatest affection. Christlieb felt much embarrassed. He wished exceedingly for a glass of water, yet did not like to ask the grand-looking lady for it. At length the latter, of her own accord, asked him if he would not like something to drink.

With profound respect, he answered, "If you will have the goodness, madam."

The lady immediately brought him a most refreshing drink, which Christlieb drank up, without leaving a single drop.

"I thank you very much," said he gratefully, which brought tears into the beautiful eyes of the lady. Afterwards she gave him a spoonful of medicine, which he patiently swallowed, though it was not much to his taste. He was far better pleased with the delicious apples, which, nicely roasted, and sprinkled with sugar, and along with a small biscuit, he was given at ten o'clock for his breakfast.

With great delight the lady saw him eat them, and never left the room until he had fallen into a gentle sleep, from which he did not awake until after noon. His watchful attendant was again there, and brought him a strengthening soup, placed him right in his bed, pushing pillows behind his back to keep him from falling, and from getting cold. When the lady saw her charge, with a steady hand, hold and use the spoon, and able to take the nourishing food, she exclaimed, in joyful accents, "Oh! how much your father will be delighted when he returns and finds you so well!"

"My father! my father!" said Christlieb, in evident confusion, and rubbing his forehead. In a moment the remembrance of the lost drums flashed on his memory, and he cried out, "Ah me! unfortunate one that I am; what will my master say about the drums?" Saying these words, as if in great distress, he let the spoon fall out of his hand.

The lady trembled with fear, dreading, from his confused words, that her patient was going to have a relapse. She was scarcely able to stammer out, "My dear Balduin, compose yourself. Throw all your cares and fears away. No one will be permitted to reproach you. Everything is already arranged."

But poor Christlieb could not be so easily comforted; and on this account, the sleep which he fell into towards evening was so light, that he heard all that passed between the doctor and his supposed mother.

"Ah!" she sighed, "my heart is torn between hope and fear, joy and sorrow! Since his illness, Balduin seems quite changed. He is no longer imperious, obstinate, disobedient, and discontented. He takes his medicine without one word of complaint; and for every morsel of bread, or draught of water, expresses thanks. Then, again, it makes me wretched when I think that, perhaps, his mind is affected, and that a settled form of insanity, or---- I cannot give utterance to such horrid fears. Yet the same idea which has possession of him when delirious from fever, seems to follow him when he is awake and tranquil."

Christlieb did not hear what answer the doctor made, as his sleep became deeper.

Next morning he had tea and cakes to breakfast; and he was so hungry, that he felt as if he could eat he knew not how many rolls. A servant helped him to put on the fine dressing-gown and slippers; and he was supported by her to the large easy chair, in which he rested, and enjoyed the mild rays of the sun, which likewise tempted the little birds to chirp and sing. Beside him stood his supposed mother, who said to him, as the servant was arranging his bed, "Do you not then love me, Balduin?"

"Oh! very much," replied Christlieb, blushing. "You are so kind to me, and I know not why I am thus treated."

"Do not speak to me in this way," said the lady; "but as you used to do. You are still my son, and my only joy."

"Ah! me," replied Christlieb humbly. "I am only a poor lad, and not worthy to be called your son."

"Speak not thus, my son," answered the lady. "It is true that by your former conduct you have caused both your father and myself much sorrow. When you left us, taking with you a considerable sum of money to riot with evil companions, then, it is true, we despaired of you. Still our affection made us hope that you might yet return to the right path; therefore your father, accompanied by your kind master, set off in search of you to bring you back if they found you. How will he be surprised when he finds his lost and erring son here, a changed and amended person! You are still our son, and now worthy of the name. Affliction, and the nearness of a fearful death have changed you, and given you back to yourself a new being. From the poverty of your dress, and from what escaped you when delirious, we have learnt how miserable you were when the money was all spent, and when your false friends forsook you. Now you will be able to appreciate the difference between your father's house, and wandering about with strangers. Twice have you been taken from us in a fearful way. Twice have you been miraculously restored to us."

Christlieb supposed that he must be again under the influence of the fever, and again delirious, when he heard these incomprehensible words of the lady. He looked strangely at her, and she seemed to regret what she had said, for she immediately changed the subject, asking Christlieb, with the greatest solicitude, if there was anything he would like to have, or any person he would like to see.