THE OLD MUSICIAN.
In a room in the upper story of a house in the Friedrichstadt of Berlin, sat an old man, reading musical notes that lay on a table before him. From time to time he made observations with a pencil upon the margin; and seemed so intently occupied that he noticed nothing around him. The room was poorly furnished, and lighted only by a small lamp that flared in the currents of wind, flinging gloom and fitful shadows on the wall. A few coals glimmered in the grate; the loose panes clattered in the window, shaken by the storm without; the weather-cocks creaked as they swung on the roof, and the moaning blast uttered a melancholy sound. It was a night of cold and tempest, and the last of the old year.
The figure of the old man was tall and stately, but emaciated; and his pale and furrowed visage showed the ravages of age and disease. His thin snow-white locks fell back from his temples; but his eyes were large and bright, and flashing with more than youthful enthusiasm, as he read the music.
The bell struck midnight. From the streets could be heard festive music and shouts of mirth, blended in wild confusion; and the wind bore the chant of the Te Deum from a neighboring church.
The old man looked up from his occupation, and listened earnestly. Presently the door was opened, and a young man entered the apartment. The paleness of his face appeared striking in contrast with his dark hair; his expression was that of deep melancholy, and his form was even more emaciated than that of his companion.
“Did you hear the hour strike?” asked the old man.
“I heard it; it was midnight.”
“Indeed!”
“You had better go to rest.”
“To sleep, mean you? I do not need it. I have been reading this legacy of my father. Would that you had had such a father, poor Theodore! What is the New year?”
“Eighty-four.”
“Eighty-four! when it was thirty-seven—we will not speak of that!”
“You always talk thus,” said the young man. “Am I never to know who you are?”
“You might have asked that the day we first met; the day I found you—a madman—who had placed the deadly weapon against his own breast. I pulled it away; I said to you, Live! even if life hath nothing but wo to offer! Live, if thou canst believe and hope; if not, bid defiance to thy fate; but live!”
“You saved me; you see I live, old even in youth.”
“You have many years to number yet.”
“Perhaps not; I suffer too much! But tell me your name, perverse old man!”
“He who composed that noble work,” said the old man, pointing to the music, “was my father.”
“And have you not torn out the first leaf, on which was the title and name? You know I can guess nothing from the notes; they speak a language unknown to me. Speak, old friend; who are you?”
“The Old Musician.”
“Thus you are called by the few who know you in this great city. But you have another name. Why not tell it me?”
“Let me be silent,” entreated the old man. “I have sworn to reveal my name only to one initiated, if I meet such.”
The youth answered with a bitter smile. There was a pause of a few moments; the old man looked anxiously at him, as ifnoticing for the first time his sunken cheek, and other evidences of extreme ill health. At length he said—
“And have you no better fortune, Theodore, for the New year?”
“Oh yes, fortune comes when we have no longer need of her.”
He drew a roll of money from his vest pocket, and threw it upon the table.
“Gold!” exclaimed the old man.
Theodore produced a flask from the pocket of his cloak. “You have drunk no wine,” he said, “in a long while! Here is some, the best of Johannisberger! Let us greet the New year with revel!”
The old man turned away with a shudder, for recollections of pain were associated with the time.
The youth took a couple of glasses from the cupboard, drew another chair to the table, and sat down while he uncorked the flask. As he filled the glasses, a rich fragrance floated through the room.
He drank to the old man, who responded; and the glasses were replenished.
“Ha, ha! you seem used to it!” cried Theodore, laughing. “It is good for you. Wine is better than Lethe; it teaches us not to forget pain, but to know it the frivolous thing it really is. What a pity that we find the philosopher’s stone only in the bottom of the cup!”
“And how, I pray, came you by such luck?”
“I sold my work to a spendthrift lord, travelling through the city.”
“It is a pity you had not areplico, for your work will never become known, thus disposed of.”
“Ay, but how much is lost that deserves to remain! Those sketches cost me seven years of more than labor; all I have thought, lived, suffered; the first dream of youth; the stern repose after the struggle with fate! I sacrificed all—I spared not even the spark of life; and I thought, when the work was finished, the laurel would at least deck the brow of the dead. Dreams,fantasies! Wherever I offered my work, I was repulsed. The publishers thought the undertaking too expensive; some said I might draw scenes from the Seven years’ war, like M. Chadowiski; others shook their heads, and called my sketches wild and fantastic.”
“Yes, yes!” murmured the old man, musingly. “Lessing, who died three years ago, was right when he said to me, ‘All the artist accomplishes beyond the appreciation of the multitude brings him neither profit nor honor.’ Believe me, Theodore, I know well by experience what is meant by the saying ‘The highest must grovel with the worm.’”
“And I must grovel on, old friend! As long as I can remember, I have had but one passion—for my art! The beauty of woman moved me with but the artist’s rapture! Yet must I degrade my art to the vain rabble; must paint apish faces, while visions of divine loveliness float before me; must feel the genius within me comprehended by none; must be driven to despair of myself! Gifted as few are, free from guilt, I must ask myself, at five and twenty, wherefore have I lived?”
“Live;—you will find the answer.”
“Have you found it—at seventy-four? You cannot evade the question; it presses even on the happy. Had I obtained what I sought, the answer might be—I have lived, and wrought, to win the prize; to shine a clear star in the horizon. So shines Raphael to me; and to you, some old master of your art; and we are doomed to insignificance and disappointment.”
“Be silent!” exclaimed the old man; “that leads to madness, and madness is terrible! They tell me I was thus a long while.”
“Have no fear of that, old friend! We are both too near a sure harbor! Come, finish the wine; welcome the New year! Hark! to the music and the revelry below in the streets; and we are exalted like the ancient gods on the top of Olympus, sipping the precious nectar, and laughing at the fools who rejoice in their being. Drink, as I do! Well, yonder is your bed, and here is mine. I am weary, and wish you a good night!”
The old man also retired to rest; the storm ceased to rage without. The music and ringing of bells continued throughout the night.
The first beams of the sun poured into the chamber, and awoke the old man. It was a clear and cold morning; the air was keen and bracing, the sky blue and cloudless, and the frost had wrought delicate tracery on the panes.
The old man looked out of the window awhile, then went to awaken his young companion. Alas! the hand that lay upon the bed-clothes was cold and stiff. Theodore’s sorrows were ended. The spirit so nobly endowed had broken in the struggle with destiny.
Long did the old man gaze upon the pale remains, his features working with intense emotion. His last stay was broken; his only friend had departed; he was alone and forsaken in the world.
He sat down by the body, and remained motionless the whole day. As night came on, the woman who kept the house came to deliver a message to Theodore, and found the old man sitting by the corpse, exhausted and shivering with the cold. She led him into a warmer room, and gave him food.
The Old Musician and Theodore had lived together nearly two years. The youth supplied their wants by his small earnings as a portrait painter, and by his receipts now and then for a drawing. The old man had nothing; and the landlady, who saw that what Theodore had left would not last long, urged him to go to the overseer of the poor-house and seek an asylum. He repelled the idea, and answered, “No, I will go to Hamburg.”
“To Hamburg!” repeated the woman. “That you cannot do. Hamburg is a long way from Berlin, and before you reach there you would be on another journey.”
But the next day the old man seemed to have forgotten his purpose. According to his custom before he met with his young friend, he wandered through the streets of Berlin, stopping to listen wherever he heard music. Sometimes he would go into thehouses, being seldom prevented; for many remembered the Old Musician, whom they had concluded dead, and were glad to see him once more.
As he wandered one evening through the streets, he stopped in front of a palace brilliantly illuminated, from which came the sound of music. He was about to enter, according to his wont, but the Swiss porter pushed him rudely back; so he stood without and listened, and, in spite of the cutting night wind, continued to stand and listen, murmuring often expressions of pleasure and admiration.
A lacquey in rich livery, running down the steps, encountered the old man, and cried in surprise, “Ha! is that you again, Old Musician? It is long since I have seen you. But why do you stand there shaking in the cold?”
“The Swiss would not let me pass,” answered the old man.
“The Swiss is a shallow-pate. Never heed, old friend, but come in with me, and I will bring you a glass of wine to thaw your old limbs. My lord gives a grand concert!” And he led the old man up the steps, saying to the porter, “You must never hinder him from coming in; it is no beggar, but the Old Musician. He comes to hear the music, and my lord has given orders that he shall always be admitted.”
The lacquey led the old man to a seat near the fire in the ante-room, and drew a folding screen before him. “Keep yourself quiet, my good friend,” he said; “You are out of view here, and yet can hear everything. I will fetch you a glass of wine presently.”
The old man sat still and listened to the music in the saloon; it thrilled through his inmost heart. He remained there many hours, till the lacquey, who had frequently visited him in his corner, came and said:
“It is time now to go, my friend; the company are dispersing; I will send my boy home with you.”
“That was admirable music!” cried the old man, drawing a deep breath.
“I am glad you were pleased,” replied the lacquey. “All you heard to-night was composed by the same master, who is now the guest of my lord.”
“Who is he?”
“Master Naumann, chapel-master to the Elector of Saxony.”
“A Saxon!” cried the old man. “Naumann! that is well; where is he?”
“Here, in the house.”
“Let me speak with him.”
“Certainly, if you want to ask anything.”
“No, not to ask; I want to thank him.”
“Well, you may come to-morrow morning.”
“I will come!”
Naumann was not a little surprised when the servant, the next morning, announced his strange visitor. To the question, who was the Old Musician? the man could give no other answer than—“He is the Old Musician, and nobody in Berlin knows his name. He is sometimes half crazy, but is said to have a thorough knowledge of music.”
“Let him come in,” said Naumann; and the lacquey opened the door for the old man.
Naumann rose when he saw him, for in spite of his mean apparel, he had a dignity of mien that inspired with involuntary respect. Advancing to meet him, he said:
“You are welcome, my good sir, though I know not by what name to address you. But you are a lover of the art, and that is enough. Be seated, I pray you.”
The old man, still standing, answered, “I come to thank you, sir chapel-master, for the pleasure of yesterday evening. I was privately a listener to the concert, in which were performed your latest compositions. I will not conceal from you my name; I amFriedemann Bach!”
Naumann stood petrified with astonishment. “Friedemann Bach!” he repeated at length, in a tone of deep and melancholyinterest; “the great son of the great Sebastian Bach! It is strange, indeed! Only last year I saw your brother Philip Emanuel at Hamburg. The excellent old man mourns you as dead.”
“Let him do so,” was the reply, “and all who knew me in better days; for the knowledge of my life, as it is, would make them unhappy. Even in Berlin none know that Friedemann Bach yet lives; not even Mendelssohn, the friend of Lessing, to whom I owed, that while he lived, I needed not to starve.”
“What can I do for you?” asked Naumann. “Your brother told me your history. How shall I tell you all the admiration, the affection, the sorrow I have felt, and still feel for you? Tell me, what can I do?”
“Nothing,” answered Bach; “you have done everything for me, in showing me what I could and should have done. I strove after that which you have accomplished. You know wherefore I failed, how my life was wasted, why I fell short in all my bold and burning schemes. But you need not the warning of my history. You walk securely and cheerfully in the right path, and I can only thank you for your magnificent works. The blessing of God be with you! and now I feel that I have nothing more to do in this world.”
The Old Musician departed, and Naumann, when he had collected his thoughts, inquired in vain where he could be found. Friedemann had not suffered the boy who went home with him the preceding evening to go to his door. At length Naumann happened to meet with Moses Mendelssohn, and mentioned what had occurred. Mendelssohn was amazed to hear that Friedemann Bach was yet living, and in Berlin. The two made an appointment to go the next morning to the ancient abode of Lessing, where the Old Musician had lived.
They went together to the house of Lessing in the Friedrichstadt. The landlady opened the door.
“Does M. Friedemann Bach live here yet?” asked Mendelssohn.
“Ah, pardon me!” cried the woman, wiping her eyes with her apron; “just at this time yesterday they carried away my poor Old Musician! He died exactly three weeks after his young friend the painter, whom he loved so well.” Her voice was interrupted by tears.
Mendelssohn and Naumann left the house in silence.