I became aware of Grillparzer, the Austrian dramatist, and of his story of the poor fiddler, through a passing reference to it in a book. Since the story is very short, and the reference aroused my interest, I had the idea of reading it quickly, before going on with the book. I found it only in the original rather tortuous German, and my German was not good enough to read it quickly through. Meanwhile I’d been led to a 360-page US book “Grillparzer’s Der Arme Spielmann - New directions in criticism”, Ed Clifford Albrecht Bernd, Camden, which suggested that the English-speaking audience for the story was not negligible. Nevertheless I could, in a quick search, find no reference to an English translation except the following in an American University library:
Grillparzer, Franz, 1791-1872.
Arme Spielmann. English
The poor fiddler. Translated from the German by Alexander and Elizabeth Henderson. Introd. by Ivar Ivask. Illus. by Lilly Kehlmann.
New York, F. Ungar Pub. Co. [1967]
Holdings:
CLP HUMANITIES OPEN STACKS
CALL NUMBER: Fiction Grillpar -- BOOK 3WK -- Available
So I spent a few days doing a translation, as below. I used the German version available from the German Gutenberg web-site. I’ve stuck as rigidly as possible to the German text, compatible with producing an English sentence. The sentences and paragraphs are preserved exactly. Full-stops and quotation marks, and the rather odd punctuation are as in the original, except that I have suppressed specifically Germanic commas, and inserted many English ones. The result is not English literature, but I hope it transmits the attention-holding Grillparzer style. A few notes are inserted directly in the text enclosed in [], as also are the few unimportant words which eluded me completely. Lastly, I stick it up on a web-site, in case anyone else looks for a reference to an English translation. It may be copied and used in any way, by anybody, with acknowledgement.
Abreviations used in notes:
[NV] no verb in sentence
[LS] longest sentence
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Each year in Vienna, the Sunday after the full moon in the month of July, and the following day, is a real folk festival, if ever a celebration deserved this name. The people go to it, and if the more distinguished appear, they do it only as members of the people. There is no possibility of keeping apart; at least that was so some years ago.
On this day Brigittenau, together with the Augarten, the Leopoldstadt, the Prater, in an unbroken line of joy, celebrates its communion. From Brigittenkirch-day to Brigittenkirch-day, the working people count the days. Long anticipated, the saturnalian celebration at last arrives. Then there is uproar in the normally peaceful city. Crowds fill the roads. [NV]The sound of footfalls, the hum of talk, pierced from time to time by a loud shout. The difference of the conditions of life disappears; citizen and soldier alike takes part. At the gates of the city the surge grows. Taken, lost, and again taken, the gateway is fought for. But the Danube bridge offers new difficulties. Here victorious, run finally two rivers, the old Danube and the swollen wave of the people, crossing under and above one another, the Danube following its old riverbed, the river of people, having taken the parapets of the bridge, a further, raging lake, pouring in all-covering flood. Someone newly arrived would find the signs ominous. But it is a riot of joy, the setting-free of desire.
Already between city and bridge, wicker-wagons have been set up for the real protagonists of this festival: the children of servants and workers. Overcrowded but nevertheless at the gallop, they fly through the mass of people, which opens just on front of them and closes behind them, without care and unharmed. For in Vienna there is a tacit agreement between cars and people: not to run over, even at full belt; and not to be run over, even while paying no attention.
From second to second, the distance between car and car becomes smaller. Individual carriages of the more distinguished mix in the many gaps of the procession. The cars do not fly any more. Until finally five to six hours before nightfall, the individual horse and coach atoms consolidate to a compact row, which, self-restraining and driven by others from all transverse lanes, makes a nonsense of the old proverb, "better to be driven badly, than to go on foot.” Stared at, pitied, scorned, elegant ladies sit in the apparently marooned coaches. Not used to the continual stopping, the black Holsteiner horse rears, as if it wanted to make its way over the preceding wicker-wagon, which the crying woman-and-child population of the peasant cart seems to fear too. The fast-moving Fiacre, for the first time untrue to its nature, grimly computes the loss of having to spend three hours where it would normally fly in five minutes. [NV]Quarrels, shouts, mutual attacks by the coachmen, every now and then a blow with a whip.
Finally, the way that in this world, persistent blockage is nevertheless un-noticed movement, seems also to be a ray of hope. The first trees of the Augarten and the Brigittenau become visible. Land! Land! Land! All suffering is forgotten. Those coming in carriages step out and mix among the pedestrians, tones of distant dance music reaches here, answered by the joy of the those newly arrived. And so on and ever further, until finally the great harbour of desire is there and forest and meadow, music and dance, wine and food, shadow-play and rope dancers, illuminations and fireworks coalesce into a pays de cocayne, an Eldorado, a paradise, which unfortunately, or fortunately, as one takes it, only lasts till the following day, then disappears, like the summer-night’s dream, and stays only in the memory, and in hope.
I would not willingly miss this celebration. [LS]As a passionate lover of humanity, especially the ordinary people, so that to me as a dramatist the spontaneous applause of an overcrowded playhouse was always ten times more interesting, more instructive than the high-flown judgement of literary matadors, crippled body and soul, swollen up like spiders with the sucked-out blood of authors; as a lover of humanity, I say, particularly if as a mass, their individual purposes are for the time being forgotten, they feel part of the whole, in which Godliness lies - as one such, each folk celebration is to me a real celebration of the soul, a pilgrimage, a devotion. I read from cheerful and secretly worried faces, the lively or subdued way of walking, the varied behaviour of the family members, the individual half-automatic talk, as if out of a great, laid-open, Plutarch, sprung from the confines of the book, the biographies of non-famous humanity, and indeed! one cannot understand the famous, if one has not got a feeling for the obscure. From the chatter of half-drunk cart drivers there is an invisible but unbroken thread to the strife of the Gods, and, in the young farm girl, who, half against her will, follows the impatient lover from the milling crowd of dancers, lie as embryos the Juliens, the Didos and the Medeans.
Two years ago, I had, as usual, joined the lusty fair-crowd on foot. The main hurdles had been overcome and I was already at the end of the Augarten, the desired Brigittenau being right in front of me. There now remains one last fight. A narrow dam, running through impenetrable defences, forms the only connection between the two pleasure grounds, whose joint border is marked by a wooden lattice gate in the centre. On normal days and for the usual walkers, this path is more than sufficient; but on fair days, its width, even if four times greater, would still be too narrow for the endless crowd, which pushes vigorously through, while being obstructed by the people returning, and in the end everything is settled only by the universal good-nature of the pleasure-seekers.
I had given myself up to the crowd, and found myself in the centre of the dam, already on classical soil, but unfortunately continually obliged to stop, give way, and wait. There was time enough to look at those around me. So that the expectant crowd should not lack a foretaste of the bliss awaiting them, individual musicians had set up themselves up on the left at the edge of the raised dam, who, probably shrinking from big competition, wished to harvest, here at the Propylaeen, the still unused generosity of the first-comers. [NV]A harp-player with repulsive staring eyes. [NV]An old invalid peg-leg, who on a terrible, obviously self-made instrument, half chopping-board, half barrel-organ, wanted to make the pain of his wound feelable to general compassion in a similar way. A lame, deformed boy, forming with his violin a single indistinguishable bundle, played endless waltzes with all the hectic violence of his malformed chest. [NV]Finally - and he drew my whole attention on himself - an old man, certainly over seventy, in a threadbare, but not unclean minor-key overcoat, with a smiling, self-applauding expression. Bareheaded and bald, he stood there, as such people do, his hat as collection box before him on the ground, and he worked away on an old much-battered violin, while marking time not only by tapping his foot, but by harmonious movement of his whole bent body. But all this effort to bring unity to his performance was fruitless, because what he played seemed a random sequence of notes without beat or melody. He was completely immersed in his work: the lips pursed, the eyes rigidly fixed on the score before him, yes, really a musical score! Because whereas all other musicians, thankfully playing in varied ways, relied on their memory, the old man had placed before him in the middle of the crowd a small, easily portable desk, with dirty, [zergriffenen] notes, which may have contained in most beautiful order, what was heard in total disorder. Straight away, the unusualness of this equipment had attracted my attention, as it also roused the amusement of the milling crowd, who laughed at him and left his collecting hat empty, whereas the rest of the orchestra bagged whole copper mines. I stepped a little up the side slope of the dam, in order to get a good look at this eccentric. He played on for a while. Finally he stopped, and, as if coming to himself after a long absence, looked up at the sky, which was beginning to show signs of the approaching evening, then down at his hat, found it empty, put it on, clearly amused, stuck the violin bow between the strings; "Sunt certi denique fines", he said, seized his music stand, and worked himself laboriously through the crowd flowing in the opposite direction, as he returned home, alone.
The whole being of the old man was really as if made to provoke my raging anthropological hunger to the extreme. [NV]The poor yet noble image, his unconquerable cheerfulness, so much enthusiasm for his art with so much clumsiness; the fact that he returned home at just the time when for others in his situation the real harvest was starting; finally the few Latin words, but spoken with the most correct stress, with complete fluency. The man had thus enjoyed a careful education, made knowledge his own, and now - a begging musician! I trembled with longing for the explanation.
But already there was a tight wall of people between me and him. Small as he was, and hindered on all sides by the music stand in his hand, shoved from one person to the other, he had nevertheless reached the way out, whereas I was still fighting against the oncoming wave of people in the centre of the dam. Thus he disappeared from me, and when I arrived free from the crowd, there was no Spielmann to be seen in any direction..
The failed adventure had taken away my appetite for the folk festival. I roamed the Augarten in all directions, and decided finally to turn home.
When I got near the small passage which leads out of the Augarten towards the Taborstrasse, I suddenly heard the familiar sound of the old violin again. I doubled my steps, and see there! - the subject of my curiosity stood, playing with great vigour, in a circle of a few boys, who asked him impatiently for a waltz. "Play a waltz!" they yelled; "A waltz, you hear?" The old man played on, apparently without paying attention to them, until the small audience left him, with abuse and scoffing, collecting around a lyre-man, who had set up his barrel-organ nearby.
"You don’t want to dance", said the old man as if in sadness, folding up his music. I had moved very near him. "The children know no other dance than the waltz ", said I. "I played a waltz ", he argued back, pointing to the place on his score with his bow.
"One must also lead on such matters, for the everybody’s sake. But the children have no ear", said he, shaking his head sadly. - "Let me at least make good their ingratitude", I said, pulling a piece of silver from my pocket and giving it to him. - "Thank you, thank you", the old man cried, waving both hands anxiously, "Into the hat! into the hat"! - I laid the coin in the hat in front of him, from which the old man took it out directly, and put it happily away. "That means that for once I’m going home with a profit", said he chuckling to himself. - "Quite right", I said, "You remind me of something which earlier made me very curious! You do not seem to be very well off, and yet you go home just at the moment when the real harvest starts. You well know that the celebration goes on the whole night, and you could easily get more than on eight ordinary days. How am I to explain that?"
"Explain it any way you wish", returned the old man. "Forgive me, I do not know who you are, but you must be a charitable gentleman and a friend of music", he again pulled the piece of silver from his pocket and pressed it between his hands, on his chest. "So I want to indicate only the causes to you, although I have often been laughed at on that account. First of all I was never a night bird, and I think it is not right to stimulate others to such loathsome behaviour, by playing and singing; secondly people must in all things establish a certain order, otherwise they become savage and unstoppable. Thirdly finally - sir! I play all day long for the noisy people and so win my meagre bread; but the evening belongs to me and my poor art.
In the evening I stay at home, and", - at this his speech became even quieter, his face became red, his eye turned to the ground - "I play there from my fancy, without music. Improvising, I believe it is called it in the music books."
We had become both completely quiet. He, from shame over the betrayal of his private life; I, out of astonishment, to hear the man speak of the highest levels of the art when he was not capable of playing the easiest waltz understandably. He prepared meanwhile to go. "Where do you live?" I said. "Perhaps I might attend your lonely exercises." - "Oh", he replied, almost pleadingly, "you well know that one’s room is for prayer." - "So I’ll come once to see you during the day", said I - "By day", he answered, "I go to entertain the people." - "So, the morning then." - "It looks", said the old man smiling, "as if you, dear sir, would be the beneficiary, and I, if it is permitted to me to say, the benefactor; you are so friendly, and I am retreating so abominably. Your distinguished visit will always be an honour to my dwelling; I would only ask that you let me know the day of your visit suitably in advance, so that neither are you stopped by impropriety, nor am I forced to interrupt some business already begun. My morning also has its set form. I regard it anyhow as my duty, to give back to sponsors and benefactors for their donation, some not completely unworthy return. I do not want to be a beggar, dear sir. I well know that other public musicians are content to play some street-thumper, or German waltz, or simple tunes learned by heart, over and over again, so that one gives them something in order to be rid of them, or because their playing stirs to life memories of dances enjoyed or of other varied delights. Therefore they play also from memory and make mistakes every now and then, yes frequently. But me, I cannot cheat. Partly because my memory is not at all the best, partly because it might be difficult for anyone to remember, note for note, complicated compositions of respected composers, I have myself sorted out these scores in writing." With this, he paged through his music book, showing me to my horror, written in careful but repulsively stiff script, tremendously difficult compositions of famous old masters, completely black from runs and double-stops. And the old man with his clumsy fingers played this! "By playing these pieces", continued he, "I show my admiration for the standing and worth of respected, long dead masters and composers, I do something for myself, and live in the pleasant hope that my least creditworthy gift is not without value in improving the taste and heart of the audience, which is disturbed and misled on so many sides. Since however, I act as I speak" - and a complacent smile spread -, "so I must practice, and my morning hours are devoted to this. The three first hours of the day for practice, the middle for earning my bread, and the evening for me and the loving God. That means, not dishonestly divided”, he said, and his eyes shone as if moist; but he smiled.
"Good, then", I said, "I’ll give you a surprise visit one morning. Where do you live?" He told me it was the Gärtnergasse. "House number?" - "Number 34 on the first floor" - "Indeed", I cried, "on the level of the upper class?" - “The house", he said, "has actually only one ground floor; there is however over the ground floor room still another small room, where I live, together with two hand workers" - "A room for three?" - "It is divided ", said he, "and I have my own bed."
"It is getting late" said I, "and you want to go home. Goodbye then!" and I plunged into my pocket, in order to double the all-too-small gratuity I’d given him. He however had grabbed his music stand with one hand and his violin with the other and cried hurriedly: "This I must ask most humbly. The honorarium for my playing is already more than enough, and I’m not aware at this moment of any other service." So saying, he made me a rather gauche bow, with a kind of distinguished ease, and departed, as fast as his old legs would carry him.
I had, as I said, lost the desire to stay at the festival for this day, so I went homewards, taking the way towards the Leopoldstadt, and, exhausted by the dust and heat, I stepped into one of the many inn gardens around there, which overflow on ordinary days, but today all customers were at the Brigittenau. The silence of the place, contrasted with the noise of the crowd, was soothing, and left me with various thoughts, not least about the old Spielmann, so it was completely dark when I finally thought of going home, put the money for my bill on the table, and made my way through the city.
In the Gärtnergasse, the old man had said he lived. "Is this near the Gärtnergasse? ", I asked a small boy, who was running on the road. "There, sir!", he replied, pointing to a side road, leading away from the housing of the suburb, towards the open fields. I followed this direction. The road consisted of scattered single houses, lying between large kitchen gardens, which plainly gave the occupation of the inhabitants and the origin of the name Gärtnergasse. In which of these miserable huts would my eccentric live? I had as it happened forgotten the house number, also in the darkness any clue was hardly likely to be recognised. There, coming towards me, was a man heavy-loaded with kitchen plants. "The old man is screeching once again", he groaned, "disturbing decent people in their night’s rest." Immediately, as I went on, the quiet, long-drawn-out sound a violin struck my ear, which seemed to come from the open ground-floor window of a nearby poor-looking house, which, low and single-storied like the rest, distinguished itself by this gable window lying near the roof. I stood still. A quiet, but distinctly firm note swelled up to full volume, then lowered and faded away, only to climb immediately again, up to the loudest shrillness, always the same note, repeated with a kind of sensuous enjoyment. Finally an chord came. It was a fourth. If the player had feasted himself before on the sound of the single note, now the - as it were - voluptuous taste of this harmonic relationship was strongly perceptible. Seized erratically, bowed simultaneously, most jerkily connected by the intermediate scales, the third accentuated, repeated. The fifth followed, once with a trembling sound like a quiet crying, sustained, resounding, then in whirling speed endlessly repeated, always the same chords, the same notes. - And this the old man called improvising! - Although it was in truth an improvisation for the player, it was not for the listener.
I do not know, how long that may have lasted and how bad it had become, as suddenly the door of the house burst open, a man, dressed only in a shirt and loosely buttoned trousers, stepped from the doorstep into the middle of the road and called up to the gable window: "Is this never going to end?" The tone of voice was indignant, but not hard or insulting. The violin grew silent, as the man was speaking. He went back into the house, the gable window closed, and soon there was uninterrupted dead silence around me. I made my way home, with difficulty in the unfamiliar lanes, while I too improvised, in my head, but with nobody disturbing me.
The morning hours have always had their own value for me. It is as if I needed to bless the rest of the day to some extent, by busying myself with something uplifting or meaningful in its first hours. I can decide only with difficulty to leave my room in early morning, and if I am forced to do so without valid cause, then I have the choice between thoughtless absent-mindedness or self-torturing gloominess for the rest of the day. Thus it was that I postponed by some days my visit to the old man, which by arrangement had to take place in the morning hours. Finally impatience got the better of me, and I went. The Gärtnergasse was found easily, likewise the house. The tones of the violin could be heard also, but damped to indistinguishability by the closed window. I stepped into the house. A gardener’s wife half speechless with astonishment pointed me to a stairway. I stood before a low, half-closed door, knocked, received no answer, pressed finally the handle and went in. I was in a rather spacious, but otherwise most miserable room, whose walls on all sides followed the outlines of the pointed roof. [NV]Right beside the door, a dirty, repulsively disordered bed, surrounded by all sorts of untidiness; opposite me, right beside the narrow window, a second bed-place, wretched but clean, most carefully bedded and covered. [NV]At the window a small table with note paper and pens, in the window a few flower pots. In the middle of the room, the floor from wall to wall was marked with a thick chalk line, and one can hardly imagine a more abrupt transition from dirt to cleanliness, than there was on either side of this line, this equator in a miniature world.
The old man had placed his music stand right by the line, and stood before it, completely and carefully dressed, and - did his music exercises. There has already been so much, too much perhaps, about the discords of my, and I was afraid almost only my, hero, that I want to spare the reader the description of this hellish concert. Since the exercise consisted to a large extent of runs, there was no chance of recognizing the pieces, and if there was, it would still not be easy to describe. Listening for some time led me finally to recognise the thread running through this labyrinth, the method of its madness as it were. The old man enjoyed his playing. His view however differentiated between only two things, consonance and dissonance, of which the first pleased him, even yes, enthralled him, whereas the second, even when harmonically justified, was discarded if possible. Instead of stressing according to the sense and rhythm of the music piece, he accentuated and lengthened pleasant notes and chords, even having no trouble in repeating them arbitrarily, while his face often showed an expression of near-ecstasy. Since he dismissed the dissonances as briefly as possible, and moreover, played the runs which were too difficult for him, but from which he could not in conscience let one note drop, much too slowly, then one can easily have an idea of the confusion, which emerged. For myself, it was positively too much. In order to bring him out of his trance, I let my hat fall intentionally, after I had tried several other means in vain. The old man gathered himself together, his knees trembled, he could hardly hold the violin lowered to the ground. I stepped forward. " Oh, it’s you, gracious sir!" he said, coming to himself. "I had not expected your kind promise to be carried out." He made me sit down, cleared up, put down, looked around the room several times in embarrassment, then suddenly seized a plate standing on a table beside the room door, and went out with it to someone outside. I heard him speaking to the gardener’s wife. Soon after he came back embarrassed to the door, hiding the plate behind his back and secretly put it down again. He had obviously asked for fruit, in order to regale me, but had not been able to get it. "You live here quite nicely", said I, in order to end his embarrassment. "The disorder is expelled. It retreats by the door, even if it is at present not yet wholly over the threshold - my dwelling reaches only up to that line", said the old man, pointing to the chalk line in the middle of the room. "Over there live two handicraft workers." - "And do they respect your marking?" - "They do not, but I do", he said. "Only the door is shared." - "And are they not disturbed by your being here?" - "Hardly at all", he replied. "They come home late at night, and even if they frighten me a little in bed, the desire to fall asleep again is greater. In the morning however, I wake them, when I tidy my room. Then they scold me a little, and go." I had looked at him meanwhile. He was dressed most immaculately, his physical appearance good for his years, only his legs somewhat too short. Hands and feet of remarkable delicacy. - "You are looking at me", said he, "and what are your thoughts?" - "That I am curious about your history ", I replied - "History?" he repeated. " I have no history. Today like yesterday, and tomorrow like today. The day after tomorrow, certainly, and further on than that, who can know? But God will care - he knows it." - "Your life at the moment may well be monotonous enough", I continued; "but your earlier life. How did it go? - " "How I came to be among the musicians?" he broke in, in the pause which I had intentionally made. I told him now, how he had appeared to me when I first saw him; the impression his words in Latin had made on me. "Latin?” he repeated. “Latin? I certainly learned that once, or rather, I should or could have learned more. Loqueris latine?" he turned to me, "however I could not continue it. It is too long ago. So you call this my history? How it came about? - So! then certainly all kinds of things happened; nothing special, but nevertheless all kinds of things. I would like nevertheless to tell it just once even to myself. Whether I have forgotten it. It is still early in the morning", he continued, reaching into his watch pocket, in which certainly no watch was to be found. - I took mine out, it was barely 9 o'clock. - "We have time, and I feel I want to talk." He had become visibly less stiff. He seemed taller. He took my hat from my hand without too great trouble, and put it on bed; sitting with one leg flung over the other, and taking up the comfortable stance of a story teller.
"You have" - he began - "doubtless heard of Hofrate ----?" Here he named a statesman who had had great, almost Ministerial influence in the second half of last century under the modest title of a Bureau Chief. I said I had. "He was my father", he continued. - His father? of the old Spielmann? of the beggar? The man of influence and power his father? The old person seemed not to notice my astonishment, but continued to spin, with visible enjoyment, the thread of his story. "I was the middle one of three brothers, who went high in government services, both now dead; I alone am still living", he said pulling his threadbare trouser-legs, reading off with lowered eyes individual threads. "My father was ambitious and quick-tempered. My brothers were enough for him. I was called a slow coach; and I was slow. If I remember right", he went on, turning sideways, looking as if into a far distance, his head sinking on to his left hand - "if I remember right, then I would have been well capable of learning all kinds of things if I had been allowed time and order. My brothers jumped like chamois from point to point in all the school subjects, I on the other hand could leave nothing behind me, and if I missed only one word, I had to start from the beginning. So I was always pushed. The new needed the place, which the old had not left yet, and I slowed gradually to a halt. Thus they made me almost hate music, which is now the joy and staff of my life. If I took the violin in the evening, to enjoy it in my own way, they took the instrument from me and said that that would spoil my fingering, complained about ear-torture and sent me back to practice, where the torture went on. In all my life, I have hated nothing and nobody in the way I hated the violin at that time.
My father, extremely unhappy, often switched me about, and threatened, to send me to a handicraft. I did not dare to say how happy that would have made me. I would have been only too glad to be a turner or a typesetter. But through pride, it could not happen. Finally a public school-examination, which my father, had been talked into attending, in order to soothe him, clinched the matter. A dishonest teacher set out in advance, what he would ask me, and so everything went splendidly. But finally one word failed me - it was in verses of Horace to be said by heart. My teacher, who had listened with his head nodding, smiling to my father, came to help me when I got stuck, and whispered the word to me. But I, looking for the word inside of me and in relationship with the context, did not hear it. He repeated it several times; in vain. Finally my father lost patience. Cachinnum! (that was the word) he thundered at me. That was the end. If I knew one, I forgot the rest. All the striving to bring me to the right way was lost. I had to stand up with shame, and as, following habit, I went to kiss my father’s hand, he pushed me back, got up, made a short bow, and went. [The first 2 words are French - this beggar]Ce gueux he called me, which I was not, but now am. Parents prophesy, when they talk! But my father was a good man. Only quick-tempered and ambitious.
From that day onwards, he never spoke a word to me. His instructions came to me from others in the household. Thus I was told the very next day that my studies were at an end. I was very frightened, because I knew how bitterly it must have wounded my father. All day long I did nothing but cry, and at times recite those Latin verses which I now knew to the smallest word, together with the preceding and following ones. I promised to make up for my lack of talent by diligence, if I could stay on at school, but my father never reversed a decision.
For a while, I stayed in the paternal house, idle. Finally, by way of a trial, I was put to a counting house. But counting had never been my strength. I rejected with abhorrence the suggestion of joining the military. I still cannot look at a uniform without a shudder. To protect dear ones if necessary at danger to one’s life is very good and understandable; but the shedding of blood and mutilation as a profession, an occupation. No! No! No!" And he flung both hands over both arms, as if he felt the stabbing of his own strange wounds.
"I came now into the chancellery under the copyist. This suited me well. I had always written with pleasure, and I still do not know a more pleasant occupation, than to join together words or even single letters, with good ink on good paper, ruled with heavy and light lines. Music notes are extremely beautiful now. But at that time I still had no thought of music.
I was industrious, but only too anxious. An incorrect distinctive mark, an omitted word in a draft, even if it could be deduced from the context, gave me bitter hours. In doubt whether I should adhere exactly to the original, or use my own judgement, the time passed in anxiety, and I came to be regarded as careless, whereas I drove myself like no other in the service. Thus I spent a few years, without real achievement, since, when my turn for promotion came, my father gave his opinion in favour of another, and the rest followed him out of reverence.
Around this time - look", he interrupted himself, "now we have a kind of history. We are relating history! Around this time there were two occurrences: the saddest and the most joyful of my life. Namely my ejection from the paternal house, and my return to the sweet art of music, to my violin, which has remained true to me up to this day.
I lived in the house of my father, ignored by the other people there, in a rear annex, which projected into the neighbour’s yard. At first I ate at the family table, where nobody addressed a word to me. But when however my brothers were promoted away and my father was almost daily invited out - mother had died a long time before -, it was found inconvenient run a kitchen just for me. The servants got food money; I did too, but it was not paid to me - it was paid monthly to the eating place. So I was not much in my room, except for the evening hours; because my father insisted that I should be home half hour at the latest after the closing time of the chancellery. There I sat, then, in the half-dark without light, on account of my eyes, which were already affected at that time. I thought about this and that, and was not sad and not glad.
Once when I was sitting in this way, I heard a song being sung in a neighbouring yard. Rather there were several songs, but one pleased me particularly. It was so simple, so moving, and had the stress so on the right place, that the words did not need to be heard. As I believe, the words spoil the music." Now he opened his mouth and sang some hoarse, rough notes. "I have no voice from nature", he said, reaching for the violin. He played, and this time with correct expression, the melody of a nice but by no means exceptional song, his fingers trembling on the strings, individual tears finally running over his cheeks.
"That was the song", he said, putting the violin down. "I always hear it with renewed pleasure. But much as it was alive in my memory, I nevertheless never succeeded in hitting even two right notes of it with my voice. I became impatient listening. Then my violin fell into my view, which from my youth, had hung, unused on the wall, like an old piece of weaponry. I seized it, and - it may well have been used by servants in my absence - it was in good order. As I moved the bow over the strings, sir, there it was, as if God’s finger had touched me. The notes penetrated into my inside, and from the inside out again. The air around me was as if impregnated with drunkenness. The song down in the yard and the notes of my fingers in my ear, both uniting with my loneliness. I fell on my knees and prayed aloud and could not understand how I had once dismissed, yes hated, the sweet Godly thing, the violin, which I kissed, pressed to my heart, and played again and again.
The song in the yard - it was a woman who sang - sounded the while, uninterrupted; but the sequel was not so easy.
I did not have the score of the song. Also I was well aware that I had rather forgotten the little I had once known about violin playing. Thus, I could not play that and that, but could just play. [NV]Although the particular quality or essence of music, with exception of that song, was always immaterial to me, and remains so to this day. They play Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Sebastian Bach, but no one plays the dear God. [NV]The eternal blessing and grace of the note and sound, its miracle-working agreement with the thirsty, yearning ear" - he continued more quietly and blushing - "that the third note harmonises with first, the fifth too in the same way, and the nota sensibilis climbs up like a fulfilled hope, dissonance is berated as deliberate malice or presumptuous pride, and the miracles of connection and reversal, whereby also the second reaches grace in the bosom of melodic sound. - All that was explained to me by a musician, although much later. [NV]And the fugue and point counterpoint and canon a due, a tre, and so on, about which however I understand nothing, a whole heavenly structure, one bit fitting into the other, with no mortar, held by God’s hand. Few want to know anything about this. Rather they upset this breathing in and out of the soul by the addition of all-too-wordy words, as the children of God bound themselves with the daughters of the earth; that it prettily attacks and intervenes in a callused heart. Sir", he concluded finally, half exhausted, "speech is necessary to humans like food, but drink should be kept pure, it comes to us from God"
I hardly knew my man any longer, he had become so lively. He paused a little. "Where was I in my history?" he said finally. "Oh yes, with the song and my attempts at playing it. But it did not work. I stepped over to the window, to hear better. There was the singer walking over the yard. I saw her only from the back, and yet she seemed familiar. She carried a basket with, as it seemed, still unbaked pieces of cake. She stepped into a little entrance in the corner of the yard, where a baking-oven might well have been, because still singing, I heard wooden dishes being shuffled, the voice sounding now duller, now brighter as she bent and sang into a cavity, then again rose and stood upright. After a while she returned, and now I noticed why she seemed familiar before. I had known her for a long time. And indeed, at the chancellery.
Thus it went on. The office hours began early and continued beyond noon. Several of the younger officials, who either now really felt hungry, or wanted to have half an hour to themselves, took care to take some little thing around 11 o’clock. The business people, who know how to turn everything for their advantage, saved the sweet-tooths a walk, and brought their stalls into the office building, where they put themselves on staircases and in corridors. A baker sold small white rolls, the fruit woman cherries. Above all however were a certain sort of cakes, produced by a neighbouring grocer’s daughter and brought by her to market, still warm. Her customers stepped out to her in the corridor, and she was only rarely called into the office, where the somewhat morose chancellery supervisor, if he became aware of her, seldom failed to show her the door, to her resentment and murmured indignation.
The girl did not pass for beautiful with my colleagues. They found her too small, could not make out the colour of her hair. Some maintained that she had cat eyes, all agreed she had smallpox marks. Only her stocky build drew their unanimous applause, bordering on coarseness, one of them telling a story about a slap, whose traces were felt still eight days afterwards.
I was not among her customers. Partly because I had no money, partly because I never felt a desire and enjoyment in food and drink, although I have always - and often too strongly - had to recognise the necessity of them. So we took no notice of each other. Once only, in order to tease me, she made my comrades believe, I had asked for her wares. She stepped up to my workbench and held out her basket to me. I don’t want anything, dear girl, I said. Well, why you do you order then? she cried scornfully. I apologized, and as soon as the roguishness had died down, I did my best to explain it to her. Now, give me at least a sheaf of paper, to put my cakes on. I explained that this was chancellery paper and did not belong to me, but I had some at home, my own, which I would like to bring for her. I have enough at home myself, she said with scorn, gave a little laugh, and left.
Only few days had passed and I thought of making immediate use of this acquaintance to further my wish. So I buttoned under my coat a whole book of paper, which was never scarce at our home, and went to the chancellery, where, so as not to betray myself, I kept my very uncomfortable armour on, until I noticed towards noon, signalled by the coming and going of my colleagues and the noise of the chewing jaws, that the cake girl had come, and I could assume that the main crush of customers was past. Then I went out, got my paper out, took courage, and stepped up to the girl, who stood there, with the basket before her on the ground, her right foot on the stool she usually sat on, quietly humming, tapping the beat with her foot on the stool. She measured me from head to foot as I got nearer, which increased my embarrassment. Dear girl, I began finally, you asked me recently for paper, when there was none belonging to me at hand. Now I’ve brought you some from the house and - at this I handed my paper to her. I have already said to you, she answered, that I have my own paper at home. However, everything can be used. And she took my gift with an easy nod of the head, and put it into the basket. Do you not want any cakes? she said, rummaging among her wares, the best has already gone. I thanked her, but said I had another request. Oh yes? she said, her arm going to the handle of the basket, and standing straight up, looking daggers at me with angry eyes. I broke in rapidly that I was a lover of the art of music, although only since recently, and that I had heard her singing such beautiful songs, and one in particular. You? Me? Songs? she stuttered, and where? I explained to her that I lived in her neighbourhood, and had overheard her working in the yard. One of her songs had particularly pleased me, so I had already tried to follow it on the violin. Would you be the same one, she cried, who scratched in such a way on the fiddle? - I was at that time, as I already said, only a beginner, and have only later with a great deal of trouble got the necessary skill in my fingers", the old man interrupted himself, fumbling in air with his left hand, as if playing the fiddle. "It was me", he said, continuing his story, "quite red in the face, and I was also able to tell that she regretted the sharp word. Dear girl, I said, the scratching was due to the fact that I did not have the notes of the song, and that is why I wanted to ask you most kindly for a copy. For a copy? she said. The song is printed and sold at street corners. - The song? I answered. Those are probably only the words. - Now yes, the words, the song. - But what about the melody that is sung. - Is that also written down? she asked. - Certainly! was my answer, that is in fact the main thing. And how did you learn it, dear girl? - I heard it sung, and I followed that. - I was surprised at the natural innocence; how the least educated often have the most talent. But it is nevertheless not the right, the proper art. I was now again in despair. But what song is it then? she said. I know so many. - All without notes? - Certainly; so which was it? - It is so beautiful, I explained. Goes up to begin with, then makes its way back, and ends very softly. You sing it the most often. Oh, it must be that one! she said, set the basket down again, placed the foot on the stool and sang the song with a very quiet yet clear voice, moving her head, so beautifully, so lovely that, before she had finished, I made to touch her hand. Oho! she said, drawing her arm back, for she probably thought I wanted to grasp it, but no, I wanted to kiss it, although she was only a poor girl. - Now, I too am poor.
Since my longing to have the song was driving me to distraction, she consoled me and said: the organist of the Peterskirche came frequently to her father’s shop for muscat nuts, and she would ask him to put everything into notation. I could fetch it from there in a few days. With that, she took her basket and went, escorted by me to the staircase. Making my last bow at the highest step, the chancellery supervisor surprised me, telling me to get back to work, then turned to the girl, who, as he asserted, had no good hair. I was extremely angry at this, and wanted to answer even him that I, with his permission, was convinced of the opposite, but seeing that he had already gone back into his room, I got a grip of myself, and also went to my desk. But from that moment he insisted that I was a slovenly civil servant and a dissolute man.
That day and those following, I really could hardly do any reasonable work, the song going round and round in my head, and I was as if lost. A few days passed, I did not know whether it was already time to fetch the notes or not. The organist, the girl had said, came to her father’s shop, to buy muscat nuts; he could use those only for beer. Now for some time there had been cool weather, so it was probable that the worthy musician would rather keep to wine, and would not so soon need Muscat nuts. Asking too quickly seemed to me impolite importunity, but waiting too long could be taken for indifference. I did not trust myself to speak to the girl in the corridor, since our first meeting had become infamous with my colleagues and they burned with longing to play some trick on me.
I had meantime eagerly taken up the violin again, and practised the fundamentals thoroughly, but allowed myself occasionally to play by ear, carefully however closing the window, since I knew that my playing was not appreciated. But when I opened the window, I did not hear my song again. The neighbour either did not sing at all, or so quietly, and with subdued voice that I could not differentiate between two notes.
Finally - approximately three weeks had passed - I was not able to bear it any longer. I had indeed already on two evenings stolen down the lane - and without a hat, so that the servants would think I was looking only for something in the house -, however, when I got near the grocer’s shop, I trembled so violently that I had to turn back, whether I wanted to or not. Finally however - as I said - I could bear it no longer. I took courage and went one evening - again without a hat - from my room and down the stairs, with firm step, along the lane to the grocer’s shop, where I stopped and considered what was now to be done. The shop was lit, and I heard voices within. After some hesitation, I bent forwards and peeped inside. I saw the girl, sitting right in front of the counter near the light, sorting through peas or beans in a wooden bowl. Before her stood a rough, spry man, with his jacket hung over his shoulder, a kind of tool in his hand, rather like a meat cleaver. The two spoke, obviously in a good mood, because from time to time the girl laughed loudly, without stopping or looking from her work. Whether it was from my awkward bent position or whatever else, my trembling began again; as suddenly I felt myself grasped roughly from behind, and dragged forward. In a moment I stood in the shop, and when I looked around me, freed, saw that it was the owner himself, who, returning home, had surprised me lurking, to him suspiciously. Scoundrel! he cried, now I see where the plums go, and the handfuls of peas and rolled barley, which are pinched in the dark from the display baskets. Thus too must thunder strike. And thus he went for me, as if he really wanted to strike.
I felt destroyed by the thought that some one doubted my honesty, but soon recovered myself. I made a very brief bow, and said to this impolite person that my presence was on account of his daughter, not his plums or his rolled barley. The butcher in the middle of the shop laughed loudly, and turned to go, first whispering a few words to the girl, which she, also laughing, answered with a loud smack with the flat of her hand on his back. The grocer went with this man to the door. I had meanwhile again lost all my courage, and stood before the girl, who sorted her peas and beans unconcernedly, as if what was going on had nothing to do with her. The father clattered back again from the door. Thousand-fold scoundrel, sir, he said again, what do you want with my daughter? I tried to explain to him the connection, the reason for my visit. What song? he said, I’ll sing you a song! waving his right arm very suspiciously up and down. There it is, said the girl, leaning over with the chair, without moving the bowl of vegetables, pointing at the counter. I hurried over, and saw a music sheet lying there. It was the song. The old man had however forestalled me. He held the beautiful paper crumpled in his hand. I ask, said he, what is the deal? Who is the man? He is a gentleman from the chancellery, she answered, throwing a maggoty pea somewhat further than the others. A gentleman from the chancellery? he cried, in the dark, without a hat? I explained the lack of a hat by the fact that I lived very near, pointing to the house. I know the house, he said. Nobody lives there except Hofrat ---- - here he said the name of my father -, and I know all of the servants. I am the son of the Hofrat, said I, quietly, as if it was a lie. - In my life I’ve experienced many changes, but none so sudden as happened with these words to the whole bearing of the man. The mouth, opened to revile, stayed open, the eyes still threatened, but around the lower part of the face a kind of smile started to play, and gradually spread. The girl remained indifferent, only pulling back her the loose hair behind her ears, while remaining bent over her work. The son of the Hofrat? the old man cried, over whose face the sun had spread completely. Would your grace want perhaps to make himself comfortable? Barbara, a chair! The girl moved reluctantly towards them. No wait, [Tuckmauser?]! he said, moving a basket himself from a chair, which he dusted with a cloth. Your grace, he continued. Sir Hofrat - Sir Hofrat’s son I should say, do you also play music? Sing perhaps, like my daughter, or more likely, from a score, artistically? I explained to him that I had no natural voice. Or do you play the clavi-cymbal, as distinguished people tend to do? I said I played the fiddle. In my youth, I scratched on the fiddle, he said. With the word scratch I looked involuntarily to the girl and saw that she smiled mockingly, which made me very annoyed.
Should take care of the lass, that is called in music, he continued. If a good voice sings, it has its qualities, but a fine voice, dear God, where is that to come from? And with this he rubbed the thumb and index finger of his right hand together. I was completely abashed that I was thought undeservedly to be capable of such advanced musical knowledge, and wanted to explain the state of affairs, when a passer-by outside the shop called in: Good evening to all! I was shocked, because it was the voice of a servant in our house. The grocer too had recognized it. Putting out the point of his tongue, and raising his shoulder, he whispered: One of the servants of blessed papa. Cannot be recognised, however, standing with his back against the door. He really behaved so. But the feeling of secrecy, injustice gripped me painfully. I stammered only a few words of parting and went. Yes, I would even have forgotten my song, if the old man had not sprung after me on to the road, and stuck it in my hand.
Thus I arrived home, in my room, and awaited the things that had to come. And they came. The servant had indeed recognized me. A few days afterwards, my father’s secretary stepped into my room and told me that I would have to leave the parental house. All my pleadings were fruitless. They had rented a little room for me in a distant suburb, and thus I was banished completely from the neighbourhood of my house. Also I did not get to see my singer any more. Her cake trade in the chancellery had been stopped, and I could not bring myself to enter her father’s shop, since I knew that it displeased my family. Yes, when I met the old grocer by chance on the street, he turned away from me with a grim face from me, and I was as if struck down in thunder. So I stayed alone, half days long, playing and practising my violin.
But it got still worse. Our house had misfortune. My youngest brother, a head-strong, impetuous lad, officer with the Dragoons, had to pay with his life for a thoughtless bet, due to which, hot from a ride, he swam with horse and equipment across the Danube - it was deep inside Hungary. The older, most loved, worked as a councillor in a province. In constant conflict with his provincial superior and, as they said, secretly encouraged by our father, he even allowed himself wrongful payments, in order to harm his opponent. It came to investigation, and my brother left the country secretly. The enemies of our father, who were many, used this to topple him. Attacked from all sides, and anyway furious over the reduction of his influence, he daily made the most aggressive speeches at the council meetings. In the middle of one, he had a stroke. He was brought home, speechless. I myself heard nothing about it. Next day at the chancellery I noticed that they were whispering secretly and pointing at me. However, I was already used to this, and had no suspicion. The Friday after - it had happened on a Wednesday - a black suit with flowers was suddenly brought to me in my room. I was surprised, asked, and was told. My body is usually strong and resistant, but with this my strength failed. I sank senseless to the ground. They carried me to my bed, where I had a fever and talked nonsense for a whole day and night. Next morning nature won the upper hand, but my father was dead and buried.
I had not been able to speak to him again; not to ask for his forgiveness for all the sorrows I had caused him; not to thank him for the undeserved grace - yes grace! because his feelings were good, and I hope to find him once more, where we are judged by our intentions and not by our works.
I stayed several days in my room, hardly taking food. But finally I came out, ate, and immediately went home again, and only in the evening wandered around the dark roads like Cain, the brother-murderer. The paternal dwelling was a horror-image to me, which I most carefully avoided. Once however, staring mindlessly before me, I found myself suddenly in the vicinity of the fearful house. My knees trembled so that I had to stop. Grasping the wall behind me, I recognized the door of the grocer’s shop, and Barbara sitting there, a letter in her hand, beside her the light on that counter, and standing close to her, her father, who seemed to be talking to her. And if my life had been at stake, I had to go in. To have nobody to pour out one’s sorrow to, nobody who feels sympathy! The old man, I well knew, was angry with me, but the girl should have a good word for me. But what happened was completely the opposite. Barbara rose, when I came in, cast a haughty look at me, and went into the next room, locking the door. But the old man seized me by the hand, made me sit down, consoled me, but also said to me that I was now a rich man, and would no longer need to care about anybody. He asked me how much I had inherited. I did not know. He asked me to go to the courts, which I promised. In the chancellery, he said, there was nothing to be made. I should put my inheritance into business. Oak-galls and fruit show a good profit; an investor, who was an expert, could turn pennies into pounds. He himself had once done a lot in this line. He called several times to the girl, but she gave no sign of life. But I thought I heard the door rattling once or twice. But since she never came and the old man talked only about money, I finally took my leave, the man regretting that he could not accompany me since he was alone in the shop. I was sad about my unfulfilled hope and yet wonderfully comforted. As I stood on the street, looking towards my father’s house, I suddenly heard a voice behind me, speaking in muffled and indignant tones: Do not trust everyone, they do not mean you well. Fast as I turned round, I saw nobody; only the rattling of a window on the ground floor, part of the grocer’s house, informed me, even if I had not recognized the voice, that it was Barbara who gave the secret warning. So she had heard what was said in the shop. Did she want to warn me of her father? or had it come to her ears that right after my father’s death, colleagues from the chancellery, or maybe people completely unknown to me, had approached me with requests for promises of support and help, if I came into money. Which once promised, I had to hold to, but I decided in future to be more careful. I enquired formally about my inheritance. It was less, than had been thought, but still a lot, close to eleven thousand guldens. All day long, my room was never free of people needing money and help . But I became hard, and gave only when the need was greatest. Even Barbara’s father came. He complained that already three days had gone by and I had not visited her, to which I answered truthfully that I was afraid of being a burden to his daughter. But he said that that should not worry me, he had already put her right, and he laughed in a malicious way that frightened me. Thus reminded of Barbara’s warning, when we came soon to talk about the amount of my inheritance, I kept it to myself; I skilfully evaded his commercial proposals too.
In fact, I already had different prospects in mind. In the chancellery, where I had been tolerated only because of my father, my place was already taken by another, which did not bother me, since there was no salary involved. But my father’s secretary, now destitute through the recent events, told me of a plan for setting up a firm for information, copying and translation, for which I was to supply the first capital costs, while he was ready to take over the management. On my insistence, the copying work was expanded to cover printed music, and now I was in my element. I gave the money that was needed, but being now very careful, put it in writing. The deposit for the firm, which I put up too, while considerable, seemed hardly worth talking about, since it had to be deposited with the courts and there it remained mine, as if I had it in my drawer.
The thing was done and I felt relieved, uplifted, independent for the first time in my life, a man. I hardly thought of my father. I moved into a better apartment, and got some clothes, and as evening fell, went through well-known streets to the grocer’s shop, swinging along, humming my song between my teeth, although not quite correctly. I have never been able to reach B with my voice. I arrived happily and in good spirits, but an ice-cold look of Barbara’s immediately threw me back into my earlier timidity. Her father received me extremely well, but she carried on folding paper bags, as if nobody was present, and took no part in our discussion. Only when my inheritance was touched on, she got half up and said almost threateningly: Father! on which the old man changed the subject at once. Otherwise she said nothing the whole evening, did not give me a second look, and as I finally took my leave, she shouted: Good evening! almost like a thank God!
But I came again and again, and she gave way gradually. Not that I had given her anything to thank me for. She scolded and criticised me incessantly. Everything was awkward; God had given me two left hands; my coat sat as on a scarecrow; I went like a duck approaching the house cock. My politeness to the customers was particularly irritating to her. Since I was without employment until the copying firm opened, and having in mind that I would have to deal with the public there, as training I took an active part serving in the grocer’s shop, often staying half a day. I weighed spice out, counted nuts and dates, issued small change; the latter not without frequent mistakes, when Barbara always intervened, roughly took away what was actually in my hand, and laughed and scoffed at me in front of the customers. If I made a bow to one of the customers or took my leave, she would say gruffly, before the people got to the door: The merchandise takes its leave! and turn her back on me. Sometimes however she was again everything good. She listened to me when I told her what was going on in the city; or about my childhood; or about the officialdom of the chancellery, where we us first met. But she always let me speak uninterrupted, only giving her approval in one or two words or - which was oftener the case - her disapproval.
Music or singing was never mentioned. First, she thought, one should either sing or keep one’s mouth shut, there was nothing to talk about. But singing too was not allowed. In the shop it was unseemly, and I could not go into the back shop, where she and her father lived. Once however, when I stepped unnoticed through the door, she was standing straight up, right on the tips of her toes up, her back turned to me, with her hands raised, as if searching, feeling around for something on one of the higher shelves. And she sang quietly to herself - it was the song, my song! - but she twittered like a grass warbler, which washes its neck at the stream, moving its head around, ruffling its feathers then smoothing them again with its beak. To me, it was as if I walked on green meadows. I crept nearer and nearer and got so close that it seemed the song no longer came from outside of me, but sounded from within me, a singing of the soul. At that, I could no longer hold myself, and I seized her body with both hands as she strove forward and sank against me with her shoulders. However that was it. She whirled about like a top. Her face glowing red with anger, she stood there in front of me; her hand twitched, and before I could apologize -
As I said earlier, people in the chancellery often told the story of a slap, which Barbara, as the cake seller, had given someone who was too persistent. What they said about the strength of the rather small girl, and the force of her hand seemed highly exaggerated, to the point of a joke. But it was really so, almost giant-like. I stood as if thunder-struck. Lights danced before my eyes - but they were heavenly lights. Like the sun, moon and stars; like little angels, playing hide-and-seek, singing. I had visions, I was ecstatic. But she, hardly less frightened than I, ran her hand, as if soothingly, over the place she had struck. It was probably too hard, she said, and - like a second lightning flash - I suddenly felt her warm breath on my cheek and her two lips, and she kissed me; only lightly, lightly; but it was a kiss on these cheeks of mine, here!" The old man clapped his face, and the tears came from his eyes. "What then happened, I do not know”, he continued, "Only that I fell limply on her and she ran into the living room and pulled the glass door to, while I was pursuing from the other side. As she then crumpled and pressed with all her might against the door-pane, I took courage, dearest sir, and returned her kiss to her passionately, through the glass.
Oho, things are going merrily here! I heard the voice behind me. It was the grocer, who had just come home. Now, what teasing is going on - he said. Come out here, Barbie, and don’t do anything stupid! Nobody can resist a respectful kiss. - But she did not come. For my part, I left, stuttering some more or less meaningless words, taking the grocer’s hat instead of my own, which he exchanged, laughing. That was, as I have already earlier named it, the lucky day of my life. The only one, I would nearly have said, but this would not would be true, because we all have many graces from God.
I did not quite know how I stood in the girl’s eyes. Was she more irritated with me or less? The next visit required a lot of resolution. But she was good. Humble and quiet, not irascible as before, she sat there with her work. Nodding towards a nearby stool, she signalled that I should sit down and help her. So we sat and worked. The old man wanted to go out. Just stay there, father, she said; what you wanted has already been done. He put his foot hard down on the floor, and remained there. He spoke of this and that, without my daring to get involved in the discussion. Then the girl suddenly gave small cry. While working, she had cut a finger, and although she was by no means weak, she waved her hand about. I wanted to do something, but she evidently preferred me to continue. [Alfanzerei] without end! murmured the old man, and placing himself in front of the girl, he said in a loud voice: What was wanted has not yet been done at all! and with noisy footsteps he went out the door. I was beginning then to make apologies for everything from yesterday onwards; but she interrupted me and said: Let’s forget that and now let’s speak of something more sensible.
She lifted her head, measured me from head to toe, and continued in calm voice: I know hardly know anything more than at the beginning of our acquaintance, but for some time, you have come more and more often, and we have got accustomed to you. No one would deny that you have an honest mind, but you are weak, always diverted by unimportant matters, so that you would hardly be capable of managing your own things. So there is an duty and obligation on friends and acquaintances to keep an eye on you so that you do not come to harm. You sit here in the shop for hours, counting and weighing, measuring and marking; but nothing comes out. What do you intend to do in the future, in order to go forward? I mentioned the inheritance from my father. It may be quite large, said she. I named the amount. That is much and little, she answered. Much if you had in mind to start something with it; little if you wanted to live on it. Indeed, my father made you a proposal, but I advised you against it. Because he once lost money that way, then she added with lowered voice, he is so used to profiting from strangers that perhaps he would do the same with friends. You must have someone at your side, who is honest - I pointed to her - I am honest, she said. At that, she laid her hand on her breast, and her eyes, which till then had played in the half-light, shone light blue, sky-blue. But with me [it had its own ways]. Our business yields little, and my father is thinking vaguely of setting up a gift-shop. There is no job for me there. My only possibility would be needlework, since I would not like to be a servant. And at that moment she looked like a queen. I have had another proposal, indeed, she continued, pulling a letter from her apron and throwing it half reluctantly on the counter; but it involves going away from here. - And far? I asked. Why? why should you care? - I explained that I would move to the same place. - Are you a child! she said. That would not work and would be completely different. But if you have confidence in me and like to be near me, then you could fix up the milliner’s shop next door, which is for sale. I know this work, and you need not be short of a bourgeois profit from your money. Also you yourself would find a nice occupation with counting and book-keeping. What else might come out of it, we do not want to talk about now. - But you would have to change! I hate womanish men.
I jumped up and reached for my hat. What is it? where are you going? she asked. Cancel all that, I said, breathlessly. What? - I told her then of my plan to set up a writing and information firm. Nothing much will come from that, she thought. Anyone can obtain information for himself, and everyone learns to write at school. I remarked that sheet-music too would be copied, which not everyone can do. Are you really going on with such foolishness? she cried . Leave music-making alone and think about necessities! Also you would not be capable of managing a business yourself. I explained that I had found a partner. A partner? she exclaimed. You are certain to be cheated! You have not yet given any money? - I trembled without knowing why. - Have you given any money? she asked again. I confessed to the three thousand guldens for the first furnishings. - Three thousand guldens? she cried, so much money! - The rest, I continued, is deposited with the court and likewise safe. - So, still more? she shouted. - I supplied the amount to the deposit. - And did you personally put it with the court? - It had been done by my partner. - But presumably you have the documentation? - I had no documentation. And what is the name of your wonderful partner? she continued to ask. I was to some extent consoled to be able to give her the name of my father’s secretary.
God the just! she shouted, jumping up and clapping her hands together. Father! Father! - the old man came in. - What did you read in the newspaper today? - About the secretary? he said. - yes! yes! - Well, he has bolted, leaving debt upon debt behind him, and the people he cheated. They are pursuing him with arrest warrants! - Father, she cried, he entrusted his money to him. He is ruined. - No end to God’s fools! the old man cried. Have I not always said that? But that was an excuse. Once she laughed at him, then he was again an honest chap. But I will cut through this! I will show who is the master in this house. You, Barbara, get inside into the back room! But you, sir, get out of here, and in future spare us your visits. No alms are handed out here. - Father, said the girl, do not be hard with him, he is surely unfortunate enough. - Just so, cried the old man, I do not want to be the same. That, sir, he continued, pointing to the letter Barbara had thrown on the table, that is a man! Brains in the head and money in the bag. Cheated nobody, but does not let himself be cheated; and that is the main thing about honesty - I stuttered that the loss of the deposit was not yet certain. - Yes, he cried, he has become an idiot, the secretary! He is a scoundrel, but clever. And now, go at once, maybe you will catch him up! With that, he put the flat of his hand on my shoulder and pushed me against the door. I slipped out sideways and turned in front of the girl, who stood there, leaning on the counter, the eyes turned to the floor, her breast moving quickly up and down. I wanted to go nearer, but she kicked her foot angrily on the floor, and when I stretched out my hand, she shrugged with her hands half raised, as if she wanted to strike me again. So I went, and the old man locked the door behind me.
I staggered through the streets to the city gate and out into the fields. Sometimes despair filled me, but then hope came back. I remembered that I had accompanied the secretary to the commercial court when the deposit was made.. There I waited at the door, and he went up alone. When he came down, he said everything was in order, the receipt would be sent to me at home. Certainly this did not happen, but the possibility still remained. With daybreak, I returned to the city. My first course was to go to the secretary’ house. But the people laughed and asked whether I had read the newspapers? The commercial court lay only few houses away. I looked up the books, but neither his name nor mine was there. Of a deposit no trace. With that my misfortune became certain. Yes, but it had almost been worse. For since a civil contract existed, several of his creditors wanted to seize my person. But the courts did not sanction this. May they be praised and thanked for that! Although it would have made little difference.
In all this nightmare, the grocer and his daughter were, I must confess, almost completely forgotten. Now that it became calmer, and I began to reflect on what might happen next, a vivid memory of the evening before returned. The old man, selfish as he was, I well understood, but the girl. Sometimes it came to me that if I had been able to offer my money to set her up, and offer her support, she probably would not have liked me." - With that, he looked at his whole wretched person, his hands spreading apart. - "Even my polite behaviour to everyone was irritating to her.
Thus I spent whole days, reflecting, considering. One evening at dusk - it was the time that I had been used to spend in the shop - I sat down again and moved in my thoughts to the usual place. I heard her speak, reviling, yes it seemed, laughing at me. There was suddenly a rattling at the door, it opened, and a female came in - it was Barbara. - I sat nailed to my chair, as if seeing a ghost. She was pale and carried a bundle under her arm. Coming into the centre of the room, she stopped, looked all round the bare walls, then downwards at the shabby furnishings and sighed deeply. Then she went to the cupboard, which stood on one side by the wall, unrolled her bundle which contained some shirts and towels - latterly she had looked after my laundry -, pulled out the drawer, clapped hands together when she saw its meagre contents, but began at once to put the contents in order, adding the things she had brought. Then she moved a few steps away from the cupboard, and turning her eyes to me, pointing with her finger to the open drawer, she said: Five shirts and three towels. That is what I had, that is what I’ve brought back. Then she slowly pushed the drawer shut, leaned with her hand on the cupboard and began to cry loudly. It seemed almost as if she became ill, for she sat down on a chair beside the cupboard, hid her face in her handkerchief, and I heard from the spasmodic breathing that she still wept. I moved quietly near her and seized her hand, which she willingly let me do. But when, in order to get her to look at me, I moved my hand on her loosely hanging arm to the elbow, she got up quickly, detached her hand and said in calm voice: What is the use of all this? Things are as they are. You wanted it yourself, and you have made yourself and us unhappy; but certainly yourself most. Really you do not deserve sympathy - here she became even more strident -, when one is so weak as not to be able to hold one’s own affairs in order; so credulous that one trusts everyone, whether he is a rogue or an honest man. - And yet I am sorry for you. Nevertheless, I’ve come to say good-bye. Yes, you are frightened. Yet, it is your own doing. I must now go out among the rough people, against whom I’ve striven for a long time. But there no remedy there. I’ve already given you my hand, and so farewell - for ever. I saw tears coming again in her eyes, but she shook her head indignantly, and went. I felt as if I had lead in my legs. At the door, she turned round yet once again and said: The washing is now in order. Watch that nothing goes wrong. Hard times will come. And now she raised her hand, made what looked like a sign of the cross in the air and called: [Barbara uses “du” here for the only time] God with thee, Jakob! - to all eternity, amen! she added quietly and went.
Only then did the use of my legs return. I hurried after her, and standing on the landing of the stair , I called after her: Barbara! I heard her stopping on the staircase. But as I reached the first floor, she spoke from beneath me: Stay there! and she went right down the stairs, and out through the doorway.
I have had hard days since then, but none like these; even what followed was less painful. I did not really know where I was, and so I crept next morning around the neighbourhood of the grocer’s shop to see if, perhaps, some explanation would come my way. But since nothing appeared, I finally looked sideways inside the shop and saw a strange woman, who was weighing, giving change, and adding up. I ventured inside and asked whether she had bought the shop? At present, not yet, she said, - And where would the owners be? - They travelled early this morning after [Langenlebarn]. - The daughter too? I stammered. - Yes, of course, she said, she is getting married there.
The woman might then have told me everything that I learned later from others. The butcher from the town mentioned - the same one that was there at my first visit to the shop - had for a long time proposed marriage to the girl, which she never accepted, until finally in recent days, pressed by her father and despairing of anything else, she consented. The same morning father and daughter had left there, and at the moment we spoke, Barbara was the butcher’s wife.
The shopkeeper, as I said, would have told me all that, but I heard nothing and stood motionless, until at last customers came, who pushed me to the side, and the lady asked me if I still wanted something, at which I departed.
You will think, dearest sir", he continued , "that I now felt myself to be the most unfortunate of all humankind. And indeed this was so in the first instance. However, when I got out of the shop, turned round, and looked back at the small windows where Barbara had certainly often stood and looked out, a feeling of comfort came over me. That she was now free from worry, a woman in her own house, and that she had no need to bear grief and misery, as she would if she had attached herself to someone without hearth and home, was like a soothing balsam on my chest, and I blessed her and all her ways.
As things went down and down, I decided to look to music for my future; and as long as the remainder of my money lasted, I practised and studied the works of great masters, preferably the old ones, one of whom I copied; and as the last pennies were spent, I got ready to profit from my knowledge, at first in closed groups, the first opportunity for which was an invitation to my landlady’s house. But when the compositions performed by me met with no approval, I went and stood in the yards of the houses, since among so many inhabitants, there might be some who would know how to appreciate serious music - yes, finally on the public walkways, where I really had the satisfaction that some individuals stopped, listened, questioned me, and went on their way, not without leaving something. The fact that they gave me money did not shame me. Because that precisely was my purpose, and I saw also that famous virtuosos, whose heights I could not flatter myself to reach, accept payment for their performances, sometimes very highly. Thus I have come through honestly, although poor, to this day.
Years after, another piece of luck fell to me. Barbara returned. Her husband had made money and had bought a butcher’s shop in one of the suburbs. She was the mother of two children, the elder of whom is called Jakob, like me. My profession and the memories of old times did not permit me to be importunate, but finally I was asked to her house, to give the older boy instruction on the violin. He has indeed only a little talent, also he can play only on Sundays, since in the week the father uses him for his business, but Barbara’s song, which I taught him, goes quite well; and when we practise and play around with it in this way, the mother sometimes joins in and sings. She has herself changed a lot in those many years, filled out, and does not bother herself much more about music, but she still sounds as pretty as ever." And with that the old man seized his violin and began to play the song, and played on and on, without worrying any further about me. Finally I had had enough, got up, put a few pieces of silver on the nearby table and went, while the old man carried on vigorously fiddling.
Soon after I began a journey, from which I returned only as winter broke. New pictures had driven out the old, and my Spielmann was thus almost forgotten. Only the terrible thaw in the following spring and the consequent flooding of the low-lying suburbs brought him again to mind. The neighbourhood of the Gärtnergasse had become a lake. There seemed no reason to worry about the old man’s life, he lived high up, at roof level, whereas among dwellers at ground level, death had selected only too frequent victims. But deprived of all help, how great might his need have been! As long as the floods lasted, nothing could be done, also the authorities had where possible used boats to carry food and assistance to those cut off. But when the water had run away and the roads had become passable, I decided to contribute my portion of the fund which had been set up and now stood at some unbelievable sum, by taking it personally to the addresses which most nearly touched me.
Leopoldstadt was a horrifying sight. [NV]In the streets broken boats and implements, on the ground floors partly the remaining stagnant water with property floating in it. As I came to a skew-leaning courtyard door, avoiding the crowds, the door gave way revealing in the gateway a row of corpses, obviously brought together and laid down there for the purpose of official inspection; yes, inside the chambers, there were still here and there unlucky inhabitants to be seen, standing upright clinging to the barred windows, - there was just not enough time and officials to carry out the legal certification of so many deaths.
So I walked further and further. On all sides, weeping and mourning bells, searching mothers and madly scampering children. Finally I came to the Gärtnergasse. The members of a funeral procession, dressed in black, had lined up there too, but, as it seemed, at a distance from the house I was looking for. But as I came nearer, I noticed a hither and thither connection between the procession and the gardener’s house. At the house gate stood a worthy-looking oldish, but still strong man. He looked like a country butcher in high boots, yellow lederhosen and long-skirted coat. He was giving orders, but also spoke to individuals standing around. I passed him and stepped into the yard. I came across the old gardener woman, who recognized me at once and greeted me with tears. "Are you giving us the honour?" she said. "Yes, our poor old man! who is making music now with the dear angels, who cannot be much better than he was. The honest soul sat safe up there in his room. But when the water came and he heard the children calling, he sprang down there and [no object for these verbs]saved and dragged and carried and brought to safety, so that his breath went like a smith’s bellows. - Yes, one cannot have eyes for everything - as was shown when my husband had forgotten his tax books and a few gulden in paper money in the wall-cupboard, the old man took a hatchet, went into the water which came right up to his chest, broke the cabinet open and brought everything loyally back. Thus probably he caught a chill, and as in first instance no help was to be had, he went into delirium and became steadily worse and worse, although we helped him to our utmost and suffered more than he did himself. For he made music, that is with his voice, beat time and gave lessons. When the water had gone down a little and we were able to fetch the doctor and the priest, he suddenly sat up in bed, turned his head and ear sideways, as if he heard something really beautiful in the distance, smiled, sank back and was dead. But go up, he spoke of you often. The lady is also up there. We wanted to bury him at our expense, but the master butcher’s wife did not agree."
She pushed me up the steep stairs, up to the garret, which stood open and completely cleared apart from the coffin in the centre, already closed, only the coffin-bearer waiting. At the top sat a rather stout woman, beyond the mid-point of life, in a colour-printed cotton coat, but with black scarf and black band on her hood. It seemed almost as if she could never have been beautiful. Before her stood two quite grown-up children, a boy and a girl, to whom she was evidently giving instruction, how they would have to conduct themselves in the funeral procession. Just as I came in, she nudged the boy, who had leaned rather clumsily on the coffin, the arm down, carefully smoothing and putting back in order the projecting edges of the shroud. The gardener woman led me forward; but down below the trombones started to sound, and at the same time the voice of the butcher rang out from the road below: Barbara, it is time! The bearers appeared, I drew back to make room. The coffin was lifted, carried down, and the procession started moving. Ahead the school children with cross and flag, the priest with the church officials. Immediately after the hearse the two children of the butcher and behind them the married couple. The man kept moving his lips, as if saying devotions, but at the same time looking to left and right around him. The woman read her prayer book zealously, only the two children distracted her, making her push them forward or pull them back again, as if the good order of the funeral procession lay closest to her heart. However, she always returned to her book. Thus the procession came to the cemetery. The grave was opened. The children threw down the first handful of earth. The man did the same, standing. The woman knelt and held her book close to her eyes. The grave attendants finished their business, and the funeral procession, now reduced to half, returned. At the city gate, there was yet another small exchange of words, since the woman found a demand of the officials much too high. The funeral guests went off in all directions. The old Spielmann was buried.
A few days later - it was a Sunday - driven by my psychological curiosity, I went into the butcher’s house, taking as my pretext that I wished to possess the violin of the old man as a memento. I found the family together without any remaining trace of a special impression. Yet the violin hung on the wall, arranged with a kind symmetry beside the mirror and opposite a crucifix. When I made my request clear, offering a relatively high price, the man did not seem averse to doing advantageous business. But the woman jumped up from her chair and said: "Why not indeed! The violin belongs to our Jakob, and a few gulden more or less is of no consequence to us!" At that she took the instrument from the wall, looked at it from all sides, blew the dust off it, and laid it in the drawer, which she banged shut and locked, as if fearing a robbery. Her face was turned away from me, so I could not see quite what she was thinking. Since at that moment, the maid came in with the soup and the butcher, without letting himself be disturbed by my presence, said grace for the meal in a loud voice, the children joining in shrilly, I wished them a nice meal and went out of the door. My last glance met the woman. She had turned round, and the tears streamed over her cheeks.
This counter is freely available from John and Ann Lockett's site at
www.lockettpots.uklinux.net