Yes,--one other thing everybody in Haarlem believes--and that is, that
Guttenberg, and Werner, and Faust, in pretending that they were the
discoverers of the art of printing, were egregious specimens of the art
of lying; for that that noble discovery was made by no human being save
and except an illustrious citizen of Haarlem, and an undeniable proof of
it exists in the fact, that his statue is still to be seen in front of
the great church. He rejoiced, while living, in the name of Laurentius
Castero; and, however much you may be surprised at the claims advanced
in his favour, you are hereby strictly cautioned to offer no
contradiction to the boastings of his overjoyed compatriots--they are
prouder of his glory than of their beer. But his merits did not stop
short at casting types. In addition to his enormous learning and
profound information, he possessed an almost miraculous mastery of the
fiddle. He was a Dutch Paganini, and drew such notes from his
instrument, that the burgomaster, in smoking his pipe and listening to
the sounds, thought it had a close resemblance to the music of the
spheres.
There was only one man in all Haarlem, in all Holland, who did not yield
the palm at fiddle-playing to Castero. That one man was no other than
Frederick Katwingen, the son of a rich brewer, whom his admirers--more
numerous than those of his rival--had called the Dutch Orpheus.
If the laurels of Miltiades disturbed the sleep of Themistocles; if the
exploits of Macedonia's madman interfered with the comfort of Julius
Caesar, the glory of Katwingen would not let Castero get a wink of sleep.
What! a man of genius--a philosopher like the _doctus_ Laurentius, not
be contented with his fame as discoverer of the art of printing; but to
leave his manuscripts, and pica, and pie, to strive for a contemptible
triumph, to look with an eye of envy on a competitor for the applauses
of a music room! Alas! too true. Who is the man, let me ask you, who can
put bounds to his pretensions? Who is the man that does not feel as if
the praises of his neighbour were an injury to himself? And if I must
speak the whole truth, I am bound to confess that these jealous
sentiments were equally entertained by both the musicians. Yes,--if
Castero would acknowledge no master, Frederick could not bear that any
one should consider himself his rival, and insisted at any rate in
treating with him on equal terms. Laurentius, therefore, and the son of
the brewer were declared enemies; and the inhabitants of Haarlem were
divided into two parties, each ruled over with unlimited power by the
fiddlestick of its chief.
It was announced one morning that the Stadtholder would pass through the
town in the course of the day. The burgomaster determine to receive the
illustrious personage in proper style, and ordered the two rivals to
hold themselves in readiness. Here, then, was a contest worthy of them
an opportunity of bringing the great question to issue of which of them
played the first fiddle in Holland--perhaps in Europe. It fell to
Frederick's chance to perform first--in itself a sort of triumph over
Laurentius. The Stadtholder entered by the Amsterdam road, attended by
his suite--they passed along the street, and stopped under a triumphal
arch which had been hastily prepared. The burgomaster made a speech very
much like the speeches of burgomasters before and since on similar
tremendous occasions; and Frederick finally advanced and made his salaam
to the chief magistrate of the United Provinces. The performer knew that
the Stadtholder was a judge of music, and this gave him courage to do
his best. He began without more ado, and every thing went on at first as
he could wish; fountains of harmony gushed out from under his bow. There
seemed a soul at the end of each of his fingers, and the countenance of
the chief magistrate showed how enchanted he was with his powers. His
triumph was on the point of being complete; a few more bars of a
movement composed for the occasion--a few magnificent flourishes to show
his mastery of the instrument, and Castero will be driven to despair by
the superiority of his rival;--but crash! crash!--at the very moment
when his melody is steeping the senses of the Stadtholder in Elysium, a
string breaks with hideous sound, and the whole effect of his
composition is destroyed. A smile jumped instantaneously to the
protruding lip of the learned Laurentius, and mocked his mishap: the son
of the brewer observed the impertinent smile, and anger gave him
courage--the broken string is instantly replaced. The artist rushes full
speed into the allegretto--and under the pressure of his hands, burning
with rage and genius, the chord breaks again! The fiddle must be
bewitched--Frederick became deadly pale--he trembled from head to
foot--he was nearly wild.
But the piece he had composed was admirable; he knew it--for in a moment
of inspiration he had breathed it into existence from the recesses of
his soul. And was he doomed never to play this cherished work to the
governor of his country?--An approving motion from that august
individual encouraged him to proceed, and he fitted a string for the
third time.
Alas, alas! the result is the same--the chord is too much tightened, and
breaks in the middle of a note! Humbled and ashamed, Frederick gives up
his allegretto. He retires, abashed and heartbroken, and Castero takes
his place. Mixed up in the crowd, his eyes swam in tears of rage and
disappointment when the frantic applauses of the assemblage--to whom the
Stadtholder had set the example--announced to him the triumph of his
rival. He is vanquished--vanquished without having had the power to
fight--oh, grief! oh, shame! oh, despair!
His friends tried in vain to console him in promising him a brilliant
revenge. The son of the brever believed himself eternally disgraced. He
rushed into his room, double locked the door and would see nobody. He
required solitude--but the wo of the _artiste_ had not yet reached its
height. He must drink the cup of humiliation to the dregs. Suddenly
innumerable voices penetrated the thick walls of the brewery, and
reached the chamber of the defeated candidate. Those voices--Frederick
recognized them too well--were those of the faction which acknowledged
Castero for their chief. A triumphal march, performed by twenty
instruments, in honour of his rival, succeeded in overturning the reason
of the unhappy youth. His fiddle was before him on the table--that
fiddle which had disappointed his hopes. Exasperated, out of his senses,
the brewer's son seized the instrument--a moment he held it aloft at the
corner of the chimney, and yielding to the rage that gnawed his soul, he
dashed it into a thousand pieces. Faults, like misfortunes, never come
single. "Blood calls for blood," says Machiavel--"ruin for ruin."--By
that fatal tendency of the human mind never to stop when once we have
gone wrong, but to go on from bad to worse, instead of blushing at our
folly--Frederick, after that act of vandalism, dashed like a madman out
of the brewery. The sight of his instrument in a thousand fragments had
completed the business--life was a torment to him. He hurried towards
the lake of Haarlem, determined to seek in its gloomy depths a refuge
from disgrace.--Poor Frederick!