Boys who Became Famous Men
[Illustration: "The citizen wheeled abruptly, grasped his arm."]
Boys who Became Famous Men
_Stories of the Childhood of Poets,
Artists, and Musicians_
By
Harriet Pearl Skinner
Illustrated by Sears Gallagher
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1905
_Copyright, 1905_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published September, 1905
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
TO
FRANK, HOWARD, AND ROBERT ANDREWS
CONTENTS
PAGE
BENI'S KEEPER: GIOTTO 1
THE VICTOR: BACH 9
"THE LITTLE BOY AT ABERDEEN": BYRON 44
"TOM PEAR-TREE'S PORTRAIT": GAINSBOROUGH 71
GEORG'S CHAMPION: HÄNDEL 92
SIX HUNDRED PLUS ONE: COLERIDGE 133
THE LION THAT HELPED: CANOVA 176
FRÉDÉRIC OF WARSAW: CHOPIN 207
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"The citizen wheeled abruptly, grasped his arm" _Frontispiece_
PAGE
"He was roused by a hand upon his shoulder" 4
"Sebastian started up, bewildered" 37
"Lay in the grass reading aloud from his favorite story" 56
"A head suddenly appeared above the wall" 84
"The clavichord provided unceasing entertainment" 116
"In its place appeared a noble lion" 193
"Like the tired robbers, were fast asleep" 216
_BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS MEN_
BENI'S KEEPER
[GIOTTO[1]]
One summer morning, long ago, a small boy guarded his father's sheep on
a hillside in the Apennines. Up and down the stony pasture he trod,
driving back the lambs who strayed too far, and trying all the while to
keep his wayward charges in a group where he could count them from time
to time. His chief care was to prevent them from straggling into the
lonely passes above, where wild animals might set upon and devour them;
and to watch that they did not wander down the wooded slope and imprison
themselves in the tangled thickets below.
The boy might easily have been mistaken for a dryad, as he sprang from
rock to rock, whistling shrilly here, coaxing, calling there, and
waving his crook to direct the truants back to the flock. It would have
seemed no great wonder if he had really stepped out from a mountain
boulder to command these gentle troops, for like all woodland sprites,
he was brown. His eyes were brown, his hair was brown, and the tunic
reaching barely to his knee was made of cool brown linen. His sleeves
were rolled to the shoulder, and his arms and legs, bared ever to the
sun, were as brown as bronze itself. A crimson cover-kerchief wound
carelessly about his head was the only bit of vivid color on the
mountain side.
The sun shone hot, and when Giotto was satisfied that his sheep were all
about him, cropping the mosses, he threw himself down in the shade of an
ilex-tree, and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his tunic.
Below, he could see his home nestling in a forest of sturdy pines, and
far down the valley shone the roofs and spires of the village.
Southward appeared a glimpse of the public road that threaded its way
through the hills to the mighty city of Florence. Giotto had never
visited the place, but his father, who every spring carried wool thither
to market, had often told him of the splendid bridges, towers, and
palaces to be seen there. Great men lived there too, Giotto's father had
said, and one of them, a certain Cimabue,[2] painted such pictures as
the world had never seen before. Of this painter and his colors the boy
was never tired of hearing; and as he lay on the grass under the
ilex-tree, he was longing unspeakably for the time to come when he
himself might go to Florence and behold the pictures wrought by
Cimabue's hand.
Musing, his eye fell upon a smooth flat stone near by, and with the
sight came a desire that caused him to leap from his lounging position,
his face alight with purpose.
"Hold still for a little while, Beni!" he said, addressing one of the
sheep that nibbled beside the stone; "just be quiet, and I'll play I'm
Cimabue, and draw your picture."
Giotto reached for a sharp bit of slate that had chipped from the rock
above, and carefully studying the woolly face before him, began to draw
upon the flat white stone. Patiently, thoughtfully he worked, glancing
now up at his placid companion, now down at his flinty canvas, and
coaxing Beni back into position with tempting handfuls of grass whenever
the animal turned to trot away.
The sun rose high, and the boy, bending low over his task, forgot that
he was warm, forgot that he was tired, even forgot that he was hungry,
until he was roused by a hand upon his shoulder.
[Illustration: "He was roused by a hand upon his shoulder."]
He sprang up, startled beyond speech by the touch, for he had believed
himself alone with the silence and the sheep.
Before him stood a man in the robes of a scholar. His manner was
stately, his face pale and serious. He was gazing intently downward,
not upon the little Tuscan shepherd, but at Beni's picture upon the
stone.
"Boy, where did you learn to draw?" he exclaimed in a voice of strong
excitement.
"Learn to draw?" queried Giotto wonderingly. "Nowhere, sir. I haven't
learned."
"Do you mean me to believe that you have had no teacher, no one to tell
you how to use your pencil?" The speaker searched the boy's face
earnestly, almost fiercely, in his desire to know whether the child
spoke the truth.
Giotto, innocent of all but the facts of his simple experience, replied
sadly, "My father is too poor to pay for lessons."
"Then God Himself has taught you!" declared the stranger, hoarse with
agitation. "What is your name?"
"Giotto, sir."
"I am Cimabue, Giotto."
"Not--not Cimabue, the painter of Florence!" ejaculated the lad,
falling back a step, unable to believe that he who stood before him was
in reality the hero of his boyish dreams.
"Yes," affirmed the man gravely, "and if you will go with me to
Florence, child, I will make of you so great a painter that even the
name of Cimabue will dwindle before the name of Giotto."
Down upon one bare knee fell the boy, and grasping the master's hand in
both of his, he cried,--
"Oh, teach me to paint pictures, great and beautiful pictures, and I
will go with you _anywhere_--" He broke off suddenly and rose,--"if
father will give me leave," he concluded quietly.
"Oho!" and the artist smiled curiously. "If your father forbade, you
would not go with me, even though you might become a great painter?"
"No," said Giotto slowly, casting down his eyes, "even though I might
become a great painter."
"Most good, most good," burst out the master exultantly; "a true heart
should ever direct a painter's hand, and yours is true indeed, Giotto.
Come, let us go to him."
Down the steep they hastened, the boy running on before to point the
way, the master following with the look of one who has found a diamond
in the dust at his feet; and when they came before Giotto's father with
their strange request, and the Tuscan peasant learned what fortune had
befallen his child, with the promised teaching and protection of Cimabue
the renowned, he bared his head, waved his hand toward Florence, and
said to the painter solemnly,--
"Take him, master, and teach him the cunning of your brush, the magic of
your colors; tell him the secret of your art and the mystery of your
fame, but let him not forget his home, nor his mountains, nor his God."
And what became of the little Tuscan shepherd?
He dwelt with Cimabue in the wonderful city of Florence, studying
early, studying late; and by the time he had grown to manhood, he was
known to be the greatest painter in all the world. Even his master
turned to him for instruction, and picture-lovers journeyed from distant
countries to see him and behold his works. He was encouraged by the
church, honored by the court, loved by the poor; and in all Christendom
no name was more truly revered than that of the painter, Giotto.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Giotto (pronounced _Jótto_).
[2] Cimabue (pronounced _Chím-a-boó-y_).
THE VICTOR
[BACH[3]]
Down the principal street of old Ohrdruf came a procession of boys
singing a New Year's anthem. The cantor marched before them, wielding
his baton high above his head, so that those following could watch its
motions and keep in perfect accord. Behind him marched the singers, two
by two. They carried neither book nor music sheet, but every eye was
fixed steadily upon the silver-tipped baton, and forty voices rose in
harmony so splendid and exact that passers-by stopped, listened, and
turned to follow the procession down the street.
The singers wore students' caps and gowns of black, and upon the breast
of each shone an embroidered Maltese cross of gold, while below it
appeared the crimson letters, S. M. C., which denoted that these were
the choir-boys of St. Michael's Church.
Marching into an open square, they formed a compact group about the
cantor, and started a fresh and stirring hymn; and presently stepped
forth the smallest boy of them all, who paused a pace or two in advance
of the others, and took up the strain alone. Clear and sweet rang out
his voice upon the frosty air, and listeners by the way turned to one
another with nods and smiles of pleasure.
"That's little Bach," announced one.
"They say he is one of the best sopranos at St. Michael's," murmured
another.
The lad seemed quite unconscious of the impression he was making, for
his manner was as unaffected as though he were singing only to the
barren trees. His dark face was not noticeably handsome, but was very
earnest; and a certain plaintive note in his voice appealed to the
company with singular power, for while the carol falling from his lips
was blithe indeed, the eyes of his hearers were wet. Fervently he hymned
the New Year's joy, now trilling, trilling, like a rapturous bird at
springtime; now softly crooning with the sound of a distant violin.
When his solo ended, a round of applause and many bravos burst from his
audience, but the boy stepped quickly back to his former place and
finished the choral with the others.
In the crowd of bystanders, a man wearing a coat and cap of rough gray
fur smiled broadly when the people applauded little Bach.
"Who is the boy?" inquired a stranger at his elbow.
"He is Sebastian Bach and my brother," announced the fur-coated man. "I
am the organist at St. Michael's, and he is one of the leading
sopranos."
"You should be proud of the child, for he sings remarkably well."
"I am proud of him--ah, here come the collectors."
The singing was done, and in and out among the bystanders went the boys,
passing their wooden plates for pennies in exchange for their serenade.
Nearly every one contributed something, for the people of Ohrdruf were
genuine music-lovers, and they knew that the money gathered in this
fashion would be divided equally among the boys, to use as they pleased.
The choir broke ranks, having paraded and collected in all the streets
of the town, and black-robed boys scurried away in every direction.
"Are you bound for home now, Sebastian?" asked Georg Erdmann, the
soloist's marching companion.
"No," replied the other, "I am going to the church to practise."
"Oh, little Bach is going to practise on the organ," exclaimed a woman
who had overheard the boy's speech. "Come, sister, let's go in and
listen while he plays."
Whereupon the two matrons followed him across the square, and the
fur-coated organist, who had lately seemed so gratified at Sebastian's
success, scowled fiercely.
"I wish that boy would stick to his singing, and let the organ alone,"
he muttered. "People tell me every day that if I don't look sharp my
little brother will beat me at my own profession. He would make me a
nice return for my kindness, if, after I have taken him into my house,
fed him, clothed him, and taught him everything that he knows about
music, he should try to outstrip me in my own work and shame me before
my friends. I won't have it! I won't bear it! I'll admit that the boy is
industrious and generally obedient, but I sha'n't let him impose on me,
if he _is_ of my own flesh and blood. Why should these people go to hear
_him_ practise? Why don't they drop in while _I_ am playing? I am the
organist, although people seem to forget the fact. I think I'll step
over to the church and see what these people are going mad about."
Into the shadowy edifice he stole, taking up his position behind the two
women whose coming had so clearly annoyed him. The peal of the organ was
filling the place from floor to dome, but though the women listened with
eager attention, the face of Christoff Bach gradually softened.
"He is playing his studies, just as I have taught him. Any boy who is
willing to work could do as well. There is nothing remarkable in that
performance. I needn't be worried for my position yet awhile."
High in the organ-loft Sebastian practised faithfully, unaware of the
presence of kindred or stranger. Page after page he rehearsed, sometimes
repeating a difficult passage many times before leaving it.
At length he removed the thick scroll from the rack, and replaced it
with a second book of musical manuscript. Then the church re-echoed
with sounds of a brilliant fugue.
At the first note Christoff Bach started violently and his mouth fell
open with astonishment. He strained forward to be sure that he heard
aright, and as the inspiriting theme rolled through the vaulted spaces
his eyes grew sinister and his hands were clenched so tightly that his
nails dug savagely into his palms.
"My book," he gasped; "the music that I copied at Arnstadt for my own
use! When did he decide to steal it, and undertake to learn my best
selections? He can't keep to his own pieces, but must filch out mine
during my absence, and fumble them on the organ so that my friends can
laugh at me for being outdone by a ten-year-old. The braggart! I'd
thrash him soundly if I hadn't promised father that I'd keep my hands
off him; but I'll settle this business before I sleep. The upstart!"
Raging inwardly, Christoff Bach stalked from the church; and half an
hour later Sebastian quietly took his music bag under his arm and
started homeward, conscious that he was very hungry, and that an
appetizing New Year's dinner would be ready when he arrived.
Sebastian Bach had lost both parents by death, and for nearly a year he
had lived with his brother at Ohrdruf. Seldom does an orphan fall into
such kindly hands, for Christoff had generously supplied the boy's
needs, and the organist's young wife had cared for Sebastian with all
the gentleness of a sister. They sent him to the Lyceum school, and
Christoff taught him music at home. At first the elder brother rejoiced
over the boy's progress in organ playing, and often rubbed his hands
with pride as he predicted for his pupil a future filled with musical
successes. But as the months rolled by, and the lad acquired greater
knowledge, Christoff became silent.
Had Sebastian been content to dawdle at his practising, or even to work
with moderate zest, his experience might have proved no different from
that of most music students; but he did nothing by halves, and whether
he worked or whether he played, whether he studied grammar or whether he
led the games at school, he attacked the enterprise with such force that
he usually came off victorious. Bringing this same determination to bear
upon his music, he soon left his fellow-students far behind; and
practising hour after hour and day after day, with his mind set upon
conquering all obstacles as soon as they appeared, he climbed and
presently leaped into musicianly skill. Some of his music mates
complained that Sebastian learned more in one week than they did in
three or four, and their conclusion was wholly correct; but while they
grumbled they forgot that he daily spent twice as many hours at the
organ as did any one of them, toiling steadily, unfalteringly, until he
had acquired a skill far exceeding theirs.
He was such a good comrade, however, that they readily forgave him his
musical progress, and in every game and contest on the playground he was
eagerly sought as an ally.
Strangely enough, as Sebastian's facility increased, his teacher's brow
clouded. The boy could not understand why his brother was more plainly
vexed over a perfect lesson than with a faulty one. In the beginning
Christoff had cheered Sebastian on, but of late he had grown crabbed and
irritable, and the lessons had come to be hours of harsh and sneering
criticism. Sebastian did not dream that his brother was jealous, but
this was really the case; and Christoff heard the boy's lessons with
deepening anxiety and distaste. Never, however, until to-day had the
organist admitted, even to himself, that he was afraid of his younger
brother, that he dreaded lest he himself should be outstripped by his
pupil.
When Sebastian opened the door of the great kitchen, which served the
family for dining-room and living-room as well, a savory odor floated
out to greet him.
"Hurrah for the goose, Schwester! I hope it is nearly done!" he cried,
throwing down his music and hanging his cap and cloak on a peg beside
the door.
Mrs. Bach was kneeling before the open fireplace, busily engaged in
turning the fowl that browned so temptingly above the blaze; but upon
Sebastian's entrance, she rose and approached him with a troubled look.
"Christoff is very angry with you," she whispered, indicating the
chamber above with a motion of her hand.
"Angry with me? What for? What's wrong?" exclaimed Sebastian astonished.
Before she could reply, a door above was heard to open, and down the
wooden stairway at the end of the kitchen rushed Christoff Bach, his
face purple, his eyes gleaming.
Seizing Sebastian roughly by the arm, he loudly demanded,--
"What do you mean by stealing my pieces, and trying to learn them behind
my back, so that the town can laugh at me when you perform?"
"Steal! Laugh!" echoed Sebastian blankly, unable to comprehend his
brother's meaning.
"Don't pretend to be innocent! You can't hoodwink me any longer, my
young cub. I'll see that nothing like this occurs again."
"What have I done, Christoff? I don't know what you mean."
"You stole my book that I copied at Arnstadt, taking pains to lay hold
of it while I was safe at Gotha."
"I didn't _steal_ it," returned Sebastian horrified.
"You didn't? What do you call your going into my room, taking music
without my permission, and practising it while I am out of town?"
"I didn't suppose you would care a bit. I thought if I learned one or
two of Pachelbel's fugues, it would be a nice surprise for you when you
came back from Gotha."
"A nice surprise! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! I suppose that next time I go from
home for a week you will surprise me by pilfering the contents of my
money-drawer."
"I _didn't_ steal, I _didn't steal_ the book," protested Sebastian,
paling under the sting of his brother's taunt.
"No, no, Christoff, I'm sure the boy meant no harm," interposed Mrs.
Bach, touching her husband's arm with a coaxing gesture; "I knew that he
borrowed your music book, but I thought also that you would be pleased
with his desire to study it."
"Then you, too, are engaged in a plot to ruin me!" shrieked the
organist, carried quite beyond himself by the fury of his jealousy;
"I'll see whether I am not to be master in my own house. If I can't
leave my belongings in my room without fear that my brother will use
them expressly to injure me, and that my wife will help him along with
the scheme, I'll begin to put them out of reach!"
Snatching up Sebastian's music bag, Christoff, too impatient to loose
its fastenings of hook and tape, ripped it apart, seized his roll of
manuscript, thrust it into the shelf of a side cupboard, slammed the
steel wicker door, locked it grimly, and pocketed the key.
"Let's have dinner," he growled, drawing out his chair noisily, and
dropping into his place at table without a glance toward either member
of his household.
Mrs. Bach brought on the steaming goose, but everybody was dismally
uncomfortable throughout the meal. The organist's rosy-cheeked wife
tried to banish the gloom by speaking cheerily upon subjects not akin to
music; but Christoff would not reply, and Sebastian could not, so her
brave attempts soon failed, and the room was left in silence.
Sebastian's appetite was gone, and as soon as possible he hurried away
to his own room, where, deeply dejected, he sat with his face buried in
his folded arms.
As the shade of twilight fell across his bowed figure, a quick footstep
sounded behind him, and a soft hand was laid upon his head.
"Come, Bübchen," said Mrs. Bach kindly, "don't worry any more. Christoff
didn't mean all that he said to-day, and he is sorry that he spoke as he
did. See, I have brought you a bowl of bread and milk, for I noticed
that you ate no dinner. So now forgive Christoff for what he said when
he was angry, and forget all that happened this afternoon. If you act
toward him just as usual, he will do the same with you, and we shall all
be happy again."
Sebastian eagerly raised his head.
"He won't think me a thief any longer?"
"No, no. Certainly not. After he had cooled down a bit I explained to
him what you meant by borrowing his book, and how hard you practised to
learn the second fugue against his return; and he said that he believed
that you were truly honest, and he was sorry that he had accused you
wrongfully."
"And he'll let me use his book hereafter, and learn to play the fugues?"
cried Sebastian joyfully.
Mrs. Bach shook her head slowly, her blue eyes fixed sorrowfully upon
the boy.
"No," she said, "you cannot use his book any more. He said that he would
never scold you again for having taken it last week, but that you must
send him your promise never to play out of it again."
"Schwester!" ejaculated the boy in keen distress, "why does he forbid me
to use it?"
"I do not know; I do not know."
"I may as well give up my playing altogether, for I have finished my own
pieces; Christoff himself said I might leave them now, and I have no
others to study. Music is so costly that I cannot buy any for
myself,--yes, I may as well forget that I wished to be a great, great
musician. Schwester!" The boy's eyes kindled and his cheeks glowed as he
continued ardently,--
"I'd like to play so wonderfully by the time I'm a man that whole
audiences would sometimes smile and sometimes cry with the sweetness of
my music, and little children would drop their toys in the street and
stand in my garden listening. But how can I learn without any music to
study?"
"Buy a book from the cantor with the money you earned to-day in the
parade," suggested Mrs. Bach hopefully.
Sebastian shook his head. "I can't," he explained, "because I gave half
of it to Georg Erdmann, so that he might go to Gotha to visit his
grandmother, and I paid the rest to a gardener for a present that I
brought home yesterday for you."
Throwing open the door of his closet, Sebastian stepped inside, and
quickly emerged, bearing in his arms a tiny rose-tree in full bloom.
"I got it for your New Year's gift, and meant to put it on the dinner
table, but the trouble with Christoff made me forget all about it."
"Oh, oh, it is a beautiful present, and so fragrant, so fragrant! But,
Bübchen," she said in a fondly chiding tone, "you should not have spent
your pennies for me; I have so much and you so little."
"I have you, and--and Christoff, and music," returned Sebastian soberly.
"You are truly a man, and surely a baby," said Mrs. Bach, laughing
merrily. At sound of a voice from below stairs she grew instantly
serious.
"Christoff is calling me, and I must go down. You promise, Sebastian,
never to play out of his book again?"
The boy nodded quickly.
"I promise," he said.
After she had gone Sebastian sat for hours, thinking. Again and again
he lived over the bitter scene of the afternoon, wincing painfully
every time that memory whispered the word "_stole_." The murmur of
voices below ceased finally, and he realized that the rest of the
household was wrapped in sleep. He lighted his candle and tried to study
his lessons for school, but a sense of sickening disappointment bore
down upon him so heavily that, though his eyes sternly travelled the
printed lines, his mind had room for no other thoughts than these,--
"I cannot play. I have no music."
He was startled from his reverie by the sound of a piteous whine. He
listened for a repetition of the plaint, and when the whine expanded to
a howl, Sebastian leaped from his chair, and dashed through the corridor
and down the kitchen stair, with a pang of recollection.
"I forgot to let Grubel in, and it's bitter cold outside!"
He made his way swiftly through the dark room, unbolted the outer door,
and flung it wide.
A huge St. Bernard bounded into the room, and Sebastian, brushing the
snow from the shaggy coat, caressed his pet affectionately.
"Now, Grubel, Schwester doesn't like you to stay in this room. Come
along, old fellow, into the passage!"
The dog obediently followed his master across the dark kitchen, and
trotted through the door that Sebastian held open for him.
As the boy sought the stairway again, his attention was arrested by a
flood of moonlight pouring through the uncurtained pane and illuminating
one of the much-used music sheets that had fallen from the bag which
Christoff had thrown into the window-sill after locking his own book
behind the wicker door.
"How bright the night is," thought Sebastian. "One could read the notes,
I believe, without a candle."
Bending over the pages, he found it to be quite true that the dots and
lines were clearly definable.
"I wonder if I could write well by such a light; I'll try it," and idly
lifting a pen from his sister's table, he dipped it and scribbled his
name across the top of the music sheet.
"Very good," observed he, eyeing the scrawl with admiration; then a
thought shot through his brain that seemed to turn him to stone, for he
stood motionless, with head thrown back and pen uplifted, while the
silvery moonlight, bathing him from head to foot, transfixed him into a
marble statue of expectancy.
"I wonder if I could, I wonder if I could!" he whispered excitedly.
"I'll try now, this very night. If I could get hold of Christoff's
fugues, and copy them here in the moonlight, I should have a book of my
own, and still keep my promise not to play out of his."
Turning to the cupboard that held the coveted treasure, Sebastian gazed
wistfully into its second shelf. The doors were of strong steel lattice
work, and Sebastian saw that it would be impossible either to insert
his hand through the finely interlaced bars, or to bend them in the hope
of securing a wider opening.
The boy's burning desire to obtain the music, and his sense of the
justice of his purpose, would not let him draw back without a mighty
effort.
Casting about for some means of assistance, his eye fell upon his
brother's violin case. Opening this, he hastily extracted the bow,
strong and slender, inserted it between the powerful wires, deftly
worked the roll of music to and fro, drawing it ever nearer until it lay
at the outer edge of the shelf. Slipping one finger and thumb through
the mesh, he seized the roll firmly and drew it from the cabinet. For a
moment he could do nothing but hug the volume madly to his breast, in
the joy of his accomplishment; then running noiselessly up to his room
for copy-paper, he speedily returned, spread the sheets before him on
his sister's table, drew up a chair, and set to work.
Swiftly and steadily he wrote, bending very low above the page, that he
might read his text correctly. He took no note of the flight of time,
but as the moon rose higher in the heavens, his pages grew shadowy, and
he was obliged to draw the table into the sheen of her passing radiance.
The fire died out, the room grew cold, and the boy from time to time
threw down his pen, and beat and blew upon his benumbed fingers, warming
them to further activity.
At last the light failed utterly, and in the gloom Sebastian rose,
carefully rolled his brother's manuscript, strapped it as usual, pushed
it through the lattice, adjusted it to its former position by aid of the
violin bow, gathered up his freshly written sheets, and crept cautiously
to his room.
Next morning he met his brother at breakfast, and Christoff secretly
wondered that the boy wore so cheerful a countenance. No reference was
made to the distressing scene of yesterday, and the brothers set off
together, Christoff on his way to a pupil, and Sebastian to school,
quite as though the painful episode had not happened.
Sebastian attended his various classes like one in a dream, for his mind
was filled with his daring enterprise, and the tremendous effort he must
put forth before his book should be completed.
His zeal did not abate, and at evening he waited breathlessly until the
household fell into heavy slumber; then once again he stole down to the
kitchen, arranged his materials at the window, and toiled feverishly
until the white light faded.
Night after night he repeated his adventurous vigil, and no one of the
family suspected that anything extraordinary was taking place in the
house.
To Sebastian's surprise, he discovered that the moon rose later each
night; and ere long he was obliged to wait up so late for his shimmering
torch that he was forced to bathe his face in icy water, tramp up and
down his chamber, and bite his tongue severely in order to keep awake.
Even these heroic measures failed when the moon was delayed until the
middle of the night; and Sebastian realized with dismay that he must set
his work aside until the time in the following month when his friendly
lantern would begin again to mount the sky at an early hour.
Laboring with such hindrances as dim and fleeting light, nearsighted
eyes, loss of sleep, and piercing cold, the lad's progress was
necessarily slow. Week after week, month after month, he continued at
his weighty task; but never once did his interest flag nor his patience
fail. His organ lessons with Christoff were carried on in a half-hearted
fashion, old selections being rehearsed, and studies previously
finished, indifferently played and heard. Had not Sebastian been fired
with a dominant purpose, and bent upon mastering his art at any cost to
himself, he would doubtless, at this period of cold laxity on his
teacher's part, have abandoned his music altogether. But deep in his
breast there was rooted a desire so strong, a hope so pure, that even
Christoff's unjust denial had not power to discourage him.
If the elder Bach had been less orderly in his habits, Sebastian would
not always have found the manuscript within reach; but though Christoff
took it daily from the cabinet, he always returned it precisely to the
place and position which it had occupied before.
One night Sebastian barely escaped detection. He had just descended to
the kitchen, and was groping about for the violin box, when accidentally
he stumbled upon the hearth-rug, and overturned a chair with a great
clatter. Christoff, roused by the unwonted noise, bounded from his bed
and made for the stair, pausing just long enough on the way to light a
candle.
Sebastian was appalled at hearing his brother's step. Dropping to the
floor, he crept hastily under the dining-table, convinced that its
drapery would not screen him from his brother's eagle eye. He shook from
head to foot, not with fear of punishment, but with dread of losing his
chance at the fugues.
Christoff, however, came only half-way down, and stood upon the stair,
holding the candle high above his head and peering about the dusky
kitchen for traces of intruders. Nothing out of the ordinary greeted his
gaze, for Sebastian had hastily righted the chair before beating his
retreat, and the music roll had not yet been taken from the cupboard.
The organist, perceiving no mark of robbers, heaved a sigh of relief and
quickly repaired to his room, deciding that the disturbance must have
been an ugly dream.
Six months had glided slowly by, bringing their gifts of increasing
warmth and fragrance, when, one clear midsummer's night, Sebastian
finished his book. He was so beset with agitation upon discovering that
only one page remained to be copied that he could scarcely command
himself to pen the finishing notes.
"I'm almost done," he murmured over and over, as his quill flew across
the paper. "One line more, and the fugues will be mine! Now, a single
measure, a single measure! One note--ah--it is done, it is done!"
The monument to little Bach's courage and fidelity was built.
The pen dropped from his aching fingers, and, overcome with weariness,
he laid down his head beside the closely written sheets and fell asleep.
His friend, the moon, shone upon him brightly for a time, and in her
pearly beams the tired child's face was as white as the page beside it.
Even she withdrew at length, and nothing disturbed the silence of the
room but the regular breathing of the sleeper.
He was awakened by a voice exclaiming,--
"Bübchen, what are you doing here?"
Sebastian started up, bewildered, for Mrs. Bach stood beside him, and
the kitchen was blazing with sunshine.
[Illustration: "Sebastian started up, bewildered."]
"I--I don't understand," whispered he, dazed by the brightness and the
woman's presence.
Mrs. Bach laughed and shook him good-naturedly.
"You're still asleep, that's what is the matter. See, it's breakfast
time, and I am ready to put the kettle on. What have you been doing
here?"
Sebastian merely pointed to his final page, lying next Christoff's, and
Mrs. Bach gathered the truth at once.
Up went her hands in astonishment, but prudence stifled the comments
that rose to her lips.
"Quick! Run up to your room with your papers, and I'll get this roll
back into the cabinet. Hurry, for Christoff will be down in a minute!"
Sebastian obeyed, and from the bottom of the stairs Mrs. Bach called him
as usual when breakfast was ready.
The following months were filled with delight for Sebastian, who
studied his fugues with ever-deepening happiness. For this practice, he
intentionally chose the hour when his brother was engaged in teaching at
a distant quarter of the town. Every day, when Christoff set off to the
house of his pupil, Sebastian would hurry to the church, and play from
his precious book until time for the organist to return for his own
organ-work.
Winter had come again to Ohrdruf, and one day Sebastian climbed to the
organ-loft, placed his cherished book upon the rack, and began to play
the Pachelbel fugues.
Mrs. Bach, walking in the street, heard the music and entered the
church. Passing up the stair, she drew a stool from a shadowy corner and
sat down to listen and enjoy.
Sebastian welcomed her with a nod and smile, for the sympathy of his
sister-in-law was his daily comfort.
One number after another he played, and the harmonies swelling from the
organ at touch of his flying fingers vibrated through the sacred place
from threshold to chancel.
Musician and listener were so absorbed that they failed to hear a
footfall upon the stair, and both were unaware that a third presence was
added to the gallery.
Like a thunderbolt out of a blue heaven came a derisive hoot in
Sebastian's ear. His hands were grasped as in a vise, and Christoff's
face bent menacingly above him.
"Again, again, again," thundered the organist; "again you have stolen my
book, despite your promise!"
Sebastian struggled to his feet, and confronted his accuser quietly.
"I have not stolen your book. This one is mine."
"Yours," sneered Christoff; "pray, where did you get a book of
Pachelbel's fugues?"
Further concealment was useless, now that his brother had discovered
the existence of his manuscript, so Sebastian in a few words told the
story of his painful and valiant achievement.
Christoff listened amazedly, but no relenting gleam softened his look of
scorn. He laughed harshly when the tale was ended, and, catching the
fated book from the rack, rolled it tightly and crowded it into his
leathern girdle.
"I'll end this pretty business at once," he shouted, bringing his teeth
together with a snap. "Finding that steel lattices are not sufficient
protection against your prying fingers, I'll lock my book behind a door
of solid iron, and," triumphantly tapping the volume in his belt, "I'll
put this one along with it for safe keeping."
"Christoff, husband!" cried Mrs. Bach, her voice breaking into sobs; "do
not be so cruel as to take his book away. He has worked so long, so
hard--"
She ended her defence abruptly as her eyes fell upon the boy.
No trace of passion or grief distorted Sebastian's features, but,
instead, his countenance was singularly serene. Turning toward his
brother with a smile of mysterious power and sweetness, he said,--
"You may lock my book behind twenty iron doors if you wish, Christoff,
but the music is all written in my heart. You can bury my volume in the
earth or the ocean, but you never can take the fugues away from me
again, for I have memorized them, every one."
Many years later King Frederick II. of Prussia assembled his brilliant
court in the throne room at Potsdam to listen to a concert arranged by
the musicians of the royal palace.
The program was but fairly begun when a page entered the hall, and
dropped upon his knee before the king, with a whispered message.
Frederick bent with impatience toward the lad who had dared to bring a
petition from any one at a moment so ill chosen, and was about to
dismiss him abruptly, when his ear caught one word of the boy's
tremulous speech.
The monarch's look of annoyance changed to one of joyful surprise, and
rising quickly, he commanded the musicians to instant silence.
"Bach has come," declared the king in exultant tone; "Bach has come; the
mighty maker of music. Bring him hither that we may do him homage!"
A hundred exclamations greeted the king's announcement, and presently a
man of distinguished appearance and quiet dignity was ushered into the
apartment.
Down from his throne stepped the king, advancing half-way up the hall to
meet the new-comer. By a quick gesture, he forbade the stranger to bend
the knee, but said simply,--
"Play for us."
Without a word the visitor sat down before the piano, and speedily the
room was filled with such music as had never before been heard in the
king's palace.
Frederick would not permit him to leave the instrument, but sat close
by, in rapt enjoyment, while Bach gave one after another of his
marvellous compositions.
"For a long, long time I have known of you, Sebastian Bach," murmured
the king, when at last they parted for the night. "Strange tales have
come to my ears of the court composer of Poland and Saxony. I have heard
of the princes who are proud to take you by the hand; of the beggars
that listen in companies before your door; but I never imagined that
music could be such music as you have given us here."
That night, had the palace of Potsdam had heart to feel and brain to
understand, it surely would have throbbed with hospitality, for within
its well-defended walls slept two who led the world in thought and
action: one was Frederick the Great; the other, Bach the Victor.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] Bach (pronounced _Bakh_).
"THE LITTLE BOY AT ABERDEEN"
[BYRON]
"Vacation's here! Vacation's here!" shouted George Byron, bursting into
the room and throwing his books upon the table.
"And a pity it is," returned his mother coldly; "you are so bad at
numbers that you ought to be at school every day in the year."
George flushed deeply, but did not reply. He had learned that when Mrs.
Byron wore this worried expression it was wiser of him to keep silence.
Doubtless she had received one of those troublesome business letters
again. Such missives always did disturb matters in the Aberdeen
apartment, often causing Mrs. Byron to speak sharply to those about her.
This lady had belonged to the Gordons, one of the proudest families in
Scotland; and upon her marriage with handsome Jack Byron, her fortune
was seized to pay his numerous debts. Consequently, at her husband's
death a few years later, Mrs. Byron was left in the city of Aberdeen
with scarcely enough to keep herself and her child from want. The tiny
rooms in Broad Street were filled with the massive furniture and costly
vases, mirrors, and china that Mrs. Byron had brought from her father's
house at her bridal; but the cupboard was scantily provisioned, and much
thought and labor were required to keep George's apparel in trim for
school. While, however, Mrs. Byron spent only pennies where her
neighbors lavished pounds, her brain and fingers contrived so
successfully that neither she nor the lad ever presented a shabby
appearance.
"Come, George," said the lady more gently, repenting her impatience,
"put your books away, and May will serve tea at once."
The boy's face brightened, and whistling softly, he crossed the room to
the bookshelves. The odd slide and sudden halt with which he moved,
together with the stout cane upon which he leaned, betokened that "the
little boy at Aberdeen" was not quite like other boys.
Sadly enough, George Byron was lame, a burden very hard for an impetuous
lad to bear. He was, however, too plucky ever to allude to his
affliction in the presence of his playmates, but carried his misfortune
bravely and independently as long as his companions seemed to forget it,
and seldom was any of them so unkind as to mention his crooked feet.
Athletic sports were his chief delight, although there were few that he
could enter. At running, leaping, and dancing he was helpless, always
forced to stand aside and watch when these were in progress; but he was
an expert archer, could throw farther than any boy at the grammar
school, and with the sling his marksmanship was astonishing. He was a
prime favorite with all the boys at school and in the neighborhood of
Broad Street, and he was thoroughly accustomed to the rôle, for his
handsome face and fun-loving disposition speedily won admiration
wherever he went.
He gayly joined the boys in their pranks and adventures, often with his
ringing voice and daring spirit commanding the expeditions, but, to the
lads' amazement, he found his best enjoyment in the company of a little
girl named Mary Duff. She was such a pretty child that passers-by often
turned to look after her, and her soft voice and sweet manner showed her
to be a real little gentlewoman. The mothers approved of this
friendship, for they said that Mary improved George's manners, and that
George helped Mary with her reading. The children loved each other
dearly, and seldom did there pass a day when they two were not seen
together.
To-night, at bedtime, George said:
"Wake me early, please, mother, for Mary, Aladdin, and I are going to
spend the day by the river."
Mrs. Byron promised, and accordingly the next morning George felt
himself being shaken by the shoulder, while from the midst of a dream he
heard his mother say,--
"Wake up, wake up! This is the third time that I have called you, and
Mary is already here."
Up sprang George, all drowsiness put to flight. When he had dressed
himself and finished his bowl of oatmeal, he joined Mary in the
drawing-room with a tin box of sandwiches, and an apple in each pocket.
The visitor bore a small basket containing her contributions to the
luncheon; and as she slipped off the sofa at George's entrance her
pinafore and little sunbonnet rustled loudly in their starchy crispness.
Down the stairs hurried the pair, bent upon calling for Aladdin, the
third member of their company.
As they reached the street, George was accosted by Bobby Black, who,
with a group of neighboring boys, was emerging from his gate opposite.
"Come on, Byron, we're going to watch the cricket game in Murdoch's
field!"
George shook his head decisively.
"I'm going somewhere else."
"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" jeered the boys in chorus, and Bobby called out in a
teasing tone,--
"Oh, you'd rather go with Mary Duff than with us. You're Mary Duff's
beau! Ha, ha! You're Mary Duff's beau!"
The little girl crimsoned with annoyance at Bobby's silly taunt, but
George retorted quickly,--
"Well, _you_ can't be Mary Duff's beau until you learn to wash your
hands."
The laugh turned on Bobby, and George and Mary set off in quest of
comrade number three.
As they approached a square stone building, a man standing before its
open door disappeared within, only to return immediately, leading
Aladdin, the most captivating of Shetland ponies.
This animal was George's one important possession, but instead of a
plaything, it had been purchased for the boy's convenience in getting
about. George's poor feet made walks of any great length painful
undertakings, but sitting on Aladdin's back, he could go as far and as
swiftly as he desired.
The pony was black and satiny for the most part, but upon his forehead a
small white patch was to be seen, and his mane and tail were snowy. He
was so fond of his master that he would follow him about like a kitten;
and he always whinnied joyfully whenever the boy appeared at the stable
door.
George tied his box and Mary's basket to the small red saddle, and
turned to his companion.
"We'll ride and tie, of course. You mount first, and leave him at
Baillie's stile."
Stooping, as he had read that the great lairds did, he allowed Mary to
place her chubby foot in his clasped hands. Then, with her agile spring,
he landed her securely on Aladdin's back. She gathered up the reins and
trotted away, while George took up his walking stick and limped slowly
after her.
Their plan was the old one, followed often by farmers and mountaineers,
when two persons travel with one horse. One rides to a certain point,
dismounts, ties the horse and walks on, while the other trudges along on
foot until he comes to the place where the horse is waiting, when he
mounts and rides to a second stopping-place, secures the animal for his
friend, and once more tramps on his way. Thus, by changes of walking and
riding, a goodly journey can be accomplished with less fatigue than
might be supposed.
To-day the playmates proceeded along the wooded shore of the river Dee,
at no great distance from home, but far enough that they were able to
walk on the soft earth, to stand in a forest of mighty trees, and to
bask in sunshine undimmed by the city's smoke and grime.
The journey was a difficult one for George, for he insisted upon walking
his full share of the way, and, hopping along with his stout cane, he
would sometimes be obliged to lean heavily against a tree or rock,
panting violently and clutching at his support with both hands. He dared
not drop down on the mossy bank, lest with no one near to lend him a
hand he might not manage to get up again. So, after but two or three
turns of marching, George sat down upon a stump and waited for Mary and
Aladdin to come up with him.
The pony, with his dainty sunbonneted rider, soon came into view, and
George hailed them from the roadside.
"Hi! Let's stay here. Don't you think we have gone far enough?"
"Yes," said Mary, pushing back her bonnet and glancing about the quiet
place, where dazzling sunbeams pierced through the leafy ceiling and
lightened the carpet of gay green moss; "do let's stay here; it seems
nice and far."
Whereupon the lady slipped from her saddle, and leaving Aladdin to his
own devices, after prudently freeing him of box and basket, joined
George on the stump.
"What shall we do first?" she queried.
"Let's throw clay balls," suggested George, rising quickly.
"Let's!" agreed Mary. So together they scrambled down the river bank,
and heaped a piece of driftwood with stiff clay. Returning, George cut
two slender switches from a willow-tree and presented one to his
partner. Then he rolled a bit of clay into a marble-sized ball, pressed
it firmly on the tip of the rod, and, with a quick fling, sent the ball
far out into the river.
George wielded his twig so dexterously that he could tap a mast in a
passing boat, and selecting almost any tree, stone, or sail within a
range of two hundred yards, could send his pudgy bullet home.
His cheeks soon glowed with the fun and exercise, and at every swish of
the withe he called his comrade to bear witness to his unerring aim.
Mary, following his example, faithfully loaded her switch and let fly at
every target that her fancy chose. Her success, however, was not
brilliant, for her ball seldom soared beyond the shadows of the trees
under which they sat, and never by any chance approached the object she
had intended to hit. After numerous fruitless efforts, she laid aside
her wand and brought from her basket a rag-doll which George had
christened "Heatheress."
Luncheon followed, and when Mary had spread the repast on a napkin, she
said,--