Lucky Peer
Hans Christian Andersen
XI
Once a week there was quartet music. Ears, soul, and thought were filled with the grand musical poems of Beethoven and Mozart. It had been a long time since Peer had heard good and well-played music. It was as if a kiss of fire traveled down his spine and shot through all his nerves. His eyes filled with tears. Every musical evening here at home was a festive evening to him, which made a deeper impression upon him than any opera at the theater, where something always disturbs one or imperfections are revealed. Sometimes the words do not come out right; they are so smoothed down in the singing that they are as intelligible to a Chinese as to a Greenlander; and sometimes the effect is weakened by faults in dramatic expression, and by a full voice sinking in places to the power of a music box or drawling out false tones. Lack of truthfulness in stage settings and costumes also is to be observed. All this was absent from the quartet. The music poems rose in all their grandeur; costly hangings decorated the walls in the concert room; here he was in the world of music, which its masters had created.
One evening, Beethoven's "Pastoral" Symphony was given by a great orchestra in the big public music hall. It was the andante movement, "the scene by the brook," that particularly, and with a strange power, stirred and excited our young friend. It carried him into the living, fresh woods; the lark and the nightingale rejoiced, and the cuckoo sang there. What beauty of nature; what a well spring of refreshment there was! From this hour he knew within himself that it was the picturesque music, in which nature was reflected and the emotions of human hearts were set forth, that struck deepest into his soul. Beethoven and Haydn became his favorite composers.
He often spoke with the singing master about this, and with each conversation the two became closer friends. How rich in knowledge this man was, as inexhaustible as Mimir's well. Peer listened to him; just as eagerly as he had to Grandmother's fairy tales and stories as a little boy, he now listened to those of the world of music, and came to know what the forest and the sea told, what sounds in the old giant mounds, what every bird sings with its bill, and what the flower silently exhales in fragrance.
The hour devoted to his singing lesson every morning was an hour of true delight for master and pupil; every little song was sung with freshness, expression, and simplicity; most charmingly did he sing the Schubert series of Travel Songs. Both the melodies and the words were heard to their full advantage; they blended together; they exalted and illumined one another, as is fitting. Peer was undeniably a dramatic singer. His ability showed progress each month, each week, day by day.
Our young friend grew in a wholesome, happy way, knowing no want or sorrow. His was a rich and wonderful life, with a future full of blessings before him. His trust in mankind was never deceived; he had a child's soul and a man's endurance, and everywhere he was received with gentle eyes and a kind welcome. Day by day the relations between him and the singing master grew more heartfelt and confidential; the two were like an elder and a younger brother, and the younger had all the fervor and warmth of a young heart, which was understood and returned in full measure by the elder.
The singing master's personality was characterized by a southern ardor, and one saw at once that this man could hate vehemently or love passionately, and, fortunately, this last governed in him. He was, moreover, so situated by a fortune his father had left him that he did not need to work, unless it interested and pleased him to do so. Secretly he did a great deal of good in a sensible way, but didn't want people to thank him or to talk about it.
"If I have done anything," he said, "it was because I could and should have done it. It was my duty."
His old servant, "our warden," as he called him in jest, talked only with half a voice when he gave expression to his opinion about the master of the house. "I know what he has given away and done during years and days, and yet I don't know the half! The King ought to give him a star to wear on his breast. But he would not wear it; he would be furious, if I know him, should he be honored for his kind deeds. He is happy, more so than the rest of us, in whatever faith he has. He is just like a man out of the Bible."
And to that the old fellow gave additional emphasis, as if Peer could have some doubt.
He felt and understood well that the singing master was a true Christian in good deeds, an example for everyone; yet the man never went to church, and when Peer one day mentioned that the following Sunday he was going with his mother and his grandmother to our "Lord's table" and asked if the singing master ever did the same, the answer was, "No!" It seemed as if he wanted to say something more, as if, indeed, he had something to confide to Peer, but nothing was said.
One evening he read aloud from the newspaper about the beneficence of a couple of men, and that led him to speak of good deeds and their reward.
"When one does not think of it, it is sure to come. The reward for good deeds is like dates that are spoken of in the Talmud; they ripen late and then are sweet."
"Talmud?" asked Peer. "What sort of book is that?"
"A book," was the answer, "from which more than one seed of thought has been implanted in Christianity."
"Who wrote that book?"
"Wise men in the earliest times, wise men in various nations and religions. Here wisdom is preserved in a few words, as in Solomon's Proverbs. What kernels of truth! One reads here that men round about the whole earth, in all the centuries, have always been the same. 'Your friend has a friend, and your friend's friend has a friend; be discreet in what you say!' is found here. It is a piece of wisdom for all times. 'No one can jump over his own shadow!' is here, too, and, 'Wear shoes when you walk over thorns!' You ought to read this book. You will find in it the proof of culture more clearly than you find it in the layers of the earth. For me, as a Jew, it is, moreover, and inheritance from my fathers."
"Jew?" said Peer. "Are you a Jew?"
"Did you not know that? How strange that we two should not have spoken of it before today!"
Mother and Grandmother knew nothing about it, either; they had never thought anything about it, but always had known that the singing master was an honorable, wonderful man. It was through God's guidance that Peer had met him on his way; next to our Lord he owed him all his good fortune.
And now the mother divulged a secret that she had carried faithfully a few days only and that, under the pledge of secrecy, had been told her by the merchant's wife. The singing master must never know that this was revealed; it was he who had paid for Peer's support and education at Herr Gabriel's. From the evening when; at the merchant's house, he had heard Peer sing the ballet Samson, he alone had been his real friend and benefactor, but in secret.
XII
Madam Hof was expecting Peer at her house, and now he arrived there.
"Now you will meet my Hof," she said, "and you will meet my fireside corner. I never dreamed of this when I danced in Circe and The Rose Elf in Provence. Indeed, there are not many now who think of that ballet and of little Frandsen. Sic transit gloria in the moon! - that's what my Hof, who is a witty fellow, calls it in Latin, and he uses that phrase when I talk about my time of glory. He likes to poke fun at me, but he does it with a good heart."
The "fireside corner" was an inviting room with a low ceiling, a carpet on the floor, and portraits suitable for a bookbinder to have. There were pictures of Gutenberg, and of Franklin, of Shakespeare, Cervantes, Moli�re, and the two blind poets, Homer and Ossian. Lowest down hung one, enclosed in glass and a broad frame, of a danseuse, cut out of paper, with great gold spangles on a dress of gauze, the right leg lifted toward heaven, and with a verse written beneath:
Who captures all hearts by her dancing?
Who wears her wreath of art entrancing?
Miss Emilie Frandsen!
It was written by Hof, who wrote charming verse, especially comic verse. He had clipped the picture out himself and pasted and sewed it before he had married his first wife. For many years it had lain in a drawer; now it was displayed here in the poet picture gallery - "my fireside corner," as Madam Hof called her little room. Here Peer and Hof were introduced to each other.
"Isn't he a wonderful man?" she said to Peer. "To me he is just the most wonderful."
"Yes, on Sunday, when I am well bound in my new clothes," said Herr Hof.
"You are wonderful without any binding," she said, and then she tipped her head down as if she realized that she had spoken a little too childishly for one of her age.
"Old love does not rust," said Herr Hof. "An old house on fire burns down to the ground."
"It is as with the phoenix bird," said Madam Hof; "one rises up young again. Here is my paradise. I don't care to be any other place - except for an hour or so at your mother's and grandmother's."
"And at your sister's," said Herr Hof.
"No, Angel Hof; that is no longer a paradise. I must tell you, Peer, they live in small circumstances, and amid big complications. One doesn't know what he dares say in that house. One doesn't dare mention the word 'darky,' for the eldest daughter is engaged to one who has some Negro blood in him. One doesn't dare say 'hunchback,' for that one of the children is. One doesn't dare talk about 'deficit' - my brother-in-law has been involved in such a mishap. One doesn't even dare say that he has been driving in the wood; wood has an ugly sound, for Wood was the name of the fellow who broke his engagement with the youngest daughter. I don't like to go out and sit and keep my mouth shut. If I don't dare talk, I want to be in my own house and sit in my fireside corner. Were it not too sinful, as they say, I would gladly ask our Lord to let us live as long as my fireside corner holds out, for here one grows better. Here is my paradise, and this my Hof has given me."
"She has a gold mill in her mouth," he said.
"And you have gold grains in your heart," she said.
Grind, grind what the bag will hold.
Emilie is as pure as gold!
he said, as she tickled him under the chin.
"He wrote that verse at this very moment! It's good enough to be printed!"
"Yes, and handsomely bound!" he said.
That's how these two old folks amused each other.
A year passed before Peer began to study a role at the theater. He chose Joseph, but he exchanged it for the role of George Brown in the opera The White Lady. He quickly learned the words and music, and from Walter Scott's novel, which had furnished the material for the opera, he obtained a clear, full picture of the young, spirited officer who visits his native hills and comes to his ancestral castle without knowing it; an old song awakens recollections of his childhood; luck is with him, and he wins a castle and a wife.
What he read became like something he himself had lived - a chapter of his own life's story. The richly melodious music was entirely in keeping. A long, long time passed before the first rehearsals began. The singing master did not think that there was any hurry for him to make his appearance, but finally the day to start arrived. He was not merely a singer; he was an actor, and his whole personality was thrown into the role. The chorus and the orchestra applauded him loudly at the outset, and the opening night was looked forward to with the greatest expectation.
"One can be a great actor in a dressing gown at home," said a good-natured companion, " can be very great by daylight, but only so-so before the footlights in a packed house. Time will tell."
Peer had no fear, but had a burning desire for the eventful evening. The singing master, on the contrary, was extremely nervous. Peer's mother had not the courage to go to the theater; she would be ill with fear for her dear boy. Grandmother was sick and must stay at home, the doctor had said; but the faithful friend, Madam Hof, promised to bring news the very same evening of how it all went. She should and would be at the theater, even if she were dying.
How long that evening was! How the three or four hours stretched into eternity! Grandmother sang a psalm and prayed with Mother to the good God for their little Peer, that he might this evening also be Lucky Peer. The hands of the clock moved slowly.
"Now Peer is beginning," they said. "Now he is in the middle. Now he has finished." The mother and grandmother looked at each other, but they didn't say another word.
In the streets there was the rumbling of carriages; people were driving home from the theater. The two women looked down from the window; the people who were passing talked in loud voices; they had come from the theater; what they knew would bring either gladness or sadness up into the garret of the merchant's house.
At last someone came up the stairs. Madam Hof burst in, followed by her husband. She flung herself about the neck of the mother and grandmother, but didn't say a word. She wept and sobbed.
"Lord God!" said Mother and Grandmother. "How did everything go for Peer?"
"Let me weep!" said Madam Hof, who was so moved, so overcome. "I cannot bear it. Ah, you dear people, you cannot bear it, either!" And her tears streamed down.
"Have they hissed him off?" cried Mother.
"No, not that!" said Madam Hof. "They have - oh, that I should live to see it!"
Then both Mother and Grandmother wept.
"Be calm, Emilie," said Herr Hof. "Peer has conquered! He has triumphed! They clapped so much that the house nearly tumbled down! I can still feel it in my hands. It was one storm of applause from the first row to the gallery. The entire royal family clapped, too. Really, it was what one may call a redletter day in the annals of the theater. It was more than talent - it was genius"
"Yes, genius!" said Madam Hof; "those are my words. God bless you, Hof, because you said them for me! You good people, never would I have believed that one could both sing and act like that, though I have lived through a theater's whole history." She cried again; Mother and Grandmother laughed , while tears still ran down their cheeks.
"Now sleep well on that," said Herr Hof. "Come along, Emilie. Good night, good night!"
They left the garret room and two happy people there. These two were not alone long. The door opened, and Peer, who hadn't promised to come before the next forenoon, stood in the room. He well knew how the old people had followed him in their thoughts, how ignorant, too, they still must be of his success, and when driving by the house with the singing master, he had stopped outside; with the light still burning up in the garret, he had felt he must go to them.
"Splendid, glorious, superb! All went well!" he exclaimed jubilantly, and kissed his mother and his grandmother. The singing master nodded with a beaming face and pressed their hands.
"And now he must go home and have some rest," he said. And the late visit was over.
"Our Father in heaven, how gracious and good You are!" said these two poor women. They talked far into the night about Peer. Everywhere in the great city people talked about him - the young, handsome, wonderful singer. Lucky Peer had gone that far.
XIII
With great fanfare, the morning paper told of the debut as something out of the ordinary, the drama critic reserving his privilege of expressing his opinion in a following issue. The merchant invited Peer and the singing master to a grand dinner. It was an observance - a testimony of his and his wife's interest in the young man, who had been born in the house, in the same year and on the very same day as their own son.
The merchant made a beautiful speech and proposed a toast to the singing master, the man who had found and polished this "precious stone," a name one of the prominent papers had called Peer. Felix sat by his side and was the soul of gaiety and affection. After dinner he brought out his own cigars; they were better than the merchant's. "He can afford to get them," said the latter; "he has a rich father." Peer did not smoke - a great fault, but one which could be remedied easily enough.
"We must be friends," said Felix. "You have become the lion of the town! All the young ladies, and the old ones, too, for that matter, you have taken by storm. You are lucky with everything, I envy you, especially in that you can go in and out over there at the theater, among all the little girls."
To Peer that did not seem anything very worthy of envy.
He received a letter from Madam Gabriel. She was in a state of ecstasy over the splendid accounts in the papers of his debut and over what he would become as an artist. She and the girls had drunk a toast to him with punch. Herr Gabriel also had a share in his honor, and was quite sure that he, beyond most others, could pronounce foreign words correctly. The pharmacist ran about town and reminded everyone that it was at their little theater they had first seen and admired his talent, which now for the first time was recognized in the capital. "The pharmacist's daughter would surely be irritated," added Madam, "now that he could propose to baronesses and countesses." The pharmacist's daughter had been in too much of a hurry and given in too soon, for a month earlier she had become betrothed to the fat Councilor. The banns had been published, and they were to be married on the twentieth of the month.
It was just the twentieth of the month when Peer received this letter. He felt as if he had been pierced through the heart. At that moment it became clear to him that, during all the vacillation of his soul, she had been his steadfast thought. He cared more for her than anyone else in the world. Tears came into his eyes; he crumpled the letter in his hand. It was the first great grief of heart he had known since he had heard, with Mother and Grandmother, that his father had fallen in the war. He thought that all happiness was gone, that his future would be empty and sorrowful. The sunlight no longer beamed from his youthful face; the sunshine was put out in his heart.
"He doesn't look well," said Mother and Grandmother. "It is the hardwork at the theater."
They could both see that he was not the same as before, and the singing master saw it, too.
"What is the matter?" he said. "May I not know what troubles you?"
At that his cheeks turned red, his tears flowed afresh, and he told him about his sorrow, his loss.
"I loved her so deeply!" he said. "Only now, when it is too late, is it really clear to me!"
"Poor, grieved friend! I understand you so well. Weep freely, and as soon as you can, hold onto the thought that whatever happens in the world happens for the best. I, too, have known and felt what you now are feeling. I, like you, once loved a girl; she was intelligent, pretty, and fascinating; she was to be my wife. I could offer good her good circumstances, and she cared for me; but one condition had to be met before the marriage; her parents required it, and she required it: I must become a Christian!"
"And that you would not?"
"I could not. One cannot, with an honest conscience, jump from one religion to another without sinning either against the one he takes leave of or the one he steps into. "
"Have you no faith?" said Peer.
"I have the God of my fathers. He is a light for my feet and my understanding." They sat in silence for a while. Then the hands of the singing master touched the keys, and he played an old folk song. Neither of them sang the words; perhaps each was deep in his own thoughts.
Madam Gabriel's letter was not read again. She never dreamed what sorrow it had brought.
A few days later a letter arrived from Herr Gabriel; he also wished to offer his congratulations and "a commission," which perhaps was the real reason for the letter. He asked Peer to buy a little porcelain figure, namely, Amor and Hymen, Love and Marriage. "It is all sold out here in town," he wrote, "but can easily be bought in the capital. The money is enclosed with this. Send the thing as quickly as possible; it is a wedding present for the Councilor, at whose marriage I was with my wife." Moreover, Peer was told: "Young Madsen never will become a student; he has left the house and has painted the walls with embarrassing remarks against the family. A bad subject, that young Madsen. Sunt pueri pueri, pueri puerilia tractant! i.e., 'Boys are boys, and boys do boyish things.' I translate it since you are not a Latin scholar." And with that Herr Gabriel's letter closed.
XIV
Frequently, when Peer sat at the piano, there sounded tones in it that stirred within his breast and head. The tones rose into melodies, which now and then carried words along with them; they could not be separated from the melodies. Thus several little poems that were rhythmic and full of feeling came into being. The were sung in a subdued voice. It was as if they, shy and afraid of being heard, were gliding along in loneliness.
Everything passes, like the wind that blows;
There is nothing lasting here.
From your cheek will fade the rose,
As well as smile and tear.
Why be burdened with pain and grief?
Away with your trouble and sorrow,
For everything goes, fades like the leaf;
Time and man pass with the morrow.
All vanishes, everything goes,
Your youth, your hope, and your friend.
Everything passes, like the wind that blows,
Never to return, only to end!
"Where did you get that song and melody?" asked the singing master, who by chance saw the words and music written down.
"It came of itself, that and all these. They will never fly farther into the world."
"A downcast spirit sets out flowers, too," said the singing master, "but a downcast spirit dares not give advice. Now we must set sail and steer toward your next debut. What do you say to Hamlet, the melancholy young Prince of Denmark?"
"I know Shakespeare's tragedy," said Peer, "but not yet Thomas' opera."
"The opera should be called Ophelia," said the singing master. In the tragedy, Shakespeare has made the Queen tell us of Ophelia's death, and this has become the high light in the musical rendering. One sees before his eyes, and feels in the tones, what before we could learn only from the narrative of the Queen.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress . . .
The opera brings all this before our eyes. We see Ophelia; she comes out playing, dancing, singing the old ballad about the mermaid who entices men down beneath the river, and while she sings and plucks the flowers the same tones are heard from the depths of the stream; they sound in the voices of the chorus alluringly from the deep water; she listens; she laughs; she draws near the brink; she holds onto the overhanging willow and stoops to pluck the white water lilies; gently she glides out onto them and, singing, reclines on their broad leaves; she swings with them and is carried by the stream out into the deep, where, like the broken flower, she sinks in the moonlight, with the mermaid's melody welling forth about her.
In this great scene it is as if Hamlet, his mother, his uncle, and the dead, avenging king were created only to make the frame for this exquisite picture. We do not get Shakespeare's Hamlet, just as in the opera Faust we do not get Goethe's Faust. The speculative is no material for music. It is the love element in both these tragedies that elevates them to musical poems.
The opera of Hamlet was presented on the stage. The actress who had Ophelia's part was admirable, and the death scene was very effective, while Hamlet himself received sympathetic greatness on this evening, a fullness of character that grew with each scene in which he appeared. Furthermore, people were astonished at the extent of the singer's voice, at the freshness shown in the high as well as in the deep tones, and that he, with and equal brilliancy of power, could sing Hamlet and George Brown.
In most of the Italian operas the singing parts are each like a canvas on which the gifted singer or songstress puts his or her soul and genius, and with the varied, wavy colors creates the form the poem requires. How much more glorious they must be able to reveal themselves when the music is composed and carried out through thought centered upon the character; and this Gounod and Thomas have understood.
That evening at the theater, the character of Hamlet was given flesh and blood, and he raised himself into the position of the leading personage in the opera. Unforgettable was the night scene on the ramparts, where Hamlet, for the first time, sees his father's ghost - the scene in the castle, before the stage that has been erected, where he flings out the words that are drops of poison - the terrible meeting with his mother, where the father's ghost stands with avengeful attitude before the son - and finally, what power in his voice, what tones, at Ophelia's death! She was the sympathetic lotus flower upon the deep, dark sea; its waves rolled with a mighty force into the soul of the spectators. That evening Hamlet became the leading figure. The triumph was complete. "From whom did that boy get it?" said the merchant's rich wife, as she thought of Peer's parents and his grandmother up in the garret. The father had been a warehouseman, good and honorable, and had fallen as a soldier on the field of honor - the mother, a washerwoman - but that does not give the son culture; he had grown up in a charity school - and how much knowledge could a provincial schoolmaster give him in a period of two years?
"It is genius!" said the merchant. "Genius - that is born of God's grace."
"Most certainly!" said his wife. And she folded her hands as she talked to Peer. "Do you really feel humble in your heart at what you have received? Heaven has been inconceivably gracious to you! Everything is given you. You do not know how gripping your Hamlet is! You simply cannot imagine it! I have heard that many great poets do not themselves know the glory of what they have given; the philosophers must reveal it to them. Where did you get your conception of Hamlet?"
"I have thought about the character, have read a great deal of what has been written about Shakespeare's work, and then on the stage I have tried to put life into the person and his surroundings. I give my share, and our Lord gives the rest."
"Our Lord!" she said with a half-reproving look. "Do not use that name in such a manner! He gave you ability, but you surely do not believe that He has anything to do with the theater and opera!"
"Yes, most certainly!" said Peer courageously. "He has a pulpit there, too, and most people listen more there than in church!"
She shook her head. "God is with us in everything good and beautiful, but let us be careful not to take His name in vain. It is a gift of grace for one to be a great artist, but it is still better to be a good Christian." Felix, she felt, would never have compared the theater and the church before her, and she was glad.
"Now you have fallen out with Mamma!" said Felix, laughing.
"That was so far from my thoughts!"
"Don't trouble yourself about it. You will get into her good graces again next Sunday when you go to church. Stand outside her pew, and look up to the right, for there, in the balcony pew, is a little face which is worth looking at - the window baroness' charming daughter. This is a well-meant bit of advice, and I'll give you some more. You cannot live where you are now. Move into a larger apartment - with a decent stairway! - or, if you won't leave the singing master, then let him live in better style. He has means enough, and you have a pretty good income. You must give a party, too, an evening supper. I could give it myself, and will do so, but you can invite a few of the little dancing girls. You're a lucky fellow! But I believe, heaven help me, that you don't yet understand how to be a young man!"
Peer did understand it exactly, in his own way. With his full, warm, young heart, he was in love with art; she was his bride; she returned his love and lifted him into gladness and sunshine. The depression that had
crushed him evaporated soon; gentle eyes looked upon him, and everyone met him in a friendly and cordial manner. The amber heart, which he still wore constantly on his breast, where Grandmother once had hung it, was certainly a talisman; yes, so he thought, for he was not quite free from superstition - a childlike faith, one may call it. Every nature that has genius in it has something of this, and looks to and believes in its star. Grandmother had shown him the power that lay in the heart how it could draw things to itself. His dream had shown him a tree growing out of his amber heart, bursting through ceiling and roof, and bearing thousands of hearts of silver and gold; that surely meant that in the heart, in his own warm heart, lay the power of his art, whereby he had won and still would win thousands upon thousands of hearts.
Between him and Felix there was undoubtedly a kind of sympathy, different as they were from each other. Peer assumed that the difference between them lay in that Felix, as the rich man's son, had grown up amid temptations and desires and could afford to taste them.
He had, on the contrary, been more fortunately placed as a poor man's son.
Both of these two children of the house had since gained prominence. Felix would soon be a gentleman in waiting to the royal court, and that is the first step toward becoming a chamberlain; then one has a gold key behind. Peer, always lucky, already had the gold key of genius in his hand, though it was invisible - the key that opens all the treasures of the earth, and all hearts, too.
XV
It was still wintertime. The sleigh bells jingled, and the clouds carried snowflakes in them, but wherever a sunbeam burst through them, it announced that spring was near. In the young heart there was a fragrance and a song that flowed out in picturesque tones and found expression in words:
The snow is still upon the earth;
O'er the lake, skaters race in mirth.
The trees are frost-rimmed, full of crows;
But tomorrow perhaps the winter goes.
The sun breaks through the sky of gray;
Spring is in town; it's like a summer day.
The willow's woolen gloves fall from the tree.
Strike up, musicians, for a merry spree!
Sing, little birds! All voices blend!
For now the winter has come to an end!
Oh, to be kissed by the warming sun!
Come, pluck violets and primrose - what fun!
It's as if the forest its breath were holding,
While in the night each leaf is unfolding.
The cuckoos sing; you know their song.
Hear them sing that your life will be long.
The world is young, so be young with the young!
With thankful heart and merry tongue,
Sing of spring! All voices blend!
For never does youth come to an end!
Never does youth come to an end!
Life on earth is a magic blend
Of sunshine and storm, joy and pain.
Within our hearts a world was lain;
It vanishes not like a shooting star,
For man is the image of God afar.
God and nature remain ever young.
Teach us, O Spring, the song you've long sung.
Every little bird sings; all voices blend -
For never does youth come to an end!
"That is a complete musical painting," said the singing master, "and well adapted for chorus and orchestra. It is the best yet of your emotional compositions. You certainly must learn thorough bass, although it is not your destiny to be a composer."
Young music friends soon introduced the song at a great concert, where it attracted attention but aroused no expectations. Our young friend's career was open before him. His greatness and importance lay not only in the sympathetic tones of his voice, but in his remarkable dramatic talent as well; this he had shown as George Brown and as Hamlet. He very much preferred the regular opera to the light opera. It was contrary to his sound, natural sense to go from song to talk and back to song.
"It is," he said, "as if one were going from marble steps onto wooden steps, sometimes even onto mere henroosts, and then back onto marble.
The whole poem should live and breathe in its passage through tones."
The music of the future, as the new movement in opera is called, and for which Wagner, in particular, is a banner-bearer, had a defender and admirer in our young friend. He found here characters so clearly drawn, passages so full of thought, and the entire action characterized by forward movement, without any standstill or frequent recurrence of melodies. "It is most unnatural to include those long arias."
"Yes," said the singing master. "But how they, in the works of most of the great masters, stand out as a most important part of the whole! That is as it should and must be. If the lyric has a home in any place, it is in the opera." And he mentioned in Don Giovanni, Don Ottavios aria, "Tears, cease your flowing." "How much it is like a beautiful lake in the woods, by whose bank one rests and enjoys the music that streams through it! I bow to the ingenuity that lies in this new musical movement, but I do not dance with you before that golden calf. Either it is not your heart's real opinion that you express, or else it is not quite clear to you."
"I will appear in one of Wagner's operas," said our young friend. "If I cannot express my meaning in words, I will do so by my singing and acting!"
The choice made was Lohengrin, the young mysterious knight who, in the boat drawn by the swan, glides over the river Scheldt to fight for Elsa of Brabant. Who had ever sung and acted so well the first song of the meeting, the love song in the bridal chamber, and the song of farewell when the Holy Grail's white dove hovers about the young knight who came, conquered, and vanished? This evening was, if possible, another step forward in the artistic greatness and significance of our young friend; and to the singing master it was a step forward in the recognition of the music of the future.
"Under certain conditions," he said.
XVI
At the great yearly exhibition of paintings, Peer and Felix met one day, before the portrait of a pretty young lady, the daughter of the widow baroness, as the mother was generally called; the latter's salon was the rendezvous for the world of distinction and for everyone of importance in art and science. The young baroness was in her sixteenth year, an innocent, beautiful child. The picture was a good likeness and done with artistic skill.
"Step into the hall near by," said Felix. "There stands the young beauty herself with her mother."
They stood engrossed in viewing a painting of characterization. It represented a field where two young married people were riding on the same horse, holding onto one another. The chief figure, however, was a young monk who was looking at the two happy travelers. There was a sorrowful, dreamy look on the young man's face; one could read his thoughts in it, the story of his life - an aim missed, great happiness lost! Happiness in human love he had not won.
The elder baroness saw Felix, who respectfully greeted her and the beautiful daughter, Peer showed the same customary politeness. The window baroness knew him immediately from having seen him on the stage, and after speaking to Felix she said some friendly, obliging words to Peer as she pressed his hand.
"I and my daughter belong to your admirers."
How perfectly beautiful the young girl was at this moment! She looked with her gentle, clear eyes almost gratefully at him.
"I see in my house," said the widow baroness, "so many of the most distinguished artists. We common people stand in need of a spiritual airing. You will be heartily welcome. Our young diplomat," she pointed to Felix, "will bring you along the first time, and afterward I hope that you will find the way yourself."
She smiled at him. The young girl reached out her hand naturally and cordially, as if they had long known each other.
Late in the autumn, on a cold, sleety evening, the two young men went to the Baroness' home, the two born in the rich merchant's house. It was weather for driving and not walking, for the rich man's son and the first singer on the stage. Nevertheless, they walked, well wrapped up, with galoshes on their feet and Bedouin caps on their heads.
It was like entering a complete fairyland to come from the raw air into this home that displayed such luxury and good taste. In the vestibule, before the carpeted stairs, there was a great display of flowers among bushes and fan palms. A little fountain splashed water into a basin, which was surrounded by tall callas.
The great salon was magnificently lighted, and a large part of the company had already gathered. It soon became very crowded. People stepped on silk trains and laces, amid the humming, sonorous mosaic of conversation, which, on the whole, was the least worth while of all the splendor there.
Had Peer been a vain fellow, which he was not, he could have imagined that it was a party for him, so cordial was the reception he received from the lady of the house and the beaming daughter. Young and elderly ladies, yes, and gentlemen, too, paid him many compliments.
There was music. A young author read a well-written poem. There was singing, and tactfulness was shown in that no one urged our young and honored singer to make the affair complete. The lady of the house was a most attentive hostess, brilliant and genial, in that elegant salon.
That was his introduction into the great world, and our young friend was soon also one of the select group in the choice family circle. The singing master shook his head and laughed.
"How young you are, dear friend," he said, "that it can please you to be with these people! In a way they are good enough, but they look down on us plain citizens. For some of them it is only a matter of vanity, an amusement, and for others a sort of sign of exclusive culture, when they receive into their circle artists and the lions of the day. These belong in the salon much as the flowers in a vase; they decorate and then they are thrown away."
"How harsh and unreasonable!" said Peer. "You do not know these people; you do not want to know them!"
"No," answered the singing master. "I don't feel at home among them, nor do you, either. That they all remember and know. They pat you and look at you just as they pat and look at a race horse that is expected to win a wager. You belong to another race than they. They will let you go when you are no longer in the fashion. Don't you understand that? You are not proud enough. You are vain, and you show that by seeking these people's company.
"How very differently you would talk and judge," said Peer, "if you knew the widow baroness and a few of my friends there."
"I shall not come to know them," said the singing master.
"When is the engagement to be announced?" asked Felix one day. "Is it the mother or the daughter?" And he laughed. "Don't take the daughter, for then you'll have all the young nobility against you, and I, too, shall be your enemy, and the deadliest one!"
"What do you mean?" asked Peer.
"You are indeed the favorite. You can go in and out at all hours. With the mother, you'd get money and belong to a good family."
"Stop your joking," said Peer. "There is nothing amusing to me in what you say."
"It is not supposed to be amusing," said Felix. "It is a most serious matter, for you surely wouldn't let her grace sit and weep and be a double widow!"
"Leave the Baroness out of this conversation," said Peer. "Make fun over me if you want to, but over me alone, and I will answer you!"
"No one will believe that it is a love match on your side," continued Felix. "She is a little outside of the line of beauty. True, one does not live on intellect alone!"
"I thought you had more refinement and good sense, " said Peer, "than to talk so disrespectfully of a lady you should esteem and whose house you visit, and I can't bear to listen to you any longer!"
"What are you going to do about it?" asked Felix. "Do you want to fight?"
"I know that you have learned that, and I have not, but I can learn!" And he left Felix.
A couple of days later the two children of the house met again, the son from the first floor and the son from the garret. Felix talked to Peer as if no break had come between them. He answered courteously, but curtly, too.
"What is the matter now!" said Felix. "We two were a little irritable recently, but one must have his little joke, which doesn't necessarily mean one is flippant. I don't like to bear a grudge, so let us forgive and forget."
"Can you forgive yourself the manner in which you spoke of a lady to whom we both owe great respect?"
"I spoke very frankly!" said Felix. "In high society one can also talk with a razor edge, but no one takes that very seriously; it is the salt for the tasteless, everyday fish dinner, as the poet calls it. We are all just a little spiteful. You can also let a drop fall, my friend, a little drop of innocence that smarts!"
Soon they were seen arm in arm again. Felix well knew that more than one pretty young lady who otherwise would have passed him by without looking at him now noticed him because he was walking with the "idol of the stage." The footlights always cast a glamour over the theater's hero and lover, and it still shines about him when he shows himself on the street, in daylight, though it is more or less extinguished then. Most of the artists of the stage are like swans; one should see them in their element, not on the paving stones or the public promenade. There are exceptions, however, and to these belonged our young friend. His personality off the stage never disturbed the conception one had of him as George Brown, or Hamlet, or Lohengrin. To many a young heart these poetical and musical figures were the artist himself and rose to the exaltation of their ideal. He knew that this was the case and found a sort of pleasure in it. He was happy in his art and with the talents he possessed; still a shadow would come over the happy young face, and then from the piano would sound the melody to the words:
All vanishes, everything goes,
Your youth, your hope, and your friend.
Everything passes, like the wind that blows,
Never to return, only to end!
"How mournful!" said the widow baroness. "You have good fortune in full measure. I know no one who is as fortunate as you."
"Call no one fortunate before he is in his grave, the wise Solon said," he replied, and smiled through his seriousness. "It would be wrong, a sin, if I were not thankful and happy in my heart. I am that. I am thankful for what is entrusted to me, but I myself set a different value on this than others do. It is a beautiful piece of fireworks that soars forth and then goes out! So it is with the stage actor's work. The everlasting shining stars may be forgotten for the meteors of a moment, but when these are extinguished, there is no lasting trace of them other than what may be found in old records. A new generation does not know and cannot picture to itself those who delighted their grandfathers from the stage; the youth of today perhaps applauds the luster of brass as fervently and loudly as the old folks once did the luster of pure gold. Far more fortunately placed than the performing artist are the poet, the sculptor, the painter, and the composer. They often experience trying conditions in the struggle of life and miss the merited appreciation, while those who exhibit their works live in luxury and in arrogance born of idolatry.
"Let the mob stand and admire the bright-colored cloud and forget the sun; the cloud vanishes, but the sun shines and beams for new generations."
He sat at the piano and improvised with a richness of thought and a power such as he never before had shown. "Wonderfully beautiful!" broke in the widow baroness. "It was as if I heard the story of a whole lifetime. You gave your heart's song in the music."
"I thought of the Thousand and One Nights," said the young girl, "of the lamp of fortune, of Aladdin!" And she looked at him with innocent, tearful eyes.
"Aladdin!" he repeated.
That evening was the turning point in his life. A new chapter surely began.
What happened to him during this fast-moving year? His fresh color left his cheeks, though his eyes shone far more clearly than before. He passed sleepless nights, but not in wild orgies, in revels and drinking, as so many artists. He became less talkative, but more cheerful.
"What is it that fills you so?" said his friend, the singing master. "You do not confide everything to me!"
"I think of how fortunate I am!" he replied. "I think of the poor boy! I think of - Aladdin!"
XVII
Measured by the expectations of a poor-born child, Peer now led a prosperous, pleasant life. He was so well of that, as Felix once had said, he could give a big party for his friends. He thought of it, and thought of his two earliest friends, his mother and his Grandmother. For them and himself he provided a festival.
It was wonderful spring weather, and the two old people were going to drive with him out of town and see a little country place that the singing master had recently bought. As he was seating himself in the carriage, a woman came along humbly clad, about thirty years old; she had a note recommending her, signed by Madam Hof.
"Don't you know me?" she said. "Little Curlyhead, they used to call me. The curls are gone; there is so much that is gone; but there are still good people left. We two have appeared together in the ballet. You have become better off than I. You have become a great man. I am now separated from two husbands and no longer at the theater."
The note requested a sewing machine for her.
"In what ballet have we two performed together?" asked Peer.
"In the Tyrant of Padua," she replied. "We were both pages, in blue velvet and berets. Don't you remember little Malle Knallerup? I walked right behind you in the procession."
"And stepped on the side of my foot!" said Peer, laughing.
"Did I?" she said. "Then I took too long a step. But you have gone far ahead of me. You have understood how to use your head instead of your legs." And she looked coquettishly at him with her melancholy face, quite sure she had paid him a witty compliment. Peer was a generous fellow. She should have the sewing machine, he promised. Little Malle had indeed been one of those who in particular had driven him out of the ballet into a more fortunate career.
He was soon outside the merchant's house, and he then ascended the stairs to his mother's and his grandmother's. They were in their best clothes, and by chance they had a visit from Madam Hof, who was at once invited to drive with them; whereupon she had quite a struggle with herself, which ended in her sending a note to Herr Hof to inform him that she had accepted the invitation.
"Such fine greetings Peer gets!" she said.
"How stylishly we are driving!" said Mother.
"And in such a beautiful, comfortable carriage," said Grandmother.
Near the town, close to the royal park, stood a cozy little house, surrounded by vines and roses, hazels, and fruit trees. Here the carriage stopped. This was the country house. They were received by an old woman well acquainted with Mother and Grandmother; she had often helped them with their washing and ironing.
The garden was inspected, and the house was inspected. There was one particularly charming thing - a little glasshouse with beautiful flowers in it. It was connected with the sitting room; the sliding door between could be pushed right into the wall.
"That is just like a coulisse on the stage," said Madam Hof. "It moves by hand. And one can sit here just as in a bird cage, with chickweed all about. It is called a winter garden."
The bedroom was equally delightful in its way. There were long, heavy curtains at the windows, soft carpets, and two armchairs so comfortable that Mother and Grandmother must try them.
"One would get very lazy sitting in them," said Mother.
"One loses his weight," said Madam Hof. "Indeed, here you two music people can rest comfortably after your theatrical labors. I have also known what they are! Yes, believe me, I can still dream of doing high kicks, and Hof does high kicks by my side! Is it not charming - 'two souls and one thought'! "
"The air is fresher here, and there is more room, than in the two small rooms up in the garret," said Peer with beaming eyes.
"That there is," said Mother. "Still, home is nice, too. There you were born, my sweet boy, and there I lived with your father."
"It is better here," said Grandmother. "Here you have a whole mansion.
I do not begrudge you and that noble man, the singing master, this home of peace."
"Then I do not begrudge you this, Grandmother, and you, my dear blessed mother! You two shall always live here, and not, as in town , walk up so many steps and be in such narrow and small quarters. You shall have a servant to help you and shall see me as often as in town. Are you happy about it? Are you content with it?"
"What is all this the boy stands here and says!" said Mother.
"The house, the garden - it's all yours, Mother, and yours, Grandmother! To be able to give you this is what I have striven for. My friend the singing master has faithfully helped me with getting it ready."
"What is all this you are saying, child!" exclaimed the mother. "You want to give us a gentleman's mansion! You sweet boy! Yes, you would do it if you could!"
"I am serious," he said. "The house is yours and Grandmother's." He kissed them both, and they burst into tears. Madam Hof shed just as many. "It is the happiest moment of my life!" exclaimed Peer, as he embraced all three of them.
And now they had to see everything all over again, since it was their own. They now had that beautiful little glasshouse in which to put their five or six pot plants from the garret roof. Instead of a little cupboard, they had here a great roomy pantry, and the kitchen was a complete, warm little chamber. The chimney had an oven and cooking stove; it looked like a great, shining flatiron, said Mother.
"Now you have a fireside corner just like I have!" said Madam Hof. "This is magnificent! You have attained all that people can attain on this earth, and you, too, my own, popular friend!"
"Not all!" said Peer.
"The little wife will come along!" said Madam Hof. "I have her already for you! I feel sure I know who she is! But I shall keep my mouth shut. You wonderful man! Isn't all this like a ballet!" She laughed with tears in her eyes, and so did Mother and Grandmother.
XVIII
To write the text and music for an opera, and be the interpreter of his own work on the stage, was a great and happy aim. Our young friend had a talent in common with Wagner, in that he could construct the dramatic poem himself; but did he, like Wagner, have the fullness of musical emotion to create a musical work of any significance?
Courage and doubt alternated in him. He could not dismiss this persistent thought of his. For years and days it had shone in his mind as a picture of fancy; now it was a possibility, his life's goal. Many free fancies were welcomed at the piano as birds of passage from that Land of Perhaps. The little ballads and the characteristic spring song gave promise of the still undiscovered land of tone. The widow baroness saw in them the sign of promise, as Columbus saw it in the fresh green weed that the currents of the sea bore toward him before he saw the land itself on the horizon.
Land was there! The child of fortune should reach it. A word thrown out was the seed of thought. She, the young, pretty, innocent girl, had spoken the word - Aladdin. Our young friend was a child of fortune like Aladdin; it shone within him.
With understanding and delight he read and reread the beautiful Oriental story. Soon it took dramatic form; scene after scene grew into words and music, and the more it grew, the richer the music thoughts became. At the close of the work it was as if the well of tone were now for the first time pierced, and all the abundant fresh water streamed forth. He then recomposed his work, and in stronger form, after months, arose the opera Aladdin.
No one knew of this work; no one had heard as much as a single bar of it, not even the most sympathetic of all his friends, the singing master. No one at the theater, when in the evening the young singer entranced his public with his voice and his masterful acting, had any idea that the young man who seemed so to live and breathe in his role lived far more intensely - yes, and for hours afterward lost himself in a mighty work of music that poured from his own soul.
The singing master had not heard a bar of the opera Aladdin before it was put on his table for examination, complete in notes and text. What judgement would be passed? Assuredly a strong and just one. The young composer passed from highest hope to the thought that the whole thing was only a self-delusion.
Two days passed by, and not a word was exchanged about this important matter. Finally, the singing master stood before him with the score in his hands, which he now knew. There was a peculiar seriousness spread over his face that did not indicate his thoughts.
"I had not expected this," he said. "I had not believed it of you. Indeed, I do not yet have a clear judgement, so I dare not express it. Here and there are faults in the instrumentation, faults that can easily be corrected. There are single things, bold and novel, that one must hear under proper conditions. As there is in Wagner a certain influence of Carl Maria von Weber, so there is noticeable in you a breath of Haydn. That which is new in what you have given is still rather remote to me, and you yourself are too near for me to be the right judge. I would rather not judge. I will embrace you!" he burst out, beaming with happiness. "How have you been able to do this!" And he embraced him in his arms. "Happy man!"
A rumor soon spread through the city, via the newspapers and gossip, about the new opera by the popular young singer.
"He's a poor tailor who cannot put together a child's coat out of the scraps left over on his board," said one and another.
"Write the text, compose it, and sing it himself!" was also said. "That is a three-storied genius. But he really was born still higher - in a garret!"
"There are two at it, he and the singing master," they said. "Now they'll begin to beat the signal drum of the partnership of mutual admiration!"
The opera was given out for study. Those who took part would not give any opinion. "It shall not be said that it is judged from the theater," they remarked; and almost everyone put on a serious face that did not show any expectation.
"There are a good many horns in the piece," said a young trumpeter. "If only he doesn't run a horn into himself!"
"It has genius; it is brilliant, full of melody and character!" That was also said.
"Tomorrow at this time," said Peer, "the scaffold will be raised. The judgement is, perhaps, already passed."
"Some say that it is a masterpiece," said the singing master, "others, that it is a mere patchwork."
"And where lies the truth?"
"Truth!" said the singing master. "Yes, tell me where. Look at that star up there. Tell me exactly where its place is. Shut one eye. Do you see it? Now look at it with the other only. The star has shifted its place. When each eye in the same person sees so differently, how differently must the great multitude see!" "Happen what may," said our young friend, "I must know my place in the world, understand what I can and must create, or give up."
The evening came, the evening of decision. A popular artist was to be exalted to a higher place or humiliated in his gigantic, vain effort.
Success or failure! The matter concerned the whole city. People stood all night in the street before the ticket office, to obtain seats. The house was crammed full. The ladies came with great bouquets; would they be carried home again or thrown at the victor's feet?
The widow baroness and the young, beautiful daughter sat in a box above the orchestra. There was a stir in the audience, a murmuring, a movement, which stopped at once as the leader of the orchestra took his place and the overture began.
Who does not remember Hanselt's piece, "Si l'oiseau j'�tais," which is like a twittering of birds? This was somewhat similar; there were jubilant, playing children, happy child voices mingling; the cuckoo cuckooed with them; the thrush sang. It was the play and jubilation of the innocent child mind - the mind of Aladdin. Then a thunderstorm rolled in; Noureddin displayed his power; a flash of deadly lightning split the mountain. Gentle, beckoning tones followed; a sound came from the enchanted grotto, where the lamp shone in the petrified cavern, while the wings of mighty spirits brooded over it. Now, in the tones of a French horn, sounded a psalm, which was as gentle and soft as if it were coming from the mouth of a child; a single horn was heard, and then another; more and more were blended in the same tones and rose in fullness and power, as if they were the trumpets of the judgment day. The lamp was in Aladdin's hand, and then there swelled forth a sea of melody and grandeur such as only the ruler of spirits and the masters of music can create.
The curtain rolled up in a storm of applause that sounded like a fanfare under the conductor's baton. A grown-up, handsome boy was playing; he was so big and yet so innocent; it was Aladdin, who leaped about among the other boys. Grandmother would at once have said, "That is Peer as he played and jumped about between the stove and the chest of drawers at home in the garret. He is not a year older in his soul!"
With what faith and sincerity he sang the prayer Noureddin bade him offer before he stepped down into the rocky cavern to obtain the lamp! Was it the pure, religious melody or the innocence with which he sang that enchanted all the listeners? The applause would not cease.
It would have been a profane thing to have repeated the song. It was demanded, but it was not given. The curtain fell; the first act was over.
Every critic was speechless; people were overcome with gladness and, in their appreciation, were certain of enjoying the rest of the evening.
A few chords sounded from the orchestra, and the curtain rose. The strains of music, as in Gluck's Armida and Mozart's Magic Flute, arrested the attention of everyone as the scene was disclosed, the scene in which Aladdin stood in the wonderful garden. Soft, subdued music sounded from flowers and stones, from springs and deep caverns, different melodies blending in one great harmony. An air of spirits was heard in the chorus; it was now far off, now near, swelling in might and then dying away. Arising from this harmony, and supported by it, was the song monologue of Aladdin - what one indeed calls a great aria, but so entirely in keeping with character and situation that it was a necessary dramatic part of the whole. The resonant, sympathetic voice, the intense music of the heart, subdued all listeners and seized them with a rapture that could not rise higher when he reached for the lamp of fortune that was embraced by the song of the spirits.
Bouquets rained down from all sides; a carpet of living flowers was spread out before his feet.
What a moment of life for the young artist - the highest, the greatest! A mightier one could never again be granted him, he felt. A wreath of laurel touched his breast and fell down in front of him. He had seen from whose hand it had come. He saw the young girl in the box nearest the stage, the young baroness, rising like a spirit of beauty, loudly rejoicing over his triumph.
A fire rushed through him; his heart swelled as never before; he bowed, took the wreath, pressed it against his heart, and at the same moment fell backward. Fainted? Dead? What was it? The curtain fell.
"Dead!" resounded through the house. Dead in the moment of triumph, like Sophocles at the Olympian games, like Thorvaldsen in the theater during Beethoven's symphony. An artery in his heart had burst, and as by a flash of lightning his days here were ended, ended without pain, ended in an earthly triumph, in the fulfillment of his mission on earth. Lucky Peer! More fortunate than millions!
The End