Chapter XIX: Act V (1)

_A large room in the castle at Retiro, with one door in the centre and one at each side. Everywhere signs of destruction. In the foreground, at the left, an overturned toilet table with scattered utensils. In the background, at the left, another overturned table; above it a picture half torn from its frame. In the centre of the room, a chair. It is dark. From without, behind the middle wall, the sound of voices, footsteps, and the clatter of weapons, finally, from without--"It is enough! The signal sounds! To horse!" Sounds of voices and footsteps die out. Pause. Then Isaac comes from the door at the right, dragging along a carpet, which is pulled over his head, and which he later drops._

ISAAC. Are they then gone?--I hear no sound.

(_Stepping back._)

But yes--
No, no, 'tis naught! When they, a robber band,
Searched all the castle through, I hid myself,
And on the ground all doubled up I lay.
This cover here was roof and shield alike.
But whither now? Long since I hid full well
Here in the garden what I saved and gained;
I'll fetch it later when this noise is past.--
Where is the door? How shall I save my soul?

ESTHER _enters from the door at the left._

ISAAC. Who's there? Woe's me!

ESTHER. Is't thou?

ISAAC. Is't thou, then, Rachel?

ESTHER. What mean'st thou? Rachel? Only Esther, I!

ISAAC. Only, thou say'st? Thou art my only child--
Only, because the best.

ESTHER. Nay, rather say,
The best because the only. Aged man,
Dost thou, then, nothing know of this attack,
Nor upon whom they meant to vent their wrath?

ISAAC. I do not know, nor do I wish to know,
For has not Rachel flown, to safety gone?
Oh, she is clever, she!--God of my fathers!
Why dost thou try me--me, a poor old man,
And speak to me from out my children's mouths?
But I believe it not! 'Tis false! No, no!

[_He sinks down beside the chair in the centre, leaning his head against it._]

ESTHER. So then be strong through coward fearsomeness.
Yet call I others what I was myself.
For when their coming roused me from my sleep,
And I went hurrying to my sister's aid,
Into the last, remote, and inmost room,
One of them seizes me with powerful hand,
And hurls me to the ground. And coward, I,
I fall a-swooning, when I should have stood
And offered up my life to save my sister,
Or, at the very least, have died with her!
When I awoke, the deed was done, and vain
My wild attempt to bring her back to life.
Then could I weep, then could I tear my hair;
That is, indeed, true cowardice, a woman's.

ISAAC. They tell me this and that. But 'tis not true!

ESTHER. Lend me thy chair to sit upon, old man!

[_She pulls the chair forward._]

My limbs grow weak and tremble under me.
Here will I sit and here will I keep watch.

[_She sits down._]

Mayhap that one will think it worth his while
To burn the stubble, now the harvest's o'er,
And will return and kill what still is left.

ISAAC (_from the floor_).

Not me! Not me!--Some one is coming. Hark!
No, many come!--Save me--I flee to thee!

[_He runs to her chair, and cowers on the floor._]

ESTHER. I like a mother will protect thee now,
The second childhood of the gray old man.
And, if death comes, then childless shalt thou die--
I following Rachel in advance of thee!

_The KING appears at the centre door, with his page, who carries a torch._

KING. Shall I go farther, or content myself
With what I know, though still it is unseen?
This castle all a-wreck, laid bare and waste,
Shrieking from ev'ry corner cries to me
It is too late, the horror has been done!
And thou the blame must bear, cursed dallier,
If not, forsooth, a party to the deed!
But no, thou weepst, and tears no lies can tell.
Behold, I also weep, I weep for rage,
From hot and unslaked passion for revenge!
Come, here's a ring to set your torch within.
Go to the town, assemble all the folk,
And bid them straight unto this castle come
With arms, as chance may put within their reach;
And I, when morning comes, with written word,
Will bring the people here, at my command--
Children of toil and hard endeavor, they,
As an avenger at their head I'll go,
And break down all the strongholds of the great,
Who, half as servants, half again as lords,
Serve but themselves and overrule their master.
Ruler and ruled, thus shall it be, and I,
Avenging, will wipe out that hybrid throng,
So proud of blood, or flowing in their veins,
Or dripping on their swords from others' wounds.
Thy light here leave and go! I'll stay alone
And hatch the progeny of my revenge.

[_The servant puts his torch into the ring beside the door and withdraws._]

KING (_taking a step forward_).

What moves there? Can it be there still is life?
Give answer!

ISAAC. Gracious Lord ill-doer, O,
O, spare us, good assassin!

KING. You, old man?
Remind me not that Rachel was your child;
It would deface her image in my soul.
And thou--art thou not Esther?

ESTHER. Sire, I am.

KING. And is it done?

ESTHER. It is.

KING. I knew it well,
Since I the castle entered. So, no plaints!
For know, the cup is full; an added drop
Would overflow, make weak the poisonous draught.
While she still lived I was resolved to leave her,
Now dead, she ne'er shall leave my side again;
And this her picture, here upon my breast,
Will 'grave its image there, strike root within--
For was not mine the hand that murdered her?
Had she not come to me, she still would play,
A happy child, a joy to look upon.
Perhaps--but no, not that! No, no, I say!
No other man should ever touch her hand,
No other lips approach her rosy mouth,
No shameless arm--she to the King belonged,
Though now unseen, she still would be my own.
To royal might belongs such might of charms!

ISAAC. Speaks he of Rachel?

ESTHER. Of thy daughter, yes.
Though grief increase the value of the loss,
Yet must I say: Too high you rate her worth.

KING. Think'st thou? I tell thee, naught but shadows we--
I, thou, and others of the common crowd;
For if thou'rt good, why then, thou'rt learned it so;
If I am honest, I but saw naught else;
Those others, if they murder,--as they do--
Well, so their fathers did, came time and need!
The world is but one great reëchoing,
And all its harvest is but seed from seed.
But she was truth itself, ev'n though deformed,
And all she did proceeded from herself,
A-sudden, unexpected, and unlearned.
Since her I saw I felt myself alive,
And to the dreary sameness of my life
'Twas only she gave character and form.
They tell that in Arab desert wastes
The wand'rer, long tormented in the sands,
Long tortured with the sun's relentless glare,
Some time may find a blooming island's green,
Surrounded by the surge of arid waves;
There flowers bloom, there trees bestow their shade,
The breath of herbs mounts soothing in the breeze
And forms a second heav'n, arched 'neath the first.
Forsooth the serpent coils among the brush;
A famished beast, tormented by like thirst,
Perchance comes, too, to slake it at this spring;
Yet, tired and worn, the wand'rer doth rejoice,
Sucks in with greedy lips the cooling draught,
And sinks down in the rank luxuriant growth.
Luxuriant growth! In faith! I'll see her now--
See once again that proud and beauteous form,
That mouth which drew in breath and breathed out life,
And which, now silenced ever, evermore,
Accuses me of guarding her so ill.

ESTHER. Go not, O Sire! Now that the deed is done,
Let it be done. The mourning be for us!
Estrange thyself not from thy people, Sire.

KING. Think'st thou? The King I am--thou know'st full well.
She suffered outrage, but myself no less.
Justice, and punishment of ev'ry wrong
I swore upon my coronation day,
And I will keep my oath until the death.
To do this, I must make me strong and hard,
For to my anger they will sure oppose
All that the human breast holds high and dear--
Mem'ries from out my boyhood's early days,
My manhood's first sweet taste of woman's love,
Friendship and gratitude and mercy, too;
My whole life, roughly bundled into one,
Will stand, as 'twere against me, fully armed,
And challenge me to combat with myself.
I, therefore, from myself must first take leave.
Her image, as I see it here and there,
On every wall, in this and every corner
Shows her to me but in her early bloom,
With all her weaknesses, with all her charm.
I'll see her now, mistreated, wounded, torn;
Will lose myself in horror at the sight,
Compare each bloody mark upon her form
With this, her image, here upon my breast.
And learn to deal with monsters, like to like.

(_As ESTHER has risen._)

Speak not a word to me! I will! This torch
Shall, like myself, inflamed, illume the way;
Gleaming, because destructive and destroyed.
She is in yonder last and inmost room,
Where I so oft--

ESTHER. She was, and there remains.

KING (_has seized the torch_).

Methinks 'tis blood I see upon my way.
It is the way to blood. O fearful night!

[_He goes out at the side door to the left._]

ISAAC. We're in the dark.

ESTHER. Yes, dark is round about,
And round about the horror's horrid night.
But daylight comes apace. So let me try
If I can thither bear my weary limbs.

[_She goes to the window, and draws the curtain._]

The day already dawns, its pallid gleam
Shudders to see the terrors wrought this night--
The difference 'twixt yesterday and now.

(_Pointing to the scattered jewels on the floor._)

There, there it lies, our fortune's scattered ruin--
The tawdry baubles, for the sake of which
We, we--not he who takes the blame--but we
A sister sacrificed, thy foolish child!
Yea, all that comes is right. Whoe'er complains,
Accuses his own folly and himself.

ISAAC (_who has seated himself on the chair_).

Here will I sit. Now that the King is here
I fear them not, nor all that yet may come.

_The centre door opens. Enter MANRIQUE, and GARCERAN, behind them the QUEEN, leading her child by the hand, and other nobles._

MANRIQUE. Come, enter here, arrange yourselves the while.
We have offended 'gainst his Majesty,
Seeking the good, but not within the law.
We will not try now to evade the law.

ESTHER (_on the other side, raising the overturned table with a quick movement_).

Order thyself, disorder! Lest they think
That we are terrified, or cowards prove.

QUEEN. Here are those others, here.

MANRIQUE. Nay, let them be!
What mayhap threatens us, struck them ere now.
I beg you, stand you here, in rank and file.

QUEEN. Let me come first, I am the guiltiest!

MANRIQUE. Not so. O Queen. Thou spak'st the word, 'tis true,
But when it came to action thou didst quake,
Oppose the deed, and mercy urge instead,
Although in vain; for need became our law.
Nor would I wish the King's first burst of rage
To strike the mighty heads we most revere
As being next to him, the Kingdom's hope.
I did the deed, not with this hand, forsooth--
With counsel, and with pity, deep and dread!
The first place, then, is mine. And thou, my son--
Hast thou the heart to answer like a man
For that which at the least thou hinder'dst not,
So that thy earnest wish to make amends
And thy return have tangled thee in guilt?

GARCERAN. Behold me ready! To your side I come!
And may the King's first fury fall on me!

ESTHER (_calling across_).

You there, although all murderers alike,
Deserving every punishment and death--
Enough of mischief is already done,
Nor would I wish the horrors yet increased!
Within, beside my sister, is the King;
Enraged before he went, the sight of her
Will but inflame his passionate ire anew.
I pity, too, that woman and her child,
Half innocent, half guilty--only half.
So go while yet there's time, and do not meet
Th' avenger still too hot to act as judge.

MANRIQUE. Woman, we're Christians!

ESTHER. You have shown you are.
Commend me to the Jewess, O my God!

MANRIQUE. Prepared as Christians, too, to expiate
In meek submission all of our misdeeds.
Lay off your swords. Here now is first my own!
To be in armor augurs of defense.
Our very number makes submission less.
Divide we up the guilt each bears entire.

[_All have laid their swords on the floor before _MANRIQUE.]

So let us wait. Or rather, let one go
To urge upon the King most speedily,
The country's need demands, this way or that,
That he compose himself; and though it were
Repenting a rash deed against ourselves!
Go thou, my son!

GARCERAN (_turning around after having taken several steps_).

Behold, the King himself!

[_The_ KING _rushes out of the apartment at the side. After taking a few steps, he turns about and stares fixedly at the door._]

QUEEN. O God in Heaven!

MANRIQUE. Queen, I pray be calm!

[_The_ KING _goes toward the front. He stops, with arms folded, before old_ ISAAC, _who lies back as if asleep, in the armchair. Then he goes forward._]

ESTHER (_to her father_).

Behold thy foes are trembling! Art thou glad?
Not I. For Rachel wakes not from the dead.

[_The_ KING, _in the front, gazes at his hands, and rubs them, as though washing them, one over the other. Then the same motion over his body. At last he feels his throat, moving his hands around it. In this last position, with his hands at his throat, he remains motionless, staring fixedly before him._]

MANRIQUE. Most noble Prince and King. Most gracious Sire!

KING (_starting violently_).

Ye here? 'Tis good ye come! I sought for you--
And all of you. Ye spare me further search.

[_He steps before them, measuring them with angry glances._]

MANRIQUE (_pointing to the weapons lying on the floor_).

We have disarmed ourselves, laid down our swords.

KING. I see the swords. Come ye to slay me, then?
I pray, complete your work. Here is my breast!

[_He opens his robe._]

QUEEN. He has't no more!

KING. How mean you, lady fair?

QUEEN. Gone is the evil picture from his neck.

KING. I'll fetch it, then.

[_He takes a few steps toward the door at the side, and then stands still._]

QUEEN. O God, this madness still!

MANRIQUE. We know full well, how much we, Sire, have erred--
Most greatly, that we did not leave to thee
And thine own honor thy return to self!
But, Sire, the time more pressing was than we.
The country trembled, and at all frontiers
The foemen challenged us to ward our land.

KING. And foemen must be punished--is't not so?
Ye warn me rightly; I am in their midst.
Ho, Garceran!

GARCERAN. Thou meanest me, O Sire?

KING. Yea, I mean thee! Though me thou hast betrayed,
Thou wert my friend. Come to me then, I say,
And tell me what thou think'st of her within!
Her--whom thou help'dst to slay--of that anon.
What thoughtst thou of her while she still did live?

GARCERAN. O Sire, I thought her fair.

KING. What more was she?

GARCERAN. But wanton, too, and light, with evil wiles.

KING. And that thou hidst from me while still was time?

GARCERAN. I said it, Sire!

KING. And I believed it not?
How came that? Pray, say on!

GARCERAN. My Sire--the Queen,
She thinks 'twas magic.

KING. Superstition, bah!
Which fools itself with idle make-believe.

GARCERAN. In part, again, it was but natural.

KING. That only which is right is natural.
And was I not a king, both just and mild--
The people's idol and the nobles', too?
Not empty-minded, no, and, sure, not blind!
I say, she was not fair!

GARCERAN. How meanest, Sire?

KING. An evil line on cheek and chin and mouth.
A lurking something in that fiery glance
Envenom'd and disfigured all her charm.
But erst I've gazed upon it and compared.
When there I entered in to fire my rage,
Half fearsome of the mounting of my ire,
It happened otherwise than I had thought.
Instead of wanton pictures from the past,
Before my eyes came people, wife, and child.
With that her face seemed to distort itself,
The arms to rise, to grasp me, and to hold.
I cast her likeness from me in the tomb
And now am here, and shudder, as thou seest.

But go thou now! For, hast thou not betrayed me?
Almost I rue that I must punish you.
Go thither to thy father and those others--
Make no distinction, ye are guilty, all.

MANRIQUE (_with a strong voice_).

And thou?

KING (_after a pause_).

The man is right; I'm guilty, too.
But what is my poor land, and what the world,
If none are pure, if malefactors all!
Nay, here's my son. Step thou within our midst!
Thou shalt be guardian spirit of this land;
Perhaps a higher judge may then forgive.
Come, Doña Clara, lead him by the hand!
Benignant fortune hath vouchsafed to thee
In native freedom to pursue thy course
Until this hour; thou, then, dost well deserve
To guide the steps of innocence to us.
But hold! Here is the mother. What she did,
She did it for her child. She is forgiv'n!

[_As the_ QUEEN _steps forward and bends her knee._]

Madonna, wouldst thou punish me? Wouldst show
The attitude most seeming me toward thee?
Castilians all, behold! Here is your King,
And here is she, the regent in his stead!
I am a mere lieutenant for my son.
For as the pilgrims, wearing, all, the cross
For penance journey to Jerusalem,
So will I, conscious of my grievous stain,
Lead you against these foes of other faith
Who at the bound'ry line, from Africa,
My people threaten and my peaceful land.
If I return, and victor, with God's grace,
Then shall ye say if I am worthy still
To guard the law offended by myself.
This punishment be _yours_ as well as mine,
For all of you shall follow me, and first,
Into the thickest squadrons of the foe.
And he who falls does penance for us all.
Thus do I punish you and me! My son
Here place upon a shield, like to a throne,
For he today is King of this our land.
So banded, then, let's go before the folk.

[_A shield has been brought._]

You women, each do give the child a hand.
Slipp'ry his first throne, and the second too!
Thou, Garceran, do thou stay at my side,
For equal wantonness we must atone--
So let us fight as though our strength were one.
And hast thou purged thyself of guilt, as I,
Perhaps that quiet, chaste, and modest maid
Will hold thee not unworthy of her hand!
Thou shalt improve him, Doña Clara, but
Let not thy virtue win his mere respect,
But lend it charm, as well. That shields from much.

[_Trumpets in the distance._]

Hear yet They call us. Those whom I did bid
To help against you, they are ready all
To help against the common enemy,
The dreaded Moor who threats our boundaries,
And whom I will send back with shame and wounds
Into the and desert he calls home,
So that our native land be free from ill,
Well-guarded from within and from without.
On, on! Away! God grant, to victory!

[_The procession has already formed. First, some vassals, then the shield with the child, whom the women hold by both hands, then the rest of the men. Lastly, the _KING,_ leaning in a trustful manner on _GARCERAN.]

ESTHER (_turning to her father_).

Seest thou, they are already glad and gay;
Already plan for future marriages!
They are the great ones, for th' atonement feast
They've slain as sacrifice a little one,
And give each other now their bloody hands.

[_Stepping to the centre._]

But this I say to thee, thou haughty King,
Go, go, in all thy grand forgetfulness!
Thou deem'st thou'rt free now from my sister's power,
Because the prick of its impression's dulled,
And thou didst from thee cast what once enticed.
But in the battle, when thy wavering ranks
Are shaken by thy en'mies' greater might,
And but a pure, and strong, and guiltless heart
Is equal to the danger and its threat;
When thou dost gaze upon deaf heav'n above,
Then will the victim, sacrificed to thee,
Appear before thy quailing, trembling soul--
Not in luxuriant fairness that enticed,
But changed, distorted, as she pleased thee not--
Then, pentinent, perchance, thou'lt beat thy breast,
And think upon the Jewess of Toledo!

(_Seizing her father by the shoulder._)

Come, father, come! A task awaits us there.

[_Pointing to the side door._]

ISAAC (_as though waking from sleep_).
But first I'll seek my gold!

ESTHER. Think'st still of that
In sight of all this misery and woe!
Then I unsay the curse which I have spoke,
Then thou art guilty, too, and I--and she!
We stand like them within the sinners' row;
Pardon we, then, that God may pardon us!

[_With arms outstretched toward the side door._]

CURTAIN

THE POOR MUSICIAN (1848) BY FRANZ GRILLPARZER

TRANSLATED BY ALFRED REMY, A.M.

Professor of Modern Languages, Brooklyn Commercial High School

In Vienna the Sunday after the full moon in the month of July of every year is, together with the following day, a real festival of the people, if ever a festival deserved the name. The people themselves attend and arrange it; and if representatives of the upper classes appear on this occasion, they may do so only in their capacity as members of the populace. There is no possibility of class discrimination; at least there was none some years ago.

On this day the Brigittenau,[62] which with the Augarten, the Leopoldstadt and the Prater, forms one uninterrupted popular pleasure-ground, celebrates its kermis. The working people reckon their good times from one St. Bridget's kermis to the next. Anticipated with eager expectation, the Saturnalian festival at last arrives. Then there is great excitement in the good-natured, quiet town. A surging crowd fills the streets. There is the clatter of footsteps and the buzz of conversation, above which rises now and then some loud exclamation. All class distinctions have disappeared; civilian and soldier share in the commotion. At the gates of the city the crowd increases. Gained, lost, and regained, the exit is forced at last. But the bridge across the Danube presents new difficulties. Victorious here also, two streams finally roll along: the old river Danube and the swollen tide of people crossing each other, one below, the other above, the former following its old bed, the latter, freed from the narrow confines of the bridge, resembling a wide, turbulent lake, overflowing and inundating everything. A stranger might consider the symptoms alarming. But it is a riot of joy, a revelry of pleasure.

Even in the space between the city and the bridge wicker-carriages are lined up for the real celebrants of this festival, the children of servitude and toil. Although overloaded, these carriages race at a gallop through the mass of humanity, which in the nick of time opens a passage for them and immediately closes in again behind them. No one is alarmed, no one is injured, for in Vienna a silent agreement exists between vehicles and people, the former promising not to run anybody over, even when going at full speed; the latter resolving not to be run over, even though neglecting all precaution.

Every second the distance between the carriages diminishes. Occasionally more fashionable equipages mingle in the oft-interrupted procession. The carriages no longer dash along. Finally, about five or six hours before dark, the individual horses and carriages condense into a compact line, which, arresting itself and arrested by new vehicles from every side street, obviously belies the truth of the old proverb: "It is better to ride in a poor carriage than to go on foot." Stared at, pitied, mocked, the richly dressed ladies sit in their carriages, which are apparently standing still. Unaccustomed to constant stopping, the black Holstein steed rears, as if intending to jump straight up over the wicker-carriage blocking its way, a thing the screaming women and children in the plebeian vehicle evidently seem to fear. The cabby, so accustomed to rapid driving and now balked for the first time, angrily counts up the loss he suffers in being obliged to spend three hours traversing a distance which under ordinary conditions he could cover in five minutes. Quarreling and shouting are heard, insults pass back and forth between the drivers, and now and then blows with the whip are exchanged.

Finally, since in this world all standing still, however persistent, is after all merely an imperceptible advancing, a ray of hope appears even in this _status quo_. The first trees of the Augarten and the Brigittenau come into view. The country! The country! All troubles are forgotten. Those who have come in vehicles alight and mingle with the pedestrians; strains of distant dance-music are wafted across the intervening space and are answered by the joyous shouts of the new arrivals. And thus it goes on and on, until at last the broad haven of pleasure opens up and grove and meadow, music and dancing, drinking and eating, magic lantern shows and tight-rope dancing, illumination and fireworks, combine to produce a _pays de cocagne_, an El Dorado, a veritable paradise, which fortunately or unfortunately--take it as you will--lasts only this day and the next, to vanish like the dream of a summer night, remaining only as a memory, or, possibly, as a hope.

I never miss this festival if I can help it. To me, as a passionate lover of mankind, especially of the common people, and more especially so when, united into a mass, the individuals forget for a time their own private ends and consider themselves part of a whole, in which there is, after all, the spirit of divinity, nay, God Himself--to me every popular festival is a real soul-festival, a pilgrimage, an act of devotion. Even in my capacity as dramatic poet, I always find the spontaneous outburst of an overcrowded theatre ten times more interesting, even more instructive, than the sophisticated judgment of some literary matador, who is crippled in body and soul and swollen up, spider-like, with the blood of authors whom he has sucked dry. As from a huge open volume of Plutarch, which has escaped from the covers of the printed page, I read the biographies of these obscure beings in their merry or secretly troubled faces, in their elastic or weary step, in the attitude shown by members of the same family toward one another, in detached, half involuntary remarks. And, indeed, one can not understand famous men unless one has sympathized with the obscure! From the quarrels of drunken pushcart-men to the discords of the sons of the gods there runs an invisible, yet unbroken, thread, just as the young servant-girl, who, half against her will, follows her insistent lover away from the crowd of dancers, may be an embryo Juliet, Dido, or Medea.

Two years ago, as usual, I had mingled as a pedestrian with the pleasure-seeking visitors of the kermis. The chief difficulties of the trip had been overcome, and I found myself at the end of the Augarten with the longed-for Brigittenau lying directly before me. Only one more difficulty remained to be overcome. A narrow causeway running between impenetrable hedges forms the only connection between the two pleasure resorts, the joint boundary of which is indicated by a wooden trellised gate in the centre. On ordinary days and for ordinary pedestrians this connecting passage affords more than ample space. But on kermis-day its width, even if quadrupled, would still be too narrow for the endless crowd which, in surging forward impetuously, is jostled by those bound in the opposite direction and manages to get along only by reason of the general good nature displayed by the merry-makers.

I was drifting with the current and found myself in the centre of the causeway upon classical ground, although I was constantly obliged to stand still, turn aside, and wait. Thus I had abundant time for observing what was going on at the sides of the road. In order that the pleasure-seeking multitude might not lack a foretaste of the happiness in store for them, several musicians had taken up their positions on the left-hand slope of the raised causeway. Probably fearing the intense competition, these musicians intended to garner at the propylaea the first fruits of the liberality which had here not yet spent itself. There were a girl harpist with repulsive, staring eyes; an old invalid with a wooden leg, who, on a dreadful, evidently home-made instrument, half dulcimer, half barrel-organ, was endeavoring by means of analogy to arouse the pity of the public for his painful injury; a lame, deformed boy, forming with his violin one single, indistinguishable mass, was playing endless waltzes with all the hectic violence of his misshapen breast; and finally an old man, easily seventy years of age, in a threadbare but clean woolen overcoat, who wore a smiling, self-satisfied expression. This old man attracted my entire attention. He stood there bareheaded and baldheaded, his hat as a collection-box before him on the ground, after the manner of these people. He was belaboring an old, much-cracked violin, beating time not only by raising and lowering his foot, but also by a corresponding movement of his entire bent body. But all his efforts to bring uniformity into his performance were fruitless, for what he was playing seemed to be an incoherent succession of tones without time or melody. Yet he was completely absorbed in his work; his lips quivered, and his eyes were fixed upon the sheet of music before him, for he actually had notes! While all the other musicians, whose playing pleased the crowd infinitely better, were relying on their memories, the old man had placed before him in the midst of the surging crowd a small, easily portable music-stand, with dirty, tattered notes, which probably contained in perfect order what he was playing so incoherently. It was precisely the novelty of this equipment that had attracted my attention to him, just as it excited the merriment of the passing throng, who jeered him and left the hat of the old man empty, while the rest of the orchestra pocketed whole copper mines. In order to observe this odd character at my leisure, I had stepped, at some distance from him, upon the slope at the side of the causeway. For a while he continued playing. Finally he stopped, and, as if recovering himself after a long spell of absent-mindedness, he gazed at the firmament, which already began to show traces of approaching evening. Then he looked down into his hat, found it empty, put it on with undisturbed cheerfulness, and placed his bow between the strings. "_Sunt certi denique fines_" (there is a limit to everything), he said, took his music-stand, and, as though homeward bound, fought his way with difficulty through the crowd streaming in the opposite direction toward the festival.

The whole personality of the old man was specially calculated to whet my anthropological appetite to the utmost--his poorly clad, yet noble figure, his unfailing cheerfulness, so much artistic zeal combined with such awkwardness, the fact that he returned home just at the time when for others of his ilk the real harvest was only beginning, and, finally, the few Latin words, spoken, however, with the most correct accent and with absolute fluency. The man had evidently received a good education and had acquired some knowledge, and here he was--a street-musician! I was burning with curiosity to learn his history.

But a compact wall of humanity already separated us. Small as he was, and getting in everybody's way with the music-stand in his hand, he was shoved from one to another and had passed through the exit-gate while I was still struggling in the centre of the causeway against the opposing crowd. Thus I lost track of him; and when at last I had reached the quiet, open space, there was no musician to be seen far or near.

This fruitless adventure had spoiled all my enjoyment of the popular festival. I wandered through the Augarten in all directions, and finally decided to go home. As I neared the little gate that leads out of the Augarten into Tabor Street, I suddenly heard the familiar sound of the old violin. I accelerated my steps, and, behold! there stood the object of my curiosity, playing with all his might, surrounded by several boys who impatiently demanded a waltz from him. "Play a waltz," they cried; "a waltz, don't you hear?" The old man kept on fiddling, apparently paying no attention to them, until his small audience, reviling and mocking him, left him and gathered around an organ-grinder who had taken up his position near by.

"They don't want to dance," said the old man sadly, and gathered up his musical outfit. I had stepped up quite close to him. "The children do not know any dance but the waltz," I said.

"I was playing a waltz," he replied, indicating with his bow the notes of the piece he had just been playing. "You have to play things like that for the crowd. But the children have no ear for music," he said, shaking his head mournfully.

"At least permit me to atone for their ingratitude," I said, taking a silver coin out of my pocket and offering it to him.

"Please, don't," cried the old man, at the same time warding me off anxiously with both hands--"into the hat, into the hat." I dropped the coin into his hat, which was lying in front of him. The old man immediately took it out and put it into his pocket, quite satisfied. "That's what I call going home for once with a rich harvest," he said chuckling.

"You just remind me of a circumstance," I said, "which excited my curiosity before. It seems your earnings today have not been particularly satisfactory, and yet you retire at the very moment when the real harvest is beginning. The festival, as you no doubt know, lasts the whole night, and you might easily earn more in this one night than in an entire week ordinarily. How am I to account for this?"

"How are you to account for this?" replied the old man. "Pardon me, I do not know who you are, but you must be a generous man and a lover of music." With these words he took the silver coin out of his pocket once more and pressed it between his hands, which he raised to his heart.

"I shall therefore tell you the reasons, although I have often been ridiculed for them. In the first place, I have never been a night-reveler, and I do not consider it right to incite others to such a disgusting procedure by means of playing and singing. Secondly, a man ought to establish for himself a certain order in all things, otherwise he'll run wild and there's no stopping him. Thirdly, and finally, sir, I play for the noisy throng all day long and scarcely earn a bare living. But the evening belongs to me and to my poor art. In the evening I stay at home, and"--at these words he lowered his voice, a blush overspread his countenance and his eyes sought the ground--"then I play to myself as fancy dictates, without notes. I believe the text-books on music call it improvising."

We had both grown silent, he from confusion, because he had betrayed the innermost secret of his heart, I from astonishment at hearing a man speak of the highest spheres of art who was not capable of rendering even the simplest waltz in intelligible fashion. Meanwhile he was preparing to depart. "Where do you live?" I inquired. "I should like to attend your solitary practising some day."

"Oh," he replied, almost imploringly, "you must know that prayers should be said in private!"

"Then I'll visit you in the daytime," I said.

"In the daytime," he replied, "I earn my living among the people."

"Well, then, some morning early."

"It almost looks," the old man said smiling, "as though you, my dear sir, were the recipient, and I, if I may be permitted to say so, the benefactor; you are so kind, and I reject your advances so ungraciously. Your distinguished visit will always confer honor on my dwelling. Only I should like to ask you to be so very kind as to notify me beforehand of the day of your coming, in order that you may not be unduly delayed nor I be compelled to interrupt unceremoniously some business in which I may be engaged at the time. For my mornings are also devoted to a definite purpose. At any rate, I consider it my duty to my patrons and benefactors to offer something not entirely unworthy in return for their gifts. I have no desire to be a beggar, sir; I am very well aware of the fact that the other street musicians are satisfied to reel off a few street ditties, German waltzes, even melodies of indecent songs, all of which they have memorized. These they repeat incessantly, so that the public pays them either in order to get rid of them, or because their playing revives the memory of former joys of dancing or of other disorderly amusements. For this reason such musicians play from memory, and sometimes, in fact quite frequently, strike the wrong note. But far be it from me to deceive. Partly, therefore, because my memory is not of the best, partly because it might be difficult for any one to retain in his memory, note for note, complicated compositions of esteemed composers, I have made a clear copy for myself in these note-books." With these words he showed me the pages of his music-book. To my amazement I saw in a careful, but awkward and stiff handwriting, extremely difficult compositions by famous old masters, quite black with passage-work and double-stopping. And these selections the old man played with his clumsy fingers! "In playing these pieces," he continued, "I show my veneration for these esteemed, long since departed masters and composers, satisfy my own artistic instincts, and live in the pleasant hope that, in return for the alms so generously bestowed upon me, I may succeed in improving the taste and hearts of an audience distracted and misled on many sides. But since music of this character--to return to my subject"--and at these words a self-satisfied smile lighted up his features--"since music of this kind requires practice, my morning hours are devoted exclusively to this exercise. The first three hours of the day for practice, the middle of the day for earning my living, the evening for myself and God; that is not an unfair division," he said, and at the same time something moist glistened in his eyes; but he was smiling.

"Very well, then," I said, "I shall surprise you some morning. Where do you live?" He mentioned Gardener's Lane.

"What number?

"Number 34, one flight up."

"Well, well," I cried, "on the fashionable floor."

"The house," he said, "consists in reality only of a ground floor. But upstairs, next to the garret, there is a small room which I occupy in company with two journeymen."

"A single room for three people?"

"It is divided into two parts," he answered, "and I have my own bed."

"It is getting late," I said, "and you must be anxious to get home. _Auf Wiedersehen!_"

At the same time I put my hand in my pocket with the intention of doubling the trifling amount I had given him before. But he had already taken up his music-stand with one hand and his violin with the other, and cried hurriedly, "I humbly ask you to refrain. I have already received ample remuneration for my playing, and I am not aware of having earned any other reward." Saying this he made me a rather awkward bow with an approach to elegant ease, and departed as quickly as his old legs could carry him.

As I said before, I had lost for this day all desire of participating further in the festival. Consequently I turned homeward, taking the road leading to the Leopoldstadt. Tired out from the dust and heat, I entered one of the many beer-gardens, which, while overcrowded on ordinary days, had today given up all their customers to the Brigittenau. The stillness of the place, in contradistinction to the noisy crowd, did me good. I gave myself up to my thoughts, in which the old musician had a considerable share. Night had come before I thought at last of going home. I laid the amount of my bill upon the table and walked toward the city.

The old man had said that he lived in Gardener's Lane. "Is Gardener's Lane near-by?" I asked a smell boy who was running across the road. "Over there, sir," he replied, pointing to a side street that ran from the mass of houses of the suburb out into the open fields. I followed the direction indicated. The street consisted of some scattered houses, which, separated by large vegetable gardens, plainly indicated the occupation of the inhabitants and the origin of the name Gardener's Lane. I was wondering in which of these miserable huts my odd friend might live. I had completely forgotten the number; moreover it was impossible to make out any signs in the darkness. At that moment a man carrying a heavy load of vegetables passed me. "The old fellow is scraping his fiddle again," he grumbled, "and disturbing decent people in their night's rest." At the same time, as I went on, the soft, sustained tone of a violin struck my ear. It seemed to come from the open attic window of a hovel a short distance away, which, being low and without an upper story like the rest of the houses, attracted attention on account of this attic window in the gabled roof. I stood still. A soft distinct note increased to loudness, diminished, died out, only to rise again immediately to penetrating shrillness. It was always the same tone repeated as if the player dwelt upon it with pleasure. At last an interval followed; it was the chord of the fourth. While the player had before reveled in the sound of the single note, now his voluptuous enjoyment of this harmonic relation was very much more susceptible. His fingers moved by fits and starts, as did his bow. Through the intervening intervals he passed most unevenly, emphasizing and repeating the third. Then he added the fifth, now with a trembling sound like silent weeping, sustained, vanishing; now constantly repeated with dizzy speed; always the same intervals, the same tones. And that was what the old man called improvising. It _was_ improvising after all, but from the viewpoint of the player, not from that of the listener.

I do not know how long this may have lasted and how frightful the performance had become, when suddenly the door of the house was opened, and a man, clad only in a shirt and partly buttoned trousers stepped from the threshold into the middle of the street and called up to the attic window--"Are you going to keep on all night again?" The tone of his voice was impatient, but not harsh or insulting. The violin became silent even before the speaker had finished. The man went back into the house, the attic window was closed, and soon perfect and uninterrupted silence reigned. I started for home, experiencing some difficulty in finding my way through the unknown lanes, and, as I walked along, I also improvised mentally, without, however, disturbing any one.

The morning hours have always been of peculiar value to me. It is as though I felt the need of occupying myself with something ennobling, something worth while, in the first hours of the day, thus consecrating the remainder of it, as it were. It is, therefore, only with difficulty that I can make up my mind to leave my room early in the morning, and if ever I force myself to do so without sufficient cause, nothing remains to me for the rest of the day but the choice between idle distraction and morbid introspection. Thus it happened that I put off for several days my visit to the old man, which I had agreed to pay in the morning. At last I could not master my impatience any longer, and went. I had no difficulty in finding Gardener's Lane, nor the house. This time also I heard the tones of the violin, but owing to the closed window they were muffled and scarcely recognizable. I entered the house. A gardener's wife, half speechless with amazement, showed me the steps leading up to the attic. I stood before a low, badly fitting door, knocked, received no answer, finally raised the latch and entered. I found myself in a quite large, but otherwise extremely wretched chamber, the wall of which on all sides followed the outlines of the pointed roof. Close by the door was a dirty bed in loathsome disorder, surrounded by all signs of neglect; opposite me, close beside the narrow window, was a second bed, shabby but clean and most carefully made and covered. Before the window stood a small table with music-paper and writing material, on the windowsill a few flower-pots. The middle of the room from wall to wall was designated along the floor by a heavy chalk line, and it is almost impossible to imagine a more violent contrast between dirt and cleanliness than existed on the two sides of the line, the equator of this little world. The old man had placed his music-stand close to the boundary line and was standing before it practising, completely and carefully dressed. I have already said so much that is jarring about the discords of my favorite--and I almost fear he is mine alone--that I shall spare the reader a description of this infernal concert. As the practice consisted chiefly of passage-work, there was no possibility of recognizing the pieces he was playing, but this might not have been an easy matter even under ordinary circumstances. After listening a while, I finally discovered the thread leading out of this labyrinth--the method in his madness, as it were. The old man enjoyed the music while he was playing. His conception, however, distinguished between only two kinds of effect, euphony and cacophony. Of these the former delighted, even enraptured him, while he avoided the latter, even when harmonically justified, as much as possible. Instead of accenting a composition in accordance with sense and rhythm, he exaggerated and prolonged the notes and intervals that were pleasing to his ear; he did not even hesitate to repeat them arbitrarily, when an expression of ecstasy frequently passed over his face. Since he disposed of the dissonances as rapidly as possible and played the passages that were too difficult for him in a tempo that was too slow compared with the rest of the piece, his conscientiousness not permitting him to omit even a single note, one may easily form an idea of the resulting confusion. After some time, even I couldn't endure it any longer. In order to recall him to the world of reality, I purposely dropped my hat, after I had vainly tried several other means of attracting his attention. The old man started, his knees shook, and he was scarcely able to hold the violin he had lowered to the ground. I stepped up to him. "Oh, it is you, sir," he said, as if coming to himself; "I had not counted on the fulfilment of your kind promise." He forced me to sit down, straightened things up, laid down his violin, looked around the room a few times in embarrassment, then suddenly took up a plate from a table that was standing near the door and went out. I heard him speak with the gardener's wife outside. Soon he came back again rather abashed, concealing the plate behind his back and returning it to its place stealthily. Evidently he had asked for some fruit to offer me, but had not been able to obtain it.

"You live quite comfortably here," I said, in order to put an end to his embarrassment. "Untidiness is not permitted to dwell here. It will retreat through the door, even though at the present moment it hasn't quite passed the threshold."

"My abode reaches only to that line," said the old man, pointing to the chalk-line in the middle of the room. "Beyond it the two journeymen live."

"And do these respect your boundary?"

"They don't, but I do," said he. "Only the door is common property."

"And are you not disturbed by your neighbors?"

"Hardly. They come home late at night, and even if they startle me a little when I'm in bed, the pleasure of going to sleep again is all the greater. But in the morning I awaken them, when I put my room in order. Then they scold a little and go." I had been observing him in the mean time. His clothes were scrupulously clean, his figure was good enough for his years, only his legs were a little too short. His hands and feet were remarkably delicate. "You are looking at me," he said, "and thinking, too."

"I confess that I have some curiosity concerning your past," I replied.

"My past?" he repeated. "I have no past. Today is like yesterday, and tomorrow like today. But the day after tomorrow and beyond--who can know about that? But God will look after me; He knows best."

"Your present mode of life is probably monotonous enough," I continued, "but your past! How did it happen--"

"That I became a street-musician?" he asked, filling in the pause that I had voluntarily made. I now told him how he had attracted my attention the moment I caught sight of him; what an impression he had made upon me by the Latin words he had uttered. "Latin!" he echoed. "Latin! I did learn it once upon a time, or rather, I was to have learned it and might have done so. _Loqueris latine?"_--he turned to me; "but I couldn't continue; it is too long ago. So that is what you call my past? How it all came about? Well then, all sorts of things have happened, nothing special, but all sorts of things. I should like to hear the story myself again. I wonder whether I haven't forgotten it all. It is still early in the morning," he continued, putting his hand into his vest-pocket, in which, however, there was no watch. I drew out mine; it was barely nine o'clock. "We have time, and I almost feel like talking." Meanwhile he had grown visibly more at ease. His figure became more erect. Without further ceremony he took my hat out of my hand and laid it upon the bed. Then he seated himself, crossed one leg over the other, and assumed the attitude of one who is going to tell a story in comfort.