This somewhat boisterous production creates a dramatic excitement in the crowd, that is to say it causes considerable dismay at the card tables, where card players are at a loss, unable, as they had before, to add a melodramatic element with declamatory statements interwoven with the music, as, for instance: “Oh, I just loved to— forty-eight— I was so happy— I pass— couldn’t— whist— the sweet pain of it— cards of the same color— strong suit, etc.— Things go smoothly. (So I pour myself a glass.)

  That was the high point of the day’s musical exposition: now it’s over and done with! That’s what I thought to myself, shutting the book of music and rising from the piano bench. Which is when the Baron, my antique tenor, approaches me and says: “Oh, most esteemed Kapellmeister, I have heard that you’re an ace at improvisation; do improvise a piece for us! A short one! I beg you!”

  To which I reply that I’m all improvised out for the day; and as we discuss the matter, a devil in the form of a dandy with two waistcoats digs up the Bach variations out from under my hat in the room next door. He thinks to himself, they’re just a sweet assortment of little variations on the order of: Nel cor mi non più sento[*1] – Ah vous dirai-je, maman,[*2] etc., and figures I can just play them off the top of my head. I hesitate; but they all chime in insistently. Very well then, I think to myself, listen up and burst with boredom. So then I get to it. At Variation Number 3, several ladies withdraw, followed by that little frizzy-haired fellow. The Röderleins hold on, albeit fidgeting about, till Variation Number 12, since it is, after all, their music instructor playing. At Variation Number 15 the double-vested dandy backs off. Compelled by an exaggerated sense of politesse, the Baron sticks around till Number 30, and just keeps drinking down the punch that Gottlieb had set out for me on the piano. I would have played it out to the end, but the musical theme of this Variation Number 30 really got to me. The book of sheet music suddenly swells in my mind’s eye into a giant folio, its pages covered with thousands of imitations and elaborations on the theme that I feel compelled to play. The notes come alive and flicker and leap around me— electric sparks pass through my fingertips onto the keys— the musical spirit from which it all streamed forth outflanks my rational cognition— the entire room fills with a thick cloud, and the candles burn ever more dimly— sometimes a nose peers out at me, sometimes a pair of eyes; but they promptly disappear again. So I remain seated alone with my Sebastian Bach and my Gottlieb, as if infused with a spiritu familiari.

  I drink!— Should an honest musician ever be tormented with music as I was tormented today, and am so often tormented? I swear to God, no art is so damnably abused as is that splendid, holy musika, in its sheer vulnerability so easily defiled! If you have true talent, a veritable sense of art, all right then, learn music, produce something worthy of the art, and give your all to that consecrated entity. But if all you want is to warble, then do so for your own pleasure and in the privacy of your room, and don’t torment Kapellmeister Kreisler and other worthy listeners with it.

  Finally, I get to go home to complete my new piano sonata; but it’s not yet eleven o’clock on a splendid summer night. I bet that at the cathouse next door, the girls are seated at the open window, regaling passersby on the street below with a shrill, screeching, piercing voice: “Wenn mir dein Auge strahlet”[*3] – but always just the first verse. Directly across the way, somebody with lungs like Rameau’s nephew is martyring a flute, and the acoustical experiments of the French horn player, next door to him, produce long, long notes. The umpteen dogs in the neighborhood are sounding off and, stirred by the sweet duet, my landlord’s tomcat is serenading the neighbor’s cat, whom he has had the hots for since last March, wailing sweet nothings across the chromatic scale, directly under my window (needless to say, my musical-poetic laboratory is a cheap garret room). Things quiet down after eleven o’clock; I remain seated at my perch, since I still have blank sheets of music paper and a drop of Burgundy left over, of which I promptly take a satisfying swig.

  There is, I have heard, an old law that forbids noisy laborers from residing next to scholars; ought not poor, hard-pressed composers – who are, moreover, obliged to mint money out of their musical inspiration so as to continue spinning the tenuous thread of their existence – apply this law to their own circumstances and be permitted to proscribe big mouths and the blaring mob from their immediate vicinity? How would the painter engaged in depicting his ideal respond if a whole slew of grimacing ugly mugs were held up between him and his model! If he shut his eyes tight, he would at least be able to keep painting undisturbed in his imagination. Cotton balls stuffed in the ears don’t help, you still hear the infernal racket – and what of the concept, the very concept of it! Now comes the chorus, now the French horns, etc.; the devil makes mincemeat of the most sublime musical ideas.

  The sheet is covered with notes; on the white band left blank just below the title, permit me to remark why I resolved a hundred times over not to keep letting myself be tormented by the privy councillor, and why I broke that resolve a hundred times. All right, so it’s Röderlein’s ravishing niece who keeps me coming back to the house and who tied my artistry in a knot. Whoever has been so fortunate as to witness Miss Amalia sing the last scene of Gluck’s Armida or the dramatic scene with Donna Anna in Don Giovanni, can well fathom that an hour spent with her at the piano pours heavenly balsam into the wounds inflicted upon a tormented musical instructor by all the dissonance of the day. Röderlein, who neither believes in the immortality of the soul nor in musical cadence, considers her completely useless for the maintenance of his high teas, since she refuses to sing at them, yet will sing her heart out before perfectly ordinary folk such as simple musicians, a fact that he believes does not suit her station in life. In Röderlein’s view, she must surely have picked up her long-held, soaring, accordion-like notes, singing that brings rapture to my ears, from listening to a nightingale, a senseless creature that resides in the woods and from which mankind, the sensible lords of creation, have nothing to learn. Her reckless disregard of reputation sometimes goes so far that she will even allow her singing to be accompanied by Gottlieb on the violin when playing Beethoven or Mozart sonatas on the piano, a practice hardly attuned to the taste of fashionable teatime hosts or whist players.

  That was the last glass of Burgundy. Gottlieb is polishing my candlesticks and seems a bit surprised by my assiduous scribbling. You would be quite right at assessing Gottlieb’s age as just sixteen. His is a splendid and profound talent. But why did the father, a toll taker, have to die so young; and did the child’s legal guardian have to stick him in domestic service? When Rode came to town, Gottlieb listened in from the antechamber with his ear pressed to the door of the concert hall and played what he’d heard for entire nights; all day long he went around daydreaming. The red spot on his cheek, a faithful imprint of the ring on Mlle. Röderlein’s hand, might have been roused by gentle rubbing, enhancing the somnambulistic state, but really it was the mark of a heavy blow, dealt with the very opposite intention. Aside from other things, I gave him the sonatas of Corelli to practice; when he had finished, he went on a rampage rooting out the mice hiding on the floor under the old Österlein grand piano till not a one of them survived, and then with Röderlein’s permission, translocated the instrument to his little room.

  “Fling it off, that hateful servant’s frock, my good Gottlieb, and let me at long last press you against my heart as the valiant artist you can one day become with a talent such as yours, and with your profound sense of art!” Standing behind me, Gottlieb wiped the tears from his eyes as I spoke these words to him.

  Without another word, I pressed his hand in mine, we went upstairs and played the sonatas of Corelli.

  Skip Notes

  *1 “In My Heart I Feel No More.”

  *2 “Ah, Shall I Tell You, Mother Dear.”

  *3 “When Your Eye Beams at Me.”

  The Golden Pot

  A Fairy Tale for Modern Times

  Bamberg 1814

  First Vigil

  The misadventure of the student Anselmus, Deputy Rector Paulmann’s Restorative Tobacco Box, and the Golden Green Snakes.

  On Ascension Day, at three in the afternoon, a young man hastened through the Black Gate into the city of Dresden, running directly into a basket of apples and cakes hawked by a hideous old hag, so that every fruit and sweet cake not crushed in the collision was hurled out onto the street, and the guttersnipes gleefully shared the spoils that the scholar inadvertently flung their way. Roused by the woman’s fearsome clamor, her fellow hawkers ran out from behind their carts heaped with cakes and brandy, surrounded the young man, and showered him with such vile insults that, struck dumb with upset and shame, he held out his not very amply filled purse, which the old biddy greedily snatched up and promptly pocketed. The tight ring of street vendors dissolved around him, but no sooner did the young man break free than the woman cried after him: “Run, keep running as fast as you can, Satan’s child, right into the crystal ball— into the crystal ball!” The woman’s shrill, croaking voice sounded so ghastly that the passersby stopped dead in their tracks, and those who had been laughing suddenly fell silent.

  Even though he could make neither hide nor hair of the woman’s strange words, the student Anselmus – for such was the young man’s name – was so horror-stricken he quickened his steps to escape the gaze of curious onlookers.

  As he elbowed his way through the well-dressed throng, he heard mutterings all around him: “The poor young man— Fie on the cursed old wench!” Strangely enough, the old woman’s cryptic words had given the amusing episode a certain tragic turn, so that people who hadn’t cared before now followed the student with sympathetic looks. The womenfolk readily forgave his handsome face with its expression that further intensified the ardor of his distress, as they did the lad’s strong build and his garb, though it was unfashionable. His pike-gray jacket was cut as though the tailor knew the latest style by hearsay only, and the tight-fitting black satin pants gave the wearer a magister-like air, altogether out of keeping with his spritely stride and stance.

  Gasping as he reached the end of the alley leading to the public bathhouse, the student slackened his pace though he dared not look up. He was still befuddled by the jumble of tumbling apples and cakes, and every kind look from this or that girl just seemed like a reflex in response to the cackling laughter mocking him at the Black Gate.

  It was in this state of mind that he finally arrived at the entrance to Lincke’s Bathhouse,[*1] where a line of festively attired visitors entered one by one. The music of wind instruments sounded from within, and the crush of merry guests grew louder and louder. Anselmus almost burst into tears. Ascension Day had always been a special holiday for him and he had likewise been inclined to participate in the festivities at this blissful establishment; he had even intended to treat himself to a half portion of coffee with rum and a bottle of Doppelbock beer, and in order to make merry had stuffed more money in his purse than was seemly or advisable. And now that fatal collision with the apple basket had drained him of all the money he had on him. Coffee, Doppelbock beer, music, and the sight of girls in pretty dresses were all out of the question now; he slunk slowly past the entrance and finally turned down the lonely path to the Elbe River, which he now had all to himself.

  Finding a friendly little perch on the lawn beneath an elderberry tree growing out of a crack in the city wall, he plunked himself down and stuffed his pipe from his tobacco box, the gift from his friend, Deputy Rector Paulmann. Right there in front of his nose, the golden yellow waves of the beautiful Elbe River went purling and burbling by. Behind that, intrepid and proud, Dresden reared its bright towers into the frothy canopy of clouds covering the city and its surrounding flower-speckled meadows and green woods, while in the twilight the profile of the jagged mountains beckoned toward far-flung Bohemia.

  But Anselmus, looking glumly ahead, puffed smoke clouds in the air and gave voice to his discontent. “It’s as true as the nose on my face,” he said aloud, “I was born to be misery’s child. That I never drew the crowning bean in my piece of cake on Three Kings’ Day, that I always lost at odds or evens, that my bread and butter always fell on the buttered side – that’s all water under the bridge. But isn’t it godawful, when I finally decided to become a student just for the hell of it, that I should still be a loser? What kind of guy puts on a new jacket and immediately goes and messes it up with a tallow stain, or gets it caught on a cursed nail and tears a hole in it? Who else tips his hat to a privy councillor or some highborn lady, and the hat goes flying out of his hand, or else slips on the floor and falls flat on his pathetic face? Back in Halle, didn’t I get it into my head, come market day, to rush headlong like a lemming and squander a full three or four pence for some banged-up pots? Did I ever even once make it on time to the registrar’s office or wherever the hell you’re supposed to go to register for a class? What good did it do me to leave home a half hour early and stand there in front of the door with my hand on the doorknob, about to knock, if somebody dumps a washbasin over my head, or I collide with someone else running the other way, get myself tangled up in their confounded business, and miss my appointment? Where, oh where have you gone, you blessed dreams of future good fortune, all my proud posturing of plans to become a government official! Did my unlucky star make me alienate all my would-be benefactors?

  “Knowing full well that the privy councillor to whom I’d been recommended couldn’t stand close-cropped hair, I had the barber painstakingly fasten a tail to my messy mop, but no sooner did I bow before the man than the unlucky tail came undone, and a feisty pug came sniffing over, snapped it up, and carried my tail as a prize to the stunned official. In a fright I lunged for it, tumbled over the table on which the councillor was having his working breakfast, and sent cup and saucer, ink bottle and blotter crashing to the floor, hot chocolate and ink spilling over the letter of recommendation. ‘What the devil!’ screamed the infuriated official and shoved me out the door.

  “What good does it do me that Deputy Rector Paulmann got my hopes up about a clerical job? Will my unlucky star that follows me wherever I go countenance any such stroke of good fortune? Today’s mishap was all I needed! I wanted to celebrate Ascension Day in style, to do it up right. I was looking forward to proudly calling out my order like every guest at the bathhouse: ‘Hey waiter— a bottle of Doppelbock, please— ‘n’ better make it your best!’ I’d’ve stayed up late drinking, close to pretty girls dressed to the nines. I’m quite sure I would have mustered up the courage, found a new me, so that if one or the other charming Miss asked me: ‘What time might it be?’ or: ‘What’s that you’re playing?’ I’d’ve leapt up in good form, without toppling my glass or stumbling over the bench, strode forward a step or two, gallantly bowed my head, and replied: ‘At your service, Miss, it’s an overture from The Danube Maiden by Johann Strauss,’ or: ‘It’s about to strike six.’ Could anyone have held that against me? Not on your life! And the girls would have flashed an impish smile, as expected, when I got up the nerve to prove that I too have a certain savoir faire and know how to dally with the ladies. But then the devil had to go and lead me into that damned apple basket, and now I’m reduced to sitting here alone, dipping into my tobacco box, and…”

  All of a sudden Anselmus’s sad soliloquy was interrupted by a strange rustle and flutter in the grass beside him; a stirring that soon rose into the branches and leaves of the elderberry tree arching over his head. First it seemed as if the evening breeze shook the leaves, and then as if cooing birds fluttered their little wings back and forth, deliberately rocking in the branches. Then a whisper and a warble rose in the air around him as if the elderberry blossoms were ringing like crystal bells. Then – he knew not how – the whisper, rustle, and ringing dissolved into a flurry of half-wafted words:

  “Over, under— in between— through branches and swelling blossoms we swing, sidle, loop— little sister— little sister, swing yourself into the shimmer— swiftly, swiftly swing yourself up— down— the setting sun shoots rays, the wind of dusk hisses— rustling in the mist— blossoms sing— let’s rouse our little tongues to sing along with the blossoms and branches— stars will soon sparkle— back down now— over, under, in between— swing, sidle, loop, little sister.”

  On and on went the bewildering babble. Anselmus thought, “It’s nothing but the evening breeze bursting today into an orderly string of intelligible words.” But at that very moment what sounded like a crystal bell rang three times above his head. He looked up and spotted three glimmering gold-and-green-skinned snakes wrapped around the branches, raising their heads to soak up the last rays of the setting sun. The whispering and warbling of the same words began again, and the snakes curled and slid up and down the leaves and branches. As soon as they set themselves in motion it was as if the elderberry tree scattered a thousand sparkling emeralds among its dark leaves.

  “Must be the late afternoon sun stroking the elderberry,” Anselmus thought, but then the little bells once again began to ring, and he saw one of the snakes stretching its little head out to him. An electric shock ran through all his limbs and sparked his innermost self – he peered upward and a pair of dark blue eyes returned his gaze with inexpressible longing, so that completely new sensation of the greatest bliss and the most profound pain threatened to explode in his chest. And as he kept gazing at the eyes with burning desire, the crystal bells sounded louder still in sweetest harmony and the sparkling emeralds fell, encircling him in a thousand little flames streaming with strands of gold.

 

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