The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942, 1901-10-29
THE STORY
OF A SONG
by MTS.
HERMANN KATzsCHMAR.

Only little worn black book, so small
that it could be carried in ones pocket,
and yet the faded writing tells the heart
secret of lone poets life. 1t might still
have lain at the bottom of that musty
pile of manuscript if had not found my
way into the old obscure shop one after
noon of that never to be forgotten sum-
mer In Vienna. And so | give it to the
world. what should / do without you,
my beloved confdanti You are not to me
pages of lined paper between two covers,
but my inner self, to whom l unreserved-
~ pour out my longings and aspirations.
To you only can l give sorrow words to
voice my deepest joy. 1t makes no differ
ence to you, dear little journal that am
short of stature and of sight, round Shout
| dered, awkward in my manner and my
gait. What care you that my face is
plain and my speech hating? Those out
ward signs that make the man foremost
have never troubled you. You know the
real Franz Steinert, his weakness and his
/ strength and are ever ready to receive
his confidence, and you shall have it, best
of friends. To you I'll think aloud.
"Have you forgotten that this is Jan.
81 and | am twenty-one? Think what
a long, uphill climb life has been to that
little lad old Holzer taught to play and
sing! Aye, but think again of all the
joy that music has brought to him! How
proud my dear old master was of all |
did! / can remember once he gave me
Bach's Heart Ever Faithful for a
theme, and when l improvised and modu-
lated into different keys he cried out with
delight, The boy has harmony in his
finger ends
'What do / not owe you, faithful
friend and teacher? Were you not the
first to place within my hand the key to
the deep hidden mysteries of tone? / am
convinced that today will be the red let
ter day Of my life, for the counts pat
ronage must bring success. l wonder if
he dreamed what his generous offer
meant to me.
81 tried to stammer my gratitude, but
human speech fails to show what is in
the heart. Only the language music
speaks can adequately tell of disappoint-
ments, lofty desires, hopes fulillment.
The count laid his hand upon my shout
der as played, and then l came to
know at once that he felt the thanks |
could not utter.
''By the calendar it is a month
Though l can scarcely believe it) since
that morning, when, trembling l tried
to make a careful toilet for my first
visit to my noble patrons, where l was
to give lessons in music to his daugh-
tiers. Ny threadbare waistcoat and
frayed linen never showed so plainly. |
was an hour mixing the seams of my coat
and pairing the edges of my cuffs. Finally
/ started for the palace, my heart thump-
ing so loudly against my ribs that, when
l haltingly finished my inarticulate greet
ings to the count, / feared to hear him
ask the lackey, What is that pounding?
"While / was vainly struggling to
command breath and words a fairylike
apparition stood beside me. Her father
said, with loving accent, My daughter
but inwardly 1 questioned, Can anything
so exquisite be material flesh and blood?
There seemed to be CLEAN of sunshine
in the half darkened room. l looked and
found it was her smile. heard tender
cadence, a strain so beautiful it could
only come from heaven. Dumb and mo-
tionless / listened for it again, and then
l knew it was her voice.
SLOW can l tell even you. my inner
self, of all her graciousness of manner
throughout these weeks, of all her love
for what is best in music, of her keen
appreciation of a thought expressed in
tone?
"Days, weeks, months have passed,
I'm told and yet l could count time only
by two hours each week. How short
they are to hold the whole of life! Can
I bel, who never looked with love upon
a woman until now, and she as far above
me as the stars, although not sharp and
glittering like those distant orbs, but
sympathetic kind and true, my Lady
Caroline!
'What could have moved her so this
morning? She seemed oppressed. and as
she finished playing Beethoven's favorite
'Andante' tears filed her eyes.
81 love it and seem to feel it in my
heart she murmured, but when play it
sounds so cold, so harsh. Tell me the Sc
cret of your touch, my master, and she
lifted up her eyes beseechingly to mine
For minutes space l could not an
swer, for there rose before me my miser-
able, starved childhood. so unutterably
different from the life of her who ques-
toned me- l shivered as | seemed to see
an i'll clad boy Of twelve, in the early
dawn of bitter winters day, making his
way to the practice room where no
warmth nor ray of sunshine ever pene-
trated, and where his numb fingers could
hardly call forth the tones he loved, and
so hungry that even his loved music could
not bring forgetfulness of that gnawing
hunger.
"a wave of pity filed my heart for that
desolate little lad, as though he were
some other than myself, as l recalled the
piteous letters he would write to his
brother, begging a few kreutZers with
which to buy an apple or bun to keep
body and soul together and looking down
upon this dainty child of fortune as she
still questioned me with those dark eyes
of heavens blue. stammered:
"'You would know the secret Of my
touch? l studied it in a school whose
name l pray you may never comprehend
the school of poverty. The masters
who taught me all | know may come to
you in later years, and, if they do, their
training, hard though it may be, will give
you all you long for in your music
ooh, little book of mine, words are too
poor to tell the sympathy, the encourage
ment in her voucher face. If God had
only made her nearer to my level-what
am saying? Would 1, if l could drag
her down to my poverty, my hedged in
life? No, never! She is my star, my
queen. whom l shall ever worship.
"While l stood trembling before her,
speeches. with love, she spoke again:
Surely you have something to say to
me, my masterY
'Hesitatingly, l drew slip of paper
from my pocket, saying: Yesterday l
was uneasy, restless, and in the evening,
to bring sleep, walked many miles. Re
turning weary, stopped at little way
side inn, and as l sat at table idly turn
ing the leaves of a book some one had
left there this line caught my eye:
"Hark, harkl The lark at heavens gate
sings" And instantly a melody sang it
self to the words, and was compelled to
write it down. l searched my pockets
for a bit of paper, but could find none,
so l used the bill of fare. Will you par
don me that bring it to you just as it
isp
''Then, without more words, l played
it to her-played as l never had before.
She sat near me, and when | paused she
did not speak, but with her eyes said,
'More!'
"'This l wrote and thought of you l
whispered, and l played Who Is Syl-
viaY
when rose to go, it was my lady's
turn to tremble. TT she stammered,
and in her confusion l grew strangely
self possessed, L long have wished to
ask you why-why, as you have dedi-
Gated so many of your noble works to
others, l alone am left unnoticed. Do
you not think me worthy? She glanced
up shyly, while hot bushes overspread
neck And brcy. Ny voice sounded far