The citizen. (Frederick City, Md.) 1895-1923, 1902-01-03
THE STORY
OF A SONG
" d
HERMANN KATZSCHMAR.
I-~-~-A%-%~~N-~-~%->

Only a 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 lite. 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 confdant, You are not to me
pages of lined paper between two covers,
but my inner self, to whom | unreserved-
ly pour out my longings and aspirations.
To You only can | give sorrow words to
voice my deepest joy. 1t makes no differ
ence to you, dear little journal, that l 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 halting? 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 read to receive
his confidence and you shall nave it, best
of friends. TO you i tank cloud.
"Have you forgotten thIt his is Jan.
81, and | am twenty me- Think what
long, uphi climb life has toen to that
little lad old ILozer taught TO play and
sing! Aye, bus think again Of all the
JOY that music has bro -lt 30 himl How
proud my delr old master was of all l
did! | can remember once he gave me
Bach's Heart Ever Faithful for a
theme, and when / in provis.d and modu-
lated into different KEYS be cried out with
delight, The boy has harmony in his
finger ends
"What do 1 not owa you faithful
friend and teacher? Were you not the
first to place within my hand the key to
the deep hidden mysteries of tone? l am
convinced that today will be the red let
ter day of my life, for the counts pat
ronage must bring success. | wonder if
he dreamed what his generous offer
meant to me.
u 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 fulfllment.
The count laid his hand upon my Shout
der as l played, and then | came to
know at once that he felt the thanks
could not utter.
"By the calendar it is month
Though l can scarcely believe i0 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. My threadbare waistcoat and
frayed linen never showed so plainly.
h., ;,,I- .
and pairing the edges of my cuffs. Finally
| started for the palace, my heart thump-
ing so loudly against my ribs that, when
| haltingly finished my inarticuate 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
appartion stood beside me- Her father
said, with loving accent, My daughter,
but inwardly | questioned. Can anything
so exquisite be material flesh and blood?
There seemed to be a CLEAN of sunshine
in the half darkened room. looked and
found it was her smile. / heard a 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.
How can ! 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 thought expressed in
tone?
Days, weeks, months have passed,
I'm told and yet I could count time only
by two hours each week. How short
they are to hold the whole of life! Can
| bel, who never looked with love upon
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 a minutes space | 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. | 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 wbrre 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 | 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? | studied it in a school whose
name l pray you may never comprehend
-rne scnooI OF poverty. Inc masters
who taught me all l 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
Oh, niue DOCK OF mine, words are 100
poor to tell the sympathy, the encourage
ment in her Voucher face. If God had
only made her nearer to my level-what
am l saying? Would l, if l could, drag
her down to my poverty, my hedged in
life? No, never! She is my star, my
queen, whom shall ever worship.
"While l stood trembling before her,
speeches. with love, she spoke again:
Surely you have something to say to
me, nv MASTERY