Violets and Violin Strings, Part I [pp. 468-477]

VIOLETS AND VIOLIN STRING.GS.
look down so coldly and unfeelingly at
night from their far-offheaven, that I can
not believe they are the same stars which
smiled down so kindly upon me in our
beloved Germany. I go morning and
evening for my brown bread and beer
to a German Gasthaus, on a street near
by, though more often I carry it to
my room, preferring rather to eat alone
than in the strange, noisy company usually gathered there. I took the letters
the Herr Professor gave me to the persons to whom they were addressed,
though I had hard work to find them
out. I doubt if I ever should have succeeded had it not been for a kind gentleman who lives on the first floor,
Herr Hahneman. His name is German, but he himself speaks only English. He is also a teacher of music,
so he told me. He gives lessons on the
piano at the residences of the pupils;
often he goes out early in the morning,
and does not get home until late in the
evening. He went with me himself to
see the director of one of the largest orchestras, and I am to play to - morrow
night for the first time. It is not much,
but it is the stepping-stone to something
better. By the advice, also, of Herr
Hahneman, I have put out a little card:
"Leo Otto Bergholz, Teacher of Piano
and Violin." If I had the money, I
should also put a similar card in the paper, but I have not now, and I must be
very careful of my little means, or I shall
soon have nothing left.
Write soon, Carl, and tell me about
the class, and if the new professor of the
violin is as strict and severe as the old
professor was. Ah, Carl! those were
happy days, after all. I often dream
now that I hear the old chorus swelling
out with its hundreds of voices, and the
director standing in the midst of the excitement, calm and strong. There is
nothing like it here. The people have
not time for music. It is the most wonderful thing of all, Carl, to sit by the
window in Herr Hahneman's room (it
is there that I am to receive the answers
to my card, for no one could ever find
their way up into my little attic) and see
the people pass. They seem all eager
to grasp something beyond their reach
-the men, yes, and the women, too
and the children seem to have hardly
time to grow and play. You will never
see whole families here enjoying themselves together in the gardens after the
day's work is done, if ever it is done.
The gardens are called parks, and the
little children go there with their nurses.
But the poor little ones are not allowed
to step on the green grass, only to run
up and down the gravelly walks.
I write all this, Carl, that you may
know how different everything is here
from what it is with us. It is only when
I shut myself up in my room and take
my beloved violin that I forget where I
am. Music annihilates time and space,
and the familiar strains of Mozart, Bach,
and Beethoven carry me back to our
beloved Rhine-to you, Carl, and Marguerite. I touch your hands with my
spirit, and feel your embrace as truly as
if with the living lips. Sometimes I play
on until late in the night, for I have no
way of marking time except by heartthrobs, and then the stars shine less
brightly but more kindly, and I think of
what you said that last night, when we
stood by the banks of the beautiful,
shining river: "Whenever thou lookest
upon the north star, Otto, remember
that I love thee and am thinking of
thee." Then I say to my violin, "He
is, indeed, thinking of us both, and now
thou art weary." You used to laugh at
me, Carl, for talking to my violin as if it
had a soul, but I was wiser than you.
I know that it understands and appreciates all my moods and feelings. Now I
never make a mistake in playing, I am
hardly conscious of the mechanical part.
Ofttimes I seem to revel in a delicious
world outside of myself. I no longer
i874.]
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