Chapter XIII The Bad Reception
Balduin and his companions had reached the same town. This happened the very day after Christlieb had been taken to the capital, towards which he had been driven by the memorable event of the breaking up of the ice. The river was still here and there covered with huge pieces of ice, while it had far overflowed its banks. The young adventurers, with many others, stood on the edge of the stream looking at its singular appearance.
“There must be a beautiful view from the tower up there,” thought Balduin, as he pointed to poor Christlieb’s late abode. “Who will come with me up the long staircase, and see what is to be seen?”
“As we have nothing better to do, we may as well all accompany you,” said one of his companions; and they quickly walked in the direction of the cathedral. They passed a baker’s shop on their way, which another of them perceiving, exclaimed, “I am sure the view will be seen to much more advantage if we are provided with some cakes or biscuits. Give me the rest of your money, Balduin; and if you will go up and find the best place for us to have a view from, we will follow directly with something nice to eat, and a small bottle of cordial.” He gave the other two youths a most significant wink, which they were at no loss to comprehend. Balduin completely emptied his now scanty purse, gave all he had to his faithless friends, and began to ascend the steps of the tower.
“Now, my good fellows, it is high time for us to beat a retreat!” shouted the false friend to whom Balduin had given the money. “We must go back to our tutors and make them believe that we have repented of our doings, and left our leader Balduin, in order not to be corrupted by his wicked society. As I said to-day already, Balduin shall be our scape-goat; we have had a merry life this last fortnight at his expense.”
The others agreed; purchased some cakes to eat on the road, and at once began their homeward journey.
Almost breathless, Balduin reached the top of the steps, and rung the bell at the shut door of the stadt-musikus, which was opened to him by the servant girl. “Bless me!” she exclaimed in joyful surprise, “is that you, Master Christlieb? Where have you come from? And where have you got the fine clothes? I scarce would have known you, you are so changed. What will the master and mistress say, who have been in such a way about their kettledrums? We were afraid that, last night, you had been on the ice when it broke up so suddenly, and that you were drowned.”
Balduin looked very stupid at this unexpected harangue. “I am surely bewitched!” he muttered to himself. He turned round to descend the steps, not in the best humour, when he was prevented by the appearance of Mr. Dilling, Mrs. Dilling, and all the scholars, who had heard the exclamation of the servant, and came out to see Christlieb, and to hear what happened to him.
“Where have you the kettledrums?” asked the town musician in a voice of thunder, looking very suspiciously at Balduin’s fine dress. “Sold, pawned, made away with, I have no doubt!” seizing as he said this, the petrified Balduin by the neck.
“Where are the drums?” screamed the angry lady, shaking her clenched hand in his face.
“Where are the drums?” echoed the malicious boys, delighted at the embarrassment and distress of their companion.
“The drums!” stammered out Balduin, his lips quivering with passion.—“What do I——?”
“Yes, the drums! the drums!” bellowed out Mr. Dilling, accompanying his words with blows and pinches of the ear. “I will have my drums, which cost thirty-six dollars, and twenty groschens. I say, where are they? Where have you got these fine clothes? Are not my drums pawned for them?”
“Let the boy speak, Mr. Dilling,” said Rupel, gently.—“He may be quite innocent. In consequence of the breaking up of the ice, he perhaps was prevented crossing the river last night, and had to walk all the way to the capital to cross the bridge; then to come here; and how could he carry the heavy drums all that long way? Most likely he has left them at the inn where the concert was.”
“But where has he got the fine clothes?” said Mr. Dilling in a less angry tone.
“That I know not,” answered Rupel; “Christlieb himself will be able to explain it all, I am sure; only let him speak.”
“Where are my drums?” asked now Mr. Dilling in a composed voice.—“Speak, and tell me where you got these fine clothes!”
“These clothes are my own property,” replied Balduin haughtily; “and as for your drums, I know nothing about them.”
Scarcely were these words uttered, when the stadt-musikus, more enraged than ever, flew at the unfortunate speaker, and began to beat him without mercy. In vain poor Balduin attempted to speak, in vain he tried to defend himself. Even Rupel’s remonstrances were not listened to in the midst of the uproar.
Such treatment had the over-indulged Balduin never before received. He was stunned, stupified, and, for the first time in his life, afraid. Whenever he opened his lips to offer some explanation, he was stopped by Mr. Dilling thundering out, “Silence, sir!” and raising his hand to give him another blow. Balduin anxiously awaited the arrival of his three companions, in the hope that they would extricate him from his unpleasant situation; but poor Balduin waited in vain. He seated himself in a corner of the room, weeping bitterly from pain and anger, while the enraged master gave vent to the remainder of his wrath in scolding words.—“I would have the rascal arrested,” he continued, after a volley of abusive epithets; “did I not need him to-day; indeed I cannot do without him at the concert which is to take place in the town, and at which he is to play the oboe. Come along, we have no time to lose; evening will soon be here, and as yet we have no rehearsal; all on account of that worthless fellow. Make haste!”
The music-stands were immediately set up, the instruments in the hands of the pupils, and the miserable Balduin shown where he was to take his place. When the oboe was thrust into his hand by one of the boys, he exclaimed, “But, indeed, I cannot——”
“Is he again daring to speak?” cried Mr. Dilling, taking hold of a stick, and threatening to strike him.—“You are there, sir, to blow, and not to reason.”
In despair, Balduin took the instrument, and, after a few unsuccessful attempts, raised the mouthpiece of the oboe to his lips, and placed himself before the music-stand. The overture began, and Balduin blew as if his cheeks would crack; when suddenly an evil spirit seemed to have taken possession of the town musician. Purple with rage, he sprung from his place and struck the unfortunate player a dreadful blow on the head, saying, “What wretched playing is that?—do you mean to make a fool of me?”
A stream of blood from Balduin’s mouth was the only answer; and the concert speedily came to an end; for Balduin fell senseless into the arms of Rupel, who came to his aid. From the violence of the blow the under end of the oboe had struck against the music-stand, while the sharp point had pierced Balduin’s throat.
“That is all pretence,” stammered the now pale-faced master.—“Wife, give the lad something to gargle his throat with. There is very little the matter with him.”
Balduin, however, soon showed that something serious was the matter. He gasped for breath as if in agony, and fresh streams of blood gushed from his mouth. His companions now all looked very grave, and there was an end of their jests. Rupel assisted the unhappy youth to his bed, and then went away without saying where he was going. When Mr. Dilling (who was rather alarmed at what had happened) missed him, he cried out, “Where has Rupel gone to?—Does he mean to make a noise about the matter? Is he no better than an idle chatterbox? I tell you what it is,” turning to the others, “if any of you dare to say one word of this in the town, I will knock your heads off. I am tormented enough to-day by the loss of an oboist. The good-for-nothing scoundrel;—he is the cause of the whole disturbance.”
The door-bell now rang. “Who is there?” asked Dilling, half out of his wits, as he pushed aside the servant and went to open the door himself. “What do you want?” he asked, in no gentle voice, the two strangers who presented themselves. “My tower is no dove-cot, and there is nothing to be had here.”
“We do not want anything, sir,” answered the honest Kummas; “we only come to visit my Christlieb Fundus, the little Paganini.”
“Your Christlieb?” asked Dilling in a shaking voice. “And who are you, may I ask?”
“Christlieb is my foster-son; and, with your permission, I am the musician Kummas, from Gelenau. This is Malchen, the child of an old neighbour of mine who is dead; she sings like a lark. We have come a long way to see our Christlieb; so have the kindness to tell us where he is.”
During this speech the unhappy Mr. Dilling stood as if on red-hot coals. Collecting all his strength he then muttered, “Truly, you sent me a fine specimen of a youth! The rascal has run away, pawned, or sold my kettledrums, to buy himself gay clothes. But I will bring him to the house of correction for this.”
Kummas was as if struck by a second thunderbolt. He reeled backwards, and would have fallen, had not Malchen supported him. “Can this be true?” he said in a low voice to himself.—“Heaven have pity on me! is he really lost?—lost beyond hope!” His head sank on Malchen’s shoulder, and he stood mute as a statue.
Warring with his feelings, Mr. Dilling looked at the old man and his companion. He hemmed and coughed, but could not utter a word. At length Kummas said, in a voice of sadness, “And where is my former Christlieb, who now, it seems, neither regards God nor me?”
“How do I know?” replied the embarrassed town musician.—“I tell you he has ran away.”
“Come, then, Malchen,” said the old broken-hearted man; “I have now nothing to seek but a grave. There, in its stillness, I will rest my weary head; for I am desolate.” With these words Kummas turned to go away, and Malchen, weeping, led him carefully and slowly down the steps from the tower. Dilling looked long after them irresolute; but the fear of blame shut his mouth, and he went back into the house, where, in his room, his wife and servant were busy washing away the marks of the blood. Half-way down the steps, Kummas paused to take breath near an open window. “Let me rest here a few minutes, Malchen; the fresh air may revive me.” Both stood in silence; but without eyes for the beauty of the scene around them. After a short time they heard the voices and footsteps of persons ascending the staircase.
“I pray you, doctor, do all in your power for the youth,” said one of the persons.—“He is the best player of us all.”
“Which of them is it?” asked the other.
“It is Christlieb Fundus,” replied the first speaker; “the best player on the violin. Show the master that there is some cause for alarm, so that he may not treat the matter as a trifle. I tell you, a stab from a dagger could not be worse than one from the sharp point of an oboe.”
At the name of Christlieb, Kummas had become attentive to what was said. A ray of hope gleamed upon him, and he raised his head, awaiting, most anxiously, the appearance of the speakers, who, in a moment or two afterwards, reached the place where he was standing. He addressed them in a voice struggling with emotion. “Kind sirs,” he began, “for the love of heaven, tell me where my son Christlieb Fundus is, and what is the matter with him? Has he really run away? or is he sick?”
A glance at the old man was sufficient to determine Rupel to speak the truth.
“If Christlieb is your child, then I will not disguise from you that he has received an injury, and is lying very ill in his bed. Your arrival, though not at the happiest time, is nevertheless fortunate.”
“One word more,” said Kummas, as Rupel and the doctor were hurrying past;—“is my son really so wicked as the master affirms?”
“The Master!” repeated Rupel, surprised, for he supposed that the two travellers were only on their way up.—“Your son has been always good and well-behaved, and in a single day he could not become the very reverse.”
Kummas became less sad; as he would far rather his child were sick in body, than perverse in mind. Malchen and he soon reached again the top of the stairs, and were not long in seeing their favourite, whom they found already under the hands of the doctor, and in a most dangerous state. At this moment, neither of them thought of the mole on the left temple, nor of the fine clothes which were strewn about the room. Kummas and Malchen attended to all the wants of poor Balduin, who, unable to speak, could neither thank them nor unravel the mystery. He now passed through a severe school, which, however, became the means of his radical cure. For three long days he was unable to swallow anything, in consequence of his swollen throat. Afterwards, his medicine and a little tea had to be taken in drops. He was helpless as a child, and had it not been for his youthful strength, the care of the doctor, and the unremitting watchfulness of the old man and Malchen, he could not have recovered. He no longer refused their assistance, but gladly took from the hand of Malchen any cooling draught she offered. Their constant presence lessened the tediousness of the slow creeping hours. How could he have remained insensible to so much love,—to the self-denial exercised for his sake by two persons wholly unconnected with him! When Balduin’s sleepless eye, sometimes, during the night, fell on the old man, who, overcome by sleep, was resting on his hard bed of straw, with a thin cover over him,—when he heard the loud regular stroke of the pendulum above his head, sounding as it seemed a death-knell, and saw by the glimmering light of the feeble lamp the black walls of the tower,—then came the elegant dwelling of his father, with all its luxuries, before the eye of his mind. He thought of his gentle mother, who had only been too indulgent to him, and whose heart, as well as that of his affectionate father, he had made sad by his ingratitude. He remembered the treachery and desertion of his three companions; and, overcome by a deep sense of his former thoughtlessness and guilt, he resolved from henceforth, to endeavour to be quite a different character. Remorse had touched his heart, his eyes were opened, and he prayed to God for forgiveness,—to that God who had long, by gentle and gracious means, sought to lead him into paths of virtue, but who now had seen it needful to teach him by affliction and adversity. Balduin, subdued and humbled, now enjoyed the peace which is above all price; and his bodily health amended with that of his mind.