Johann Sebastian Bach: Life Stories for Young People
Ludwig Ziemssen
9781465657589
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
At the close of a beautiful Summer day, in the year 1699, subdued and solemn strains of music from the little house of the organist of the market-town of Ohrdruff floated through its quiet streets. A boy sat crying upon the stone steps leading to the house-door. Now and then he lifted his head, looked into the hallway, and saying in a mournfully complaining tone, “False again,” or, “The second violin plays most abominably,” or making some similar protest of musical sensibility, bowed his head again in sorrow and tears. As he sat thus, a quick step was heard coming up the street. A lad, somewhat older than the other, approached and said in a clear, cheerful voice: “Why are you crying, Bastian, and what means this funeral music?” The one addressed raised his handsome eyes, red with weeping, bowed in a dejected manner to his questioner, and said in a low voice: “My brother is dead. Did you not know it?” “I had not heard a word of it,” he replied. “All last week I was at my cousin’s in Eisenach, and I have but just returned. Is he dead? And so suddenly! Poor boy, I pity you from my heart. When did it happen?” “Last evening just about this time. He had not been in his usual health for a week. He often complained of dizziness and difficulty in breathing, and yesterday while cleaning his old violin he suddenly fell and died.” Passionate sobs made his last words almost unintelligible, and the boy for a few seconds gave way to irrepressible grief. His young friend regarded him in silence for a time, and when he had somewhat recovered from his passionate sobbing delicately sought to divert his attention from his troubles by asking, “Who are these playing so wretchedly? Friends of the deceased?” “Three of them are. They have engaged the town clerk’s assistant for second violin, and he plays badly enough to set one’s teeth on edge. If my dead brother could hear him, he would jump out of his coffin and drive the bungler out of his house.” His friend smilingly nodded assent. “He is certainly a slovenly player, but it can’t be helped now.” “That is true,” sobbed the boy. A brief pause in the conversation was filled with the tones of the funeral music, during which his friend’s gaze rested thoughtfully and sympathetically upon the countenance of his mournful comrade, and his lips moved as if he were talking to himself. At last he resumed reluctantly, but with manifest cordiality and good-will: “Well, Bastian, what is to be done now that your brother, the organist, is dead?” “The town will install a new organist, I suppose.” “Of course, but that is of little consequence; I mean what will become of you?” “Of me?” replied Sebastian, thoughtfully. “Who can say? But with God’s help I will become a skilful musician, like my good father, and as all the Bachs have been for a hundred years past.” “You mistake my question,” said his friend. “I mean where will you live now that this house is henceforth to be closed? You are now a poor orphan. Do you expect that any of your relatives will take you in?”
