Franz Abt
by
Many years ago a young composer was sitting in a garden. All around bloomed beautiful roses, and through the gentle evening air the swallows flitted, twittering cheerily. The young composer neither saw the roses nor heard the evening music of the swallows; his heart was full of sadness and his eyes were bent wearily upon the earth before him.
“Why,” said the young composer, with a sigh, “should I be doomed to all this bitter disappointment? Learning seems vain, patience is mocked,–fame is as far from me as ever.”
The roses heard his complaint. They bent closer to him and whispered, “Listen to us,–listen to us.” And the swallows heard him, too, and they flitted nearer him; and they, too, twittered, “Listen to us,–listen to us.” But the young composer was in no mood to be beguiled by the whisperings of the roses and the twitterings of the birds; with a heavy heart and sighing bitterly he arose and went his way.
It came to pass that many times after that the young composer came at evening and sat in the garden where the roses bloomed and the swallows twittered; his heart was always full of disappointment, and often he cried out in anguish against the cruelty of fame that it came not to him. And each time the roses bent closer to him, and the swallows flew lower, and there in the garden the sweet flowers and little birds cried, “Listen to us,–listen to us, and we will help you.”
And one evening the young composer, hearing their gentle pleadings, smiled sadly, and said: “Yes, I will listen to you. What have you to say, pretty roses?”
“Make your songs of us,” whispered the roses,–“make your songs of us.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the composer. “A song of the roses would be very strange, indeed! No, sweet flowers,–it is fame I seek, and fame would scorn even the beauty of your blushes and the subtlety of your perfumes.”
“You are wrong,” twittered the swallows, flying lower. “You are wrong, foolish man. Make a song for the heart,–make a song of the swallows and the roses, and it will be sung forever, and your fame shall never die.”
But the composer laughed louder than before; surely there never had been a stranger suggestion than that of the roses and the swallows! Still, in his chamber that night the composer thought of what the swallows had said, and in his dreams he seemed to hear the soft tones of the roses pleading with him. Yes, many times thereafter the composer recalled what the birds and flowers had said, but he never would ask them as he sat in the garden at evening how he could make the heart-song of which they chattered. And the summer sped swiftly by, and one evening when the composer came into the garden the roses were dead, and their leaves lay scattered on the ground. There were no swallows fluttering in the sky, and the nests under the eaves were deserted. Then the composer knew his little friends were beyond recall, and he was oppressed by a feeling of loneliness. The roses and the swallows had grown to be a solace to the composer, had stolen into his heart all unawares,–now that they were gone, he was filled with sadness.
“I will do as they counselled,” said he; “I will make a song of them,–a song of the swallows and the roses. I will forget my greed for fame while I write in memory of my little friends.”
Then the composer made a song of the swallows and the roses, and, while he wrote, it seemed to him that he could hear the twittering of the little birds all around him, and scent the fragrance of the flowers, and his soul was warmed with a warmth he had never felt before, and his tears fell upon his manuscript.