Old Schirrmeister was a besotted German musician who had come there with a traveling orchestra many years before. In the beginning he had done well. He played very well on the violin and was besides able to perform respectably, at least, on almost all possible instruments.
So he obtained pupils in the best houses. But little by little he went out of style; drink got the upper hand; and at last he threw his rags together, with his former servant girl, Lena, whom he was accustomed to call “My Puppe” (or nymph). From that she gained the popular nickname, “Puppelena.”
Now the old artist was reduced to living from copying music and from Puppelena’s generosity. Under the sloping roof stood his old pianoforte, which served as a table for note-copying, and for eating and drinking; and farthest in by the wall stood the violin case, hidden, dusty, and forgotten.
When Elsie was alone with old Schirrmeister, she could get him to play; but that was not often. For the old musician was so far gone, that it pained him to hear music. So he had to be a little drunk; but then he could play, so it sighed and sobbed in the old piano and Loppen sat breathless on the edge of the bed and sobbed too.
As long as he had something to drink, he would keep on playing while he partly sang, partly told her what it was that he was playing. And in this way he came to paint his youth full of hope and music and enthusiasm; how he had played “Commers mitt den Gottinger studenten,” and how the great Spohr had once laid his hand upon his head and said: “He will go high in it.”
And old Schirrmeister would toss off his light yellow wig, that she might see the head on which the great master’s hand had rested.
“Yes—yes, he has gone high in it, the old hog!” he would say to himself, and look about in his gabled-room, take a swallow and play on.
And Loppen heard and saw all sorts of wonderful things. Beaming pictures spread out before her; elegant ladies and gentlemen, lights, music, roses, carriages, and glossy horses, brides in white satin—and roses again, whose fragrance she could fairly smell.
One summer evening, the dormer-window stood open and the light of the sun, which was setting, fell in crimson over the little musician who sat and played for Elsie with his bottle by his side.
His eyes were moist from drink and emotion, while tenderly and in the cautious way of old age, he performed an adagio from Mozart’s Sonatas. That was an especial favor for Elsie; for usually he was not to be induced to play the old classics, when they asked it of him.