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Updated: June 15, 2025
You are an artist, and life has wrung you out like a cloth jail, hungry, outcast; yes, and nights with stars, and water shining; men like old Janin, dead men, begging on the roads they are all in your voice, jumbled serious barytone " The high thin recital stopped, from exhaustion. Harry Baggs was warm to the ends of his fingers. He wiped his wet brow with a wetter hand.
He hurried in his ragged clothes past the pools of light at the street crossings into the kinder gloom. At that moment he would have surrendered his voice for a place in the communal peace about him. He reached the post-office and asked for a package addressed to Janin. The clerk delayed, regarded him with suspicion, but in the end surrendered a small precisely wrapped box.
A surprisingly passionate argument arose between bidders; personalities and threats emerged. Janin said: "Listen! That is the world into which musicians are born; it is against such uproar we must oppose our delicate chords on such hearts." His speech rambled into French and a melancholy silence. "It's stopped for a little," Baggs reminded him.
R. can carefully read the article in one day, and send it to Leipzig by return of post. As to the French original, I shall probably publish it as a separate pamphlet, together with my article on the Herder festival, and without the alterations and omissions made by Janin in the "Journal des Debats" of October 22nd. The title will be "Fetes de Herder et Goethe a Weymar, 25 et 28 Aout, 1850."
His brow grew wet with the intensity of his effort; his tongue, it seemed to him, would never accomplish the desired syllables. Janin made a determined effort to live without his drug; the abstinence emphasized his fragility and he was cold, even in the heart of the long sunny day; but the effort stayed him with a flickering vitality, bred visions, renewed hopes of the future.
What is it?" He sang without further preliminary, substituting a blank phrasing for uncomprehended words; but the melody swept without faltering to its conclusion. Janin answered irritably, disturbed by his rude awakening: "The Serenade from Don Giovanni Mozart. Well, what about it?" "It's wonderful!" Harry Baggs declared. "Are there any more as great?"
Baggs informed his companion. He directed Janin forward, where the latter unwrapped his violin. A visible curiosity held the prospective buyers; they turned and faced the two dilapidated men on the road. A joke ran from laughing mouth to mouth. Janin drew his bow across the frayed strings; Harry Baggs cleared the mist from his throat.
Baggs insisted. The shape heaved up obscurely and the boy sent him reeling through the door. French Janin sank with weary relief on the straw and bagging. He grasped the thick young arm above him. "We won't be long in this," he declared; "diamond studs!" He fell asleep instantly, with his fingers caught in Harry Baggs' sleeve.
Harry Baggs made a motion to follow with his companion, but no one moved; there was no visible footing under cover. They stayed out stolidly in the wet, by an inadequate tree; and whenever chance offered Harry Baggs repeated his limited songs. A string of the violin broke; the others grew soggy, limp; the pegs would tighten no more and Janin was forced to give up his accompanying.
A new play now appeared which was principally written by assistants, and which was also defaced by plagiarisms. Like some of those which preceded it, it made light, indeed glorified, vices of the darkest dye. A person by the name of Gillardet wrote a play, and presented it to the manager of a theater, who not liking it, asked Jules Janin, the critic, to revise it.
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