The Old Man and the Music

Angela insisted. This is actually not well written at all, but it shows what a 14-year-old will write after reading a little too much Dickens and listening a little too intently in a classical music class to tales of the woes of all good composers...Incidentally, were there any happy famous composers? Are happy and famous never allowed to be synonymous? 


An old man hobbled down the cobblestone street. The weight of the old sack his rag-wrapped gnarled hands clutched bowed him over. It was late; the smoky light cast by the lampposts was too dim to see his frosty breath. As he turned onto one of the more exclusive streets, he heard a choir singing Christmas songs in a church with beautiful stain glass windows. He caught his breath and listened eagerly for a few moments until it ended. Then, with a sigh, he painfully walked around to the back of one of the most expensive houses on the street. Carefully setting the sack down on the step, he paused for a moment to catch his breath and blow on his freezing fingers. A frail waif in a ragged dress answered his knock on the door and ushered him into the kitchen.

“Is that coal man here yet?” The cook roared from the end of the kitchen.

“Yes,” the girl answered in a nervous voice, barely over a whisper. The cook turned from the pot over the stove she was stirring for the Christmas dinner and wiped perspiration from her brow.

“About time! We’re almost out of coal waiting for you!”

“I’m sorry, the cart lost a wheel so I carried the coal today.” There was a curiously distinguished note in the old man’s voice, unfitting to his ragged appearance. The cook harrumphed loudly as the old man dumped the coal into the bin. She pursed her lips in disapproval as she reached into the teakettle over the stove for a few coins. “I kept part of the pay this week for being late. Don’t do it again.”

The old man sighed as he accepted the coins. The cook usually found a reason for pocketing part of his pay; he had learned long ago that there was little use in arguing with her. The meager amount he received barely paid his rent on his tiny room; much less left anything for living expenses.

He turned and left the house, catching his breath at the gusty wind that blew icicles of cold through him. His footsteps trudged slowly down the street to his little home. It was so cold that even the mocking youth who usually roamed the streets had forsaken their games for shelter. Turning down several alleyways, he worked his way through the familiar maze to a poorer part of town. He ducked into a small sheltered alcove next to a dreary, gray apartment building. Turning his back to the streets, he reached into the tiny rag under his coat and untied the few coins from the corner before he turned and entered the building.

A sharp-faced woman greeted him. She was untidy, her hair hung in strings, and her gray dress was covered in dirt and grease. A pipe dangled out of the corner of her mouth. “Rent’s due” she snarled “overdue really, it was due this morning.” The old man calmly handed her his few coins. Snatching them, she counted them twice before she jerked her head. “Alright, it’s all there.” She spun on her heel and left.

The old man sighed as he climbed several flights of stairs to his room on the top floor. Definitely nothing left for food. How she justified raising the rent for the extra cold was unfathomable. At the top stair, he paused as a hacking cough overtook him. Gasping for breath, he stumbled to his room. A cold blast of air struck him as he opened the door. A young lad crouched in front of the tiny fire jumped up as he entered.

“Good evening,” the boy said. The old man nodded shortly and went over to coax a flame in the tiny stove with some scavenged coal. He lit several candles and set his thin soup on to heat.

“I’m sorry that the soup wasn’t ready Master, the coal was gone and…”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” The old man demanded. The lad looked at him steadily.

“Several I believe, and I shall continue to call you that, for it is the title you deserve.”

The old man grunted softly. Finishing his puttering, he walked over to the corner of the room, carefully pried up a floorboard and pulled out his treasures: a violin case and a sheaf of music. Opening the case, he gently removed the instrument, running his rough fingers over the polished wood. Taking it from the case, he handed it to the boy.

“Play.”

The boy looked at him hesitantly, “No lesson today?” The old man scowled and motioned for him to begin.

The boy rosined the bow and gently drew it across the strings. His melody was simple and clear, echoing sweetly across the room. His eyes closed in concentration and his face shone with delight. When he finished, the final notes lingering softly, he opened his eyes. To his astonishment, there were tears on the old man’s face.

“Master?” he queried softly. The old man stirred and sighed. “It was a long time ago lad, a long, long time ago…” The boy searched his face.

“Tell me” The old man shook his head and doubled over in a cough. Then he paused and nodded, “yes, you’re ready.” Reaching into the sheaf of music, he withdrew several pages and passed them to the boy.

“That’s it”

“That’s what?”

“The piece that is the reason I’m here,” the old man said with a touch of bitterness. “That piece was my undoing, if I had never written it I would never be in this place.” The boy touched his arm.

“If you had never come here, I would never have learned to play.” The old man looked at the boy and grunted, but his face softened.

“It was a long time ago Andrew, a long time…” He closed his eyes and remembered…“I was a young lad of 20, about to perform with an orchestra in Landon Hall, a hall where only the most prestigious of musicians performed. It was Christmas eve, opening night…”

40 years earlier…

“John!”

“Charles! What are you doing here?”

“I made it in the orchestra!”

“You did now! Congratulations old chap! Are you playing tonight then?”

“Yes, we are performing a collection of the Masters, all of the best pieces. If I play well tonight he has promised to look at the music I’m writing”

“Well congratulations again! I shall watch for you, what chair are you?”

“Thank you very much. I’m the first chair”

“Why you rascal! Fancy that, first chair in one of the best orchestras in the country and you never said a word! Well I must go, I brought Elaine tonight, see you after the performance!”

Charles’s heart caught at the name. Elaine. Fair, sweet Elaine. Daughter of one of the richest men in the city; and as far above him as the sun. He had first seen her at a dinner party he went to, one of the lowly, invited more by association then by name. Her smile warmed him through, but he dared not speak to her, but had merely contented himself with listening to her gentle voice throughout the evening. Her wisdom and wit surprised him; such a combination was unusual among the wealthy. He was only a poor musician, but hopefully, she would hear his Christmas gift. He had composed a song for her. Perhaps if he played his best she would invite him to come perform at her home. Everyone knew how much Elaine loved music.

Call time. The orchestra assembled and prepared to play the Master’s music. The Master had a name, but no one ever used it, his music was so famous that he was simply referred to as “the Master.” Tonight they would be closing with one of his most famous pieces, one that was hummed and sung all over Europe. Every note was as familiar as a child’s lullaby. Charles seat as first violin meant that he would play the most famous part of all, a violin solo, accompanied only by the soft throb of a cello, like a heartbeat. The Master stepped up and raised his baton; the music began.

An hour later, the room was charged with excitement as the Master began the last piece. Charles was ecstatic – tonight he had played better than ever! Elaine was directly in his line of vision and he had dedicated every note of his performance to her. His solo approached, she smiled at him, and he felt as if the birds were soaring to the sky with him. His moment arrived. He poured his soul into the solo, as if an angel had opened the strings right to Elaine’s heart and his violin was carrying him right in. But wait, the song was different, the audience stirred in amazement. The orchestra froze; the Master furrowed his brow in anger.

The melody Charles played was extraordinary; it stirred the soul of every listener. It sang of sweetness, sorrow, anguish, pain, love, every passion of the soul was entwined the song as Charles played HIS music. He didn’t mean to, he almost tried not to, but the music caught him up and he soared as he had never soared in music before. It was good, too good, too horribly, wonderfully, magnificently good. The Master’s melody seemed paltry and insignificant beside it. Charles heart was born on that music, the passion touching the deepest chord in every heart there. At last, the swells paused and pivoted. Charles drew his song back into The Master’s closing chord. The orchestra mechanically joined in completing the song, too struck in astonishment to do anything else. The Master’s face was like a thundercloud. The curtain dropped at his vicious gesture to the curtain man, whose own mouth hung open in amazement.

The Master whirled on Charles in fury, “YOU!” Charles couldn’t move, couldn’t answer, the music had drained him.

“How DARE you ruin my music!” The Master’s voice was a hiss but to Charles it seemed a roaring lion.

“You will NEVER perform music again! I will write black marks across your paper, no one will ever hire you! Your music is nothing, pathetic! Take it and your violin and GET OUT. Never let me see you again. You are a disgrace to the world!”

“But-“ Charles attempted to reason with the Master and explain himself.

“NO! GET OUT!” The Master’s face was purple with rage. Charles picked up his case and left, stumbling in his weakness. The performance had pulled every ounce of energy from his body.

The Master took all the credit for the music, only the orchestra knew the truth, and they didn’t dare breathe a word of it. Once, when she passed him on the street, Elaine tried to speak to him, but he fled, feeling unclean before her. She died that winter from pneumonia. Charles found work in a small shop, cleaning up and restocking shelves. As the years passed he dropped from one job down to the next. No one having anything to do with music would hire him. The Master’s word was law. Once, a music shop hired him to help sell instruments. The Master got wind of it, and after a mysterious visit, Charles was fired. The years went on, he moved from poor to poorer housing. Eventually, he was reduced to gleaning coal and selling it for the few coins it brought. His hands became gruesomely worn and gnarled; it was too painful to play anymore, physically and mentally…



The old man sighed as he ran his fingers across the strings. He looked at the sheaf of music, written over many years and never performed. A cough doubled him over and for several minutes, he was too hoarse to speak. Andrew touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, tears of sadness for the old man’s story trailed down his cheek.

“But the Master is dead now, why did you not return?”

Charles shook his head. “Too many years, my fingers cannot play anymore.” Another cough shook him and several pieces fluttered to the floor. Bending down, he picked them up. It was the piece that he had played that night, after returning to his apartment he had written it down. Andrew handed him the violin.

“Yes you can. Please, play this song for me, the one you played that night.” Charles accepted the violin thrust at him and stared at the strings. He shook his head.

“Please” Andrew said softly. “It’s Christmas Eve, please play.” Charles coughed again; blood spattered his fingertips this time. He stared at the blood, realizing that he had little time left. He looked at Andrew. Andrew would be his legacy, the only thing he left in this world. Andrew at least deserved to hear the song that ultimately was the reason for his teacher. Charles handed Andrew the sheaf of music.

“My will is in there. When I die this violin and music will be yours. Use them wisely; you have been a good student. I thank you.” Charles picked up the violin and tuned it, adjusting the strings hair widths in his precision. He tightened the bow hairs, breaking off the loose ones. He re-rosined the bow and polished the silky wood. Finally, he felt ready. Tucking the violin under his chin, he closed his eyes, and played.

Feeling returned to his fingertips, gnarled knuckles stretched and flew with the grace and fluidity of a twenty year old. The bow fairly danced across the strings, the melody soared with a sweetness that pierced the clouds. Despite the fierce wind, it seemed that everyone in London heard it. Parents, intent on wrapping the last few Christmas gifts, paused in amazement as his melody floated out in the air. Children, breathlessly anticipating the morning, listened in awe, certain that the angels were singing. Merchants, weary workers, drunkards, even the sharp-faced landlady all held still in wonder as they listened to the sound. Andrew’s face shone with amazement.

The old man truly was pouring his soul into the strings. His heart was beating too fast. A glorious sight was appearing before his eyes. He seemed to see straight into heaven where his smiling Elaine awaited him. With a cry, he played his last few notes all for her, reaching, and then flying towards her.


Several days later, a small notice in the paper stated that Charles Tolmis was dead. His few effects were left to a young man named Andrew Rondan.


Several years later, a small boy stood at a street corner selling newspapers. The headlines read of a rising violin virtuoso, Andrew Rondan. His music, which he said he inherited from his Master had become world famous and he was performing them that night in Landon hall. The date in the corner of the newspaper was December 24th.