And then? Yes, what then? Just ask the state musician. "Peter has outgrown the drum," he said. "He'll be a bigger man than I." And remember he was the son of a royal servant! But what had taken him a lifetime to learn, Peter had learned in half a year. There was something cheerful about him; his eyes sparkled, and his hair shone - that cannot be denied.
"He ought to dye his hair," said their next-door neighbor. "The policeman's daughter did, and look what it did for her; she was engaged at once!"
"Yes, but a little later her hair turned as green as duckweed, and she has to dye it again and again!"
"Well, she can afford to," said the neighbor woman, "and so can Peter. Doesn't he go into the best houses, even the mayor's, to teach Miss Lotte the harpsichord?"
Yes, play he could, play right out of his heart, the most charming pieces that had never been written down in notes. He played on moonlit nights and stormy ones as well. It was difficult to put up with, said the neighbors and the fire drum. He played until his thoughts soared strongly upward, and great plans for the future took shape before him. Fame!
The mayor's daughter, Lotte, sat at the harpsichord, and as her delicate fingers danced over the chords they vibrated in Peter's heart, until it seemed as if it were growing too big for his body. This happened not once, but many times, until one day he seized her delicate hand, kissed it, and gazed into her large brown eyes. Our Lord knows what he said; we others may guess it. Lotte blushed crimson, face and neck, and answered not a word, and just then they were interrupted by strangers, among them the councilor's son, with his high, smooth forehead. But Peter did not go, and Lotte's kindest glances were for him. At home that evening he talked of going abroad and of the golden treasure that his violin would bring him. Fame! "Dr-rum-a-lum! Dr-rum-a-lum! Dr-rum-a-lum!" said the fire drum. "Now something is surely wrong with Peter; I think the house must be on fire!"
The mother went to market the next day. "Have you heard the news, Peter?" she said, when she returned. "Such wonderful news! The mayor's daughter, Lotte, was betrothed to the councilor's son; it happened last evening!"
"No!" said Peter, and sprang up from his chair. But his mother said yes; she had learned it from the barber's wife, and the barber had it from the lips of the mayor himself. And Peter grew as pale as death and sat down again.
"Lord God! How do you feel?" said his mother.
"Fine, fine. Just let me alone!" he said, but the tears were rolling down his cheeks.
"My sweet child! My Golden Treasure!" said the mother, and cried. But the fire drum grumbled to itself, "Lotte is dead! Lotte is dead! Yes, that song is over now!"
The song was not over; it still had many unsung verses, long verses, the most beautiful, about a life's golden treasure. "What a fuss she makes!" said the next-door neighbor. The whole world has to read the letters she gets from her Golden Treasure, and hear what the newspapers say about him and his violin playing. He sends her money, too, for she needs that, now that she's a widow!"
"He plays before kings and emperors," said the state musician. "That was never my good luck, but at least he was my pupil, and he hasn't forgotten his old master."
"My husband dreamed," said his mother, "that Peter came home from the war with a silver cross on his chest. Well, he does wear a cross now, but it's not a decoration earned in the war; it's an order of knighthood. If his father had only lived to see it!"
"Famous!" said the fire drum, and everybody in his home town said the same. Peter, the red-haired boy of the drummer - Peter, whom they had seen wearing wooden shoes as a youngster, and seen as a drummer boy playing at dances - was now famous.
"He played to us before he played before the kings," said the mayor's wife. "Once upon a time he was crazy about our Lotte; he always aimed high! How my husband laughed when he learned that nonsense! Now Lotte is a councilor's wife."