Reverend John Wesley Robinson had just returned from his morning service
in the First Methodist Church, pleasantly tired and stimulated by the
exercise of his sacred office. He was a young man of vigorous, indeed
athletic, physical frame, of excellent education, and was supposed to be
somewhat radical in his theological position; a popular preacher and, in
vulgar parlance, “a good mixer”; greatly liked by his congregation too
he was, and by his wife adored. To the companions of his boyhood days
and to his college mates he was known as “Wes” Robinson, but his wife,
being of High Anglican extraction and accepting his denominational
relations with considerable reluctance, abjured the “Wesley” in his name
and called him Jack.
He was late for lunch and therefore was received at the door with
vigorous chiding.
“You are terribly late, Jack. I pity your people this morning. Why did
you preach such a long sermon? What in all the world keeps you till this
hour?”
“Am I late? I suppose I am. I apologise. And I shall be ready for lunch
in three minutes. I have had an exciting experience.”
“Well, hurry then,” she cried after him as he ran upstairs.
Settled down for lunch and with the preliminaries well on the way, the
minister’s wife proceeded to question her husband as to his exciting
experience.
“Now tell me all about it,” she said, “and begin at the beginning. Did
you have a good congregation?”
“A great congregation,” replied her husband. “And splendid singing.”
“And, of course,” said his wife, “a good sermon. Did you ‘make ’em sit
up,’ as you told me you would?”
“Well, certainly I made one young fellow sit up. And he nearly beat me
up for my pains.”
“What do you mean?” asked his wife.
“Just what I tell you. I thought I was in for a genuine row.”
“Go on! Go on! Why do you stop?”
“Well, it is such an astonishing experience that I am almost paralysed
by it.”
“Go on, you silly boy,” cried his wife impatiently. “You are so
provoking.”
“Well, let me begin at the beginning. You remember my sermon was a
discussion of the origin of the Bible, and I went in for a somewhat mild
discussion of the critical difficulties and that sort of thing attached
to the text, as I told you last night.”
“Yes, I know you did. And you remember I warned you that you would get
into trouble.”
“Well, you were right, as you are always. But let me go on. Don’t
interrupt me. At the close of the service, after all the people were
gone, I found sitting in the back a young man dressed like a cowboy,
apparently not waiting for me but held there, entranced by the music.
DeLaunay was playing some weird and wild thing. I came down with my most
gracious smile and hand outstretched to welcome him to the church, in
the orthodox style, when he rose from his place, a tall, lean, hard
looking chap, and yet the kind of fellow that you would call ‘a
dear’—good blue eyes, thin face, very attractive, in short, ‘a lovely
boy,’ as you would say.”
“Well, what was the matter with him?” inquired his wife impatiently.
“What was the matter? My heterodoxy.”
“Well then I agree with him. I am sure he must be quite a nice boy. And
I wish you would just leave people alone with their Bibles. It was good
enough for their fathers, why not good enough for them?”
“Well, my dear, I have two reasons, as you very well know. The first is
that if I leave the people alone my conscience won’t leave me alone. And
the second is that if I leave the people alone they will soon be leaving
the church alone.”
“Well, go on with your story. Tell me about the boy.”
“As I said, I began welcoming him most cordially to the service, and
that sort of thing, and he opened out on me. First shot, ‘You don’t
believe the Bible!’ he said. ‘What?’ I said. ‘You don’t believe the
Bible. You don’t believe it is God’s inspired word. Do you?’
“Well, I was flabbergasted. I said, ‘Yes, of course I do.’ ‘But you said
a lot of it wasn’t true. How do you know the true parts from the
untrue?’ At this he pulls out his Bible—it looked well worn from
use—opens it at the very first chapter and said, with a long finger
pointing to the first verse—by the way, he has beautiful hands—‘You
don’t believe that first verse: “In the beginning God created the heaven
and the earth.” You don’t believe about Adam and Eve. You don’t believe
about Noah and Joseph and Moses and Pharaoh’s daughter and Goliath.’
“My dear, I tell you I was completely knocked off my pins. He was so
deadly in earnest. His keen blue eyes were blazing into mine with the
light of battle in them. He was full of vital energy and he looked ready
to leap at me. Great Scot! I couldn’t help thinking what a halfback he’d
make, how those long, sinewy hands would grip and hold. And when he said
to me, ‘Are those things true or not?’ I had the feeling that if I said
they were not true he would get me by the throat. You know it is rather
awkward to answer a question like that offhand, to give, in fact, your
whole theory of Biblical criticism in a sentence. I confess I stood
gaping at him. He was so fiercely intense. He turned over to the New
Testament. ‘How about this?’ he said, putting his finger down on the
second chapter of Matthew. ‘How about Jesus? How much of that is true,
how much is false?’ And when he came to that the boy’s lips trembled. My
dear, my heart went out to him when he said, ‘What about Jesus?’”
“What did you say?” inquired his wife, her eyes shining at him. “He must
be a dear boy.”
“I frankly tell you I funked the whole question. I said, ‘Come and see
me and we will talk it over.’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I will.’”
“Good for him!” cried his wife. “And it serves you right, Jack. Then
what happened?”
“Well, I got him to promise to come back tonight. I said to him, ‘You
are not treating me fairly, you are not playing the game. Give me a
chance to put my whole case to you.’ That seemed to stagger him a bit.
He said, ‘Yes, that is fair. I will come tonight.’ It was the music,
however, that got him.”
“And where is he now?”
“I left him moving up toward the organ, in a kind of trance. He had
never heard an organ in his life. I suppose he is there still. But I
must see that boy, I must get him.”
“I should think so,” said his wife. “You owe him something.”
“I suppose I do,” said Jack, his face wearing a troubled look. “Say!
This preaching business is a terrible job.”
“Never mind, my dear. I am sure you preach perfectly beautifully, and
there is no better preacher in the city. But I wish you would not preach
so much with the idea of ‘making ’em sit up,’ as you say. I tell you
what, Jack,” she added with an inspiration, “take him to the Mission.
That is what he wants.”
“Darling, you are a wonder,” cried her husband. “I wish I could show you
how wonderful I think you are.” He rose from his place and walked round
toward her end of the table, with the idea of demonstrating the
marvellous charm of his wife.
“Go and sit down, you silly boy. Your dinner is cold. But you must get
that boy and bring him here. I wonder where he is having his dinner?
Down in some of those horrid hotels, I suppose.”
But Paul at that moment was oblivious of anything so material and
mundane as dinner. As a matter of fact, he and the old white-haired
organist, Victor DeLaunay, were discussing and discoursing music. As the
old organist was concluding his morning postlude he turned about and saw
a young chap with face aglow standing at his back.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the youth. “Wonderful!”
“Do you play?”
“No. The piano a little.”
“But you know the keyboard?”
“A very little,” replied the young man, humble in the presence of a
great master.
Charmed by his manner and by his face, the old organist said—and it was
a great concession—“Would you like to try?”
For answer Paul vaulted over the rail and was at the old man’s side on
the bench. “Would you really not mind? I should like just to try it.”
“Come on then. Proceed.”
As Paul settled himself at the keyboard there was a great roar from the
pedal notes.
“Ah! Keep your feet off the pedals.”
“What?”
“Your feet. Keep your feet off the pedals. See!” And the old organist
slid his feet up and down in scales and chords.
“Oh! You play with your feet! Wonderful!”
“Yes. Now try without the pedals.”
Then Paul placed his hands upon the keyboard. A simple Mozart melody
flowed from under his fingers, a bit of the glorious Twelfth Mass. An
expression of surprise lit up the old man’s face. He began manipulating
the stops. Paul stopped playing.
“What are you doing with those things?” he inquired, amazed at the
variation in the tone produced by the stops.
The old man eagerly proceeded to explain the mechanism of the organ,
demonstrating the value and purpose of each stop as he went along.
“Now,” he said, “you play. I will show you how the stops go. Do that
Mozart thing again.”
With growing confidence and courage Paul began to play and soon in the
rapture of the music forgot himself. From one master to another he went,
doing his piano music, exhilarated, overwhelmed, the old man following
or anticipating his moods with the stops. Finally he wandered into his
own Spring Symphony, the “Out of Doors” Symphony of Pine Croft. He
stopped abruptly.
“Tell me, is there any stop for running water?”
“What are you playing?” inquired the old organist.
“Oh, a foolish little thing that I call the Spring Symphony, an
out-of-doors thing. What is the stop for running water?”
In harmony with his mood the old man pulled out a stop.
“That’s it!” shouted Paul. “Now sunshine, bright yellow sunshine!” And
again the organist responded. From one mood to another of the spring day
they wandered together. “Now then, a storm!” And the diapasons began to
roll forth their sonorous tones. “Evening!” shouted Paul. “The sunset!”
and at last, “The stars!”
By this time they were both in a state of super-exaltation. When Paul’s
fingers fell from the keyboard the old man, with the tears streaming
down his face, cried out, “Boy! boy! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Who taught you
that?” He threw his arms around him and kissed him, French fashion, on
both cheeks.
“Come with me,” he continued. “Come home and dine with me. I want you to
know my girl, my Julie. I want you to play my piano, a wonderful piano.”
There was no resisting the impetuous enthusiasm of the old organist, and
before Paul was aware he found himself accepting this invitation to
dinner and on his way to the organist’s home. And as they walked they
talked, and talked music only.
“Who taught you your music?” inquired the old organist. “Your father? He
must have been a great artist.”
“It was my mother made me practise,” said Paul. “And to her I owe any
skill I have upon the piano. But my father was an artist. He had the
thing in his soul, and though he never professed to be a great player I
think now he must have had the gift of music. It was he that taught me
to play the music of the streams, of the wind in the trees, of the
sunset, and of the stars. He himself used to play these things to my
mother and me, when the mood was on him.”
“Ah!” cried the old organist. “That is true teaching. That is high art,
and there is no other. Oh, these teachers of today, and in this city!
Atrocious! Atrocious! Murderers of music! Philistines! Barbarians! One,
two, three, one, two, three; tum, tum, tum, tum, tum, tum! A diploma at
the end of a year, or at most of two years! Public performers after
another year! Gilmour’s Grand March, Smith’s March to Moscow, Jones’
Storm at Sea—oh, it is terrible! It is terrible!”
Their way home took them a long walk through the suburbs of the city.
There, hard against the heights overlooking the city, Paul found a
little house snugly ensconced in the shadow of a great rock and
surrounded with a garden riotous with late blooming flowers.
“Oh, what a garden!” he exclaimed. “And what lovely flowers! My mother’s
flowers!”
“Ah!” exclaimed the old man. “Your mother’s flowers? Good! These are my
Julie’s flowers, the dear girl. There is the artistic soul. I will show
you some of her work. Some day she will be a great artist. Some day I
shall take her to see the great world galleries. Come in, Mr. Paul, come
in.” He threw open the door and swept Paul in with an old world bow.
“Welcome to my humble abode! Welcome to my home! Julie! Julie!” he
cried.
In response to his call a girl came running out of the door. Tall she
was and slight, the plainness of her face redeemed and glorified by
wonderful dark eyes. A girl in face and expression, though in years she
had long passed the period of girlhood.
“You are very late, Papa,” she exclaimed “and very naughty indeed. You
must be tired and hungry.”
“My dear, my dear, what matter? We have had a glorious morning, my
friend and I. Ah! This is my friend, Mr. Paul—” he hesitated—“your other
name?”
“Gaspard.”
“Ah! Gaspard! Mr. Paul Gaspard. French, my dear, French. That is where
he gets his music. French, of course!” The old gentleman was much
delighted. “Mr. Gaspard, my daughter Julie. A wonderful young man this,
Julie. Now we must hasten through dinner in order that we may have some
music.”
But Julie would have none of this. “Papa,” she said severely, “you must
at once go and prepare yourself for dinner. Show Mr. Gaspard to your
room. And then we shall sit down and quietly enjoy our Sunday dinner,
and we shall take full time to it too.”
“Ah! Julie, you are so material. You are so much of this world.”
“It is well for you that somebody is material and of this world. But run
away and get ready.”
It said much for Julie’s housekeeping powers that the unexpected
appearance of a guest in that small family produced no apparent
embarrassment. The dinner was simple, and, to a young man fresh from the
ranges, not too substantial, but quite sufficient for the old organist,
who picked daintily at his food, and for his daughter.
Her father was full of his discovery of Paul, much to the latter’s
embarrassment, who protested that he was not a musician and assured
Julie that he played the piano but a very little.
“Ah, but some day!” cried the old organist. “Some day you will be a
great artist on the organ. I see it in your fingers, I see it in your
face, I see it most of all in your Spring Song. Ah! Julie, he will play
for you his Spring Song.”
But Julie insisted that the subject of music should be banished from the
dinner table. “If my father talks music,” she said in explanation to
Paul, “he cannot and will not eat. Therefore we must talk something
else, even the weather. But no more music till dinner is over.” And this
she achieved by skilfully turning the conversation now to one subject,
now to another, and most successfully when she beguiled Paul into
telling the story of his experiences of the past summer. Beyond that he
would not go. His reticence also extended to his plans for the future.
In regard to what he meant to do he expressed himself in vague
generalities, and his hosts were much too well bred to show any
curiosity on the subject.
Dinner over, the old gentleman was relentlessly hailed away by his
daughter to an hour’s rest. “You know, Papa, you have your evening
service and you must have your rest to be ready for it. My father is not
strong,” she explained to Paul, “and therefore he needs to be cared for
like a baby.”
“Ah, Mr. Gaspard,” said her father, “she is a hard taskmaster. She is
one to be obeyed. She rules me with a rod of iron. I shall leave you.
There is the piano, and I beg you to consider yourself as in your own
home.”
“Yes, Mr. Gaspard,” said Julie, “we shall treat you like one of the
family and leave you to yourself. My father must have his sleep, and for
me there are my household duties waiting.”
“And I will not disturb you if I play?” said Paul to the old gentleman.
“Not at all. I shall the more easily fall into sleep.”
And so there followed for Paul an hour of perfect bliss. The piano was a
magnificent Broadwood, of exquisite tone and in perfect tune. And to
Paul, who had not touched a piano worthy of the name for more than six
years, this opportunity was as cold water to a thirsty soul.
Ever and anon Julie flitted in and out of the room, intent upon her
duties, now throwing in a word of appreciation and again suggesting one
of her favourite bits for Paul’s playing. When her work was finished she
came into the room and, drawing Paul away from his piano, by the charm
of her conversation led him far afield into regions hitherto unknown to
him. She talked of books whose titles he had never known, she talked of
great pictures by masters of whom he had never heard; but when she
talked of nature and its secrets, of the mountains and rivers, she found
in Paul a kindred soul, alive to the beauty and glory of the great
outside world. She had never seen the Windermere, and she led Paul to
picture for her the scenes that lay about his childhood’s home and to
tell her of his father’s work in spreading them on canvas.
“And your father’s pictures?” she inquired. “Where are they?”
“Many of them,” he said, “I have left at Pine Croft—our home, you know,
in Windermere. But a number of them I have brought with me. I should
like to show them to you.”
“Oh, do,” she cried. “Will you bring them to me? I should like to see
them.”
It was late afternoon when her father appeared, ready for music and for
more music. But with delicate tact she made Paul feel that it was her
desire that the old gentleman should not be unduly excited but that he
should save his full strength for his evening service. Thereupon Paul
took his leave, promising himself the pleasure of hearing the old
musician once more at the church that evening. “And afterwards come home
with us.” To this Paul eagerly agreed.
The boarding house which late on Saturday night, upon his arrival in the
strange city, Paul had stumbled upon had but one redeeming feature, it
was cheap. The rooms were ill kept, the table service was dirty, the
boarders were noisy and ill-mannered, and the keeper of the house was
overworked and consequently unsympathetic to the wants of her guests. As
Paul was passing up the dark and filthy staircase to his room a young
man came lounging out of his bedroom and stumbled down, the stairs,
lurching heavily against Paul.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t see you.”
“All right,” said Paul. “It is dark, isn’t it?”
Something in his voice arrested the young fellow. “You are a new boarder
here?” he said.
“Yes. I came last night. My name is Gaspard.”
“And mine is Dalton,” said the young man, turning back with Paul. “Come
into my room. I want to talk to you. It is Heaven’s own mercy to meet a
gentleman in this God-forsaken hole. Sit down. I want to talk to
someone. I must talk to someone.”
Dalton had apparently been drinking heavily. His eyes were bloodshot,
his hands were trembling, he had the wretched appearance of a man
recovering from a bout.
“Yes, it is a God-send to meet a man who can talk decent English. This
is a hell of a place where brutes congregate, and Sunday is one long and
ghastly agony for me.”
Paul listened in astonishment. He had never met with a man of just this
type. He had known drinking men, in all their moods and tenses, for the
most part men of the woods and plains, trappers, hunters, cowboys,
half-breeds. But here was a man of such education and culture as would
make Paul class him with his own father.
Dalton during the next half hour proceeded to give Paul the history of
his doings of the past day and night, growing more confidential and
loquacious as he helped himself from a bottle which he kept in his
cupboard.
“Have a drink,” he cried, pressing the bottle upon Paul.
“No,” said Paul, “I never take it. I have never learned to like the
stuff. To me indeed it is distasteful.”
“For God’s sake, never change your mind on that,” said Dalton. “Avoid
your first drink. It is the devil’s trap, and sooner or later it gets
you. It has taken years to get me, and now for this”—he held the bottle
up before him—“I would sell my soul, I am selling my soul.”
“Then why not chuck it?” said Paul.
“I wish to God I could,” cried Dalton.
“Then I will help you,” said Paul. And picking up the bottle, he threw
it out of the window. “There!” he said, as the crash came back to their
ears. “That at least will hurt you no more.”
“What the hell do you mean?” cried Dalton, making a spring at him.
“Oh, nothing,” said Paul coolly, gripping the other’s wrists and holding
him as a man might hold a child. “You wanted to be rid of it and I
helped you.”
“Well, by Jove!” said Dalton, breaking into a laugh. “You are a cool
one. And you have a most infernal grip. There was a time—but that is
past, curse it! Let us go down to tea. What are you doing tonight?”
“Going to church.”
“To church?” laughed Dalton scornfully. “To church? You go to church? I
used to go; I used to like to go to church. But,” with a great oath,
“I’m done with it. I am done with the church and all that sort of
bunkum.”
“Better come with me tonight,” said Paul. “I will take you where there
is some good music at least. As to the preaching I can’t promise you
anything.”
“Not on your life!” cried Dalton. He tore open the cupboard door. “Here,
devil take you! you’ve thrown out my last bottle. I must get some more.”
“What about tea?” said Paul.
“Tea? No! No tea for me. The thought of eating makes me sick. I must
have a drink. Young man,” he said, “go to church and stick to your
church if you can and as long as you can.” He stumbled downstairs and
left Paul looking after him in amazement and some pity.