With the words “starved to death” ringing in his ears, Langly walked to
Chelsea. Bitterly he accused himself for his stupid blindness; all this
had been going on for days, and he had had no suspicion of it. She had
from the first undoubtedly stinted herself so that her father might not
go hungry, and when, at last, the real pinch came, she was too weak to
resist it. Her father, isolated by his temper from any friends who might
have seen what was happening and given warning in time, had also been
unconscious of what was passing before his eyes. His gruff independence
had slowly famished his own daughter.
“Starved to death!” in the richest city in the world,--the granary of
the nations, into whose ample lap pours the golden wheat from every
country under the sun that ripens it.
At last Langly reached the studio, and might have known, had he been
conversant with the habits of the great world, that a notable function
was in progress thereabout by the numerous carriages, with fine horses
and resplendent coachmen and footmen, that waited near by. In his
earlier days Langly had hoped for pupils to instruct and thus increase
his scanty income. He had cards printed--“Albert Langly,” in the centre,
and “Teacher of Music”, in smaller type in the corner. These were never
used, Langly not having the courage to push his inquiries for pupils and
secure them. He, knowing Barney to be a fashionable man, had put some of
these cards in his pocket, and, when the boy in buttons swung open the
door, the bit of pasteboard was handed to him. The boy glanced at the
card, dropped it into the receptacle that contained many others, and
shouted the name up his stairway, wafting its ascent with a wave of his
hand. The man who held aside the heavy drapery which covered the
doorway bawled the name into the room, from which a confused murmur
of conversation came, mingled now and then with a pleasing ripple of
laughter. The ornamental living statue at the top of the stair gazed
dreamily over Langly’s head as he mounted.
Taking another card, the organist gave it to the man at the door.
“I have not come to the ‘At Home,’” he said. “Would you give this to
Mr. Hope and ask if he will see me for a moment. Tell him I called last
night, and could not come earlier to-day.”
The man took the card and disappeared behind the curtains. In an
incredibly short time Barney came out, and his reception of the musician
was bewilderingly effusive.
“My dear fellow,” he cried, placing a hand on each shoulder of Langly,
“can you play the piano? Of course you can. What a foolish question to
ask! I always alight on my feet. Providence has dropped you down here,
my boy, don’t you know. Here we have just sent out to scour Chelsea for
a pianist, and here you drop right down from the skies, don’t you know.
This is luck. Want to see me? Of course you do, and what’s more to the
point, I want to see you, don’t you know! Now come right in. I’ve got
the finest grand piano you ever fingered in your life--magnificent
instrument--case designed by myself--told ’em to spare no expense, and
they didn’t, don’t you know. Trust ’em for that. Now come in, come
in.”
“Mr. Hope, I did not come to play--I am in no condition for playing.”
“Of course you didn’t come to play. That’s the beauty of it. You want
something from me, now don’t you?”
“Yes, and if you will give me a moment----”
“A thousand of’em, my boy, a thousand of’em, but not just now. Listen
to me. You want something I’ve got, and I want something you’ve got Very
well. All England’s prosperity is based on just that position of things.
Our commerce is founded on it. Our mutual country is great merely
because she knows what she wants, and because she has something the
other fellow wants, don’t you know! Now, I want a man who can play dance
music, and I want him now--not to-morrow, or day after, or next week.
You see what I mean? Good. You come in and polish us off some waltzes
on the new piano; then, when it’s all over, I’ll let you have what you
want, if it’s half my kingdom, as the story-books say. Then we will both
be happy, don’t you know.”
“I am organist at St. Martyrs church. I can’t----”
“That’s all right. Don’t apologize. You can play the piano as well as
the organ--I know that by the look of you. Come in, come in.”
Barney triumphantly dragged the reluctant musician after him.
“I’ve got him,” he cried, at which there was a clatter of applause and
laughter.
“Now, there,” said Barney jubilantly, seating Langly before the grand
piano, with its great lid like a dragon’s wing propped up, “there’s all
the sheet music any reasonable man can want; but if you prefer anything
else I’ll send out for it; and there’s the piano--‘Come let us hear its
tune,’ as the poet says.”
The rugs which usually covered the waxed floor had been cleared away;
the chairs had been shoved into corners and against the wall. There was
much laughter and many protestations that they had not come prepared for
a dance, but all were quite noticeably eager for the fun to begin.
“You see, you are in Bohemia,” cried Barney, beaming joyously on his
many guests, “and the delight of Bohemia is unconventionality. I danced
after the theatre till daylight this morning, and I am as ready as ever
to begin again. Shall we not lunch because we have breakfasted, and
because we dine at seven? Not so. I am ready for a dance any time of the
night or day. Now, Mr. Musician, strike up. ‘On with the dance, let joy
be unconfined!’ as the poet says.”
Langly could not have played out of time or tune if he tried. The piano,
as Barney had truly said, was a splendid instrument, and when the gay
waltz music filled the large room, each couple began to float lightly
over the polished floor. The musician played on and on, mechanically yet
brilliantly, and in the pauses between the dances more than one of the
guests spoke to their host of the music’s excellence.
“Oh, yes,” said Barney, with a jaunty wave of the hand, “he’s one of
my finds. The man’s a genius, don’t you know, and is in music what I am
myself in painting.”
“Barney, you always lay it on too thick,” said one of the young men.
“You’ll turn the pianist’s head with flattery, if he knows you consider
him as clever as yourself.”
“Perhaps you imagine I’m too dense to see through that remark,” said
Barney, with the condescension of true genius. “I know your sneering
ways: but let me tell you what I meant was that both the musician and
myself are unrecognized by the mob of commonplace people of whom you are
so distinguished a representative.” (“I flatter myself I had him there,”
whispered Barney, aside, to the lady on his right.) “Yes, my boy, the
day will come when you will be proud to say you were invited to these
receptions, which I intend to make one of the artistic features of
London society.”
“Why, Barney,” protested the young man, “I’m proud of it now. I make
myself objectionable in all my clubs by continually bragging that you
smile upon me. I claim that you are in art what the Universal Provider
is in commerce.”
“Do get him to play something while we are resting,” murmured the lady,
thus pouring oil on the troubled waters.
Langly sat at the piano, a disconsolate figure, paying no attention to
the hum of conversation around him. His thoughts were far away, in the
squalid room where the dead girl lay. Barney bustled up to him, and the
musician came to himself with a start on being spoken to.
“Here are several Hungarian mazurkas--weird things--you’ll like’em. Just
polish off a few for us while we have some tea, will you? They are all
complimenting your playing--they’re people who know a good thing when
they hear it. Won’t you have some refreshment yourself before you
begin?”
Langly shook his head, and began playing the Hungarian music. Barney sat
down again beside the lady, smiling with satisfaction at being able to
pose as the patron of so accomplished a musician. The lady leaned her
chin on her hand, and listened intently.
“How marvellously he does those mazurkas!” she whispered, softly. “He
brings out that diabolical touch which seems to be in much of the Polish
and Hungarian music.”
“Yes,” assented Barney, cordially, “he does play like the devil, yet he
is an organist in a church. Ah, well, I suppose Beelzebub looks after
our music as he does our morals.”
“Has he composed anything?”
“Who? Satan?”
“No, no. You know very well I’m speaking of the organist.”
“Composed! Well, rather. He’s an unrecognized genius, but I’m going to
look after his recognition. I’m going to bring out some of his works, if
he’ll let me. He’s a very modest man, and----”
“Another likeness to yourself.”
“Exactly, exactly. I’m always pushing other people forward and
neglecting my own interests; still, I’ll arrive some of these days and
astonish you all, don’t you know. You see, our set doesn’t produce
men of genius like that organist. The ‘upper ten’ never produced a
Shakespeare.”
“I thought it did. Didn’t Lord Bacon write Shakespeare?”
“No, he didn’t. I’ve looked up that question, but there’s nothing in it,
don’t you know. No, the really great men come from the common people.
The world doesn’t know where to look for them, but I do, and I find
’em just as I found this man. I go for my society to the aristocracy,
but for my geniuses to the democracy.”
“But if society does not produce great men, how do you hope to become
the greatest of painters?”
“Ah, painting’s a different thing, don’t you know; it has always been
the gentleman’s art. Leonardo and all of those chaps were great swells.
Rubens--or was it Titian?--one of them, anyhow, went as ambassador
to the court of Spain in great pomp. Painters have always been the
companions of kings. But I say, let us have another dance.”
Once more the dreamy waltz music mingled with the swish-swish of silken
skirts, sibilant on the polished floor. Langly nearly always lost
himself in whatever music he played, but now it merely dulled his
sorrow, and an undertone of deep grief lay beneath the frivolous harmony
that rippled so smoothly and sweetly from the piano--an undertone heard
by none save himself. Merry laughter, and now and then a whispered
phrase as the dancers swung close to where he sat, fell on his unheeding
ear, and he wished his task were done, so that he might face again the
long walk lying before him. He chided himself as being ungrateful, when
it seemed hard that at this time he should be called upon to minister
to the amusement of a pleasure-loving party; for he remembered that the
Hebrew had toiled seven years uncomplaining for the woman he loved: so
why should he grudge an afternoon, when the object was practically the
same, although hope cheered the longer task, and despair clouded the
shorter. Each in his way laboured for his love, living and dead.
The heavy hand of Barney came down boisterously on the thinly clad
shoulder of the player, and partially aroused him from his bitter
reverie.
“First rate, my boy, first rate! You’ve done nobly, and every one is
delighted--charmed!--they are indeed, I assure you. Now they’re saying
good-by, so give us a rousing march for the farewell--anything you
like--something of your own would be just the thing; you know what I
mean--a march with a suggestion of regret in it--sorry they’re going,
don’t you know.”
Barney hurried back to his guests, shaking hands, asking them to come
again, and receiving gushing thanks for a most agreeable afternoon.
Suddenly there knelled forth on the murmur of farewell the solemn notes
of the _Funeral March_, like the measured toll of a passing-bell. The
metallic clangour of the instrument gave a vibrant thrill to the sombre
music, which was lacking in the smooth, round tones of the organ. Langly
played like a man entranced, his head thrown back, his pale face turned
upward, looking as if life had left it. An instantaneous chilling hush
fell on the assemblage, as if an icy wind had swept through the room,
freezing into silence the animated stream of conversation. Some shivered
where they stood, and one girl, clasping her cloak at her throat, paused
and said, half hysterically:
“If this is a joke, Mr. Hope, I must say I don’t like it.”
“Cursed bad taste, if you ask me,” muttered one man, hurrying away.
“Oh, I say,” cried Barney, as much shocked as any one at the inopportune
incident, and striding toward the performer, as soon as his wits came to
him, “we didn’t want a dirge, don’t you know.”
The lady who had spoken in praise of Langly’s music laid a detaining
hand on Barney’s arm.
“Hush!” she said gently, the glimmer of tears in her eyes, “don’t stop
him. Listen! That man is inspired. I never heard Chopin played like that
before.”
“Oh, it’s Chopin, is it?” murmured Barney, apologetically, as if, had he
known it, he would not have interfered.
The throng dissolved rapidly with the unwelcome chords ringing in their
ears, leaving Barney and his guest standing there alone. Langly, on
finishing the march, sat where he was, his long arms drooping by his
side.
“Wouldn’t you like to speak to him?” asked Barney.
“No, not now.”
The lady stole softly out, Barney following her to the landing at the
head of the stair.
“Please don’t lose sight of him,” she said, giving Barney her hand. “I
want you to ask him here again, and let me invite the guests.”
“I’ll do it,” said Barney, enthusiastically. “That will be awfully
jolly.”
“No, it won’t be jolly, Mr. Hope, but we’ll hear some enchanting music.
Good-by!”
Barney re-entered the room, and found Langly standing beside the piano
like a man awakened from a dream, apparently not quite knowing where he
was.
“You must have something to drink,” cried Barney, cordially. “You look
fagged out, and no wonder. I never heard Chopin so well rendered before.
I tell you, my boy, you get all out of a piano that’s in it, don’t you
know. Now, will you have whiskey or brandy?”
Langly thanked him, but refused either beverage. He had a long walk
before him, and was anxious to get away, he said.
“Walk!” cried Barney. “Nonsense! Why should you walk, and thus insult
every self-respecting cabby you meet? I’ll see about the walking; I hope
I know my duty towards the hansom industry.”
Barney touched an electric bell, and when his man appeared said to him:
“Just send Buttons to the King’s Road for a hansom. When it comes, give
the cabby ten shillings and tell him he belongs to his fare for four
hours. Ask him to wait at the door till his fare comes, and meanwhile,
bring in some whiskey and soda. Now, Mr. Organist--I always forget
names--ah, Langly, here it is on the card, of course. Have you ever
composed any music yourself? I thought so. Ever published any? I thought
not. Well, my boy, we must remedy all that. You’re too modest; I can see
that. Now, modesty doesn’t pay in London. I know, because I suffer from
it myself. Heavens! if I only had the cheek of some men, I would be the
most famous painter in Europe. If you bring a few of your compositions
to me, I’ll get a publisher for you. Will you promise? Nonsense! not
worthy? Bosh! Compared with the great composers? My dear fellow, the
great composers were all very well in their way, I’ve no doubt, but they
were once poor devils like you. Because Raphael painted, is that any
reason why I should not improve on him? Not a bit of it. You and I will
be old masters in painting and music some few centuries hence--you just
wait and see. The great point is to realize that you’re an old master
while you’re young and can do something. If you don’t recognize the fact
yourself, you may be jolly well sure no one else will--at least, not in
time to do you any good here below. Do have some whiskey; ‘it’s cheering
and comforting,’ as the advertisements say. Well, here’s to you!”
“I came to see you, Mr. Hope,” stammered Langly, diffidently, “because
Marsten--one of your father’s employees--told me he thought you
might--that you were good enough to help once----”
“Oh. yes, I remember Marsten. He was here about some fellow knocking
down a few policemen. Well--has he knocked down some more?”
“No, but he is in great trouble, Mr. Hope.”
“Such a man is sure to be. How much is the fine?”
“His only daughter died yesterday.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear it--very sorry, indeed.”
“He has no money, and none of the men have any. Braunt would ask no one
for help, but I know that he fears there will have to be a----He doesn’t
want her to be buried as a pauper--and I thought----”
“Of course, of course. I see it all. I never could understand the
feeling of the poor on that subject. They seem to like a fine funeral,
as if that mattered. I confess that if you give me good company while
I’m alive, you may do what you please with me when I’m dead. I would
just as soon lie beside a pauper as a prince, but I prefer the prince
when I’m above ground. Now, how much will be needed? Of course you don’t
know; no more do I. Let us say fifteen pounds; if more is wanted, just
telegraph me and I’ll send it by messenger at once, don’t you know. No,
you mustn’t think of sending any of it back. Use the surplus, if there
is a surplus, for some charity or another. But you must come back
yourself, and we’ll have a talk on music. Drop in any time--there’s no
ceremony here. And just write your address on this card, so that I may
communicate with you. I promised a lady to have you here some day to
play for a few friends. You won’t disappoint me, will you? Thanks, I’m
ever so much obliged.”
“The hansom is here, sir,” said the man, entering. “All right. I’ll just
see you into your cab, Mr.--er--Langly. No trouble at all; don’t mention
it. You can make this fellow drive you around for four hours, if you
want to. He’d take you to Brighton in that time, so I suppose he’ll land
you anywhere in London in short order. Well, good-by, my dear fellow,
and I thank you ever so much for your exquisite music.”