"If you are joking, Tom," I exclaimed, having lost all patience, "I
think you are displaying most wretched taste. If you are really in
earnest, I am very sorry for you. I'm going to bed. I hope I'll find
you fully recovered at breakfast."
He did not seem to be at all impressed by my exhibition of temper.
"Wait just a moment, Winifred," he suggested, his eyes fixed on his
book. "Here it is about George Sand--their first meeting, you know.
Wait! I'll read it to you."
"I shall not wait, Tom Remsen," I cried. "Chopin's love affairs are
nothing to me--and they should be nothing to you. Good night. This is
my last word. Good night."
As I reached the door, I glanced over my shoulder. Tom seemed to have
forgotten my existence. He had plunged again into the dust-heap of an
old scandal that seemed to fascinate him--Tom Remsen, who had hitherto
always deprecated and avoided that kind of research.
*CHAPTER IV.*
*SIGNORINA MOLATTI.*
And thou, too--when on me fell thine eye,
What disclos'd thy cheek's deep-purple dye?
SCHILLER.
Two days went by, and while I still pondered the great mystery and kept
a close watch on Tom, I had begun to hope that the exactions of his
profession had led him to abandon his effort to explain what he had
called his "seizure." He had been busy of late with the technicalities
involved in the formation of a new trust, and his mind seemed to be
wholly engrossed by this gigantic task. By tacit consent we had both
avoided all reference to my recent musical and its weird and
inexplicable outcome. At times, I was almost inclined to believe that
Tom had forgotten Chopin and all his works.
As for myself, I could not recover a normal state of mind. For the
first time in my life, I felt an admiration for the very characteristics
of my husband's make-up that hitherto had annoyed and wearied me. His
ability to rebound at once from the shock that he had sustained filled
me with both envy and amazement. I had begun to realize that the mental
poise of an unimpressionable, unimaginative man is a very desirable and
praise-worthy possession.
I regretted at times that I could not throw myself into some despotic
occupation that should demand all my physical and mental energies. As
yet, I had not found the courage to face the world and its questionings.
For two days, I had denied myself to even my most intimate friends, not
excepting Mrs. Jack Van Corlear, who had hurried to me on the day
succeeding my musical. I knew that my callers were actuated by a not
unnatural curiosity, and I lacked the nervous energy to face people who
would politely claim the right to know why Tom had always concealed his
genius as a pianist. I think I fully understand the set in which I
move. We dearly love a new sensation. Without leaving my house or
receiving a single visitor, I could readily grasp the fact that the
leading topic of conversation in society at the moment revolved around
Tom Remsen as a masterly interpreter of Chopin.
Chopin! I had begun to hate the name. But I had not been able to
resist the temptation to spend many hours in the library poring over the
books that dealt, directly or indirectly, with his personality and
achievements. The temporary enthusiasm that Tom had displayed for
research into the life of Frederic Chopin bade fair to become a
permanent passion in my case. I devoted whole afternoons to playing, in
my amateurish way, his waltzes, mazurkas, nocturnes and ballads. One of
the latter, his Opus 47, I had not the audacity to attempt. Somehow,
Tom's recent rendition of the piece seemed to stand as a barrier that it
would be sacrilege for me to cross. Nevertheless, I longed to hear the
ballad again, and was almost tempted to ask Tom to play it to me alone.
That he was wholly incapable of repeating his recent performance, my
mind refused to believe. I had returned, almost unconsciously, to my
first conviction, that my husband had wilfully deceived me for years
regarding his musical ability.
I sat poring over an English criticism of Chopin's posthumous works late
one afternoon when a card was brought to me in the library that tempted
me to come out of my self-imposed retreat. It bore the name: