DEAR SIR: As it has come to the knowledge of the Executive Committee of
the Chopin Society of New York that your rendition of the works of our
master is unexcelled by any living performer, we humbly beg of you to
accept the hospitality of our association at an early date, to be chosen
by you. Our members and their guests would consider it the highest of
privileges could they be permitted to hear you play such selections from
Chopin as you might wish to perform. Thanking you in advance for the
great joy that you will vouchsafe to us by accepting this invitation, we
remain, etc.
There lay a wan smile on Tom's face as he met my gaze. "Kind, aren't
they?" he muttered. "What the deuce'll I write to 'em, Winifred?"
"You can't accept, of course," I said, confidently. Then I hesitated,
surprised at the queer gleam in Tom's eyes. "Can you?" I added, weakly.
"I can, I suppose," he remarked, with an effort at playfulness.
"There's no law against it."
His answer struck me as strangely unlike him. If he had cried, "The
Chopin Society be damned!" I should have felt more at ease, less
oppressed by a sensation of nameless dread. There was something
distinctly uncanny in Tom's manner.
"It would be a good joke on 'em, wouldn't it, if I _should_ accept their
bid?" he remarked as he lighted his cigar. "Confound their impudence!
That's what they deserve."
"But--but--Tom, would you try to--to play?" I gasped, in dismay.
Tom laughed in a way that shocked my overwrought nerves. It was a
shrill, unnatural note of merriment, that struck me as diabolical.
"Play?" he repeated, sardonically. "Why not? Do you imagine, madame,
that the marvelous genius of Thomas Remsen, interpreter of Frederic
Francois Chopin, is to be confined strictly to your musicals? That
would be a gross injustice to the music-loving world, would it not? But
come into the library with me, Winifred. I must resume my studies as a
student of 'the master.'"
I followed Tom mechanically, fascinated by his gruesome mood. For the
life of me I couldn't tell whether he was joking or in earnest, whether
it was his mind or mine that had lost its poise.
*CHAPTER V.*
*A POLISH FANTASIA.*
Ah, sure, as Hindoo legends tell,
When music's tones the bosom swell
The scenes of former life return.
DR. LEYDEN.
I made a clean breast of the whole matter to Mrs. Jack Van Corlear the
next morning. I had sent for her early in the day, saying that I was in
trouble and needed advice, and she came to me at once. It was a great
relief to me just to look into her eyes and hold her hand.
"It's about Tom!" she remarked, sagely. "Has he done it again?"
Her question made me realize fully the awkwardness of my position.
Close as our friendship had been, I had never gossipped about Tom to
Mrs. Jack. If there is anything more vulgar than what Tom had once
called "extra-marital confidences between women," I don't know what it
is. But I was forced to talk about my husband's increasing eccentricity
to somebody, or endanger my own mental health. I knew that I should
derive temporary nervous restoration from a heart-to-heart confab with a
woman who has the reputation of being "a mighty good fellow." I have
heard people complain that Mrs. Jack was "too horsey" for their taste.
But if you are seeking a friend who shall possess courage, reticence and
common sense, pick out a woman that rides. A fondness for horses seems
to enlarge a woman's sympathies, while at the same time it increases her
discretion.
"He has not actually done it again, my dear," I answered; "but he
threatens to. He informed me at breakfast this morning that he intended
to accept the invitation of the Chopin Society. Furthermore, he said he
was going to send the society a cheque for their Chopin Monument Fund."
"Tom's a thoroughbred, isn't he?" exclaimed Mrs. Jack, with what struck
me as ill-timed enthusiasm. "But tell me more about Signorina Molatti.
Did you keep your promise to her?"
"Yes; I told him this morning about her call. Do you know, he seemed to
be actually pleased. It wasn't like Tom at all. Young women always bore
him. And he has a special abhorrence for people connected in any way
with the stage."
"Now, Winifred, tell me honestly: Has Tom never played a note in all the
twelve years that you have known him?"
"Never! never! never!" I cried, hotly. It was so hard to make even Mrs.
Jack, who fully understands me, get at my point of view.
"And he wins a big handicap the first time he starts," mused my
confidante. "It's miraculous! Is there a strain of music in his blood,
my dear? Any of the Remsens gifted that way?"
"Not that I ever heard of," I answered, rather petulantly. Mrs. Jack's
surmises seemed to be as unsatisfactory as my own solitary musings.
"Is he going to play for Molatti?" she asked, presently.
The blood rushed to my cheeks as I realized that this was the keynote to
the whole conversation. "He says he is," I confessed, reluctantly. "You
may not believe it, but he actually joked about it; said that it would
be cruel on his part to withhold from 'a worthy young woman'--what an
expression!--a pleasure that might restore her appetite and sleep."
Mrs. Jack laughed aloud, despite the frown on my brow. "Give him the
bit, my dear," she advised, playfully. "You aren't afraid of a little
black filly over a distance, are you? But tell me, what does Tom say
about it all? You tell me that he speaks of his recent rendition of the
Chopin ballad as 'a seizure.'"
"For nearly two days, my dear, I fondly imagined he had forgotten all
about it. He didn't speak of it. But last night he went into the
library and recommenced his researches into the life of Chopin. I
couldn't help laughing at some of the comments he made, but he was in
dead earnest all the time. I am forced to believe Tom really thinks he
is--it seems so absurd when one puts it into words--thinks he is haunted
by Chopin's spirit, or something of that kind."
Mrs. Jack's mood changed and the merriment in her face disappeared. "Do
you know," she remarked, thoughtfully. "I am sometimes inclined to
think that we are awfully ignorant about some things. I have heard of
so many queer occurrences of an uncanny nature lately--and among the
very nicest kind of people, too. And it used to be really good form to
have a family ghost, you know. Perhaps it's coming in again. Old
fashions have a way of cropping up again, haven't they?"
I could not refrain from smiling at Mrs. Jack's peculiar attitude toward
psychical mysteries. However, I refused to be led into generalities.
"But just look at the ludicrousness of the idea," I began. "Admitting,
my dear, that Chopin's soul has grown uneasy and desires a temporary
reincarnation, would he be likely to select Tom as a--what shall I call
it?--medium? Wouldn't he be more inclined to haunt a man who was
naturally musical, or at least loved music? But you know, Mrs. Jack,
what Tom is. He hasn't the slightest liking for music of any kind.
Unless he has been a great actor for many years, never for an instant
forgetting his role, I'm sure of this."
"What can we know about the methods or longings of a disembodied
spirit?" argued my confidante, logically enough. "Perhaps Chopin was
backing a long shot, just for the excitement of the thing."
I glanced at Mrs. Jack, half-angrily. I thought for a moment that she
was inclined to poke fun at me. But her face was as serious as mine,
and I repented quickly of my unjust suspicion.
And thus we talked in a circle for an hour or more. Mrs. Jack lunched
with me, and finally persuaded me to spend the afternoon with her,
driving along the river side. As we drew up in front of the house about
five o'clock, I turned to her with gratitude in my heart and eyes and
voice.
"Thank you so much, my dear," I said, gratefully. "I'll come to you in
the morning if there are any new developments in the case." I had
turned away when Mrs. Jack called me back.
"It's a problem that you and I can't solve, little woman," she said,
affectionately. "If he has another attack, or any new symptoms develop,
what would you think of consulting a specialist? I'd go with you, of
course. We needn't give out names, you know."
"A specialist--in what?" I asked, trying to repress a feeling of
annoyance that I must conceal from a friend who had been all kindness to
me at a crisis.
"Think it over," returned Mrs. Jack, vaguely. "I'm sure I don't know who
is an authority on--what did Tom call it--Chopinitis. But come to me in
the morning, anyway; I may have something really practical to suggest.
And don't touch him with the whip! Tom's a thoroughbred, you know, my
dear. Good-bye!"
As I entered the hall, depressed by a quick reaction from my recent
cheerfulness, I was roused from my self-absorption by a revelation that
drove the blood to my head and made me dizzy for a moment. From the
music-room, always unoccupied at this hour of the day, came the weird,
searching harmonies of a Polish fantasia arranged for the piano and
violin. The effect was marvelous. Softened by distance, the perfect
accord of the two instruments bore testimony to the complete sympathy
that existed between the pianist and the wielder of the bow. There was
something in this half-barbaric music that set my veins on fire. Hardly
knowing what I did and with no thought of what I intended to do, I
crossed the drawing-room quickly and noiselessly, and stood motionless
at the entrance to the music-room.
I remember now that I felt no sensation of astonishment at what I saw.
It seemed to me that the picture before my eyes was just what I had come
from a remote distance to gaze upon.
Tom was seated at the piano, his back toward me. Beside him stood
Signorina Molatti, her Cremona resting against her shoulder. They had
not heard my footsteps, and I realized that if I had yelled like a wild
Indian they would not have come to earth. They played like creatures in
a trance, and I felt the strange, seductive hypnotism of the mad, sweet,
feverish music that they made, as I stood there voiceless, motionless,
helpless, hopeless. Vainly I appealed to my pride. Vainly I strove to
act as one worthy of the name of mondaine. The shock had been too
sudden, too severe, and I could not trust myself.
[Illustration: "_They played like creatures in a trance..._"]
As silently as I had come, I crept away. Recrossing the drawing-room, I
encountered the butler in the hall. My face flushed with shame as I
said to him:
"If Mr. Remsen asks for me, James, say that I have not returned."
Then I stumbled up-stairs to my rooms, dismissed my maid curtly, and
gave way like a foolish girl to foolish tears.
*CHAPTER VI.*
*CONSULTING A SPECIALIST.*
An angel is too fine a thing
To sit behind my chair and sing
And cheer my passing day.
EDMUND E. GOSSE.
"But, madam, the symptoms, in so far as I can gather them, are
insufficient for an accurate diagnosis. You have stated the case
clearly and in minute detail, but my experience in the new school of
medicine--if such it can be called--convinces me that you have
inadvertently omitted some significant factor in the premises, without
which I can vouchsafe to you nothing more valuable than sweeping
generalities. In other words, you have given me an opportunity to lay
before you a theory, but no chance to suggest to you a practical line of
action."
I looked helplessly at Mrs. Van Corlear and saw that she was scanning
Dr. Emerson Woodruff's strong, thoughtful face attentively. Presently,
she glanced at me, as if asking my permission to speak, and I nodded to
her in acquiescence.
"We have told you, doctor," began Mrs. Jack, "that this--ah--friend of
ours plays nothing but Chopin. That's important, of course?"
"Exceedingly," remarked Dr. Woodruff, impressively, his hands folded
across his chest and his head bent forward. Even at that critical
moment, I found myself wondering if all practitioners of the
anti-materialistic school were large, dignified, magnetic men, with
majestic brows and bright, searching eyes.
"But he's not always a soloist," went on Mrs. Jack, in a low but vibrant
tone; "he has shown an inclination of late to travel in double
harness--piano and violin, you know."
An enigmatical smile came into Dr. Woodruff's face for an instant. The
man's intuition was so quick and keen that I had begun to fear I should
find it difficult to maintain my incognita.
"You say," he asked, presently, turning toward me, "that his general
health remains good? He has no tendency towards melancholia; doesn't
grow flighty at times in his talk?"
"I have never seen him look so well as he does at present," I answered,
wearily. I had come to Dr. Woodruff against my will, succumbing weakly
to Mrs. Jack's insistence. And now the whole affair appeared ridiculous
and the doctor's questions irrelevant and futile. My interest in the
seance--if that is the word for it--was reawakened, however, by the
physician's next question.
"Who plays the violin for him?" he asked, curtly.
Mrs. Jack answered him at once. "Signorina Molatti. You know her by
reputation?"
"Yes," he answered; "I have heard her play. She has a touch of genius.
They must make great music together--Molatti and your friend."
A lump came into my throat and I clutched the arms of my chair
awkwardly. That Dr. Woodruff had noticed my emotion, I felt sure.
"Well, what is your explanation of all this, doctor?" I asked,
impatiently. I was thoroughly out of harmony with myself, Mrs. Jack and
the physician, and my pride revolted at the false position in which I
had been placed. A skeptic who goes to a clergyman for guidance
sacrifices both his logic and his dignity. Here I sat in Dr. Emerson
Woodruff's office, under an assumed name, telling a stranger weird tales
about a supposititious acquaintance who was in reality my own husband.
Had I not been unfair to Tom, Dr. Woodruff and myself? Surely the road
to truth is not through a zigzag lane of lies!
"My dear madam," began the doctor, in his most pompous manner, "the case
as you have stated it is unique in the annals of what I take the liberty
to call the new science--new, that is, to the Western world. To the
brooding East, the introspective, sapient, miracle-working Orient, there
would be nothing strange or inexplicable in what your--er--friend calls
his 'seizure.' I have seen in India phenomena that, should I describe
them to you, would wholly destroy what little confidence you have in my
veracity and common sense. May I ask why you have come to me, madam?
You have no faith in the school to which I am devoted."
His voice had grown suddenly stern, and I avoided his gaze in confusion.
The ease with which he had read my thoughts offended and frightened me.
"It's my fault, Dr. Woodruff," cried Mrs. Jack, loyally; "I persuaded
her to come. I have been over the jumps before, and I rather like the
course. But it's pretty stiff going at first, you must acknowledge."
To my surprise, Dr. Woodruff laughed aloud. His merriment restored my
equilibrium, and I hastened to explain.
"Won't you believe me, doctor, when I say that I have not come to you in
an antagonistic mood? I am intensely interested in the problem we have
laid before you--and I feel sure you can help us to read the riddle. We
have a friend who has no music in his soul. Suddenly, he begins to play
Chopin like a master. Then he develops a fondness for duets. We fear
the future. Presently, he will begin to neglect his business and
his---and--"
"And his wife," added the doctor, glancing at me, quizzically. Then he
turned sharply toward Mrs. Jack. "Is this man fond of horses? Does he
ride?"
"Before he became so completely absorbed in his profession he was a
marvel over timber," she answered, with enthusiasm. "I remember--" she
began, reminiscently.
"Never mind ancient history," I cried, rather rudely. "I really can't
see, Dr. Woodruff, what his cross-country skill has to do with his
Chopin seizure."
"As I understand it, madam," explained the physician, evidently hurt by
my petulance, "as I understand it, you are desirous of turning
your--ah--friend's mind from music. You tell me that his professional
duties have had no effect in this connection. To use an expression that
is not often employed by psychologists, a counter-irritant is what I had
in mind. It is not strictly scientific to prescribe a remedy before the
diagnosis is completed, but, as I gather from your words, you wish to
attempt a cure at once."
I am sure there flashed a gleam of suspicion, not unmingled with
contempt, from my eyes as I scanned the doctor's face. Surely, it was
absurd to suppose that if Tom was really the victim of some supernatural
manifestation he could be restored to a normal condition by a resumption
of his equestrian enthusiasm. Furthermore, what was I to gain by the
line of treatment that this psychological _poseur_ seemed to have in
mind? Was it not just as well for my peace of mind to have Tom playing
duets with Signorina Molatti as chasing an anise-seed bag across fields
and ditches in company with Mrs. Jack Van Corlear or some other horsey
woman?
"Do you think he has been hypnotized by Signorina Molatti?" I asked,
bluntly, anxious to pin the physician down to some explanation of Tom's
eccentricities that should not offend against probability.
"Admitting the possibility of hypnotism in this instance," answered Dr.
Woodruff, gravely, "it would seem to be much more likely that your
friend had hypnotized Signorina Molatti. Do you not agree with me?"
Taking all the circumstances into consideration, I was forced to admit
to myself that his argument was sound. But I could not imagine Tom in
the role of a Svengali. Whichever way I turned I was at the horn of a
dilemma.
"The fact is, madam," began Dr. Woodruff, very seriously, "the fact is
that your reticence has placed me in a somewhat awkward position. While
you have apparently made a clean breast of the whole affair, there are
several gaps in your story that I must fill up before I can be of any
great service to you. There are various explanations of your friend's
remarkable outbreak that naturally suggest themselves. Most people
would assert at once that he had deliberately concealed his musical
ability for years, planning to make a sensational debut when occasion
served. You have rejected this explanation as inconsistent with your
knowledge of the man's character. I accept your view of the matter, and
lay aside as untenable the seemingly most reasonable solution of the
problem. Practically, but two lines of conjecture remain open to us.
Your friend may have been hypnotized, may have become the plaything of a
harmless medium who possesses a sense of humor and enjoys a practical
joke. But, I must admit, this explanation appears far-fetched and
involves several very improbable hypotheses."
The doctor paused for a time and eyed us musingly. I felt better
disposed toward him than heretofore, recognizing the fact that I had
been listening to the words of a well-balanced, logical man who might
tread lofty heights, but who always stepped with care. If Dr. Emerson
Woodruff was a mystic and a dreamer, there was nothing in his outward
seeming or his mental methods to indicate it.
"How many hurdles on the other track?" asked Mrs. Jack, abruptly.
"Pardon me," said the physician, gently; "I didn't catch your meaning."
"There were two lines of conjecture open to us," explained Mrs. Jack,
"after we had agreed that--what shall I call him?--the man with
Chopinitis is not a liar. You don't accept the hypnotic theory, Dr.
Woodruff. What's the other?"
"Would you be shocked," asked the psychologist, suavely, "if I should
suggest that your friend may be possibly under the direct influence of
the spirit of the late Frederic Francois Chopin?"
"That's what Tom thinks!" I cried, excitedly, and then bit my tongue,
regretfully. Dr. Woodruff's penetrating eyes were fixed on me.
"I said that there were gaps in your narrative," he remarked,
reproachfully. "Your friend--I take it that his name is Tom--believes,
then, that he is under the control of Chopin?"
"I think he does," I answered, not very graciously; "he has spent much
time of late reading the details of Chopin's life."
"H'm!" exclaimed the doctor, like one who comes gladly on a new symptom
in a puzzling case; "would it not be possible, madam, for me to see this
man, unobserved myself? If I could hear him play it would be throwing a
flood of light on the case. As it is, I am groping in the dark."
"And--and--in case, sir, that your worst fears are realized," I
faltered, "can you do anything for him? Can he be cured?"
"You see, doctor, she didn't marry Chopin. Naturally--"
The look that I gave Mrs. Jack quieted her restless tongue. But the fat
was in the fire.
"Yes, the murder's out, Dr. Woodruff," I confessed, wearily. "We've
been talking about my husband. We were very happy together before his
seizure. And--and--now----"
"And now his wife isn't one, two, three," cried Mrs. Jack, excitedly;
"and it's a burning shame. Can you do something for him, doctor? Surely
you don't think it's chronic, do you?"
The suspicion of a smile crossed the physician's face, and I felt the
blood come into my cheeks. I had no intention of laying my marital
misery before the keen eyes of this strangely powerful man, but somehow
I felt a sense of relief now that he had come into possession of all the
facts.
"If you think it advisable, doctor, for you to hear my husband play," I
said, presently, "I'm sure it can be arranged. He has agreed to give a
recital at the rooms of the Chopin Society to-morrow evening. He has
asked us to go with him. Could you not obtain a card? He would not
know, of course, why you were there."
"I have many friends among the Chopin idolaters; it is easily arranged,"
remarked Dr. Woodruff, as he rose and ushered us toward the exit from
his inner office. "Meanwhile, madam, I shall make a close study of the
case from the data already at hand. I am very grateful to you for
coming to me, and I think I can safely promise to be of service to you.
Au revoir. To-morrow evening at eight."
As we seated ourselves in the carriage, I turned angrily to Mrs. Jack.
"Why did you betray me?" I cried. "It was cruel, cruel!"
Mrs. Jack smiled affectionately and seized my hand. "Don't be annoyed
at me, my dear. I was merely doing justice to Dr. Woodruff. It's
absurd to try to put a thoroughbred over the water jump with blinders.
It's unfair to the horse, to say the least."
*CHAPTER VII.*
*A PRELIMINARY CANTER.*
So comes, at last,
The answer from the Vast.
MAURICE THOMPSON.
"Do you really intend to go, Tom? But suppose, dear, you don't feel
like playing; what will happen then? Do be sensible, old fellow, and
stay home with me. You always shunned notoriety--and now you go in
search of it. What is the matter with you, Tom? You haven't been at
all frank with me since--since--"
"Since when, my dear?" asked my husband, smiling at me kindly over his
demi-tasse.
"Since you played that duet with Signorina Molatti in the music-room," I
answered, ashamed of the feeling of jealousy that I had nourished for
several days. As I gazed at Tom's honest face the absurdity of the
accusation that I had brought against him in this undirect way forced
itself upon me. My husband at that moment struck me as the least
flirtatious-looking man I had ever seen. But facts are stubborn things.
I had good reason to believe that Tom had accompanied a famous
violiniste, not only in our music-room but in the signorina's own
drawing-room. It is astonishing how quickly a suspicious wife develops
into a female Sherlock Holmes!
"I plead guilty to the indictment," said Tom presently, lighting a
cigar. "Suppose we go into the library, Winifred. We can have a quiet
half-hour at least before we start."
I derived both pleasure and pain from this suggestion. It was
satisfactory to find Tom more inclined to be companionable than he had
been for nearly a week. On the other hand, I was disappointed at
discovering that his determination to attend the meeting of the Chopin
Society remained unshaken. That any further protest from me would be
futile, I fully realized, and it was with a feeling of apprehension and
disquietude that I seated myself in the library, and watched Tom as he
dreamily blew smoke into the air, seemingly forgetful of my presence.
After a time, he began to speak, more like a poet soliloquizing than an
unimaginative lawyer addressing his wife.
"It was a strangely vivid vision. I have had dreams that were like
reality, but none that approached this one in intensity. I passed first
through a doorway that led into old picturesque, crumbling cloisters,
forming a quadrangle. Stretching away from these cloisters ran long
corridors with vaulted roofs. Down one of the corridors, I hurried
toward a light that seemed to come through a rose window, intensifying
the grim darkness surrounding me. It was bitterly cold; the chill of
death seemed to clutch at my heart. And always I heard the sound of
mournful voices through the resounding galleries."
"Tom!" I cried, shocked by the queer gleam in his eyes.
But he went on as if he had not heard me. "There were other noises, some
harsh, others majestically musical. There came to me the mighty roaring
of a storm-swept sea beating against a rocky shore. The winds sobbed
and thundered and whistled and fell away. Then I could hear the
plaintive notes of sea-birds outside the stone walls of the monastery.
But always it was the chill dampness that appalled me. I was forever
hurrying toward the rose window, where warmth and love and joy awaited
me; but always it fled before me, and the long black corridor lay
between me and my goal. It was horrible."
"What had you been doing, Tom?" I asked, in a desperate effort to recall
him to his present environment. "Had you been eating a Welsh rabbit at
the club?"
He gazed at me, defiantly. "No," he said, gloomily, "I had been playing
Chopin with Signorina Moletti."
By an effort of will, I restrained the words that rushed to my lips, and
asked, quietly: "And which of his works had you been playing?"
"I don't know," he answered, wearily. "I think the signorina said our
last rendition was No. 1 of Opus 40, whatever that may mean."
Tom glanced at me sheepishly, for all the world like a mischievous
schoolboy who has been forced to make a confession. My mind was hard at
work trying to recall the details of my recent researches into the life
of Chopin. To refresh my memory, I opened a book that lay among other
Lives of "the master" on the library-table.
"'No. 1 of Opus 40,'" I presently found myself reading aloud, "'is in A
major, and is throughout an intensely martial composition. There is a
spirit of victory and conquest about it. The most remarkable
circumstances attached to it seems to lie in the fact that it is
supposed to have been written during Chopin's sojourn at the Carthusian
monastery on the island of Mallorca with George Sand.'"
Bitterly did I regret my indiscreet quotation. Tom had turned white and
there had come into his eyes an appealing, despairing expression that
reminded me of a deer I had once seen brought to bay in the Adirondack
forest.
"Mrs. Van Corlear," announced the butler at the door of the library, and
Mrs. Jack, who had the run of the house, came toward us gaily.
"And how is our boy-wonder this evening?" she cried, laughingly. "I'm
backing Tom Remsen for the great Chopin handicap to-night. Are you
quite fit, Tom? Do I get a run for my money?"
How easy it is for our most intimate friends to take our troubles
lightly! Although I realized that underlying Mrs. Jack's levity was a
kindly motive--a desire to carry off an awkward situation with the least
possible friction--I could not help feeling annoyed at her flippant
words. Grateful as I was to her for her loyal interest in my peculiar
affliction, it was unpleasant to feel that Mrs. Jack was treating as a
light comedy what seemed to me to involve all the elements of a tragedy.
There was nothing farcical, surely, in Tom's appearance as he stood
there, pale, silent, smiling perfunctorily at our guest, every inch a
modern gentleman, but strangely like the tagonist of some classic drama,
the rebellious but impotent plaything of vindictive gods.
"Come, let us go," I cried, nervously, anxious to put an end to a most
uncomfortable situation. "Do you really feel up to it, Tom? There is
still time to back out of it, you know. A solo before a crowd is much
more trying than a duet in private."
I had not intended to hurt Tom's feelings, but my words had displayed a
plentiful lack of tact. And the worst of it was that Mrs. Jack seemed to
be in a diabolical mood, for she at once jumped at the chance to make
mischief.
"I have heard of your fondness for duets, Tom," she remarked, and I was
reminded of the soft purring of a cat preparing to pounce on a helpless
mouse. "What a delight it must be to Signorina Molatti to find an
interpreter of Chopin worthy of her fiddle! You find her a very
interesting personality, do you not?"
Tom stopped short--we were slowly making our exit from the library--and
gazed at Mrs. Jack with a puzzled expression in his eyes. "Signorina
Molatti?" he queried, musingly. "What do I think of her? I really
don't know. I never considered the question before. She's merely a
part of the music--not an individual, don't you see?" Suddenly his face
changed, and he put his hand to his brow as if a sharp pain had
tormented him. "Wait a moment! Don't go!" he implored us, in a
labored, unnatural voice. "What does it all mean? Tell me! What am I
doing? I can't play Chopin! I can't play anything! Have I been
hypnotized? I tell you, Winifred--Mrs. Jack--'tis all a mistake, a
mystery, an uncanny, hideous bedevilment. It's demoniac possession--or
something of that kind. And what'll the Chopin Society think if I make a
horrible flunk? At this moment, I don't feel as if I could play a note.
Come into the music-room!" he ended, a touch of wildness in his voice
and manner.
Mrs. Jack and I followed him, silently. There was in Tom's way of
hurrying across the drawing-room a mingling of eagerness and dread that
was wholly uncharacteristic of the man. As he hastened feverishly
toward the piano, a hectic flush on his cheeks and his eyes aglow, he
reminded me of a youth I had seen at Monte Carlo staking his whole
fortune on a turn of the roulette wheel.
For a time, Tom sat at the instrument, his head bowed low and his hands
hanging listlessly at his side. Mrs. Jack's arm was round my waist, and
I could hear her deep, hurried breathing and feel the nervous tremor of
her slender, well-knit form. It was indeed a most trying crisis that
could disturb the poise of the athletic woman beside me.
"He doesn't connect," she whispered to me, presently. "I wish Dr.
Woodruff were here."
But Mrs. Jack had spoken prematurely. Suddenly Tom's hands were raised
and he struck the opening chords of Chopin's Scherzo in B minor, Opus
20. The fury of the following measures he rendered with stunning
effect. Then the vigor of the rushing quaver figure lessened gradually,
and, at the repeat, Tom sprang erect and turned toward us, an expression
of weird ecstasy on his face.
"It's all right, girls!" he cried, with a boyish lack of dignity. "Come
on! We're late, as it is. I'll show those Chopin people something
they'll never forget! Come on!"
"He's fit!" whispered Mrs. Jack to me. "It wasn't much of a preliminary
canter--but he's in the running fast enough!"
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*THE CHOPIN SOCIETY.*
In this dark world where now I stay,
I scarce can see myself;
The radiant soul shines on my way
As my fair guiding elf.
VICTOR HUGO.
Molatti was a marvel of beauty that evening. Great as was my prejudice
against the girl, I was forced to admit to myself, as we entered the
crowded rooms of the Chopin Society, that I had never seen a handsomer
creature, nor one more radiant with the joy of life. The glory of
youth, the fire of genius were in her eyes. There were many striking
faces in evidence that evening, faces full of the subtle charm that the
worship of music frequently begets; ugly faces alight with an inward
glow, symmetrical faces whose regularity was not insipid; plebeian faces
stamped by an acquired distinction; patrician faces warmed by an
esthetic enthusiasm; faces that told their story of struggle and defeat,
and others that bore the mysterious imprint of success. But there was
only one countenance in all that picturesque throng to which my gaze
constantly returned, paying unwilling homage to a fascination against
which I vainly rebelled. I found it difficult to believe that Tom had
never noticed the signorina's wonderful beauty of face and form, that he
had always considered her, as he had said, "merely a part of the music."
Mrs. Jack, who had been watching me closely, seemed to read my mind, for
she whispered to me teasingly: "Tom'll sit up and take notice to-night,
don't you think? She's well groomed and shows blood, doesn't she?"
From Mrs. Jack Van Corlear this was high praise indeed, and Molatti
deserved it. The studied simplicity of her low-cut black gown, relieved
by a small cluster of diamonds below the neck, harmonized with the quiet
arrangement of her luxuriant, dark hair, seemingly held in place by a
miniature aigrette of small diamonds. The marmoreal whiteness of her
perfect neck and firm, well-rounded arms was emphasized by a sharp
contrast. Of color there was none, save for the slight flush of health
in her cheeks and the rich, red line of her strong, sensitive mouth.
I glanced at Tom, who stood not far from me, listening to the words of
the president of the society, a short, slender, nervous-looking man,
whose mobile countenance at that moment suggested the joy of a
lion-hunter who has achieved unexpectedly a difficult feat. Tom was
pale, and there was a wrinkle in his brow just between the eyes that
assured me he was not completely at ease. But he seemed to be wholly
indifferent to the presence of Signorina Molatti. That he had not
glanced at her since our entrance to the hall I felt quite sure. Was
Tom really a great actor? It was a question that was constantly
recurring to me, despite the weight of evidence against an affirmative
answer.
Presently Tom returned to my side, and Mrs. Jack deliberately stuck a
pin into him--or, rather, us.
"Is music antagonistic to manners, Tom Remsen? Go over and speak to
Signorina Molatti. It is your duty, sir."
"And my pleasure, Mrs. Jack," said Tom, with a smile that recalled his
former self, my Tom of the ante-Chopin days. He left us at once to make
his way through the crowd to Molatti's corner.
"I take it, madam, that that is your husband," remarked a deep, low,
carefully modulated voice. I turned to find Dr. Emerson Woodruff beside
me. "He doesn't look musical."
"No, but he is," Mrs. Jack put in, hastily. "We've heard him play
to-night, doctor. He's good for any distance--with something to spare.
Mark my words, sir."
"Have you reached any conclusion about the case, Dr. Woodruff?" I
whispered, nervously. "Mrs. Van Corlear is right. He was in splendid
form just before we left home. He seemed to be delighted at the
prospect of astonishing these people. But he had had a curious
outbreak. He had remarked, rather wildly, that he was not a musician,
couldn't play a note, and was, he believed, suffering from 'demoniac
possession.'"
I saw that my statement had made a deep impression on the psychologist.
His face was very grave as he watched Tom, who stood beside Molatti,
evidently conversing with her with more vivacity than I had ever seen
him display before.
"He's a phlegmatic, well-balanced man, in perfect health," muttered the
doctor, musingly. "I am inclined to think," he went on, addressing me
directly, "that your husband's case, madam, is the most remarkable that
has ever come under my personal observation. I am very anxious to
hear--and see--him play before saying anything further about it. You
feel sure that he intends to perform to-night?"
Before I could answer this question I found myself beset by the fussy
little president of the society, who appeared to believe that he owed me
a great debt of gratitude.
"I tried to thank Mr. Remsen for coming here--to our so great joy!--but
he referred me to you, madam. Oh, how much I owe you! And it is so
charming to find the wife of a man of genius wholly in sympathy with his
career. It is not always thus, you know, Mrs. Remsen."
I could feel the internal laughter that I knew Mrs. Jack was suppressing
behind me. I longed to turn round and glare at her, but I was forced to
smile down into the excited face of the Chopin enthusiast, who, _ex
officio_, was my host for the evening.
"I trust you will not find Mr. Remsen a great disappointment," I managed
to say, weakly. For an instant a hot, almost irresistible inclination
stung me to tell this overwrought, undersized bundle of nerves the plain
truth, to assure him that Tom Remsen, my husband, couldn't tell a
nocturne from a negro lullaby, that he was as ignorant of music as I was
of law.
"I am sure," commented the president, politely, "that no disappointment
awaits us--rather a great and holy joy. But I regret that our pleasure
must be deferred for a few moments. Won't you and your friends find
seats, please? I have prepared--at the request of the society--a short
paper on 'The Personality of Chopin.' It will take not more than ten
minutes for me to read it. After that, Mrs. Remsen, we are to have a
most wonderful duet from Signorina Molatti and Mr. Remsen."
The little man disappeared, and I was glad to rest myself in the chair
that Dr. Woodruff had found for me. I turned toward Mrs. Jack, who had
seated herself beside me. She saw the gleam of annoyance in my eyes as
they met hers, but smiled, sweetly.
"Why are you angry with me, my dear?" she whispered. "Am I responsible
if nature granted me a sense of humor? You must acknowledge that the
situation is amusing--even if it is a bit uncanny."
Tom had seated himself beside Molatti to listen to the president's
essay. Presently, I found myself hearkening, with almost feverish
interest, to the latter.
"I have thought it well, my friends," the president was saying, "to
confine my remarks this evening to Chopin in his great general relations
to the world. I shall endeavor to draw a picture of the man rather than
of the musician. And first of all, let me quote from Liszt in regard to
the master's appearance."
I glanced at Tom. He sat motionless, almost rigid, with a face so
lacking in expression that it was hard to believe he had caught the
significance of the speaker's words.
"'The ensemble of his person,'" quoted the president, "'was harmonious,
and called for no special comment. His eye was more spiritual than
dreamy; his bland smile never writhed into bitterness. The transparent
delicacy of his complexion pleased the eye; his fair hair was soft and
silky, his nose slightly aquiline, his bearing so distinguished and his
manner stamped with so much of high breeding that involuntarily he was
always treated _en prince_. He was generally gay; his caustic spirit
caught the ridiculous rapidly, and far below the surface at which it
usually strikes the eye. His gaiety was so much the more piquant
because he always restrained it within the bounds of good taste, holding
at a distance all that might tend to wound the most fastidious
delicacy.'" To this quotation, the president added a few words from
Orlowski: "'Chopin is full of health and vigor; all the Frenchwomen dote
on him, and all the men are jealous of him. In a word, he is the
fashion, and we shall no doubt shortly have gloves _a la Chopin_.'"
The president paused, and I saw with consternation that he was glaring
at my husband. The cause of this interruption was apparent at once as I
shifted my gaze. Tom was rocking back and forth in his chair, shaking
with laughter. His effort to keep his merriment in check, to restrain
the loud guffaws that seemed to rack his very frame, was painfully in
evidence. There was something almost heroic in his endeavor to repress
an outbreak that would have been brutally rude. Tom had become the
center of all eyes through the president's lack of tact.
"What's the matter with him?" whispered Mrs. Jack, hysterically.
"I don't know," I answered, lamely. "He's had a funny thought. Is he
better?" I had turned away from him.
"He's growing worse, I think," answered Mrs. Jack, despondently. "Why
doesn't the president go on? There, it's all right. He's quiet now."
Mrs. Jack spoke truly. The president had resumed his lecture, and I
turned and saw that Tom was no longer swaying with mirth.
"How did it happen?" I murmured in Mrs. Jack's ear.
"I'm not sure," she whispered, "but I think Molatti touched his hand.
Oh, isn't it weird? I can't help feeling it's like breaking a colt."
*CHAPTER IX.*
*AN UNRECORDED OPUS.*
Methought it was a glorious joy, indeed,
To shut and open heaven as he did.
EMMA TATHAM.
Whenever a number of men and women whose lives are devoted to some one
line of art are gathered together the social atmosphere becomes
surcharged with electricity. If one is impressionable, acutely
sensitive to an environment, it is best, perhaps, to avoid the haunts of
genius. I am inclined to believe that sociologists will investigate
eventually the eternal antagonism between Belgravia and bohemia by
strictly scientific methods. How large an infusion of genius can be
safely sustained by a throng in search of social relaxation it would be
well to know. One fact, at least, in this connection has been
repeatedly demonstrated--as I had learned to my cost--namely, that a
social function based on music rests on a powder mine. Belgravia had
witnessed an explosion at my recent musical. And now, I felt convinced,
bohemia was to undergo a like ordeal.
Tom was at the root of this disquieting conviction. His hysterical
attack of wholly irrelevant hilarity, his quick response to Molatti's
soothing touch, and now the tense, unnatural expression of his face
filled me with painful apprehension. I both craved and dreaded the end
of the president's discourse, and my forebodings were darkened by a
remark made by Mrs. Jack, who seemed to derive real pleasure from the
excitement of the crisis.
"Look at Tom," she whispered. "He's fretful at the post. He'll get the
bit in his teeth, presently. Do you see Dr. Woodruff over there? He's
taking notes."
Before she had ceased to speak Tom was out of hand and had bolted down
the track, as Mrs. Jack would have put it. In other words, he had
sprung from Molatti's side as the president ended his discourse and had
rushed to the piano at the end of the room. I caught the look of
amazement on the president's quaint face, and laughed aloud, nervously.
Utterly ashamed of my lack of self-control, I glanced at the crowd
surrounding me, but nobody had noticed my touch of hysteria. Every eye
in the room was fastened on Tom, who was seated motionless at the piano
in an apparently dazed condition. His eyes were closed and the corners
of his mouth drawn down. He looked at that moment like the very
incarnation of all that was unmusical in the universe. I feared that
Mrs. Jack would comment on his ridiculous appearance, but she was kind
enough to keep quiet. She told me afterward that my raucous laugh had
frightened her.
Suddenly Tom's chin went up, he opened his eyes, fixed them on Molatti's
white face, and began to play. Such weird, intoxicating harmonies as
filled the room, setting every soul therein athrob with an ecstasy that
was close akin to agony, no earthly audience had ever heard before. Men
and women were there who had memorized each and every note that Chopin
wrote, but there was not among them one who could identify this
marvelous improvisation, this strange exposition of a great master in
his most inspired mood. It was Chopin, but Chopin unrecorded; his
genius in its most characteristic tendency, but raised, as a
mathematician would say, to the _n_th power. It was as if the soul of
the composer, dissatisfied with the heritage that he had left to us, had
returned to earth to exhibit to his worships the one perfect flower of
his creative spirit.
How long Tom played I have never known. I had forgotten all about him
before many minutes had passed, losing in my impressionability to music
my sensitiveness as the wife of a man misunderstood. There were in the
universe only my soul and a throbbing splendor of great music, mighty
harmonies that filled all space, magic chords that awakened dim memories
of a life long past, filled to overflowing with joy and sorrow, tossing
waves of melody that bore me to the stars or sank with me into vast,
mysterious realms peopled by gray shadows that I had learned to love.
Presently I felt Mrs. Jack's hand clasping mine. "Don't go to him, dear.
He has only fainted," I heard her saying, her voice seeming to reach me
from a remote distance. "He was all out, and collapsed under the wire.
But it's nothing serious."
Tom had sunk back into Molatti's arms, and his head rested against her
shoulder. She had sprung toward him, as I learned later, just in time
to save him from a fall. She now stood gazing mournfully down on his
white, upturned face, sorrow, pity and, I imagined, remorse in her
glance. For an instant a hot rage swept over me, and I strove to stand
erect, despite Mrs. Jack's restraining hand.
"Don't make a scene!" she whispered to me, passionately in earnest. "He
is in no danger. See, Dr. Woodruff is feeling his pulse."
Even at that awful moment, when I knew not whether Tom was alive or
dead. I remember that my mind dwelt for a moment on the tendency of new
schools of medicine to cling to old traditions. Of what significance to
a psychologist could the rapidity of Tom's pulse be? I heard people all
around me talking excitedly.
"Did you ever hear anything like it?"
"I tell you, it's one of the master's posthumous works. I couldn't
identify it, but perhaps it was discovered by Remsen."
"That's absurd! Where could he find it?"
"He's better now. See, he opens his eyes."
"I don't wonder he fainted; I was just on the verge of collapse myself."
"_Parblen! Chopin a la diable! Non, non_, no more _pour moi, s'il vous
plait!_"
"I can now die so vara happy! I hava justa once heard the _maestro_
himself. I hava nothing left for to live."
"Who is this wonderful Remsen? Never heard of him before."
"You'll hear of him again, then. He's the only man living who can
interpret the master."
It was, all of it, intolerable. How I hated these chattering idiots,
who were making an idol of clay, setting up my poor Tom--who was to me
at that moment an object of pity--as the incarnation of their cult, to
whom they must pay reverent homage! I longed to cry aloud to them that
they had been tricked, that my husband was a sensible, commonplace,
lovable man, as far removed from a musical crank as he was from a
train-robber or a pirate. All my former love for music seemed to have
turned suddenly into detestation, and I longed to get away from this
nest of Chopiniacs into the noisy, wholesome atmosphere of the outside
world. It seemed to me that nothing could restore my equilibrium but
the uproar of the streets and the unmelodious clatter of my coach.
"We must get out of this at once," I said to Mrs. Jack, standing erect
and checking the dizziness in my head by an effort of will. I saw that
Tom had fully recovered his senses and that he seemed to be actually
enjoying the homage the excited throng pressing toward him offered to
his vicarious genius. Beside him stood Molatti, her face radiant, as if
her mission on earth were to reflect the glory of Tom Remsen's musical
miracle.
"We must get out of this," I found myself saying again, as I urged Mrs.
Jack toward the exit. "I'll send the carriage back for Tom."
"But it's such bad form to run away like this," protested Mrs. Jack.
"What will the president think of us? And Dr. Woodruff! Surely you
want to ask him what he thinks of the--ah--case."
But my will for the time being was stronger than hers, and presently we
were seated in my carriage, homeward bound, and I was fighting back the
hot tears that had rushed to my eyes.
"I--I--don't care what--what Dr. Woodruff thinks about the--the case," I
sobbed. "I--I--know what I think about it."
Mrs. Jack said nothing for a time, but it was pleasant to feel the
pressure of her hand and to realize that she could be tactful now and
again.
We had nearly reached the house before she ventured to ask: "And what,
my dear, do you think of the case?"
I pulled myself together and restrained my sobs. I am not of the
weeping variety of woman, and I was ashamed of my hysterical exhibition
of weakness.
"I think," I began, and then I hesitated, weighing my words
carefully--"I think that Signorina Molatti is in love with Tom."
Mrs. Jack laughed outright, both to my amazement and anger. "You've
wholly lost the scent, my dear," she remarked, while I removed my hand
from hers. "Signorina Molatti is not in love with Tom--she's in love
with Chopin."
*CHAPTER X.*
*TOM'S RECOVERY.*
At length the man perceives it die away
And fade into the light of common day.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
After rereading the foregoing deposition I am forced to the conclusion
that I was designed by nature neither for a novelist nor a historian. I
can see that my narrative fails to be convincing, considered either as a
work of fiction or as a statement of fact. But may I not comfort myself
with the thought that I have given my testimony conscientiously, and
that if the outcome of my literary efforts is unsatisfactory my failure
is due rather to the inexplicable phenomena with which I have been
obliged to deal than to my own defects as an annalist and witness? I
have endeavored to inscribe simply and in chronological order the
unadorned tale of my husband's sudden attack of genius and its
consequences, and I realize now that my data will not be accepted by the
scientific, nor will their arrangement appeal to the artistic. But I
have told the truth, and if not the whole truth, at least nothing but
the truth. As literature my story belongs to the realistic school and
is of the present. As a contribution to science it will have no
standing to-day, but I am firmly convinced that the psychologists of the
future will read the details of Tom Remsen's case with enlightened
interest.
I have felt too deeply the nervous strain of setting down in black and
white the story of the greatest crisis in my life to go into details
here and now regarding the ups and downs of the long illness that Tom
underwent after his triumphant appearance before the Chopin Society.
For two days before he collapsed I saw that he was fighting in grim
silence against weakness and fever. He was like a man struggling to
overcome an unnatural appetite and growing constantly more weary of the
contest. He would stroll with reluctant steps into the music-room,
stand for a time gazing defiantly at the piano, with his hands clenched
and beads of perspiration on his troubled brow; then he would turn away,
meeting my gaze with a melancholy smile, and hurry off to his office or
his club, to return to me after a time pale and listless, but always
stubbornly silent as to the cause of his evident suffering. Only once
before he was forced to take to his bed, where he tossed for a week in
delirium, did he refer, even indirectly, to the cause of his
disquietude.
"Has Signorina Molatti been here to-day?" he asked me, abruptly, one
evening at dinner.
"No, Tom," I answered, a note in my voice that I'm sure he did not like.
"Did you expect her?"
"I always expect her," he muttered, speaking more to himself than to me.
That evening the magnetism of the open piano in the music-room proved
irresistible to him. To my mingled consternation and delight he played
selections from Chopin until long after midnight, the while I sat behind
him fascinated by his renditions but appalled by the persistent
recurrence of his "seizures." "To-morrow," I said to myself, "I will
consult Dr. Woodruff again. Perhaps he has made his diagnosis and can
suggest some line of treatment."
But on the morrow Tom was in charge of our family doctor and two trained
nurses. The morning had found him hot with fever, and by noon he was
out of his head and inclined to be violent. Then followed days and
nights of alternating hope and fear, during which there came to me a
complete revelation of what the old Tom had been to me, the Tom who had
bored me at times--ungrateful woman that I was!--by his practical,
unimaginative, inartistic personality. How I treasured a word of
encouragement from the doctor or a nurse! How bitterly I repented my
former discontent, my disloyal longing for something in Tom's make-up
that nature had not vouchsafed to him! It had come to him--this
"something"--and it had well-nigh ruined our lives. Whatever it had
been, demoniac possession, hypnotism or what-not, it had been a thing of
evil, despite the uncanny beauty of its manifestation. In my heart of
hearts I craved one of two alternatives--either Tom's death or his
restoration to his former self, freed forever from the black shadow of
Chopin's genius.
It was not until one afternoon well on in his convalescence that I knew
my fondest hopes had been realized. We had betaken ourselves to the
library, not to read but to enjoy in an indolent way our new freedom
from trained nurses and the discipline of the sick-room. Tom, leaning
back comfortably in a reclining-chair and puffing a cigarette, wore on
his invalid's face an expression of supreme contentment. Not once, I
was glad to note, did his eyes wander to the distant shelf on which
stood our Chopin literature, books that I had doomed in my mind to an
_auto-da-fe_ when a fitting opportunity for the sacrifice should arise.
"Isn't this cozy?" remarked Tom, presently, glancing at me
affectionately. "But I suppose I must hasten my recovery, my dear. The
Pepper and Salt Trust and other enterprises don't take much stock in
sick men."
"Don't worry about business matters, Tom Remsen," I said, with playful
sternness. "We can get on very well if you never do another stroke of
work in your life."
A shadow passed over Tom's face, and he puffed his cigarette nervously.
"I'm not fitted for a life of leisure, my dear," he remarked, grimly.
"A man may get into so many kinds of mischief if he isn't busy."
I hastened to change the subject. "Remember, sir, that you are under
orders. You are to do as you are told to do. You may not know it, Tom,
but the fact is that you and I sail for Europe just as soon as you are
strong enough to stand the voyage."
"Where are we going?" he asked, apprehensively. "Not to Paris?"
"No, not to Paris," I answered, understanding him. "We'll spend all our
time in Scotland and Ireland. They're the only countries over there
that we have not seen, Tom."
The next day I discharged our butler for an indiscretion that he
committed at this moment.
"Signorina Molatti," he announced from the doorway of the library, and
turning my head I saw the violiniste, with her Cremona under her arm,
coming toward us. I glanced at Tom. The two red spots that had leaped
into his white cheeks seemed to be an outward manifestation, not of joy
but of hot anger. I rose and went toward our visitor, a question in my
face.
"Will you not forgiva me, signora?" cried Molatti, in soft, pleading
tones. "Eet ees what you calla vera bad form, but I hava been so vera
unhappy. They tolda me that Signor Remsen was dying. Can you not
forgiva me?"
"But he is on the road to recovery, signorina," I said, perfunctorily.
It would not do to give way to my inclination to chide this insinuating
girl for her presumption. A scene might cause Tom to have a relapse.
"I see," she cried. "And I am so glad! And I hava broughta my violin.
That the signor would lika to hear the voice of the _maestro_--"
"Stop right there, will you--ah--signorina," exclaimed Tom, gruffly,
endeavoring, as I saw, to control his annoyance and show no discourtesy
to even an unwelcome guest. "I'm not it, young woman. He's gone away,
whoever he was. If he comes back--which God forbid--I'll notify you.
But you won't catch me drumming any more on a piano. My musical career
is at an end. I'm under the care of a doctor, and he says that I'm on
the road to recovery. Forgive me if I have spoken too plainly. You're
a very charming young woman, and I admire your--ah--genius. But mine's
gone, and I'll take good care that it doesn't come back. If you'd like
that piano in the music-room, Signorina Molatti, I'm sure that my wife
would be glad to send it over to your apartments. We're through with
it--forever!"
I was sorry for the girl. The expression of amazement--even
horror--that had come into her dark, expressive face touched my heart,
and I laid my hand gently on her arm.
"It's a great mystery, signorina," I whispered to her, as I led her from
the library. "I can't explain it to you very clearly, for I don't
understand it myself. But Mr. Remsen told you the truth. He is no
longer musical. In his normal condition he is the most unmusical man in
the world. The Signor Remsen that you have known, with whom you have
played duets, is dead--I can hardly believe that he ever existed. Will
you, Signorina Molatti, grant me the great privilege of presenting to
you yonder piano? Frankly, it would be a great relief to me to be rid
of it."
There were tears in her splendid black eyes as she turned her face
toward me. "I do not understand," she said, mournfully. "You do not
know whata it all meant to me. I cannot taka your piano. There is
nobody in the wide world to playa eet, now that he ees gone. And you
are telling me the truth? I was dreaming? Eet did not really happen?
But, signora, there were so many who hearda heem--hearda me--hearda us!
Eet could not hava been a dream. Whata was eet?"
Her voice broke with a sob, and I bent down and kissed her tear-stained
face.
"I cannot tell you, signorina. But do not let your heart break. You
may find him again some day."
"Nevaire again," she sighed, seizing my hands impulsively. "Nevaire
again. But I thanka you so much. Fareawell."
My heart was heavy as I returned to Tom, uncertain of the state in which
I should find him. To my delight, I saw as I entered the library that he
had suddenly made a great stride toward renewed health. He was sitting
erect, and there was little of the invalid in his face or voice.
"That's over, my dear!" he cried, gaily, "and I'm going to celebrate
Chopin's utter rout. Order me a brandy and soda, will you?--and push
that box of cigars toward me. Then we'll read up a bit, little woman,
about Scotland and Ireland. On the whole, I'm inclined to believe you
and I will have a very jolly outing."
I leaned forward and kissed the dear fellow's smiling lips. "It's so
good to have you back again, Tom," I murmured.
"And the signorina?" he asked, presently. "How did she take it? I'm
afraid I was cruel to her, my dear. Did I speak too harshly to her?"
"You had no alternative, Tom," I assured him, soothingly; "you had been
placed in a very awkward position."
"I had--in a very awkward position," he acknowledged. "And who the
deuce put me there? I wonder----"
"Don't wonder, Tom," I cried, sharply. "The less wondering you do the
better it will be for us both."
"You're right, Winifred, as you always are," he said, raising aloft the
glass of bubbling brandy that the butler had brought to him, and nodding
toward me. "Here's your good health, my dear, and _bon voyage_ to us
both!"
*III.*
*Clarissa's Troublesome Baby.*
_For while the wheel of birth and death turns round,_
_Past things and thoughts, and buried lives come back,_
_I now remember, myriad rains ago,_
_What time I roamed Himala's hanging woods,_
_A tiger, with my striped and hungry kind._
_THE LIGHT OF ASIA._
*CLARISSA'S TROUBLESOME BABY.*
*CHAPTER I.*
*MY LATE HUSBAND.*
And while the wheel of birth and death turns round
That which hath been must be between us two.
--_Sir Edwin Arnold_.
I was alone in the nursery with the baby, a chubby boy whose eight
months of life had amazingly increased his weight and vigor, when I
heard the crack of doom issuing from his miniature mouth!
I wonder if your imagination is strong enough to put you, for a moment,
in my place. Suppose that you had dismissed the nurse for a time that
you might have a mother's frolic in the twilight with your only child,
the blessing that had come to you as a reward for marrying again after
five years of widowhood. Suppose that the baby, opening his little eyes
to their widest extent, had said to you, as my baby said to me:
"You don't seem to recognize me, my dear, but I've come back to you."
Wedded to Tom, already jealous of your maternal fondness for the boy,
what effect would Jack's voice, silenced five years ago by death, have
had upon you, rising in gruff maturity from a baby's tiny throat? Was
it strange that I came within a hair's breadth of dropping the uncanny
child to the floor? Mechanically I glanced over my shoulder, in cold
dread lest the nurse might return at any moment. Then I found courage
to glance down into the baby's upturned face. There was something in the
child's eyes so old and wise that I realized my ears had not deceived
me--I had not been the victim of an hallucination resulting from the
strain of an afternoon of calls and teas. The conviction came to me,
like an icy douche, that I was standing there in a stunning afternoon
costume, holding my first husband in my arms, and liable to let him fall
if our weird _tete-a-tete_ should be sharply interrupted.
"You aren't glad to see me," grumbled Jack, wiggling uneasily against my
gloves and coat. "But it isn't my fault that I'm here, Clarissa. There's
a lot of reincarnation going on, you know, and a fellow has to take his
chances."
Softly, I stole to a chair and seated myself, holding the baby on my
trembling knees.
"Are you--are you--comfortable, Jack?" I managed to whisper,
falteringly, the thought flashing through my mind that I had gone
suddenly insane.
"Keep quiet, can't you?" he pleaded. "Don't shake so! I'm not a
rattle-box. I wish you'd tell the nurse, Clarissa, to put a stick in my
milk, will you? There's a horrible sameness to my present diet that is
absolutely cloying. Will you stop shaking? I can't stand it."
By a strong effort of will I controlled my nervous tremors, glancing
apprehensively at the door through which the nurse must presently
return.
"There, that's better," commented Jack, contentedly. "You don't know
much about us, do you, Clarissa?"
"About--about--who?" I gasped, wondering if he meant spirits.
"About babies," he said, with a wiggle and a chuckle that both attracted
and repelled me. "Where's your handkerchief? Wipe my nose--pardon me,
Clarissa, that sounds vulgar, doesn't it? But what the deuce am I to
do? I'm absolutely helpless, don't you know?"
I could feel the tears near my eyes, as I gently touched the puckered
baby face with a bit of lace.
"There was only one chance in ten thousand millions that I should come
here," went on Jack, apologetically. "It's tough on you, Clarissa. Do
you think that you can stand it? I've heard the nurse say that I make a
pretty good baby."
I sat speechless for a time, trying to adapt myself to new conditions so
startling and fantastic that I expected to waken presently from a
dream--a dream that promised to become a nightmare. But there was an
infernal realism about the whole affair that had impressed me from the
first. Jack's matter-of-fact way of accepting the situation was so
strikingly characteristic of him that I had felt, at once, a strong
temptation to laugh aloud.
"I want you to make me a promise, Clarissa," he said, presently, seizing
one of my gloved fingers with his fat little dimpled hand and making
queer mouths, as if he were trying to whistle. "You won't tell--ah--Tom,
will you? He wouldn't understand it at all. I don't myself, and I've
been through it, don't you see? In a way, of course, it's mighty bad
form. I know that. I feel it deeply. But I was powerless, Clarissa.
You know I never took any stock in those Oriental philosophies. I was
always laughing at Buddhism, metempsychosis, and that kind of thing.
But there's really something in it, don't you think? Keep quiet, will
you? You're shaking me up again."
"There's more in it than I had ever imagined, Jack," I remarked,
gloomily. "Of course, I'll say nothing to Tom about it. It'll have to
be our secret. I understand that."
"You'll have to be very careful about what you call me before people,
Clarissa," said the baby, presently. "My name's Horatio, isn't it? What
the dickens did you call me that for? I always hated the name Horatio."
"It was Tom's choice," I murmured. "I'm sorry you don't like it--Jack."
"If you called me 'Jack' for short--no, that wouldn't do. Tom wouldn't
like it, would he? Your handkerchief again, please. Thank you, my dear.
By the way, Clarissa, I wish you'd tell the nurse that she gets my bath
too hot in the morning. I'd like a cold shower, if she doesn't mind."
"You'll have to adapt yourself to circumstances, my child," I remarked,
wearily, wondering if this horrible ordeal would never come to an end.
I longed to get away by myself, to think it all over and quiet my
nerves, if possible, before I should be forced to meet Tom at dinner.
"Adapt myself to circumstances!" exclaimed Jack, bitterly, kicking
savagely with his tiny feet at his long white gown. "Don't get
sarcastic, Clarissa, or I'll yell. If I told the nurse the truth,
where'd you be?"
"Jack!" I cried, in consternation. There seemed to be a hideous threat
in his words.
"You'd better call me Horatio, for practice," he said, calmly, but I
could feel him chuckling against my arm. "I'll get used to it after a
time. But it's a fool name, just the same. How about the cold shower?"
"Jack," I said, angrily, "I'll put you in your crib and leave you alone
in the dark if you annoy me. You must be good! Your nurse knows what
kind of a bath you should have."
"And she'll know who I am, if you leave me here alone, Clarissa," he
exclaimed, doubling up his funny little fists and shaking them in the
air. "I've got the whip-hand of you, my dear, even if I am only a baby.
By the way, Clarissa, how old am I?"