“Here it is,” he continued, putting the violin into my hands.
It was a beautiful instrument from an optical standpoint. What remained
of the varnish was ruddy and crystalline, and as smooth as amber.
The curves were exquisite. It was also either genuinely old or a
marvelous imitation. Its interior was dark and dirty—an excellent
condition. I could descry no label there—another favorable sign. Was
it indeed a Stradivari? Formerly it had been an ambition of mine to
play upon a Stradivari; an ambition which I had never had a chance to
gratify, because among the dozen so-called Stradivaris that I had come
upon here and there, I had found not one but betrayed its fraudulent
origin from the instant the bow was drawn across the strings. Something
of the old feeling revived in me as I held this instrument in my hands,
and before I had thought, my finger mechanically picked the A string.
The clear, bell-like tone that responded, caused me to start. I had
never heard such a tone as this produced before by the mere picking of a
string.
“I believe you have a treasure here,” I exclaimed. “I’m not
connoisseur enough to say whether it is a Stradivari; but whoever its
maker was, it’s a superb instrument.”
“Do you really think so?” cried Merivale. “Try it with the bow.”
He thrust the bow upon me. Without allowing myself time to hesitate, I
touched the bow to the strings: the result was a voice from heaven, so
clear, so broad, so sweet, of such magnetic quality, that it actually
frightened me, made my heart palpitate, summoned a myriad dead emotions
back to life. And yet I felt an irresistible temptation to continue, to
push the experiment at least a trifle further.
“Tune it up,” said Merivale.
I complied. That was the final stroke. After I had drawn the bow for
a second time across the cat-gut, there was no resisting. I lost
possession of myself: ere I knew it, I was pouring my life out through
the wonderful voice of the Stradivari.
I don’t remember what I played. Most probably it was a medley of
reminiscences. I only remember that for the first few minutes I suffered
the tortures of the damned—an army of devils were tugging at my
heart-strings—and withal I had no power to restrain the motion of
my arm and lay the violin aside. Then, I remember, the pain gradually
turned to pleasure, to an immense sense of relief, as though all the woe
pent up in the recesses of my soul had suddenly found an outlet and was
gushing forth in a tremendous flood of sound. As I felt it ebbing away,
like a poison let loose from my veins, somehow time and space were
annihilated, facts were undone, truth changed to falsehood. Veronika and
I were alone together in the pure realm of spirit while I told her in
the million tempestuous variations of my music the whole story of my
sorrow and my adoration. I listened to the music precisely as though it
had been played by another person; I heard it grow soft and softer and
melt into a scarcely audible whisper; I heard it soar away into mighty,
passionate crescendi; I heard it modulate swiftly from prayerful minor
to triumphant, defiant major; I heard it laugh like a child, plead like
a lover, sob like Mary at the tomb of Christ; I heard it wax wrathful
like a God in anger. And I—I was caught up and borne away and tossed
from high to low by it like a leaf on the bosom of the ocean. And at
last I heard the sharp retort of a breaking string; and I sank into a
chair, exhausted.
I think I must have come very near to fainting. When I gathered together
my senses and opened my eyes I was weak, nerveless, bewildered. Merivale
stood in front of me, his gaze fixed upon my face.
“In God’s name,” I heard him say, “tell me what you are. Such
music as you have played upsets all my established notions, undermines
my philosophy, forces me back in spite of myself to a belief in
witchcraft and magic. Are you a Merlin? Have you indeed the secret of
enchantment? It is hardly credible that simple human genius wove that
wonderful web of melody—which has at last come to an end, thank
heaven! If I had had to listen a moment longer, I should have broken
down. The strain was too intense. You have taken me with you through
hell and heaven.”
Still weak and nerveless, I could not command my voice.
“You are faint,” he exclaimed. “The effort has tired you out. No
wonder: here—drink this.” He held a glass to my lips. I drank its
contents. Presently I felt a glow of warmth radiating through my limbs.
Then I was able to stir and to speak.
“Through hell and heaven,” I repeated, echoing his words. “Yes, we
have been through hell and heaven.”
“It was a frightful experience,” he added, “more than I bargained
for when I asked you to play.”
“You must forgive me; I was carried away; I had no intention of
harrowing you, but I had not played for so long a time that my emotions
got the best of me.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that,” he protested. “It was a frightful
experience, but it was one I would not have missed. I had never dreamed
that music could work such an effect upon me; but now I can understand
the ardor with which musicians love their art; I can understand the
claims they make in its behalf. It is indeed the most powerful influence
that can be brought to bear upon the feelings. For my part I never was
so deeply moved before—not even by Dante. But tell me, how did you
acquire your wonderful skill? What must your life have been in order
that you should play like that?”
“Of ‘wonderful skill’ I have little enough. Tonight perhaps
I played with a certain enthusiasm because I was excited. But you
attribute too much to me. A musician would have descried a score of
faults. My technique has deserted me; but even when I used to practice
regularly, I occupied a very low grade in my profession.”
“I care not how you used to play, nor how you were rated, nor how
faulty your technique may be. You play now with a force that is more
than human. I am not given either to flattery or to exaggeration, and I
am not easily stirred up. But you have stirred me up, clear down to
the marrow of my bones. Perhaps these two years of abstinence have but
ripened the genius that was already in you—allowed it time to ferment.
Tell me, what depths of joy and sorrow have you sounded to gather the
secrets you have just revealed with your violin? What has your life
been?”
“My life has been a very simple one, and for the most part very
prosaic.”
“You might as well call the sun cold, the sea motionless, as pretend
that your life has been prosaic. Friend, the only element that gives
life and magnetism to art is profound, human truth That which touches us
in a picture, a poem, or a symphony, is its likeness to the truth, its
nature, especially its human nature. That is what makes Wilhelm Meister
a powerful book, because each page is written, so to speak, in human
blood. That is what makes Titian’s Assumption a great picture, because
the agony in the Madonna’s face is true human agony. And that is what
gave your music of a moment since the power to pierce the very innermost
of my heart-because it was true music the expression of true human
passion. Tell me, what manner of life have you lived, to learn so much
of the deep things of human experience?”
I looked into his clear, earnest eyes. They shone with a sympathy that
fell as balm upon my wounds. An impulse that I could not battle with
unsealed my lips. I told him my whole story from first to last.
Some of the time, as I was speaking, he sat motionless with his brow
buried in his hands. Some of the time he paced up and down the floor. He
smoked constantly. Twice or thrice he extended his palm to bid me pause,
indicating by nodding his head when he wished me to go on. Not once
did he verbally interrupt, nor for a long while after I had done did he
speak.
By and by he grasped my hand and wrenched it hard and said,
“Will—will you understand by my silence what I feel? It would be
sacrilege for me to talk about this thing. I—I—oh, what a fool I am
to open my mouth!”
But presently he cried, “The injustice, the humiliation, that you have
been put to! It is shameful. To think that they dared to try you, as
though the mere sight of your face was not sufficient to prove you
incapable of the first thought of crime! But I can understand your
motive for not wishing to hunt the Marshalls down. Only of this I am
sure, that if there is any such thing as equity in this world, some day
their guilt will be made manifest and they will receive the chastisement
which they deserve. Oh, how you have suffered! I tell you, it sobers a
man, it reminds him of the seriousness of things, the spectacle of such
a colossal sorrow as yours has been.”
Again silence. Eventually he crossed over to the window and sent the
curtains rattling across their pole. It was getting light outside. I
pulled myself together. Rising, “Well,” I said, “good-by. My visit
to you has been like a sojourn in another world. Now, I must return to
my own dreary sphere. Forgive me if I have wearied you with all this
talk about myself. I seemed to speak without meaning to—involuntarily.
Once started, I could not have stopped myself, had I tried.”
“Don’t speak like that,” he rejoined hastily and with a look of
reproach. “Don’t make me feel that you repent your confidence. It
was only right, only natural, that you should unbosom yourself to me.
It was the consecration of our friendship. Friendship is never complete
until it has been tested in the fire of sorrow. Mere companionship in
pleasure is not friendship. No matter how intimately we might have seen
each other, we should never have been friends until you had told me
this.—Moreover, don’t get up. You must not think of going away as
yet.”
“As yet? Why, I have outstaid the night itself. I must make haste or I
shall be behindhand at the shop.”
“You must not think of returning to the shop to-day. You must go to
bed and have some sleep. When you awake again I shall have a proposition
to lay before you. For the present follow me—”
“But Mr. Merivale—”
“But I anticipate your objections. But they are worthless. But
the shop may, and I devoutly hope it will, be struck by lightning.
Furthermore, if you are anxious about it, I’ll send word around to the
effect that you’re unwell and not able to report for duty. That’s
the truth. But any how I have a particular reason for wanting to
keep possession of you for a while longer. Now, be tractable—as an
indulgence, do what I ask.”
There was no resisting the appeal in Merivale’s big blue eyes. I
followed him as he desired. He led me into the adjoining room, where
there were two narrow brass bedsteads side by side.
“You see,” he said, “I was prepared for you. Here is your couch,
ready for your reception. It’s rather odd about this. I’m a great
hand for presentiments: and experience has taught me to believe in their
coming true. When I took these quarters I said to myself, ‘Pythias,
the Damon you have been waiting for all these years will arrive while
you are bivouacked here. Be therefore in a condition to welcome him
properly.’ I don’t know why, but I was thoroughly persuaded, I felt
in my bones, that Damon’s advent would occur during my occupancy of
these rooms. So I bought two bedsteads and two dressing-stands instead
of one. I have got the heroes of the old legend somewhat mixed up;
can’t remember which was which: but I trust I’m not egotistic in
assigning the part of Damon to you and keeping that of Pythias for
myself. At any rate, it’s a mere figure of speech, and as such must
be taken. Now, Damon or Pythias, whichever you may be, in begging you to
make yourself comfortable here, I am simply inviting you to partake of
your own.”
As he rattled on thus, he had produced sheets and blankets from a chest
of drawers near at hand, and now was making the bed with the deftness of
an expert.
“There,” he exclaimed, bestowing a farewell poke upon the pillow,
“now go to bed with a clear conscience and a mind at peace. I shall
speedily follow. In the morning—I mean in the afternoon—we will
resume our session.”
He had the delicacy to leave me alone. I was too fatigued to reason
about what I was doing. I undressed quickly, got into bed, and fell
sound asleep.
The sunlight was streaming through the window when I awoke. Merivale was
seated upon the foot of the bed.
“Ah,” he cried, as I opened my eyes, “welcome back!”
“Eh, how?” I queried, perplexed for the moment. “Oh yes; I
remember. Have I been asleep long?”
“So long that I thought you were never going to wake up. It’s past
four in the afternoon, and you have been sleeping steadily since six
this morning. I had the utmost hardship in subduing my impatience. Ten
solid hours of sleep! You must have been thoroughly exhausted.”
“You ought to have roused me. One can gorge one’s system with sleep
as easily as with food. I have slept too much. But—but how shall I
ever make amends at the shop?”
“Bother the shop! The shop no longer exists. I have caused its
annihilation during the day.”
“Have you Aladdin’s lamp?
“I have a substitute for it, at least. The shop has been transported
to Alaska.”
“That was unkind of you. Now I shall have to undergo the expense of
a journey thither. Besides, I prefer a more temperate climate.—But
seriously, did you send word as you agreed to?”
“I saw Herr Schwartz personally.”
“Ah, that was very thoughtful. Did you succeed in appeasing him?”
“I told him that you wished to resign your position; and when he began
to splutter, I added that in consideration of the trouble he would be
put to, you were willing to forgive him whatever back pay he owed you;
and when he declared that he owed you no back pay at all, I said you
would be willing to forgive him any way on general principles, and think
no more about it. Then I ordered beer and cigars and pronounced
the magic syllable ‘selbst’ and in the end he appeared quite
reconciled.”
“Nonsense. Be serious. What did you say?”
“I am serious. That is what I said precisely.”
“What, you—oh come, you can’t be in earnest.”
“But I assure you I am in earnest, never was more in earnest in my
life. You don’t really imagine that I am going to let you ‘stand and
wait’ any longer, do you?”
“I don’t very clearly see how you are going to prevent it. I have
my livelihood to earn. I can’t afford to throw up my employment in the
cavalier manner you propose. It’s ridiculous.”
“I can prevent it and I will prevent it. How? By the power of
friendship, by appealing to your heart and to your reason. As for your
livelihood, I have found you a new occupation, one more befitting your
character. Henceforward you are to be a private secretary.”
“Whose private secretary?”
“Never mind whose—or rather, you will learn whose, presently. First,
accustom your mind to the abstract idea.”
“Really, Merivale, you are outrageous. I don’t know why I’m not
indignant. You meddle with my affairs as if they were your own. You have
no right to do so. And yet I am not angry. I must be totally devoid of
spunk. But nevertheless I shan’t abide by your proceedings. As soon as
I am dressed I shall return to the shop and beg Herr Schwartz to take me
back.”
“I forbid it.”
“I am sorry, but I must defy your prohibition. By the way, may I
inquire your authority?”
“Certainly. It is every man’s authority to restrain a lunatic. Your
notion of returning to that wine-shop is downright lunacy. Besides, have
I not provided you with new employment?”
“But it is a sort of employment which I don’t wish to undertake. I
prefer work that will leave my mind disengaged. You ought to understand
that in my position one has no heart for any but manual labor.”
“I think I understand perfectly, better indeed than you yourself.
I understand that while the first shock of your grief lasted it was
natural for you to take up the first employment that you chanced upon,
no matter what it was. But I understand now that it is high time for you
to come back to your proper level. An occupation which leaves your
mind disengaged is precisely the very worst you could have. With
all appreciation of the magnitude of your bereavement, and with all
reverence for your fidelity to your betrothed, I say that it is wrong of
you to brood over your troubles. I am not brute enough to advise you
to court oblivion; but a grief loses its dignity, becomes a species of
egotism, by constantly brooding over it. It is our duty in this world
to accept the inevitable with the best grace possible, and to make
ourselves as comfortable as under the circumstances we can. But over and
above that consideration there is this, that no man has a right to do
work that is unworthy of him. It degrades himself and it robs society.
Every man is bound to do his best work, to accomplish his highest
usefulness. What would you say of a Newton who had abandoned mathematics
to drive a plow? You are as much subject to the general moral law as the
rest of us. You were sent into this world to contribute your quota to
the sum of human happiness; and your art was permitted you only on the
condition that you should cultivate it for the benefit of your fellow
creatures. And yet, you propose to do the business of a common waiter in
a wretched little brasserie. Now, I won’t urge you to return to music
forthwith, because I know you suffer too keenly while you are playing.
But I will say: Remember that you are a gentleman and that you are
actually stealing from society by doing that which your inferiors could
do as well. For the present, accept the situation of private secretary
that I have procured for you. It will be a stepping-stone toward your
proper place. You see, I can be a preacher on occasions.
“And your sermon, I confess, is a wholesome one.”
“Then you will consider the secretaryship?
“I will consider whatever you wish me to. I will be guided by your
common sense.”
“Good! Now get up and dress.”
He left the room. As I dressed I thought over the sermon he had
preached. I could not gainsay its truth. Yet on the other hand I could
not contemplate a changed mode of life without flinching. Two years of
moral illness had undermined my moral courage. I wondered who my new
employer was to be. I dreaded meeting him not a little. Thinking over
the confidences of the night, I experienced no regret. Indeed I was glad
to realize that I was no longer altogether alone in the world. Merivale
had inspired me with an enthusiasm.
“What a splendid fellow he is!” I exclaimed.
“If he and I could only remain together I believe I should find my
life worth living. It is marvelous, the faculty he has for making me
forget myself. I suppose it is due to his animal spirits, his healthy
temperament. He is as vigorous and bracing as a whiff of the west wind
full in one’s face.”
I had never had a friend before. I relished my first taste of
friendship.
Meantime I was preparing my toilet. In the midst of it Merivale came
into the room.
“I suppose you know who your future master is to be?” he asked.
“No—how should I know?”
“Oh, you obtuse blockhead! You————”
“It isn’t—you don’t mean to say—” I began, a suspicion of
the truth dawning upon me.
“Exactly! That is the precise sum and substance of what I mean to say.
I mean to say that I’m in need of somebody to help me in certain work
that I’m doing. The need is a real one, not an artificial one trumped
up for the occasion. I have plenty of cash and am ready to pay what is
just for my assistant’s time. You on the other hand are looking about
fora means of subsistence. At the same time, luckily, you are just the
person to suit my purpose. Hence, as a pure matter of business, I say,
Shall we strike a bargain? You are going to be sensible and answer, Yes.
Wherefore it only remains for me to explain the nature of the work and
thus to convince you that you are not going to draw the salary of a
sinecure.”
“If this is really true,” I said, “I can’t help telling you that
nothing could make me happier. If I can really be of service to you, and
if we can really arrange to keep as closely together as such work would
bring us, why, my contentment will be greater than I can say.”
“Then come into the next room and judge for yourself.”
We passed into the sitting-room. Merivale drew up to a table near the
window and taking a pen in his hand said, “Look.”
He tried the pen’s nib upon the nail of his thumb, dipped it into an
inkstand, and applied it to a blank sheet of paper. Then his fingers
began to work laboriously to and fro, with the result of tracing a
scarcely legible scrawl. One could, however, by dint of taxing the
imagination, make out these words: “Good friend, to end all doubt
about the present matter, learn by this that a penman’s palsy shakes
my fist, and furthermore, that I inherit a lamentable tendency to gout
in the wrist.”
“Scrivener’s palsy and gout combined,” he added verbally, “and
yet I am going to publish a volume of poems in the spring. They’re
all down on paper, but no one can decipher them except myself; and if I
should be carried off some day unexpectedly, think what the world would
lose! My idea is to dictate them to you. We will work from nine till one
every day, and devote the rest of our time to relaxation.”
“But you take my handwriting for granted,” I interposed.
“I think I am safe in doing so,” he replied. “But give me a
sample.”