a blooming thing--that is, he didn't if he existed."
"Oh, my eyes," said the Youngster. "I am disappointed again. I thought
that was a simon-pure newspaper yarn--one of your reporter's
dodges--real journalese!"
"She is true enough," answered the Journalist, "and her feet are true,
and so is her red hair, and, unless she is a liar, and most actresses
are, so is he and her origin, but as for the way she cut him
out--well, I had to make that up. It is better than any of the six
tales she told as many interviewers, in strict secrecy, in the days
when she was collecting hearts and jewels and midnight suppers in New
York."
"Is she still there?" asked the Youngster, "because if she is, I'll go
back and take a look at Dora myself--after the war!"
"Well, Youngster," laughed the Journalist, "it will have to be 'after
the war,' as you will probably have to go to Berlin to find her."
"That's all right!" retorted the Youngster. "I _am_ going--with the
Allied armies."
We all jumped up.
"No!" cried the Divorcée. "No!!"
"But I am. Where's the good of keeping it secret? I enlisted the day I
went to Paris the first time--so did the Doctor, so did the Critic,
and so did _he_, the innocent looking old blackguard," and he seized
the Journalist by both shoulders and shook him well. "He thought we
wouldn't find it out."
"Oh, well," said the Journalist, "when one has seen three wars, one
may as well see one more.--This will surely be my last."
"Anyway," cried the Youngster, "we'll see it all round--the Doctor in
the Field Ambulance, me in the air, the Critic is going to lug
litters, and as for the Journalist--well, I'll bet it's secret service
for him! Oh, I know you are not going to tell, but I saw you coming
out of the English Embassy, and I'll bet my machine you've a ticket
for London, and a letter to the Chief in your pocket."
"Bet away," said the Critic.
"What'd I tell you--what'd I tell you? He speaks every God-blessed
language going, and if it wasn't that, he'd tell fast enough."
"Never mind," said the Trained Nurse, "so that he goes somewhere--with
the rest of us."
"You--YOU?" exclaimed the Divorcée.
"Why not? I was trained for this sort of thing. This is my chance."
"And the rest of us?"
The Doctor intervened. "See here, this is forty-eight hours or more
earlier than I meant this matter to come up. I might have known the
Youngster could not hold his tongue."
"I've been bursting for three days."
"Well, you've burst now, and I hope you are content. There is nothing
to worry about, yet. We fellows are leaving September 1st. The roads
are all clear, and it was my idea that we should all start for Paris
together early next Tuesday morning. I don't know what the rest of you
want to do, but I advise _you_," turning to the Divorcée, "to go back
to the States. You would not be a bit of good here. You may be there."
"You are quite right," she replied sadly. "I'd be worse than no good.
I'd need 'first aid,' at the first shot."
"I'm going with her," said the Sculptor. "I'd be more useless than she
would." And he turned a questioning look at the Lawyer.
"I must go back. I've business to attend to. Anyway, I'd be an
encumbrance here. I may be useful there. Who knows?"
As for me, every one knew what I proposed to do, and that left every
one accounted for except the Violinist. He had been in his favorite
attitude by the tree, just as he had been on that evening when it had
been proposed to "tell stories," gazing first at one and then at
another, as the hurried conversation went on.
"Well," he said, finding all eyes turned on him, "I am going to London
with the Journalist--if he is really going."
"All right, I am," was the reply.
"And from London I shall get to St. Petersburg. I have a dream that
out of all this something may happen to Poland. If it does, I propose
to be there. I'll be no good at holding a gun--I could never fire one.
But if, by some miracle, there comes out of this any chance for the
'Fair Land of Poland' to crawl out, or be dragged out, from under the
feet of the invader--well, I'll go _home_--and--and--"
He hesitated.
"And grow up with the country," shouted the Youngster. "Bully for
you."
"I may only go back to fiddle over the ruins. But who knows? At all
events, I'll go back and carry with me all that your country had done
for three generations of my family. They'll need it."
"Well," said the Doctor, "that is all settled. Enough for to-night.
We'll still have one or two, and it may be three days left together.
Let us make the most of them. They will never come again."
"And to think what a lovely summer we had planned," sighed the
Divorcée.
"Tush!" ejaculated the Doctor. "We had a lovely time all last year. As
for this summer, I imagine that it has been far finer than what we
planned. Anyway, let us be thankful that it was _this_ summer that we
all found one another again."
"Better go to bed," cried the Critic; "the Doctor is getting
sentimental--a bad sign in an army surgeon."
"I don't know," remarked the Trained Nurse; "I've seen those that were
more sentimental than the Journalist, and none the worse for it."
IX
THE VIOLINIST'S STORY
THE SOUL OF THE SONG
THE TALE OF A FIANCÉE
On Saturday most of the men made a run into Paris.
It had finally been decided as best that, if all went well, we should
leave for Paris some time the next day. There were steamer tickets to
attend to. There were certain valuables to be taken up to the Bank.
The Divorcée had a trunk or two that she thought she ought to send in
order that we might start with as little luggage as possible, so both
chauffeurs were sent up to town with baggage, and orders to wait
there. The rest of us had been busy doing a little in the way of
dismantling the house. The unexpected end of our summer had come. It
was sad, but I imagine none of us were sorry, under the circumstances,
to move on.
It was nearly dinner time when the cars came back, almost together,
and we were surprised to see the Doctor going out to the servants'
quarters instead of joining us as he usually did. In fact, we did not
see him until we went into the dining room for dinner.
As he came to the head of the table, he said: "My good people, we will
serve ourselves as best we can with the cook's aid. We have no
waitress to-night. But it is our last dinner. A camp under marching
orders cannot fuss over trifles."
"Where is Angéle?" asked the Divorcée. "Is she ill?" And she turned to
the door.
"Come back!" said the Doctor, sharply. "You can't help her now. Better
leave her alone!"
As if by instinct, we all knew what had happened.
"Who brought the news?" some one asked.
"They gave it to me at the _Mairie_ as I passed," replied the Doctor,
"and the _garde champêtre_ told me what the envelope contained. He
fell at Charleroi."
"Poor Angéle," exclaimed the Trained Nurse. "Are you sure I could not
help her?"
"Sure," said the Doctor. "She took it as a Frenchwoman should. She
snatched the baby from its cradle, and held it a moment close to her
face. Then she lifted it above her head in both hands, and said,
almost without a choke in her throat, _'Vive la France, quand
même!_'--and dropped. I put them on the bed together, she and the boy.
She was crying like a good one when I left her. She's all right."
"Poor child--and that tiny baby!" exclaimed the Divorcée, wiping her
eyes.
"Fudge," said the Doctor. "She is the widow of a hero, and the mother
of the hero's son. Considering what life is, that is to be one of the
elect of Fate. She'll go through life with a halo round her head, and,
like most of the French women I have seen, she'll wear it like a
crown. It becomes us, in the same spirit, to partake of the food
before us. This life is a wonderful spectacle. If you saw an episode
like that in a drama, at the theatre, you would all cheer like mad."
We knew he was right.
But the Youngster could not help adding, "That's twice--two days
running, that the Doctor has told a story out of his turn, and both
times he outraged the consign, for both times it was a war story."
That seemed to break the ice. We talked more or less war during
dinner, but this time there were no disputes. Still I think we were
glad when the cook trotted in with the trays, and with our elbows on
the table, we turned toward the Violinist, who leaned against the high
back of his chair, and with his long white hands resting on the carved
arms, and his eyes on the ceiling--an attitude that he did not change
during the narrative, began:
* * * * *
It was in the early eighties that I returned from Germany to my native
land, and settled myself and my violin in the city of my birth.
I was not rich as my countrymen judge wealth, but, in my own
estimation, I was well to do. I had enough to live without labor, and
was, therefore, able to devote myself to my art without considering
too closely the recompense.
In addition to that, I was still young.
I had more love for my chosen mistress--Music--than the Goddess had
for me, for, while she accepted my worship with indulgence, she wasted
fewer gifts on me than fell to the lot of many a less faithful
follower.
Still, I was happy and content in my love for her, and only needed her
to keep me so until, a year after my return, I met one woman, loved
her, and begged her to share with my music, my heart, and its
adoration.
That satisfied her, since, in her own love for the same art, she used
to assure me that she possessed, by proxy, that other half of myself
which I still dedicated to the Muse.
Perhaps it was the vibrant spirit of this woman which seemed musical
to me, and which I so ardently loved, for she appeared to have a
veritable violin soul. Her face was often the medium through which I
saw the spirit of the music I was playing, as it sang in gladness,
sobbed in sadness, thrilled in passion along the strings of my Amati.
I knew that I never played so well as when her face was before me. I
felt that if ever I approached my dreams in achievement, it would be
her soul that inspired me. So like was she, in my fancy, to a musical
instrument, that I used to tell her, when the wind swept across her
burnished hair, that the air was full of melody. And when she looked
especially ethereal--as she did at times--I would catch her in my
arms, and bid her tell me, on peril of her life, what song was hidden
in her heart, that I might teach it to my violin, and die great. Yet,
remarkable as it seems to me still, the Spirit of Music that surely
dwelt within her, dwelt there a dumb prisoner. It had no audible
voice, though I was not alone in feeling its presence in her eyes, on
her lips, in her spiritual charm.
She had a voice that was melody itself, yet she never sang. I always
fancied her hands were a musician's hands, yet she never played. This
was the more singular as her mother had been a great singer, and her
father, while he had never risen above the desk of _chef d'orchestre_
in a local playhouse, was no mean musician.
Often, when the charm of her spirit was on me, I would pretend to
weave a spell about her, and conjure the spirit that was imprisoned in
the heart that was mine, to come forth from the shrine he was so
impudently usurping.
Ah, those were the days of my youth!
We had been betrothed but a brief time when Rodriguez, for some
seasons a European celebrity, made his first appearance in our city.
I had heard most of the great violinists of that time, had known some
of them well, had played with many of them, as I did later with
Rodriguez, but I had never chanced to see or hear him.
His fame had, however, preceded him. The newspapers were full of him.
Faster even than the tales of his genius had travelled the tales of
his follies--tales that out-Don-Juaned the famous rake of tradition.
However little credence one gives to such reports--mad stories of a
scandalous nature--these repeated episodes of excesses, only tolerated
in the conspicuous, do color one's expectations. I suppose that, being
young, I expected to see a man whose face would bear the brand of his
errors as well as the stamp of his genius.
That was not Rodriguez's fate. Whatever the temperamental struggle had
been, he was "take him for all in all," the least disappointing famous
man that my experience had ever shown me. He was more virile than
handsome, and no more æsthetic to look at than he was ascetic. At
that time he was on the sunny side of forty, and not yet at the zenith
of his great career. His face was fine, manly, and sympathetic. His
brow was broad, his eyes deep-set and widely spaced, but very heavy
lidded. The mouth and chin were, I must own, too delicate and
sensitive for the rest of the face. His dark hair, young as he was,
had streaks of grey. In bearing he was so erect, so sufficient, that
he seemed taller than he was. If he had the vanity which so often goes
with his kind of temperament, it was most cleverly concealed. Safe in
the dignified consciousness of his unquestioned gifts, secure in his
achievements, he had a winning gentleness, and an engaging manner
difficult to resist.
But for a singular magnetic light in his eyes, which belied the calm
of his bearing, when he chanced to raise the heavy lids full on
one--they usually drooped a little--but for a sensitive quiver along
the too full lips, as if they still trembled from the caress of
genius--the royal accolade of greatness--he might have looked to me,
as he did to many, more the diplomat than the artist.
It would be useless for me to analyse his command of his instrument.
I could not. It would be superfluous for me to recount his triumphs.
They are too recent to have been forgotten. Both tasks have, moreover,
been done better than I could do either.
This I can do, however, bear witness to the glowing wings of hope, of
longing, of aspiration which his singing violin lent to hearts
oppressed by commonplace every-day cares, to the moments of courage,
of re-awakened endeavor which he inspired in his fellowmen, to the
marvellous magnetism of his playing which seemed for the moment to
restore to a soul-weary world its illusions, and to strike off the
fetters of despondency which bind mortality to earth.
It was not alone the musically intelligent who felt this, for his
playing had a universal appeal. Thorough musicians marvelled at and
envied him his mastery of the details of his art, but it seemed to me
that those who knew least of its technique were equally open to his
influence.
I don't presume to explain this. I merely record it. There were those
who analysed the fact, and explained it on the ground of animal
magnetism. For myself, I only know that, as the magic music which
Hunold Singref played in the streets of Hamelin, whispered in the ears
of little children words of promise, of happiness, of comfort that
none others could hear, so, to the emotional heart, Rodriguez's violin
spoke a special message.
The man who sets the faces of the throng upward, and lights their eyes
with the magic fire of hope, has surely not lived in vain, whatever
personal offerings he may have made on the altar of his genius to keep
alive the eternal spark. It cannot be denied that Art has fulfilled
some part of its mission on earth, if, but for one hour, thousands,
marshalled by its music, as the children of Israel by the pillar of
flame, have looked above the dull atmosphere where pain and loss and
sorrow are, to feel in themselves that divine longing which is
ecstasy, that soaring of the spirit which, in casting off fear and
rising above doubt, can cry out in joy, "Oh, blessed spark of
Hope--this soul which can so rise above sorrow, so mount above the
body, must be immortal. This which can so cast off care cannot die!"
All the great acts of life, and all the great arts, are purely
emotional. I know that modern cults deny this, and work to see
everything gauged by reason. But thus far musicians and painters,
preachers and orators all approach their goal by the road to the
emotions--if they hope to win the big world. Patriotism,
fidelity--love of country, like love of woman--are emotions, and it
would puzzle logicians, I am afraid, to be sure that these emotions,
at times sublime, might not be as sensual as some of Rodriguez's
critics found his music.
* * * * *
The series of concerts he gave was very exhausting to me, owing to the
novelty of some of his programs, and the constant rehearsals. The
final concert found me quite worn out.
During the latter part of the evening I had been too weary to even
raise my eyes to the balcony in front of me, where, from my position
among the first violins, I could see the fair face of my beloved.
The evening had been a great triumph, and when it was all over the
audience was quite mad with enthusiasm. It was one of Rodriguez's
inviolable rules to play a program exactly as announced, and never to
add to it. In the month he had been in town, the public had learned
how impossible it was to tempt him away from his rule. But Americans
are persistent!
Again and again he had mounted the steps to the platform, and calmly
bowed his thanks, while long drawn cheers surged through the noise of
hand-clapping, as strains on the brass buoy up the melody. I lost
count of the number of times he had ascended and descended the little
flight of steps which led, behind a screen, from the artist's room to
the stage, when, having turned in my seat to watch him, as he came up
and bowed, and walked off again, I saw him, as he stood behind the
screen, gazing directly over our heads, suddenly raise his violin to
his ear and slowly draw the bow across the strings.
Almost before we could realize what had happened, he crossed the
stage, stepped to his stand, and drew his bow downward.
The applause died sharply on the crest of a crescendo, and left the
air trembling. There was a sudden hush. A few sank back in their
seats, but most of them remained standing where they were, just as we
behind him were suddenly fixed in our positions.
I have since heard a deal of argument as to the use and power of
music as the voice of thought. I was not then--and I am not now--of
that school which holds music to be a medium to transmit anything but
musical ideas. So, of the effect of Rodriguez's music on my mind, or
the possibility that, for some occult reason, I was for the moment _en
rapport_ with him, as after events forced me to believe, I shall enter
into no discussion. I am merely going to record, to the best of my
ability, my thoughts, as I remember them. I no more presume to explain
why they came to me, than I do to analyse my trust in immortality.
As he drew his bow downward, as the first chord filled my ears,
everything else faded away.
There was the merest prelude, and then the theme, which appeared,
disappeared and re-appeared again and again to be woven about every
emotion, at once developed and dominated me.
I seemed at first to hear its melody in the fresh morning air, where
it soared upward above the gentle breezes, mingling in harmony with
the matins of the birds and the softly rustling trees. Hopeful as
youth, careless as the wind, it sang in gladness and in trust. Then I
heard the same melody throb under the noonday glow of summer. Its tone
was broadened and sweetened, but still brave and pure, when all else
in Nature, save its clear voice, seemed sensuous. I saw gardens in a
riot of color; felt love at its passionate consummation, ere the light
seemed to fade slowly toward the sunset hour. The world was still
pulsing with color, but the grey of twilight was slowly enwrapping it.
Then the simple melody soared above the day's peacefullest hour, firm
in promise on the hushed air. In the mystery of night which followed,
when black clouds snuffed out the torches of heaven, when the silence
had something of terror even for the brave, that same steadfast loving
hopeful theme moved on, consoling as trust in immortality. Through
youth to maturity, and on to age, it sang with the same reiterant,
subduing, infallible loyalty--the crystallized melody of all that is
spiritual in love, in adoration, in passion.
As it died away into the distance, as if its spirit, barely audible,
were translated to the far off heavenly host, I strained my hearing to
catch that "last fine sound" that passed so gently one "could not be
quite sure where it and silence met," and for the first and last time
in my life I had known all that a violin can do.
For a moment the hush was wonderful.
Rodriguez stood like a statue. His bow still touched the strings. Yet
there was no sound that one could hear, though his own fine head was
still bent, as though he, too, listened.
He gently dropped his bow--he smiled--we all came back to earth
together.
Then such a scene followed as beggars description.
But he passed hurriedly out of sight, and no amount of tumult could
induce him to even show himself again.
Slowly, reluctantly, the audience dispersed, still murmuring. The
musicians picked up their traps, and wildly or soberly according to
their temperaments, began to dispute. It was everywhere the same
topic--the unknown work that Rodriguez had so marvellously played.
As for me--as he played, I seemed to be in the very heart of the
melody, singing it too, as his violin sang it. As the song soared
upward, my heart was filled with longing, with pain, with joy, with
regret. As it gradually died into silence a mist seemed to pass from
before my eyes, and I became suddenly conscious of the sweet face of
my beloved, growing more and more distinct, until, as the last note
died away, I was fully conscious that the music had passed between us,
like a cloud, to obscure my sight utterly, and to recede as slowly,
leaving her face before me.
I knew afterward, that, to all appearances, I had been gazing directly
into her face all the time.
Through it all I had a vague sense that what he played was not new to
me. It seemed like something I had long known and tried to say, but
could not.
In a daze, I left the stage. Silently I put my violin in its case,
pulled on my great coat, and turned up the collar about my face. I was
sure I was haggard, and I did not wish her to remark it. I knew that I
should find her waiting in the corridor with her father.
Just as I passed out of the artists' room, I was surprised to see
Rodriguez standing there in conversation with her, and her father. He
was, however, just leaving them, and did not see me.
I knew that her father had known him in Vienna, when the now great
violinist was a mere lad, and I had heard that he forgot no one, so
the sight gave me a merely momentary surprise.
As I joined her, and we stepped out into the night together, I could
not help wondering if Rodriguez had noticed her sensitive violin face,
as I tried to get a look into her eyes. I remembered afterward that,
so wrapped was I in my own emotions, and so sure was I of her
sympathy, that I neither noted nor asked how the music had affected
her.
It was bitterly cold. We walked briskly, and parted at the door.
As I look back, I realize how much an egoist an emotional man can be,
and in good faith be unconscious of it.
The day after the concert was Saturday--a day on which I rarely saw
her, as it was my habit to spend all Sunday with her. I was always
somewhat an epicure in my moral nature. I liked to pet my
inclinations, as I have seen good livers whet their appetites, by
self-denial.
All day I was restless and depressed.
At the piano, with my violin in my hand, it was still that same
haunting melody that bewitched my fingers. Whatever I essayed led me,
unconsciously, back to the same theme; and whenever that _motif_ fell
from my fingers her face appeared before my eyes so distinctly that I
would have to dash my hand across them to wipe away the impression
that it was the real face that was before me. Afterward, when I was
calmer, I knew that this was nothing singular since, whether I had
ever reflected on the fact or not, she was rarely from my mind.
As I played that melody over and over again, it puzzled me more and
more. I could find nowhere within my memory anything that even
reminded me of it. Yet I was vaguely familiar with it.
When evening came on I was more restless than ever. By nine o'clock I
found it impossible to bear longer with my own company, and I started
out. I had no destination. Something impelled me toward the Opera
House, though I cared little for opera as a rule, that is, opera as we
have it in America--fashionable and Philistine.
I entered the auditorium--the opera was "Faust"--just in season to
hear the last half of the third act.