garden at Nuremburg, I listened, moved by it as I always am--when I
cannot see the over-dressed, lady-like Marguerite that goes a-starring
in America. My eyes wandered restlessly over the audience. Suddenly
there was a rushing, like the surging of waters, in my ears, which
drowned the music, and I saw Rodriguez sitting carelessly in the front
of a stage box. His eyes were fixed on me, and I thought there was an
expression of relief in them.
Shocked that the unexpected sight of the man should have such an
effect on me, I pulled myself together with an effort. The sound of
the waters receded, the music rushed back, leaving me amazed at a
condition in myself which should have rendered me so susceptible, in
some subconscious way, to the undoubted magnetism of the man whose
violin had so affected me the night before, and so haunted me all day,
and in regard to whose composition I had an ill-defined, but
insistent, theory which would intrude into my mind.
In vain I turned my eyes to the stage. I could not forget his
presence. Every few minutes my glance, as if drawn by a magnet, would
turn in his direction, and as often as that happened, whether he were
leaning back to speak to some one hidden by the curtain, or watching
the house, or listening intently to the music, I never failed to find
that his eyes met mine.
I sat through the next act in this condition. Then I could stand it no
longer. I felt that I might end by making myself objectionable, and
that, after all, it was far wiser to be safe at home, than sitting in
the theatre where I occupied myself in staring at but one person.
I made my way slowly up the aisle and into the foyer, and had nearly
reached the outer lobby, when I suddenly felt sure that he was near.
I looked up!
Yes, there he was, and he was looking me directly in the face again.
An odd smile came into his eyes. He nodded to me as he approached,
and, with a quaint shake of the head, said: "I just made a wager with
myself. I bet that if I encountered you in the lobby, without actually
seeking you, and you saw me, I'd speak to you--and ask a favor of you.
I am going to win that wager."
He did not seem to expect me to answer him. He simply turned beside
me, thrust his arm carelessly through mine, and moved with me toward
the exit.
"Let us step outside a moment," he said. It was easy to understand
why. The hero of the night before could not hope to pass unnoted.
He stepped into the street.
It was a moonlit night. I remember that distinctly.
He lighted his cigarette, and held his case toward me. I shook my
head. I had no desire to smoke.
We walked a few steps together in silence before he said: "I am trying
to frame a most unusual request so that it may not seem too fantastic
to you. It is more difficult than writing a fugue. The truth is--I
have gotten myself into a bit of a fix--and I want to guard against
its turning into something worse than that. I need some man's
assistance to extricate myself."
I probably looked alarmed. Those forebears of mine will intrude when I
am taken by surprise. He saw it, and said, quickly: "It is nothing
that a man, willing to be of service to me, need balk at; nothing, in
fact, that a chivalrous man would not be glad to do. You may not
think very well of me afterward, but be sure you will never regret the
act. I was in sore need of a friend. There was none at hand--if such
as I ever have friends. Suddenly I saw you. I remembered your violin
as I heard it behind me last night--an Amati, I fancy?"
I nodded assent.
"A beautiful instrument. I may some day ask you to let me try it--you
and I can never be quite strangers after to-night."
He paused, pounded the side-walk with his stick, impatiently, as if
the long preamble made him as nervous as it did me. Then, looking me
in the face, he said rapidly: "This is it. When I leave the box, after
the next act, do you follow me. Stay by me, no matter what happens.
Stick to me, even though I ask you to leave me, so long as there is
any one with me. Do more--stay by me, until, in your room or mine, you
and I sit down together, and--well, I will explain what must, until
then, seem either mad or ridiculous. Is that clear?"
I assured him that it was.
"Agreed then," he said.
By this time we were back at the door. The whole thing had not taken
five minutes. We re-entered the theatre, and walked hurriedly through
the lobby to the foyer. As we were about to separate, he laid a hand
on either of my shoulders, and with a whimsical smile, said: "I'll
dare swear I shall try to give you the slip."--The smile died on his
lips. It never reached his eyes. "Don't let me do it. After the next
act, then," and, with a wave of his hand, he disappeared.
I thought I was ridiculous enough when he had gone, and I realized
that I had promised to follow this man, I did not know where, I did
not know with whom, I did not know why.
It was useless for me to go back into the auditorium. I could not
listen to the music. In spite of myself, I kept approaching the
entrance opposite the box, and peering through the glass, like a
detective. I knew I was afraid that he would keep his word and try to
give me the slip. I never asked myself what difference it would make
to me if he did. I simply took up the strange unexplained task he had
given me as if to me it were a matter of life or death.
Even before the curtain fell, I had hurried round the house and
placed myself with my back to the door, so that I could not miss him
as he passed, and yet had no appearance of watching him. It was well
that I did, for in an instant the door opened. He came out and passed
me quickly, followed by a tall slender woman in a straight wrap that
fell from her head to the ground, and the domino-like hood which
completely concealed her face.
As he drew her hand through his arm, he looked back at me, over his
shoulder. His eyes met mine. They seemed to say, "Is it you, old
True-penny?" But he merely bent his head courteously and with his lips
said, "Come!" I felt sure that he shrugged his shoulders resignedly,
as he saw that I kept my word, and followed.
At the door he found his carriage. He assisted his companion in. Then
in the gentlest manner he said in my ear, as he stood aside for me to
enter, "In with you. My honor is saved, but repentance dogs its
heels."
To the lady he said, "This is the friend whom you were kind enough to
permit me to ask for supper."
She made no reply.
I uncovered my head to salute her, murmuring some vague phrase of
thanks, which was, I am sure, inaudible. Then Rodriguez followed, and
took his place beside me on the front seat.
As the door banged I could have sworn that the lady, whose face was
concealed behind the falling lace of her hood, as if by a mask, spoke.
He thought so, too, for he leaned forward as if to catch the words.
Evidently we were mistaken, for he received no response. He murmured
an oath against the pavements and the noise, and turned a smiling face
to me--and I? Why, I smiled back!
As we rattled over the pavings, through the lighted streets, no one
spoke. The lady leaned back in her corner. Opposite her Rodriguez
hummed "Salve! dimora" and I beside him, sat strangely confused and
inert, still as if in a dream.
I had not even noted the direction we were taking, until I found that
we had stopped in front of a French restaurant, one of the few
Bohemian resorts the town boasted.
Rodriguez leaped out, assisted the lady, and I followed.
Just as we reached the top of the stairs, as I was about to follow
them into one of the small supper rooms, like a flash, as if I were
suddenly waking from a dream into conscious, with exactly the same
sensation I have experienced many and many a morning when struggling
back to life from sleep, I realized that the slender figure before me
was as familiar as my own hand.
As the door closed behind us, I called her by name--and my voice
startled even myself.
She threw back the hood of her cape and faced me.
Rodriguez had heard, too. He wheeled quickly toward us, as nearly
broken from his self-control as a man so sure of himself could be.
Under the flash of our eyes the color surged up painfully in her pale
face. There was much the same expression in our eyes, I
fancy,--Rodriguez's and mine--but I felt that it was at his face she
gazed.
I have never known how far it is given to woman to penetrate the
mysteries of human nature, for she is gifted, it seems to me, with a
dissimulation in which she wraps herself, as with an impenetrable veil
of outward innocence, and ignorance, from our less acute perception
and ruder knowledge.
There were speeches enough that it would have become a man in my
position to make. I knew them all. But--I said nothing. Some instinct
saved me; some vague fore-knowledge made me feel--I knew not why--that
there was really nothing for me to say at that moment.
For fully a minute none of us moved.
Rodriguez recovered himself first. I cannot describe the peculiar
expression of his eyes as he slowly turned them from her face to mine.
So bound up was he in himself that I was confident that he did not yet
suspect more than that she and I had met before. What was in her mind
I dared not guess.
He composedly crossed to her. He gently unfastened her heavy wrap,
carefully lifted it from her shoulders. He pushed a high backed chair
toward her, and, with a smile, forced her to sit--she did look
dangerously white. She sank into it, and wearily leaned her pretty
head back, as if for support, and I noticed that her slender hands, as
they grasped either arm of the chair, trembled, in spite of the grip
she took to steady herself. I felt her whole body vibrate, as a
violin vibrates for a moment after the bow leaves the strings.
"It is a strange chance that you two should know each other," he said,
"and very well, too, if I may judge from your manner of addressing
her?"
I moved to a place behind her chair, and laid my hand on it. "This
lady is my affianced wife," I replied.
He did not change color. For an instant not a muscle moved. He did not
stir a step from his place before the fire, where he stood, with his
gaze fixed on her face. For one instant he turned his widely opened
eyes on me--brief as the glance was, I felt it was critical. Then his
lids quivered and drooped completely over his eyes, absolutely veiling
the whole man, and, to my amazement, he laughed aloud.
But even as he did so, he spread his hands quickly toward us as if to
apologize, and ghastly as the comment was, grotesque even, as it all
seemed, I think we both understood. He hardly needed to say, "Pardon
me," as he quickly recovered his strong hold on himself.
The next instant he was again standing erect before the fire, with his
hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his voice was absolutely calm
as he turned toward me and said, with a smile under his half lowered
heavy lids, "I promised you, when I asked you to accompany me, that
before we slept to-night I would explain my singular request. I hardly
thought that I should have to do it, whether I would or not, under
these circumstances. Indeed, it appears that you have the right to
demand of me the explanation I so flippantly offered you an hour ago.
I am bound to own that, had I dreamed that you knew this lady--that a
relation so intimate existed between you--I should surely never have
done of my own will this which Fate has presumed to do for me. What
can I say to you two that will help or mend this--to you, my fellow
musician, who were willing to stand my friend in need, without
question; and to the woman you love, and to whom I owe an eternal
debt--that we may have no doubts of one another in the future? I
cannot make excuses well, even if I have the right to. I only hope we
are all three so constituted that we may be able to feel that for a
little we have been outside common causes and common results, and that
you may listen to an explanation which may seem strange, pardon me,
and part from me without resentment, being sure that I shall suffer,
and yet be glad."
The face against the high-backed chair was very pale. She closed her
eyes. His gaze was on her. He marked the change, I was sure. He thrust
his hands still deeper into his pockets, as if to brace himself, and
went on. "Last night her pure eyes looked into mine. I had seen her
face before me night after night, never dreaming who she was. I had
always played to her, and it had seemed to me at times as if the music
I made was in her face. I could see nothing else. I seemed to be
looking through her amber eyes, down, down into her deep beautiful
soul, and my soul reached out toward her, with a sudden knowledge of
what manhood might have been had all womanhood been pure; of what life
might have been with one who could know no sin.
"It was only her face that I saw, as I stood waiting the end of the
applause. I seemed to be gazing between her glorious eyes, as to tell
the truth, I had more than once gazed in my dreams in the past month.
I had already written the song that seeing her face had sung in my
heart. It was with an irresistible longing, an impulse stronger than
my will, to say to her just what her face had said to me,--though she
might never know it was said to her--that I went back to the stage.
Almost before I realized it, I was there. I felt the vibrant soul of
my violin as I laid my cheek against it, and I saw the same spirit
tremble behind the eyes of the fair face above me, as one sees a
reflection tremble under the wind rippled water. The first chord
throbbed on the air in response to it. Then I played what she had
unconsciously inspired in me. It was in her eyes, where never
swerving, immortal loyalty shone, that I read the deathless theme. Out
of her nature came the inspiration. To her belongs the honor. I
know--no one better, that as I played last night, I shall never play
again; just as I realize that _what_ I played last night my own nature
could never of itself have created. It was she who spoke, it was not
I. Let him who dares, try to explain that miracle."
She rose from her chair and moved toward him, and as she moved, she
swayed pitifully.
He did not stir.
It was I who caught her as she stumbled, and I held her close in my
arms. After a moment, she relaxed a little, and her head drooped
wearily on my shoulder. He lowered his lids, and I felt that every
nerve in his well controlled body quivered with resentment.
He motioned to entreat her to sit down again. She shook her head, and,
when he went on, again, he for the first time addressed himself
directly to her. "It was chance that set you across my path last
night--you and your father. I recognized him at once. I knew your
mother well. I can remember the day on which you were born, I was a
lad then. Your mother was one of my idols. Why, child, I fiddled for
you in your cradle. At the moment I realized who you were, you were so
much a part of my music that you only appealed to me through that. But
when I left you, I carried a consciousness of you with me that was
more tangible. I had held your hand in mine. I feel it there still.
"I went directly to my room, alone. I sat down immediately to
transcribe as much of what I had played as possible while it was
fresh in my mind. As I wrote I was alone with you. But as the spirit
of the music was imprisoned, I knew that you were becoming more and
more a material presence to me. When I slept, it was to dream of you
again--but, oh, the difference!
"I should have been grateful to you for the inspiration that you had
been to me--and I was! But it had served its purpose. They tell me I
never played like that before. I feel I never shall again. But the end
of an emotion is never in the spirit with me.
"I started out this afternoon to find you, oblivious of the fact that
I should have left town. I had the audacity to tell myself that I
should be a cad if I departed without thanking the sweet daughter of
your mother for her share in making me great. I had the presumption to
believe in myself. It seemed natural enough to your good father that
'a whimsical genius,' as he called me, should be allowed the caprice
of even tardily looking up his boyhood's acquaintance. He received me
nobly, was proud that you should see I remembered him--and simply made
no secret of it.
"Though I knew what you had seemed to me, I little realized that the
child of true, fine musical spirits had a nature strung like my
Strad--fine, clear, true, matchless, as well as inspiring. I spent a
beautiful afternoon with you. I cannot better explain than by saying
that to me it was like such a day as I have sometimes had with my
violin. I call them my holy-days, and God knows I try to keep them
holy,--though after too many of them follow a St. Michael and the
Dragon tussle--and I mean no discredit to the Archangel, either.
"The honest old father, proud to trust his daughter to me,--in his
kind heart he always considered me a most maligned man,--went off to
the play and his Saturday night club. He told me that.
"We were alone together. It was then that I began to think that I
could probably play on her nature as I did on my violin, and then,
with a player's frenzy, to realize that I had been doing it from the
first; that we had vibrated in harmony like two ends of a chord. Then
I saw no more the spirit behind her eyes. I saw only the beautiful
face in which the color came and went, the burnished hair so full of
golden lights, on which I longed to lay my hand--the sensitive red
lips--and the angel and the demon rose up within me, and looked one
another in the face, and I heard the one fling the truth at the other,
which even the devil no longer cared to deny--Ah, forgive me!--"
In his egoism of self-analysis and open confession, I am sure he did
not realize how far he was going, until she buried her face in her
hands.
Then he stepped across the room and stood before me as she rested her
face in her hands against my breast.
"It was not especially clever--the last struggle against myself. I had
never known such a woman before. I suppose if I had, I should have
tortured her to death to strike new chords out of her nature,--and
wept at my work! I had not the courage to tear myself abruptly away. I
suggested an hour of the opera--I gave her the public as a
protector--and they sang 'Faust.' It was then that, knowing myself so
well, I looked out into the auditorium and saw you! It was Providence
that put you in my way. I thought it was accident. I am sure I need
say no more?"
I shook my head.
He leaned over her a moment. He gently took her hands from her face.
Her eyelids trembled. For one brief moment she opened her eyes to his.
"You have given me one sweet day," he murmured. "Some part of your
soul has called its music out of mine. That offspring of a miraculous
sympathy will live immortal when all else of our two lives is
forgotten. Remember to-day as a dream--and me as a shadow there--" he
stopped abruptly. I felt her head fall forward. She had swooned.
Together we looked into the beautiful colorless face.
I loved music as I loved light. I was an artist myself. A great
musician--and this man was one--was to me the greatest achievement of
Art and Living.
I did not refuse the hand he held out. I buried mine in it.
I did not smile nor mistrust, nor misunderstand the tears in his eyes,
nor despise him because I knew they would soon enough be dry. I did
not doubt his sincerity when he said, "I have never done so bitter a
thing as say 'good-bye' to this--though I know but too well such are
not for me."
He bent over her, as if he would take her in his arms.
She was unconscious. I felt tempted to put her there. I knew I loved
her as he could never love--yet I pitied him the more for that.
"Tell her," he whispered, "tell her, when she shall have forgotten
this--as I hope she will--that for this hour at least I loved her;
that losing her I am liable to love her long,--so we shall never meet
again. I shall never cease to be grateful to the Providence that threw
you in my way--after to-night. To-night I could curse it and my
conscience with a right good will." With an effort he straightened
himself. "You can afford to forgive me," he said, "for I--I envy you
with all my heart."--And he was gone.
I heard his voice as he spoke to the waiter outside. I listened to his
step as he descended the stairs. He had passed out of our life
forever.
That was years ago.
She has long been dead.
He was not to blame if the sunshine that danced in music out of the
eyes of the woman I loved never quite came back again. We were, all
the same, happy together in our way.
He was not to blame if it was written in the big book of Fate that it
should be his heart, and not mine, that should read the song she bore
in her soul.
Something must be sacrificed for Art. We sacrificed our first
illusions--and the Song he read will sing on when even Rodriguez is
but a tradition.
X
EPILOGUE
ADIEU
HOW WE WENT OUT OF THE GARDEN
The last word had hardly been uttered when the Youngster, who had been
fidgeting, leaped to his feet.
"Hark!" he cried.
We all listened.
"Cannon," he yelled, and rushed out to the big gate, which he tore
open, and dashed into the road.
There was no doubt of it. Off to the north we could all hear the dull
far-off booming of artillery.
We followed into the garden.
The Youngster was in the middle of the road. As we joined him he bent
toward the ground, as if, Indian-like, he could hear better. "Hush,"
he said in a whisper, as we all began to talk. "Hush! I hear horses."
There was a dead silence, and in it, we could hear the pounding of
horses' hoofs in the valley.
"Better come in out of the rain," said the Doctor, and we obeyed. Once
inside the gate the Doctor said, "Well, I reckon it is to-morrow at
the latest for us. The truth of the matter is: I kept something from
you this evening. The village was drummed out last night. As this road
is being kept clear, no one passed here, and as we were ready to start
at a moment's notice, I made up my mind to have one more evening.
However, we've time enough. They can't advance to-night. Too wet. No
moon. Come on into the house."
He closed and locked the big gate, but before we reached the house,
there was a rush of horsemen in the road--then a halt--the Youngster
opened the gate before it was called for. Two mounted men in Khaki
rode in, stopped short at the sight of the group, saluted.
"Your house?" asked one, as he slid from his saddle and leaned against
his horse.
"Mine," said the Doctor, stepping forward.
"You are not proposing to stay here?"
"No, we are leaving in the morning."
"Got any conveyances?"
"Two touring cars."
"Good. You don't mind my proposing that you go before daylight, do
you?"
"Not a bit," replied the Doctor, "if it is necessary."
"That's for you to decide," said the other officer. "We are going to
set up a battery in this garden. Awfully sorry, you know, but it can't
be helped."
The Youngster, who had remained at the gate, came back, and whispered
in my ear, "They are coming. It's the English still retreating. By
Jove, it looks as if they would get to Paris!"
"How many are there of you?" asked the senior officer.
"Ten," replied the Doctor.
"Eleven," corrected the Divorcée. "I shall take Angéle and the baby."
And she started on a run for the garage.
"Perhaps," said the Doctor, looking through the open gate, where the
weary soldiers were beginning to straggle by, "perhaps it will not be
necessary for all of us to go." And he went close to the officers, and
drew his papers from his pocket. There was a hurried whispered
conversation, in which the Critic and the Journalist joined. When it
was over, the Doctor said, "I understand," and returned to our group.
"Well, good friends," he said, "it really _is_ farewell to the garden!
The Critic and I are going to stay a bit. We are needed. The Youngster
will drive one car, and the Lawyer the other. Get ready to start by
three,--that will be just before daylight--and get into the house, all
of you. You are in the way here!"
Everybody obeyed.
We had less than three hours to get together necessary articles and
all the time there was the steady marching of feet in the road, where
what servants we had were standing with water and such small help as
could be offered a tired army, and bringing in for first aid such of
the exhausted men as could be braced up.
Long before we were ready, we heard the rumble of the artillery and
the low commands of the officers. In spite of ourselves, we looked out
to see the gray things being driven into the gate, and down toward the
hillside.
"Oh," groaned the Divorcée, "right over the flower beds!"