It is November fifth, the day on which the first rehearsal of "Satan"
is to be held, under the composer's own direction.
In the concert hall of the "Grand Harmonic" the performers are already
assembled. In honor of the distinguished guest half a dozen more gas
jets are burning than is usual at rehearsals, yet the large hall with
its dark auditorium and the dim flickering light on its stage, has a
desolate, ghostly air. A smell of gas, dust and moist cloth pervades
the atmosphere.
A grey rime of congealed mist clings to and trickles down the clothes
of the latest arrivals. One sees within the hall how bad the weather
must be without. The lusty male chorus, with their pear-shaped Flemish
faces, their picturesquely soiled linen, and their luxuriant growth of
hair, knock off the clay from their boots and turn down the legs of
their trousers. The disheveled female chorus, on whose shoulders the
locks are hanging out of curl, complain of indisposition, and exchange
cough lozenges. The members of the orchestra work away sulkily on their
instruments. Across the dissonance of the thrilling fiddles darts the
sharp sound of a string that breaks.
Two dilettanti have slipped in by favor. One is a young piano teacher
of German extraction, who raves about the music of the future. The
other is an amateur, well known in Brussels by the nickname of "l'ami
de Rossini."
The instruments are tuned; here and there a violin practices a scale.
The gas jets chirp faintly. The male chorus stamp their feet to keep
warm, and rub their red knuckles together. De Sterny is letting himself
be waited for.
The friend of Rossini makes up to the lady soloists.
"Madame," he says to the Alto, whose engagement at the "Monnaie" he had
helped to bring about, "Madame, I pity you. De Sterny is an exponent of
this new music of the future. His compositions are among the most
ungrateful tasks ever set the human throat. One only needs to sing them
to expiate by penance all one's musical pleasures."
"You are too severe, monsieur," said the Alto. "No one can wonder at
the 'friend of Rossini' for hating the music of the future, and I grant
that some numbers of this Oratorio are quite astonishingly dull. But
with some of the others, monsieur, I predict that you will have to
confess yourself in sympathy."
"_I_, confess myself in sympathy with the music of the future!"
"Well, well," said the Alto, soothingly, "up to a certain point I agree
with your aversion, but you must grant all the same that Wagner and
Berlioz are composers of genius, and that the music of the future has
opened new regions of art."
"What has it opened? A parade ground for pretentious mediocrity! I'll
grant this much, that Wagner and Berlioz are ill-doers of genius. But
the 'school!' and this new invention they call descriptive music! An
insurrection of fiddles screaming over against one another! and they
give it names. 'Battleo of the Horatii'--'Eruption of Vesuvius'--so
that the audience may have something to think about since they can't
feel anything, except headache!"
L'ami de Rossini laughed very much at his own joke.
"H'm!-m! and this fine work of de Sterny's," he began again, "I suppose
it consists of splendid paraphrases upon poverty of thought."
"The 'Satan' contains pearls which will enchant you," replied the Alto.
"But see--here comes de Sterny! I commend the 'Duet of the Outcasts' to
your attention."
Followed by the capellmeister and a little group of intimate admirers,
Alphonse de Sterny stepped upon the platform. The German pianist
started and raised a pair of rapture dilated eyes. De Sterny, who was
well accustomed to create that sort of excitement, smiled faintly,
threw her an encouraging glance, and nodding to the bowing orchestra
took his place before the conductor's desk. Then he let his keen eyes
run over the ranks of his musical forces. The violin rows were not
even.
"Who is absent?" he asked, pointing to the vacant place.
The violins looked at one another, murmured a name indistinctly, and
some one said, "He is excused."
"He is only just out of the hospital," explained the capellmeister, "he
often is irregular about rehearsals."
"And you permit that?" asked de Sterny, with his deliberate smile.
"He--he--never spoils anything at the concerts, and I have
consideration for him because, because,"--the capellmeister stammered,
embarrassed, and stopped short. "But certainly it is an inexcusable
irregularity and should be punished," he added.
De Sterny shrugged his shoulders. "Don't disturb yourself," he said,
"but next time I hope I shall find my musical forces all together." He
rapped on the desk.
His manner of conducting was characteristic. It recalled neither the
fiery contortions of Verdi, nor the demoniac energy of Berlioz. His
movements at first were quiet, almost weary, his countenance wore an
expression of fixed concentration; suddenly his eyes lighted up, his
lip quivered, his breast heaved as an exciting climax approached, he
raised his arms higher and higher, like wings with which he would
wrench himself free from earth; then all at once he collapsed with a
look of dejected exhaustion.
"He is killing himself!" sighed the pianist, in a gush of sympathy. But
the friend of Rossini said testily:
"He is an incarnate phrase like his own music, and just as full of
grimaces!" The introductory figure had confirmed his aversion to de
Sterny. "A pretentious fuss!" he muttered grimly, while the pianist
with her hand on her heart declared she had "heard the fall of
Avalanches!" The figure was repeated and left for future study, and
then the Alto laid aside her furs, rose, threw the "friend of Rossini"
one glance, drew her mouth into the regulation Oratorio smile, and
began.
Upon a somewhat dramatic recitation there followed a meltingly sweet,
inexpressibly mournful melody! Yes, really a _melody_! As simple,
genuine and tender as a melody of Mozart, but adapted to the
requirements of our modern pain craving ears by a few bitter-melancholy
modulations. The friend of Rossini could scarcely believe his senses.
And now with every number,--a few bombastic interludes excepted--the
beauties of "Satan" increased until at last at the "Duet of the
Outcasts," a duet wherein the whole human race seems to weep for its
lost heaven, the orchestra rose and broke into enthusiastic applause.
De Sterny shed tears, assured them it was the happiest moment of his
life, and the execution of the orchestra surpassed all his hopes, the
pianiste fell into raptures, and the friend of Rossini growled, while
he mechanically moved his hands in applause, "Where did he get that
now? A plagiarism--a mass of plagiarism--but from whence?"
The duet was followed by a really hateful finale, which the more
experienced among the musicians forgave for the sake of the Oratorio's
otherwise uncommon beauties. The musical craft generally put their envy
in their pockets, didn't understand, but made their bows as became them
before a great mystery.
Next morning, de Sterny, in the coupe of the Countess C---- drove up
the steep street Montague de la Cour. He was going to be served with an
exquisite breakfast, by gold laced lackeys, and to let himself be
buzzed about by mind perverting flatteries uttered in soft aristocratic
voices. Suddenly he saw something that interested--that startled him.
Before one of the large red posters which announced the approaching
Oratorio performance, stood a broad-shouldered man with worn-out boots,
shabby clothes, and a soft felt hat dragged down over his ears.
A crowd of wagons blocked the way, and the coupe was obliged to stop.
Again the virtuoso glanced at the shabby man; this time he saw him in
profile. Strange! De Sterny turned pale as a corpse and leaned back
shuddering in the soft green satin cushions of the carriage. Could it
be that he knew the shabby man, or had known him before the brutalizing
stamp of drink had disfigured his face?
Who knows? For the matter of that there was enough in the stranger's
appearance to draw a glance and a shudder from any passer-by.
Round shoulders, a loose carriage, a slouching walk, and yet in the
whole person and expression of broken-down vigor, and burned-out fire.
A handsome face, with somewhat too full red lips, a short nose,
powerful brow and eyes, the latter contracting and peering out like
those of a wild animal that shuns the light, or like those of a man who
will see nothing but the narrow path in which he is condemned to walk,
or, perhaps, where he has condemned himself to walk, for life: in the
whole countenance the marks of past anguish and present degradation.
Meanwhile the jam has given way, and while C---- cream colors, striking
out to regain lost time, bring the great man rapidly up to the
countess's palace, the shabby stranger enters one of those butter shops
out of which, in the rear, a liquor shop usually opens, and calls for a
glass of gin.