No one could take up a gifted but obscure beginner more cordially than
did the great de Sterny the little Von Zuylen. He invited the boy to
breakfast, two, three times in succession, and Gesa became a familiar
part of the furniture, perhaps rather a favorite ornament in the
virtuoso's elegant hotel apartments. He was always obliged to bring his
violin, and to improvise for de Sterny, who accompanied him on the
piano, with the ready skill in following another's feeling, which was
his peculiar gift. Then he would draw Gesa into conversation and laugh
immoderately at the boy's original notions. Soon he could not meet an
acquaintance without crying out to him, "Have you seen my little Gipsy?
I must make you acquainted with my Gipsy. He improvises like Chopin,
only quite otherwise. Yesterday he quoted Shakespeare to me, and to-day
he discovered that Marsala is not so good as Tokay. And he is
handsome,--'_a croquer_.'"
In Brussels society the rumor of an "Eighth Wonder of the World" began
to spread, and at last the Princess L---- arranged a musical soiree for
his benefit, on which occasion truly the "eighth wonder" came very near
losing his prestige altogether. De Sterny took charge with amiable
pedantry, of all the details of his protege's appearance, had him
measured for a pair of patent leather shoes, and on the eventful
evening tied the boy's white cravat with his own hands, and brought him
in his own carriage to the L---- palace. But already in the brilliant
vestibule, adorned with old weapons, and two mysterious black suits of
armor, Gesa's robust self-conceit vanished completely. He who had faced
the public at a concert with a lion's courage now clung with almost
childish anxiety to de Sterny.
"Have you brought the 'eighth wonder'?" cried the princess to de
Sterny, as he entered. She was a blonde lady, uncommonly good-natured,
very lively, and very short-sighted, for which reason she always held
her glass to her eyes. "Have you brought the 'eighth wonder'?" cried
she, in a tone as if that were something comic.
"Of course--here it is,--it is named Gesa von Zuylen--Gesa von Zuylen,
_c'est droll_--is it not, princess? May I beg that you will deal a
little carefully with my 'eighth wonder'--it is a little sensitive!"
"So--really! That is charming. I am glad when a young artist displays a
certain pride, it is always becoming. What eyes he has,"--staring at
Gesa through her glass--"my husband told me about his eyes. A real
true gipsy.--They say he quoted Shakespeare of late--I laughed so at
that!"-- Then, as other guests entered, "pray, endeavor to make the
'eighth wonder' comfortable, de Sterny, you are entirely at home here."
This was the princess's manner of dealing carefully with a sensitive
"eighth wonder."
De Sterny placed the boy temporarily in a corner, out of which he soon
drew him forth to be presented to several ladies and gentlemen. Gesa
assumed a haughty bearing. The ladies especially were very friendly,
and very patronizing, only it scarcely occurred to one of them to
address a word to the boy himself. They all talked about him, in his
presence, as if he were a picture, or as if he could not understand
French. They wondered, and praised and then forgot him while he stood
before them, and talked among themselves of other things. It grew more
and more uncomfortable for him, and as his embarrassment increased he
felt as if he were walking painfully upon smooth thin ice. He shivered
a little. Everything around him was so bright and cold. The soft, fine,
flute-like voices of good society hurt him. Light and stinging as
snowflakes, their words flew against his burning cheeks. He would have
liked to weep. He was an "eighth world-wonder"--they stared at him
through a lorgnette, discussed him,--and cared for him no further.
Listening he heard the words "comes from the Rue Ravestein."--"What is
that, the Rue Ravestein?" "What is it? That is difficult to explain to a
lady,"--"_vraiment_?" "But he gives a perfectly amazing impression of
good breeding." "_Il n'a pas du tout e' air peuple!_" "But since he is
a gipsy,"--Gesa felt his throat tighten.
"Shall we not hear you to-day?" asked the ladies who crowded around de
Sterny.
"Me?" he replied, with a laugh, "me? I am only manager to-day--and
besides I suffer horribly from stage fright."
The moment had come! Gesa must play: his heart beat to suffocation. It
was not he, but a stolid clod stiffened with bashfulness who stood up
and laid his fingers on the strings. In the middle of Mendelssohn's G
minor Concerto he stuck fast, stumbled over himself, picked up, and
scrambled painfully through to the end. The composition was never worse
played. De Sterny was beside himself. Gesa would have liked to sink
through the floor.
A few people applauded because they did not know any better, and a few
others because they had not been listening at all. But the greater part
shrugged their shoulders, and said "de Sterny is an enthusiast."
And when the virtuoso tried to say a word in excuse for his protege and
declared he had never heard him play so ill, they answered "Bah! we
don't blame you for anything, de Sterny. We know you are an
enthusiast."
The company chatted and laughed, and nibbled a little refreshment in
their careless fashion. Then came a deputation of the handsomest women
and begged de Sterny to play, whereupon he seated himself at the piano
with his usual good-humored readiness, and smiling consciousness of
success. After he had played he went to Gesa and said:
"My dear boy, collect yourself! Could you not forget that any one heard
you but me, and improvise something? Try to remember the theme you last
played to me. Your future depends upon it. And I would so like to be
proud of you!"
These last words worked a miracle.
"I will play--only--only--that I may not shame you!" murmured Gesa.
The boy was deathly pale, and trembled all over as he raised his
violin, his eyes lighted up--and then hid themselves behind their dark
lashes.
A rain of fire fell before his vision, a whirl of emotion filled his
breast, wild passionate melodies sounded in his ears. Had he dreamed
them, or had a complaining autumn storm driven them hither from the
land of his father? Were they echoes of the songs his mother had
listened to from her lover, and later had hushed her child to sleep
with them, as she rocked him on the threshold of the house in the
shabby little street, where the sad Saviour looked hopelessly down from
the Crucifix on the grey church wall? Who knows! His violin sang and
sobbed as only a Hungarian gipsy-violin can; harsh modulations,
piercing melodies, a mad tempest of passion,--then one last burst of
wild, reckless hilarity--and he broke off, breathless, and gazing
fixedly before him. He knew he had done his best. His ears listened
greedily. If they expected a storm of applause as at his public debut,
they were disappointed. Only a little hum, like the dry leaves that an
east wind is rustling, buzzed through the room, and as if afar off he
heard the words "_Charmant, magnifique_, original, tsigane"--His head
sank, a black cloud floated before his eyes. De Sterny came up and
clapped him on the shoulder. "Bravo! Bravo!" he cried, "we are
rehabilitated!" and turning to the company with a triumphant smile,
"Now did I exaggerate?"
But Gesa listened no longer for the answer of the salon. He pressed de
Sterny's hand to his hot lips, and burst into tears. The virtuoso was
his heaven, his God. "Mais voyons! grand enfant!" said his patron
soothingly. And the "world" was enchanted, even more of course by the
generosity of the great pianist than by the talent of his protege!
* * * * *
"What is a chimera?" asked the little Gipsy of his great friend one
day.
It was in the forenoon. Gesa had been turning over the leaves of a
French book which he did not understand, "Les Fleurs du Mal," by
Baudelaire. De Sterny meanwhile had been writing letters. He wore a
yellow dressing gown of Japanese silk, in which he looked like a large
mullein. He yawned and stretched himself, looked pale and used up. That
he had not slept regularly for fifteen years was very evident from his
appearance.
"What is a chimera?" asked Gesa.
"A chimera--a chimera--it is a siren with wings," defined the virtuoso,
turning round.
"H'm!" Gesa lowered his eyes thoughtfully, then raised them
inquiringly. "An ennobled siren then?"
"Yes,--as one takes it."
De Sterny sat down by the chimney to warm his feet. "Deuced cold!--hand
me the chartreuse, so--Yes, a refined siren if you like," he continued.
"The siren has soft human arms with which she draws us into destructive
pleasures, the chimera has claws with which she tears our heart.
The siren entices us into the mire, the chimera lures us toward
heaven,--only we don't reach the heaven, and we often find ourselves
very well off in the mire,--deucedly well off! But _saperment_! you
don't understand that yet." And he pulled Gesa's ear.
The boy looked rather confused: he certainly had not understood a word
of his patron's tirade. "But some of us reach heaven, the heaven of
Art, the Walhalla, the Pantheon," cried he, eagerly, with the bombast
of a very young person who has read more than he has understood, and
likes to display his little knowledge--"If only one sets out early
enough on the way."
"Oh yes, a few!" murmured the virtuoso with a queer smile.
"Michael Angelo, Raphael, Beethoven," cried the boy.
"Shakespeare, Milton, Mozart, Leonardo da Vinci," de Sterny laughed
aloud as he continued the litany. "But I assure you a man must have
quite astounding powers to reach that heaven, and lungs constructed
expressly for the purpose in order to feel comfortable after he gets
there." The pianist yawned slightly. He belonged among those who amuse
themselves with the sirens without permitting them to acquire too much
power, and who avoid chimeras on principle. But Gesa was not yet
satisfied.
"Have all chimeras wings?" he asked, thoughtfully.
"God forbid!" cried de Sterny.
"But"--
"My dear," cried his patron, laughingly, "if you have any more
questions to ask, say so, and I will ring for the waiter to bring up an
encyclop[oe]dia--I am at the end of my Latin!"