"The 'satan' is one of the most beautiful of modern musical
compositions," announces the _Independence Belge_. "The 'satan'
contains numbers of classic beauty," confess the artists. "Have you
heard? The 'satan' is a tremendous success!" says the fashionable world
to itself. "Satan's" renown penetrates even as far as the Rue
Ravestein, and reaches the ear of a starving fiddler there.
Although Delileo has long been dead Gesa still lives in the old house.
The remains of his little savings went during his foster-father's long
and weary last illness. Now Gesa supports life as best he can. A dozen
years ago every one was comparing him to Paganini; now he is counted
among the most obscure members of the "Monnaie" orchestra. Benumbed in
melancholy indolence, given over to drink, he feels nevertheless from
time to time the longing for creative effort. But something always
comes between him and his purpose.
When he hears of the approaching performance, under de Sterny's
personal direction, he is shaken with a sudden wild rage.
How dare de Sterny venture on coming to Brussels, in face of the chance
that they may meet?
Then he mutters bitterly. "He thinks I am dead. He says to himself, 'If
Gesa von Zuylen were still alive the world would have heard of him!'" A
fearful pang harrows his very soul. Not the death of his bride, not the
treachery of his friend had inflicted a pang like that. The spectre of
his great, degraded talent stands suddenly before him.
He has weighed de Sterny's powers of composition. He remembers with
triumphant contempt the "transcriptions" and "fantasias" of former
times. He recalls the pianist's painful labors over the little
"Countess-ballet," until in the full swing of their friendship Gesa
took the thing in hand and finished it for him. And now? _Could_ de
Sterny have developed into a composer of any importance? He examines
his violin part with feverish curiosity, but it contains more rests
than notes.
The day of the second rehearsal arrived. Gesa had intended to report
himself ill again, but a feeling of breathless anxiety that he could
not explain urged him to the music hall. This time it was not the
friend of Rossini and the piano teacher alone who had come to hear the
rehearsal. The foremost dilettante of Brussels crowded around the
stage, all the musical ladies in society sat together in the front rows
of the parquet. There was a fever of curiosity and expectation. At the
same time that sort of opposition made itself felt which attends upon
all novelties that have been immoderately praised.
"_Il parait que c'est epatant_"--said the Count de Sylva, a gentleman
who was resting from the fatigues of a laborious diplomatic career, and
employed all the time not absorbed by his social duties in studying the
violincello. "Epatant," he repeated, walking up to the ladies, "I must
confess I do not esteem de Sterny's talent for composition so very
highly."
"Nor I either, most decidedly," growled the friend of Rossini. "How he
ever contrived to write the 'Satan,' I cannot understand. But that it
is a masterpiece is not to be denied. These melodies!--they tyrannize
over me! they creep into every nerve, they creep into the blood!
Spectres walk abroad in this music!"
"It is true that great powers require time to ripen," observed Prince
L----, "wonderful children seldom come to anything. You may perhaps
remember such a case, ladies--the little gypsy whom de Sterny brought
to us one evening."
"Hm--a little hunch back in a braided jacket?" asked a lady.
"No--no--that was another--this was a handsome youth from the Rue
Ravestein."
None of the ladies remembered. "What of him?" they asked.
"Nothing remarkable. I only cited him apropos of wonder children. Never
have I heard finer improvisation than his and what has come of it?" At
this moment there was a slight stir, de Sterny stepped upon the
platform. They clapped applause, they bowed before him, they pressed
his hands.
He stood at the conductor's desk and let his eye run over his musical
forces--they were all there. Suddenly he turned pale, the baton sank at
his side, he longed to flee, the eyes of his aristocratic friends were
shining all around him; he rapped on the desk, and the bombastic
introduction to "Satan" sounded through the hall.
There was disappointed shrugging of shoulders in the audience. Gesa von
Zuylen's mouth showed deep mocking corners. Slowly, painfully, but with
increasing confidence he raised his eyes to the director's face, the
face that had once been to him as the countenance of a god. He smiled
bitterly.
And now the Alto is singing her first song. The audience rouses up as
if from an electric shock--and listens amazed, but none listens with
such intentness as Gesa von Zuylen.
A strange, strange feeling trembles through him, the feeling of warm
young delight, of joyful intoxication with which he wrote that song.
Indignation had no chance to be heard, so mighty is the bliss of
hearing his own work. It is as if some one had given him back his lost
soul. The applause grows louder and louder. As if in a dream he plays
on, sometimes he shrinks when some blatant interlude of de Sterny's
disfigures his own composition.
"Now comes the most beautiful of all," they whisper in the audience,
"the duet of the Outcasts."
In mournful lament are heard the exile's voices, softly, lightly
floating, the violin's Angel song mingles with theirs, above, around
them, whispering memories of joys forever lost.
Gesa listens--listens--his bow stops, he sees the little green chamber,
the smiling friend at the old spinet, and beside him the lovely maiden,
her hands clasped in one another, her delicate head slightly bent
toward the shoulder, as if it were grown too heavy. "Nessun maggior
dolore," he murmurs. The whole audience shouts. The orchestra applauds
standing--the amateurs crowd round the stage. But there!--what is this?
Panting, breathless, foam on his lips, rage in his eyes, the violinist
presses forward through the ranks of the orchestra, up to the director.
"Wretch! Murderer!" he shrieks and strikes him with his bow across the
face, then sinks unconscious to the floor. De Sterny passes a hand
across his brow, and while the violinist is being carried out, he turns
to the capelmeister, who is hurrying up and says with that practiced
presence of mind which teaches a man of the world heroism on the
scaffold.
"A sudden attack of delirium tremens. You really might have taken pains
to spare me such a painful scene!"
The rehearsal proceeded. Gesa was taken home. As soon as he recovered
consciousness he sought in all the closets and chests for the original
score of his "Inferno" of which he had lent a copy to de Sterny. He
never found the manuscript. All he discovered were the disconnected
parts of his unfinished opera.