III

I saw him once more at the little restaurant in Soho, before a sudden

change of fortune, calling me abroad for an absence, as it happened,

of years, closed the habit of our society. He gave me the god-speed of

a brother artist, though mine was not the way of music, with many

prophesies of my success; and the pressure of his hand, as he took

leave of me, was tremulous.

'I am an old man, monsieur, and we may not meet again, in this world.

I wish you all the chances you deserve in Paris; but I--I shall

greatly miss you. If you come back in time, you will find me in the

old places; and if not--there are things of mine, which I should wish

you to have, that shall be sent you.'

And indeed it proved to be our last meeting. I went to Paris; a fitful

correspondence intervened, grew infrequent, ceased; then a little

later, came to me the notification, very brief and official, of his

death in the French Hospital of pneumonia. It was followed by a few

remembrances of him, sent at his request, I learnt, by the priest who

had administered to him the last offices: some books that he had

greatly cherished, works of Glück, for the most part; an antique ivory

crucifix of very curious workmanship; and his violin, a beautiful

instrument dated 1670 and made at Nuremberg, yet with a tone which

seemed to me, at least, as fine as that of the Cremonas. It had an

intrinsic value to me, apart from its associations; for I too was

something of an amateur, and since this seasoned melodious wood had

come into my possession, I was inspired to take my facility more

seriously. To play in public, indeed, I had neither leisure nor

desire: but in certain _salons_ of my acquaintance, where music was

much in vogue, I made from time to time a desultory appearance. I set

down these facts, because as it happened, this ineffectual talent of

mine, which poor Cristich's legacy had recalled to life, was to

procure me an interesting encounter. I remember the occasion well, it

was too appropriate to be forgotten--as though my old friend's

lifeless fiddle, which had yet survived so many _maestri_, was to be a

direct instrument of the completion of his story, the resurrection of

those dormant and unsatisfied curiosities which still now and again

concerned me. I had played at an house where I was a stranger; brought

there by a friend, to whose insistence I had yielded somewhat

reluctantly; although he had assured me, and, I believe, with reason,

that it was a house where the indirect, or Attic invitation greatly

prevailed, in brief, a place where one met very queer people. The

hostess was American, a charming woman, of unimpeachable antecedents;

but her passion for society, which, while it should always be

interesting, was not always equally reputable, had exposed her

evenings to the suspicion of her compatriots. And when I had

discharged my part in the programme and had leisure to look around me,

I saw at a glance that their suspicion was justified; very queer

people indeed were there. The large hot rooms were cosmopolitan:

infidels and Jews, everybody and nobody; a scandalously promiscuous

assemblage! And there, with a half start, which was not at first

recognition, my eyes stopped before a face which brought to me a

confused rush of memories. It was that of a woman who sat on an

ottoman in the smallest room which was almost empty. Her companion was

a small, vivacious man with a gray imperial, and the red ribbon in his

buttonhole, to whose continuous stream of talk, eked out with

meridional gestures, she had the air of being listlessly resigned. Her

dress, a marvel of discretion, its colour the yellow of old ivory, was

of some very rich and stiff stuff cut square to her neck; that, and

her great black hair, clustered to a crimson rose at the top of her

head, made the pallor of her face a thing to marvel at. Her beauty was

at once sombre and illuminating, and youthful no less. The woman of

thirty: but her complexion, and her arms, which were bare, were soft

in texture as a young girl's.

I made my way as well as I could for the crowd, to my hostess,

listened, with what patience I might, to some polite praise of my

playing, and made my request.

'Mrs. Destrier, I have an immense favour to ask; introduce me to

Madame Romanoff!'

She gave me a quick, shrewd smile; then I remembered stories of her

intimate quaintness.

'My dear young man! I have no objection. Only I warn you, she is not

conversational; you will make no good of it, and you will be

disappointed; perhaps that will be best. Please remember, I am

responsible for nobody.'

'Is she so dangerous?' I asked. 'But never mind; I believe that I have

something to say which may interest her.'

'Oh, for that!' she smiled elliptically; 'yes, she is most dangerous.

But I will introduce you; you shall tell me how you succeed.'

I bowed and smiled; she laid a light hand on my arm; and I piloted her

to the desired corner. It seemed that the chance was with me. The

little fluent Provençal had just vacated his seat; and when the

prima-donna had acknowledged the hasty mention of my name, with a bare

inclination of her head, I was emboldened to succeed to it. And then I

was silent. In the perfection of that dolorous face, I could not but

be reminded of the tradition which has always ascribed something fatal

and inevitable to the possession of great gifts: of genius or uncommon

fortune, or singular personal beauty; and the common-place of

conversation failed me.

After a while she looked askance at me, with a sudden flash of

resentment.

'You speak no French, Monsieur! And yet you write it well enough; I

have read your stories.'

I acknowledged Madame's irony, permitted myself to hope that my

efforts had met with Madame's approval.

'_A la bonne heure!_ I perceive you also speak it. Is that why you

wished to be presented, to hear my criticisms?'

'Let me answer that question when you have answered mine.'

She glanced curiously over her feathered fan, then with the slightest

upward inclination of her statuesque shoulders--'I admire your books;

but are your women quite just? I prefer your playing.'

'That is better, Madame! It was to talk of that I came.'

'Your playing?'

'My violin.'

'You want me to look at it? It is a Cremona?'

'It is not a Cremona; but if you like, I will give it you.'

Her dark eyes shone out in amazed amusement.

'You are eccentric, Monsieur! but your nation has a privilege of

eccentricity. At least, you amuse me; and I have wearied myself enough

this long evening. Show me your violin; I am something of a

_virtuosa_.'

I took the instrument from its case, handed it to her in silence,

watching her gravely. She received it with the dexterous hands of a

musician, looked at the splendid stains on the back, then bent over

towards the light in a curious scrutiny of the little, faded signature

of its maker, the _fecit_ of an obscure Bavarian of the seventeenth

century; and it was a long time before she raised her eyes.

When she spoke, her rich voice had a note of imperious entreaty in it.

'Your violin interests me, Monsieur! Oh, I know that wood! It came to

you--?'

'A legacy from an esteemed friend.'

She shot back. 'His name?' with the flash which I waited for.

'Maurice Cristich, Madame!'

We were deserted in our corner. The company had strayed in, one by

one, to the large _salon_ with the great piano, where a young Russian

musician, a pupil of Chopin, sat down to play, with no conventional

essay of preliminary chords, an expected morsel. The strains of it

wailed in just then, through the heavy, screening curtains; a mad

_valse_ of his own, that no human feet could dance to, a pitiful,

passionate thing that thrilled the nerves painfully, ringing the

changes between voluptuous sorrow and the merriment of devils, and

burdened always with the weariness of 'all the Russias,' the proper

_Welt-schmerz_ of a young, disconsolate people. It seemed to charge

the air, like electricity, with passionate undertones; it gave

intimate facilities, and a tense personal note to our interview.

'A legacy! so he is gone.' She swayed to me with a wail in her voice,

in a sort of childish abandonment: 'and _you_ tell me! Ah!' she drew

back, chilling suddenly with a touch of visible suspicion. 'You hurt

me, Monsieur! Is it a stroke at random? You spoke of a gift; you say

you knew, esteemed him. You were with him? Perhaps, a message ...?'

'He died alone, Madame! I have no message. If there were none, it

might be, perhaps, that he believed you had not cared for it. If that

were wrong, I could tell you that you were not forgotten. Oh! he loved

you! I had his word for it, and the story. The violin is yours--do not

mistake me; it is not for your sake but his. He died alone; value it,

as I should, Madame!'

They were insolent words, perhaps cruel, provoked from me by the mixed

nature of my attraction to her; the need of turning a reasonable and

cool front to that pathetic beauty, that artful music, which whipped

jaded nerves to mutiny. The arrow in them struck so true, that I was

shocked at my work. It transfixed the child in her, latent in most

women, which moaned at my feet; so that for sheer shame as though it

were actually a child I had hurt, I could have fallen and kissed her

hands.

'Oh, you judge me hard, you believe the worst of me and why not? I am

against the world! At least he might have taught you to be generous,

that kind old man! Have I forgotten do you think! Am I so happy then?

Oh it is a just question, the world busies itself with me, and you are

in the lap of its tongues. Has it ever accused me of that, of

happiness? Cruel, cruel! I have paid my penalties, and a woman is not

free to do as she will, but would not I have gone to him, for a word,

a sign? Yes, for the sake of my childhood. And to-night when you

showed me that,' her white hand swept over the violin with something

of a caress, 'I thought it had come, yes, from the grave, and you make

it more bitter by readings of your own. You strike me hard.'

I bent forward in real humility, her voice had tears in it, though her

splendid eyes were hard.

'Forgive me, Madame! a vulgar stroke at random. I had no right to make

it, he told me only good of you. Forgive me, and for proof of your

pardon--I am serious now--take his violin.'

Her smile, as she refused me, was full of sad dignity.

'You have made it impossible, Monsieur! It would remind me only now of

how ill you think of me. I beg you to keep it.'

The music had died away suddenly, and its ceasing had been followed by

a loud murmur of applause. The prima-donna rose, and stood for a

moment observing me, irresolutely.

'I leave you and your violin, Monsieur! I have to sing presently, with

such voice as our talk has left me. I bid you both adieu!'

'Ah, Madame!' I deprecated, 'you will think again of this, I will send

it you in the morning. I have no right....'

She shook her head, then with a sudden flash of amusement, or

fantasy--'I agree, Monsieur! on a condition. To prove your penitence,

you shall bring it to me yourself.'

I professed that her favour overpowered me. She named an hour when she

would be at home: an address in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, which I

noted on my tablets.

'Not adieu then, Monsieur! but _au revoir_.'

I bowed perplexedly, holding the curtain aside to let her sweep

through; and once more she turned back, gathering up her voluminous

train, to repeat with a glance and accent, which I found mystifying:

'Remember, Monsieur! It is only _au revoir_.'

That last glimpse of her, with the strange mockery and an almost

elfish malice in her fine eyes, went home with me later to cause vague

disquiet and fresh suspicion of her truth. The spell of her

extraordinary, personal charm removed, doubt would assert itself. Was

she quite sincere? Was her fascination not a questionable one? Might

not that almost childish outburst of a grief so touching, and at the

time convincing, be after all factitious; the movement of a born

actress and enchantress of men, quick to seize as by a nice

professional instinct the opportunity of an effect? Had her whole

attitude been a deliberate pose, a sort of trick? The sudden changes

in her subtile voice, the under current of mockery in an invitation

which seemed inconsequent, put me on my guard, reinforced all my

deep-seated prejudices against the candor of the feminine soul. It

left me with a vision of her, fantastically vivid, raccounting to an

intimate circle, to an accompaniment of some discreet laughter and the

popping of champagne corks, the success of her imposition, the

sentimental concessions which she had extorted from a notorious

student of cynical moods.

A dangerous woman! cried Mrs. Destrier with the world, which might

conceivably be right; at least I was fain to add, a woman whose

laughter would be merciless. Certainly, I had no temper for

adventures; and a visit to Madame Romanoff on so sentimental an errand

seemed to me, the more I pondered it, to partake of this quality to be

rich in distasteful possibilities. Must I write myself pusillanimous,

if I confess that I never made it, that I committed my old friend's

violin into the hands of the woman who had been his pupil by the

vulgar aid of a _commissionaire_?

Pusillanimous or simply prudent; or perhaps cruelly unjust, to a

person who had paid penalties and greatly needed kindness? It is a

point I have never been able to decide, though I have tried to raise

theories on the ground of her acquiescence. It seemed to me on the

cards, that my fiddle bestowed so cavalierly, should be refused. And

yet even the fact of her retaining it is open to two interpretations,

and Cristich testified for her. Maurice Cristich! Madame Romanoff! the

renowned Romanoff, Maurice Cristich! Have I been pusillanimous,

prudent or merely cruel? For the life of me I cannot say!