Heraclius Themistocles Margaritis was a professional musician. He was a
singer and a composer of songs; he wrote poetry in Romaic, and composed
tunes to suit rhymes. But it was not thus that he earned his daily
bread, and he was poor, very poor. To earn his livelihood he gave
lessons, music lessons during the day, and in the evening lessons in
Greek, ancient and modern, to such people (and these were rare) who
wished to learn these languages. He was a young man, only twenty-four,
and he had married, before he came of age, an Italian girl called Tina.
They had come to England in order to make their fortune. They lived in
apartments in the Hereford Road, Bayswater.
They had two children, a little girl and a little boy; they were very
much in love with each other, as happy as birds, and as poor as church
mice. For Heraclius Themistocles got but few pupils, and although he
had sung in public at one or two concerts, and had not been received
unfavourably, he failed to obtain engagements to sing in private houses,
which was his ambition. He hoped by this means to become well known, and
then to be able to give recitals of his own where he would reveal to the
world those tunes in which he knew the spirit of Hellas breathed. The
whole desire of his life was to bring back and to give to the world
the forgotten but undying Song of Greece. In spite of this, the modest
advertisement which was to be found at concert agencies announcing that
Mr. Heraclius Themistocles Margaritis was willing to attend evening
parties and to give an exhibition of Greek music, ancient and modern,
had as yet met with no response. After he had been a year in England
the only steps towards making a fortune were two public performances
at charity matinees, one or two pupils in pianoforte playing, and an
occasional but rare engagement for stray pupils at a school of modern
languages.
It was in the middle of the second summer after his arrival that an
incident occurred which proved to be the turning point of his career. A
London hostess was giving a party in honour of a foreign Personage.
It had been intimated that some kind of music would be expected.
The hostess had neither the means nor the desire to secure for her
entertainment stars of the first magnitude, but she gathered together
some lesser lights--a violinist, a pianist, and a singer of French
drawing-room melodies. On the morning of the day on which her concert
was to be given, the hostess received a telegram from the singer of
French drawing-room melodies to say that she had got a bad cold, and
could not possibly sing that night. The hostess was in despair, but a
musical friend of hers came to the rescue, and promised to obtain for
her an excellent substitute, a man who sang Greek songs.
* * * * *
When Margaritis received the telegram from Arkwright’s Agency that
he was to sing that night at A---- House, he was overjoyed, and could
scarcely believe his eyes. He at once communicated the news to Tina, and
they spent hours in discussing what songs he should sing, who the good
fairy could have been who recommended him, and in building castles in
the air with regard to the result of this engagement. He would become
famous; they would have enough money to go to Italy for a holiday; he
would give concerts; he would reveal to the modern world the music of
Hellas.
About half-past four in the afternoon Margaritis went out to buy
himself some respectable evening studs from a large emporium in the
neighbourhood. When he returned, singing and whistling on the stairs for
joy, he was met by Tina, who to his astonishment was quite pale, and he
saw at a glance that something had happened.
“They’ve put me off!” he said. “Or it was a mistake. I knew it was too
good to be true.”
“It’s not that,” said Tina, “it’s Carlo!” Carlo was their little boy,
who was nearly four years old.
“What?” said Margaritis.
Tina dragged him into their little sitting-room. “He is ill,” she said,
“very ill, and I don’t know what’s the matter with him.”
Margaritis turned pale. “Let me see him,” he said. “We must get a
doctor.”
“The doctor is coming: I went for him at once,” she said. And then they
walked on tiptoe into the bedroom where Carlo was lying in his cot,
tossing about, and evidently in a raging fever. Half an hour later
the doctor came. Margaritis and Tina waited, silent and trembling with
anxiety, while he examined the child. At last he came from the bedroom
with a grave face. He said that the child was very seriously ill, but
that if he got through the night he would very probably recover.
“I must send a telegram,” said Margaritis to Tina. “I cannot possibly
go.” Tina squeezed his hand, and then with a brave smile she went back
to the sick-room.
Margaritis took a telegraph form out of a shabby leather portfolio, sat
down before the dining-table on which the cloth had been laid for tea
(for the sitting-room was the dining-room also), and wrote out the
telegram. And as he wrote his tears fell on the writing and smudged it.
His grief overcame him, and he buried his face in his hands and sobbed.
“What the Fates give with one hand,” he thought to himself, “they take
away with another!” Then he heard himself, he knew not why, invoking the
gods of Greece, the ancient gods of Olympus, to help him. And at that
moment the whole room seemed to be filled with a strange light, and
he saw the wonderful figure of a man with a shining face and eyes that
seemed infinitely sad and at the same time infinitely luminous. The
figure held a lyre, and said to him in Greek:--
“It is well. All will be well. I will take your place at the concert!”
When the vision had vanished, the half written telegram on his table had
disappeared also.
* * * * *
The party at A---- House that night was brilliant rather than large. In
one of the drawing-rooms there was a piano, in front of which were six
or seven rows of gilt chairs. The other rooms were filled with shifting
groups of beautiful women, and men wearing orders and medals. There was
a continuous buzz of conversation, except in the room where the music
was going on; and even there in the background there was a subdued
whispering. The violinist was playing some elaborate nothings, and
displaying astounding facility, but the audience did not seem to be much
interested, for when he stopped, after some faint applause, conversation
broke loose like a torrent.
“I do hope,” said some one to the lady next him, “that the music will be
over soon. One gets wedged in here, one doesn’t dare move, and one had
to put up with having one’s conversation spoilt and interrupted.”
“It’s an extraordinary thing,” answered the lady, “that nobody dares
give a party in London without some kind of entertainment. It _is_ such
a mistake!”
At that moment the fourth and last item on the programme began, which
was called “Greek Songs by Heraclius Themistocles Margaritis.”
“He certainly looks like a Greek,” said the lady who had been talking;
“in fact if his hair was cut he would be quite good-looking.”
“It’s not my idea of a Greek,” whispered her neighbour. “He is too fair.
I thought Greeks were dark.”
“Hush!” said the lady, and the first song began. It was a strange thread
of sound that came upon the ears of the listeners, rather high and
piercing, and the accompaniment (Margaritis accompanied himself) was
twanging and monotonous like the sound of an Indian tom-tom. The same
phrase was repeated two or three times over, the melody seemed to
consist of only a very few notes, and to come over and over again with
extraordinary persistence. Then the music rose into a high shrill call
and ended abruptly.
“What has happened?” asked the lady. “Has he forgotten the words?”
“I think the song is over,” said the man. “That’s one comfort at any
rate. I hate songs which I can’t understand.”
But their comments were stopped by the beginning of another song. The
second song was soft and very low, and seemed to be almost entirely on
one note. It was still shorter than the first one, and ended still more
abruptly.
“I don’t believe he’s a Greek at all,” said the man. “His songs are just
like the noise of bagpipes.”
“I daresay he’s a Scotch,” said the lady. “Scotchmen are very clever.
But I must say his songs are short.”
An indignant “Hush!” from a musician with long hair who was sitting not
far off heralded the beginning of the third song. It began on a high
note, clear and loud, so that the audience was startled, and for a
moment or two there was not a whisper to be heard in the drawing-room.
Then it died away in a piteous wail like the scream of a sea-bird, and
the high insistent note came back once more, and this process seemed
to be repeated several times till the sad scream prevailed, and stopped
suddenly. A little desultory clapping was heard, but it was instantly
suppressed when the audience became aware that the song was not over.
“He’s going on again,” whispered the man. A low, long note was heard
like the drone of a bee, which went on, sometimes rising and sometimes
getting lower, like a strange throbbing sob; and then once more it
ceased. The audience hesitated a moment, being not quite certain whether
the music was really finished or not. Then when they saw Margaritis rise
from the piano, some meagre well-bred applause was heard, and an immense
sigh of relief. The people streamed into the other rooms, and the
conversation became loud and general.
The lady who had talked went quickly into the next room to find out what
was the right thing to say about the music, and if possible to get the
opinion of a musician.
Sir Anthony Holdsworth, who had translated Pindar, was talking to Ralph
Enderby, who had written a book on “Modern Greek Folk Lore.”
“It hurts me,” said Sir Anthony, “to hear ancient Greek pronounced like
that. It is impossible to distinguish the words; besides which its wrong
to pronounce ancient Greek like modern Greek. Did you understand it?”
“No,” said Ralph Enderby, “I did not. If it is modern Greek it was
certainly wrongly pronounced. I think the man must be singing some kind
of Asiatic dialect--unless he’s a fraud.”
Hard by there was another group discussing the music: Blythe, the
musical critic, and Lawson, who had the reputation of being a great
connoisseur.
“He’s distinctly clever,” Blythe was saying; “the songs are amusing
‘pastiches’ of Eastern folk song.”
“Yes, I think he’s clever,” said Lawson, “but there’s nothing original
in it, and besides, as I expect you noticed, two of the songs were gross
plagiarisms of De Bussy.”
“Clever, but not original,” said the lady to herself. “That’s it.” And
two hostesses who had overheard this conversation made up their minds
to get Margaritis for their parties, for they scented the fact that he
would ultimately be talked about. But most of the people did not discuss
the music at all.
As soon as the music had stopped, James Reddaway, who was a Member of
Parliament, left the house and went home. He was engrossed in politics,
and had little time at his disposal for anything else. As soon as he got
home he went up to his wife’s bedroom; she had not been able to go to
the party owing to a sudden attack of neuralgia. She asked him to tell
her all about it.
“Well,” he said, “there were the usual people there, and there was some
music: some violin and piano playing, to which I didn’t listen. After
that a man sang some Greek songs, and a curious thing happened to me.
When it began I felt my head swimming, and then I entirely lost account
of my surroundings. I forgot the party, the drawing-room and the people,
and I seemed to be sitting on the rocks of a cliff near a small bay; in
front of me was the sea: it was a kind of blue green, but far more blue
or at least of quite a different kind of blue than any I have seen. It
was transparent, and the sky above it was like a turquoise. Behind
me the cliff merged into a hill which was covered with red and white
flowers, as bright as a Persian carpet. On the beach in front, a tall
man was standing, wading in the water, little bright waves sparkling
round his feet. He was tall and dark, and he was spearing a lot of
little silver fish which were lying on the sand with a small wooden
trident; and somewhere behind me a voice was singing. I could not see
where it came from, but it was wonderfully soft and delicious, and a
lot of wild bees came swarming over the flowers, and a green lizard came
right up close to me, and the air was burning hot, and there was a
smell of thyme and mint in it. And then the song stopped, and I came
to myself, and I was back again in the drawing-room. Then when the man
began to sing again, I again lost consciousness, and I seemed to be in
a dark orchard on a breathless summer night. And somewhere near me there
was a low white house with an opening which might have been a window,
shrouded by creepers and growing things. And in it there was a faint
light. And from the house came the sound of a sad love-song; and
although I had never heard the song before I understood it, and it was
about the moon and the Pleiads having set, and the hour passing, and
the voice sang, ‘But I sleep alone!’ And this was repeated over and over
again, and it was the saddest and most beautiful thing I had ever heard.
And again it stopped, and I was back again in the drawing-room. Then
when the singer began his third song I felt cold all over, and at the
same time half suffocated, as people say they feel when they are nearly
drowning. I realised that I was in a huge, dark, empty space, and round
me and far off in front of me were vague shadowy forms; and in the
distance there was something which looked like two tall thrones,
pillared and dim. And on one of the thrones there was the dark form of
a man, and on the other a woman like a queen, pale as marble, and unreal
as a ghost, with great grey eyes that shone like moons. In front of them
was another form, and he was singing a song, and the song was so sad and
so beautiful that tears rolled down the shadowy cheeks of the ghosts
in front of me. And all at once the singer gave a great cry of joy, and
something white and blinding flashed past me and disappeared, and he
with it. But I remained in the same place with the dark ghosts far off
in front of me. And I seemed to be there an eternity till I heard a cry
of desperate pain and anguish, and the white form flashed past me once
more, and vanished, and with it the whole thing, and I was back again in
the drawing-room, and I felt faint and giddy, and could not stay there
any longer.”