So, while Mr. Whacker is explaining matters to the Don, I shall make
things clear to the reader.
My grandfather, when a young man, spent several years in Europe. He was
an enthusiast in every fibre, and one of his enthusiasms was music. Very
naturally, therefore, he took lessons while abroad,—lessons on the
violin, the piano being held, in Virginia, an instrument fit only for
women and foreigners. But, undertaking the violin for the first time
when he was a grown man, he never acquired, ardently as he practised,
anything like a mastery over that difficult instrument. At any rate,
returning to Virginia and finding himself no longer in an
artist-atmosphere, his ardor gradually cooled, so that until about ten
or twelve years before the period of my story, all I can remember of my
grandfather’s musical performances is his occasional fiddling for me and
such of my young school-mates as chanced to visit me. During the
Christmas holidays, especially, when Elmington was always crowded with
young people, it was an understood thing that Uncle Tom, as most of his
neighbors’ children delighted to call him, was to be asked to play.
Christmas Eve, notably, was no more Christmas Eve, at Elmington, without
certain jigs and reels executed by “Uncle Tom,” than without two
enormous bowls—one of eggnog, the other of apple-toddy—concocted by
him with his own hands. The thing had grown into an institution, more
and more fixed as the years went by. On such occasions, immediately
after the old gentleman had taken his second glass of eggnog,—not
before,—it was in order to call for his annual exhibition of
virtuosity; whereupon Charley—no one else could be trusted to bear the
precious burden—was despatched to my grandfather’s chamber, where, upon
a special shelf in a closet, lay, from Christmas to Christmas, a certain
old violin, which rarely saw the light at any other time.
But, about a dozen years before the events I am now describing, there
came a German musician—Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel chanced to be his
name—and established himself at Leicester Court-House as a piano
teacher,—or, rather, he gave lessons on any and all instruments, as
will be the case in the country.
Herr Waldteufel was an excellent pianist, and, in fact, a thorough
musician. Strangers from the cities, when they heard him play at
Elmington, were always surprised to find so brilliant a performer in the
country, and used to wonder why he should thus hide his light under a
bushel. But the truth is, a man generally finds his place in the world,
and Herr Waldteufel was no exception. In the frequent hinges of his
elbow was to be found the explanation of his losing his patronage, in
city after city; so that it was natural enough that he found himself, at
last, giving lessons in a village, and in the houses of the neighboring
gentry, upon piano, fiddle, flute, guitar, and, shades of Sebastian
Bach! must I even add—the banjo?
And, notwithstanding his weakness, the honest Herr was an excellent
teacher. True, he did occasionally fail to put in an appearance for a
lesson, when no excuse was to be found in the weather; but his patrons
learned to forgive him; and, as he was very amiable and obliging, he was
a general favorite, and welcome everywhere.
Mr. Whacker had not been slow to form the acquaintance of the Herr and
to invite him to Elmington; at first under the pretext of having him
tune his piano. The tuning over, the Herr was naturally asked to play;
and, one thing leading to another, he and Mr. Whacker soon found
themselves trying over a slow movement, here and there, out of a musty
and dusty old edition of Mozart’s Sonatas. The music they made was, I
dare say, wretched, as my grandfather had not played anything of that
kind for years; but it would have been hard to say which of the two was
most delighted,—the German, at finding so enthusiastic a lover of his
art in a Virginia country gentleman; my grandfather, at the prospect of
being able to renew his acquaintance with his idolized Mozart, whom he
always persisted in placing at the head of all composers. The Elmington
dinner and wines did not lessen the Herr’s estimate of the treasure he
had found; and (Mr. Whacker scouting the very idea of his leaving him
that night) they separated at the head of the stairs, at one o’clock in
the morning, after a regular musical orgie, vowing that they had not
seen the last of it. Nor had they; for before Herr Waldteufel had set
out, in the morning, for a round of lessons in the neighborhood, he had
promised to return, the following Friday, to dinner. And so, from that
day forth, he was sure to drop in upon us every Friday afternoon; and
regularly, after dinner, he and my grandfather would fall to and play
and play until they were exhausted. Next day the Herr would sally forth,
and, after giving his lessons, return in time for dinner; after which
they would have another time together.
Herr Waldteufel always spent Sunday with us; but my grandfather would
never play on that day. I suppose it would be hardly possible for a man
who has spent several years on the Continent to see anything “sinful” in
music on Sunday; but neither is it possible for any man, even though he
be a philosopher, altogether to evade the pressure of surrounding
convictions. Now, for the solidity—it wouldn’t do to say stolidity—of
our Sabbatarianism, we Virginians may safely defy all rivalry. Virginia
is not only _one_ of the Middle States, she is _the_ middle State of the
Union in many other respects, but especially in her theological
attitude. While, to the north and east of her, religious systems that
have weathered the storms of centuries are rocking to their foundations,
nay, tumbling before our very eyes, undermined by the incessant rush of
opinions ever newer, more radical, more aggressive; and while, to the
southward and westward, we see the instability and recklessness
inseparable from younger communities, the Old Dominion stands immovable
as a rock; believing what she has always believed, and seriously minded
so to believe to the end of time,—astronomy, geology, and biology to
the contrary notwithstanding. Now, of all the religious convictions of
your true Virginian this is the most deeply rooted,—the most
universally accepted,—that man was made for the Sabbath, not the
Sabbath for man. Again: according to our biblical exegesis the word
Sabbath does not really mean Sabbath, but Sunday,—the last day of the
week, that is, being synonymous with the first. Now, as first is the
opposite of last,—mark the geometric cogency of the reasoning,—so is
work the contrary of play. Hence it is clear to us (however others may
laugh) that the commandment forbidding all manner of work on the last
day of the week was really meant to inhibit all manner of play on the
first; _Q. E. D._
I must admit, however, that when, one Sunday, after returning from
church, the Herr opened the piano, “just to try over” the hymns we had
heard, my grandfather made no objection; and then, when his fingers
somehow strayed into a classical andante, the old gentleman either
believed or affected to believe that it was a Teutonic form of religious
music, and called for more. And so, things going from bad to worse, it
came about that in the end we had hours of piano music every Sunday, to
the great scandal of some of our neighbors, who did not fail to hint
that the Herr was an atheist and my grandfather not far from one.
But Mr. Whacker would persist in drawing the line at the fiddle; making
a distinction perfectly intelligible to all true Virginians,—though his
course in this matter ever remained a sore puzzle to the warped and
effete European brain of Herr Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel.
For many months—for two or three years, in fact—after this arrangement
was set on foot, my grandfather was at fever heat with his music. To the
amazement, not to add amusement of his neighbors and friends, he fell to
practising with all the ardor of a girl in her graduating year; nor was
he content to stop there. He set every one else, over whom he had any
influence, to scraping catgut. His favorite text during this period, and
one upon which he preached with much vigor and eloquence, was the
insipidity of American life,—its total lack of the æsthetic element.
“What rational relaxations have we? None! Whist is adapted to those
among us of middle age, or the old; but whist is, at the best, unsocial.
Dancing gives happiness to the young only. Hunting affords amusement
during one season and to one sex only. You cannot read forever; so that
the greater part of our leisure-time we spend in gaping or
gabbling,—boring or being bored. How different it would be if all our
young people would take the trouble to make musicians of themselves! one
taking one instrument, another another. Why, look at our neighbor up the
river, with his five sons and five daughters! Why—PSHAW!”—for,
invariably, when he got to this particular neighbor, the bright vision
of a possible domestic orchestra of ten—or twelve rather—would seem to
rob him of the power of utterance, and he would pace up and down his
library with an expression of enthusiastic disgust on his heated
features.
Now, among the victims of Mr. Whacker’s views in this regard was his
grandson, the teller of this tale; and I believe it was really one of
the most serious of the minor troubles of his life that he could never
make a musician of me. As it was, he ultimately gave me up as a hopeless
case. But with Charley his reward was greater. Charley had readily
consented to take lessons on the violin from Herr Waldteufel, as well
before he entered the University, as during his vacations; and when,
after he left college, he came to live with us, he was not likely to
give up his music, as the reader can very well understand. During the
week he and his friend used to play duos together, and they made very
pleasant music too, and on Fridays and Saturdays they would perform
transcriptions (at making which the Herr was really clever) for two
violins and piano.
Things went on in this way for a year or two; until, in fact, the summer
of 1855. It was during the summer of that year, it will be remembered,
that Norfolk was so terribly scourged by yellow fever, and my
grandfather, instead of going, as usual, to the springs, had remained at
Elmington, and opened his doors to his friends and other refugees from
the stricken city. Now it so happened that, a few weeks before the
epidemic declared itself, a young French or—to speak more
accurately—Belgian violinist had dropped down into Norfolk, from
somewhere, in search of a living; who, panic-stricken upon the outbreak
of the fever, had fled, he hardly knew whither; but happening to find
his way to Leicester Court-House, was not long in falling in with Herr
Waldteufel; and he, exulting in the treasure he had found, brought him
to Elmington on the first Friday afternoon thereafter ensuing.
“I have inform Monsieur Villemain,” whispered the Herr, at the first
opportunity, “dot Elmingtone vas so full as a teek von peoples, but he
can shleep mit me. But you know, Barrone, vy I have bring dis Frenchman,
oder Beige, to Elmingtone?” (He would insist upon calling Mr. Whacker
Baron.)
“I suppose he is a refugee, and you knew—”
“A refuchee! ja wohl! Ach! but mein Gott, Barrone,” exclaimed he,
clasping his hands, “vat for a feedler ist dot mon!”
“You don’t tell me so!”
“Donnerwetter!” rejoined the Herr, rolling up his eyes, “you joost hear
him one time, dot’s all!”
From that day in August until the following Christmas M. Villemain was a
member of our household; and even then he took his departure much
against my grandfather’s will. His coming among us enabled Mr. Whacker
to do what he had scarcely dreamed of before,—to establish, namely, a
string quartet.
I shall never forget the first meeting of the club. Waldteufel, who was
already a tolerable violinist, had readily agreed to take the
violoncello part, and Charley, though with many misgivings, had
consented to tackle the viola; and the Herr was despatched to Baltimore
to purchase these two instruments. Upon their arrival, it was agreed
that the novices should have two weeks’ practice before any attempt at
concerted music should be made, Waldteufel taking his ’cello to his
rooms at the Court-House, while Charley was to attack the viola under
the direction of M. Villemain; but Mr. Whacker grew so impatient for a
trial of their mettle that, on Friday morning of the first week, he sent
a buggy for the Herr, requesting him to bring his instrument with him;
and, accordingly, just before dinner, up drove the bass, his big fiddle
occupying the lion’s share of the vehicle. Dinner over, my grandfather
could allow but one pipe before the attack began. The centre-table in
the parlor was soon cleared of books; the stands were placed upon it;
the performers took their seats; the parts were distributed, “A”
sounded, the instruments put in tune. The composition they had selected
was that quartet of Haydn (in C major) known as the Kaiser Quartet, in
the slow movement of which is found the famous Austrian Hymn.
“We are all then ready?” asked M. Villemain (in French), placing his
violin under his chin. “Ah!” added he, in that short sharp tone so
peculiarly French, and the bows descended upon the strings.
It was worth while to watch the bearing and countenances of the four
players.
The Frenchman, entirely master of his instrument and his part,—glancing
only now and then at his music,—ejaculating words of caution or
encouragement; Waldteufel, taking in the meaning of the printed signs
without an effort, but doubtful as to his fingering,—correcting his
intonation with a rapid slide of his hand and an apologetic smile and
nod to his brother artist; Charley, serene and imperturbable, but
putting forth all that was in him; while my grandfather, conscious that
the second violin was most likely to prove the block of stumbling, and
anxious not to be utterly outdone by the “boys,”—his eyes riveted upon
the page before him, his face overspread with a certain stage-fright
pallor,—played as though the fate of kingdoms hung upon his bow. At
last, not without a half-dozen break-downs, they approached the end of
the first movement; and when, with a sharp twang, they struck, all
together, the last note, my grandfather’s exultation knew no bounds.
“By Jove,” cried he, slapping his thigh,—“by Jove, we can do it!” And
congratulations were general.
But the culmination of the enthusiasm occurred during the performance of
the slow movement. Here the air, a gem of imperishable beauty, passes
from one instrument to another. When the theme falls to the second
violin, the violino primo accompanies, the viola and ’cello being
silent, if I remember aright. Here was Mr. Whacker’s opportunity. The
movement is without technical difficulties, but the mere idea that he
had a solo to perform made the old gentleman as nervous as a graduating
Miss. He lightly touched his strings to be quite sure they were in
tune—gave a turn to a peg—wiped his spectacles—blew his nose—lifted
the violin to his left ear, softly plucking D and G as though still in
doubt—smoothed down the page—tightened his bow—and, with a bow to M.
Villemain, began.
He had scarcely played a half-dozen notes when the Herr cried out, “Goot
for de Barrone!”
“Bravo, Secondo!” echoed the Primo from the midst of his rapid
semiquavers.
Deeply gratified and encouraged, the old man gave an unconscious but
perceptible toss of the head; and his snowy locks trembled upon his
temples. Charley lifted his eyes from the floor with a sigh of relief.
His anxiety lest his old friend should break down had been touching to
see,—the more so as he had tried so hard to conceal it.
The performer reached the appoggiatura about the middle of the air, and
turned it not without grace. It was nothing to do,—absolutely
nothing,—but the two artists were bent on giving applause without
stint.
“_Parbleu! Tourné à merveille!_” cried the First Violin, in his native
language.
“Py Tam!” shouted the Bass, in an unknown tongue.
“_Je crois bien!_” rejoined the Belgian, as though he understood him.
One of the Herr’s foibles was his fondness for making what it was his
happiness to consider puns in the English language. “De Barrone served
us a good turn dere!” he whispered to his unoccupied comrade.
The Viola smiled without taking his eyes off the Second Fiddle.
“You take?” inquired the Violoncello, stimulating his neighbor’s sense
of humor by a gentle punch in the ribs with his bow.
“Very good, very good!” answered Charley; and my grandfather, taking the
compliment to himself, rather laid himself out on a _crescendo_ and
_forte_ that he encountered just then.
Mr. Whacker had practised his part over, hundreds of times, during the
week preceding its execution by him on this occasion, and he really
played it very creditably. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that,
at its end, he should have been greeted with a small tempest of
clappings and bravos and goots; and it remained his conviction ever
after, that of all the quartets of Haydn, the Kaiser most nearly
approaches the unapproachable perfection of Mozart.
He looked at the matter from the Second Violin point of view. Who shall
cast the first stone?